jen kitchen

Shadow Dance | The Internet
Won’t you shadow dance for me?
Play it off and tell me how it feels
Won’t you shadow dance for me?
Play it off and tell me how it feels
Let’s try something different, brand new
Oh that, right there, don’t move
I wish I could tip you for all of your time
Yeah, yeah
Girl when you
Teasing me, pleasing me, guaranteed
You know that I love it when you (I love the way)
Dance for me, flashing me, all for free
That’s the way I like it baby
It’s what you do
Me and you should rendezvous
Somewhere we can meet in private
Your debut, time to shoot
Now’s your cue, so
Won’t you shadow dance for me?
Play it off and tell me how it feels
(For me)
If I could freeze the hands of time
I would stay right here with you
Right by my side, that’d be nice
The night is young, your taste is sweet
Lay with me until we find
Just what we need, what we need
Tell me that you love me, babe
Tell me that you love me, girl
Tell me if you love me, baby
Do you really love me, baby?
Do you really love it, girl?
Songwriters: Alia Rose Brockert / Christopher Allan Smith / Matthew Martin / Patrick Paige / Sydney Bennett / Tay Walker
Shadow Dance lyrics © Sony/ATV Music Publishing LLC
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Today, this morning actually (Sunday) was 2 weeks since I happened upon what was later called a fatality and total loss.

I remember and I think about the young man in the car and wish and hope his loved ones were gently given privy to his loss that terrible rainy day on a 4 lane highway with no divider.

It bothers me. His dying that way bothers me. I know it isn’t up to me how anyone dies. We walk our own journeys and it is our own. Mine is mine. Yours is yours. His was his. Still, that death holds no glory and I wonder if all deaths, or only a few, should be glorious and brilliant.

I was waved down by a lone man standing stopping cars from passing because a car accident was ahead >500 meters down the 4 lane highway. I pulled over. I got out. I double timed it when seeing only individuals running to the black sports car, down, not on fire. An RN got to the driver first. Army Convoy trucks were stopping. 2 Army Medics sprinted to the down driver and car.

The driver was pinned inside the car and when a MD ran to the scene, several of us left the man.

He was cared for. He was loved.

I got into my car and tenuously drove away. Down the hill some 15:00 later ambulance and Volunteer Fire Department trucks made their way up around the curves, in the pouring rain, in the cold, in the flooding highways both directions.

I drove on to Peerpocalypse ’18 and later heard the accident was a fatality. I stopped and grabbed myself and sat down when I was told.

The thought of his death colored my lonelier moments at night knowing full force that life is fleeting and we must love and work as if on fire because this all ends quickly and not without a single notice.

Peace.

I’m painting a 4 x 8′ commissioned acrylic on wood for an East Point business owner of the hottest new salon and spa this side of the West Side Green Belt. I’m not satisfied with it. In fact, I’m not sure if I even like the current large work. Here’s (2 panels beneath the “Northampton Barn” (2015) and “Bug” (2013):

 

 

 

barnabe 4 (2)

 

 

All original art work (c) Jen Padron (2018); All Rights Reserved Jen Padron.

calm down

When my mother was dying from cancer in 2008, my dad told me that there were 22 others living on Trailwood Avenue who were positive for some type of cancer concurrently. “There’s a lawsuit,” I told my dad. We were driving and it was warm outside and the air smells like Central California does in the Fall. Fog, basically.  There is no mystery that most probably embedded land subdivisions were watered by wells driven by the local growers and irrigation seepage will occur. Their water is screwed, no less. Now more than ever with the heat that will not stop and wells are drying. People are stealing their neighbor’s water in California.

My mother died in ’08 and my only sibling died from cancer at 53 years old in ’12 (also in November).

And so at my age, I have superseded the mortality for both, my biofamily and that of the <25 year early morbidity for people living with an SPMI who have received continuous US Community Public Mental Health services for at least 25 -30 years.

Which is worse? Cancer or the US Public Community Mental Health System? I’m laughing because I’m really not joking.

This writing’s intent is to at least touch upon the notion of how disease, chronic illnesses and malhealth – when not self-managed or self-cared for – will manifest physically and you will die sooner than later, probably.

Things to practice then:

  • Mindfulness.
  • Intentionality.
  • Carefully discerning that which takes your concern(s).
  • Be Kind to yourself and to others.
  • Love.
  • Be loved.
  • Adore.
  • Be adored.
  • Get that energy of others that is hurtful away from you.
  • Work your body out.
  • Practice Releasing.
  • Live gentler.
  • Walk with all of your senses as often as you can.
  • Get REM Sleep.
  • It’s okay to let yourself dream.
  • Walk in water.
  • Talk with your best friend.
  • Live.
  • Breathe.
  • Learn.
  • Teach.
  • The day is short. The night is shorter. Mind your time.
  • Harm no others.
  • Protect yourself and what’s yours.
  • Run. Run. Run.
  • Strength.
  • Power.
  • Know that you are immortal.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

long, slow deep kissing

There always has been a strange cultural divide with certain kind of women my entire life. There was the case of Kelly, a tall-leggy just flat out hot blonde whose goal was to make $26,000 a year and she figured she had it all planned. That may have been 1985, as far as I can recall.

la-dolce-vita-still-1

And artists. Artists are wild. They are individualistic typically. Highly intelligent. Very introverted usually. Autonomous. Not great communicators. Theirs and their alone “family” networks of others like themselves borders on the hip, chic, exclusive and well, not very open to the rest of us. Women artists I have known were largely bisexual and fucked up about it. We were young.

The woman I know now, is acclaimed and well known, on exhibit throughout the Southern US region and doubly famous, respected for her work. She’s a tough cookie and hard to follow with any other woman and I regret at the soul level having run out of her already, or maybe it was the other way around. I adore her loveliness and her body makes me dream of the forevers I was told were there and had never before ever laid palms and hands and fingers and mouth on.

The one who got away is embedded in my memory and painful to allow out and to float down the river and into white water, famously wild and divergent maybe of all intention, all wants, all needs, any expectation, any Love that there may have been.

Long, langorous hot Atlanta Fall nights (Indian Summer and Yellow Moons) met for long, deep slow kissing during any film festival spent in her bed forgetting time and all memories other than this one now. She was lovely and my lousy picker picked her winding legs, small ass, long lean muscled arms and with all tangly limbs in the night, mouths and throats howling, howling.

As impossible as it may seem, to move forward and mindful prayer and loving intentions may help the blessed alone. Bless me, bless me. God bless this bruised heart.

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