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Isabel Documents
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About Me:

There are a few ways to develop your vision of life. I document. I could be documenting you... Do I document truth? I document what I see. How others view the world. This is how I have come to know the world. The place I hold in a group of women is that of a Lens. A lens that records an actual happening. Objectivity can only be attained if you are open to another perception, even one that is contrary to your own. I will endeavor to present perceptions that I feel are worth your time.

Mar 15, 2007
Two women in the same city.

Two women in the same city. These two women you might think share similarities.
Both have been educated to a point. Both are attractive. Both can earn cash and neither depends on a man for that. They both do, however, depend on men for other duties. The likeness ends there. Let's begin with The East Side Woman.

She hired a private detective to follow her around. He was unaware of who had hired him. He was told that he was employed by a Mr. So-an-So who would be out of town on a business trip and the woman's voice on the phone was Mr. So-and-So's personal assistant. Her contact e-mail was such-and-such. He, the private detective, would be on the job for a week and then report what he had seen to Mr. So-and-So. Half the money had already been moved into his account and it was better than his standard rate. But the client wanted this woman watched for long hours at a time, going into the early hours of morning.
The woman in question had a busy social life so there was always some place for her to go. And yes, her partner had gone out of town for a little more then a week. She was fully aware of when and where the private detective was watching her. Stopping by a flower stall to smell beauty, gliding into a smart but intimate apparel boutique.... All of this was her way of getting to know him as she let him study her.
This made her feel more like a woman than anything else. Knowing that every sway of her hips was being talked about into a recording device that he carried on his body at all times. She would maneuver her figure into the window frame, her back to the glass with cashmere off from the afternoon and a delicate black number that could have used a pair of hands to hook the bra in place. But are those her thoughts now or his? Consider the days and nights left in this "voyeur as pleasure" seduction. He follows her into museums or a stylish bar, she takes in a Cabaret and sometimes there is a woman that she has come to meet and sometimes it is a man. Sometimes there is no one but she, but this he does not discount as unimportant. She is elusive but sexually alluring and the private detective rubs his chin and concurs that Mr. So-and-So should have this woman, his lover, followed, although he has no evidence that she is sexually involved with another man or even another woman but. And this he is convinced of. She is involved with someone or something or everyone. And if he could get close enough to her he knows he could solve this for Mr. So-and-So.

My lens now puts its focus on The West Side Woman.
To all that know her she is referred to as strong but kind. Two qualities that are not always mentioned in the same breath. At work she carries respect everywhere as a celeb carries an "it" bag. If there is an atmosphere for whatever reason she will address this state of affairs. It is not just that she can confront break-downs in communication but that her co-workers will listen to what she has to say. In any circle this young woman would be admired and thought of as a b-o-r-n leader, a someone to watch, a girl that will go places. Where does she go then? After work she makes her way to a restaurant. Because she has changed from the admittedly stylish but still considered clothes for work, the viewer would be persuaded to believe that this date is important considering the effort she has made. He is waiting. He would be considered attractive also. This all makes a balanced story. She gets up from the table smiling, brushing her hand on his shoulder as if to begin making promises of the night to come. While waiting for his date to comeback, in passing, a new feline bends down and whispers something to him on her way to the Bar. He looks up and gives her a devastating grin.
His date stands perched on the balls of her feet frozen to the floor. This is an atmosphere that not even she can smooth over. For all of her training in these situations you would think that she is a novice. Somewhere deep inside of her she is desperately searching for that endless supply of respect that gets dropped in her lap 20 times a day. But in this moment she is not strong. She wrestles a glittering ring off her finger and clinches it in a fist leading us to think that throwing it in his face will be imminent. Those watching this scene all know that this needs to happen, nay, must happen. The penny has dropped for us the onlooker and she is no piece of ass or a first date. Slowly her heels now tap against the wood of the floor. Suddenly she pulls herself up, shoulders back, and glides back to her chair while brushing her hand against his shoulder in the promise of what she will give him yet again.

Two Bats.

One in Europe. One in Asia.
There are protection laws for the bat in particular parts of Europe. If the bat is reported to be inhabiting a home or a building, unless procedure is followed, the homeowner could be looking at a hefty fine and jail time. This bat is more protected than some women in many parts of the world. The bat is rescued and appears to not want to leave either the land or the homeowning family or both.
There are no protection laws for bats in other parts of the world. Take for instance the Northern Territories of Australia or Vietnam to name but a few. While they are viewed as a nuisance in this part of Oz, they are central to the diet for many in Vietnam. Grilling or stir-frying your bat was how you might have survived the Vietnam war of 1959 -1975.
So perhaps there are similarities even down to the species of bat, but the outcome if you are a bat in Europe or if you are a bat in south Asia ranges from brutal to living the life.
tags: women, document documenting

Mar 26, 2007
(Not everyone experiences calming dreams.) by

The house looks calm enough. It should be noted that visitors comment on the coziness they feel while here. There is laughter and communication ebbed into the walls of the dining room. It is informal yet chic in it's understated way.
It vexes the mom... How then do the Bad Dreams get let in? Several mornings a week this Mom wakes up looking worse for ware than when she went to sleep. She ties up her long hair too tired to fiddle with it. Her attention must be on Chloe. Before the Mom wakes Chloe for school, she starts her morning with oolong tea. Her acupuncturist suggests a specific type that she gets from a specialized website. It helps to bring her back into her reality faster than anything else and without the paranoia. That is an important phrase, "without the paranoia." This is because the nightmares are beyond real when they are upon her. She finds herself out of bed in mortal combat when alarmingly the light will flash on and beside her a tired but understanding male voice says, "Honey, you're only dreaming. Come back to bed, Babe, it's safe." But after he has fallen back to sleep within minutes of coaxing her back into his warmth and after a sip of water, the nightmare grabs a hold of her and it vividly wraps it's tentacles around her once more.
This particular morning she is trying to recall when they began. As a child? As a teenager? Did some event ignite what has become an avalanche of relentlessness? The answer is vague. Of course she has looked at her past to put those ghosts to rest. But although there are nights of respite, she has had an onslaught of nightmares consistently for years. A small arm wrapped around her legs pulling her out of thought. "Chloe, sweetheart, have some juice." And with that Chloe was lifted onto the kitchen countertop as Mother and Daughter have sips of their favorite morning comfort.
"I had another one, Mommy."
"Not again, Chloe. Oh sweet girl come here." Wrapped in a tight squeeze of motherness, Chloe began to piece the fragments together. Not too dissimilar from her Mom's nightmares either. "Mommy, you know what I know?"
"What's that honey?"
"What I have are not just bad dreams. That is wrong. They aren't dreams at all. They are bad people without bodies. I promise, Mommy. Bad people without bodies really, really, really exist."
In a relatively short time Chloe was off to school with her Dad, making jokes all the way to the car.
"Bye, Mom. Remember what I told you."
The Mother had a slash of a memory. A memory that had been jostled by her Daughter's conviction about the bad people. Bad people without bodies. She began to recall that she had saved on her desktop some information. Information that she had stored a few years ago. Back then she had begun to investigate negative energy forces. Forces that reportedly that can latch and hook into different areas in a human beings chakra system. She had read that there were ways of dissolving these connective cords that try and overtake and consume an individual's light by sending out controlling and disturbing energies. But after sharing the information with friends who were more than a little sceptical, she resolved herself to the age-old diagnosis of nightmares. But now. Well now. Friends be damned. Children seem to know things. Worlds. Unexplainables. Her hunch was that Chloe was right. And with that the Mother fired off an email to a woman of renown on the subject of entities, spiritual contracts, and how we as humans have to approach this vast subject in order to extract them from our energy field. A field of dreams. It carries new meaning if you are plagued by the Bad People with No Bodies.

Look up Carl Jungian Dreamwork
tags: dreams chloe, carl jungian dreamwork

Apr 23, 2007
walking through the street at 8 am on a week day

Women smartly dressed for work dash by with a focus, with an intent.
You can tell that those that work the night shift at the hotels are taking their coffee break before they make their way home.
She decides to grab an espresso, a double. In line are two people, a female and a male. They are talking with passion about, umm, she can't make it out exactly, but she dubs them Eco-Warriors and lowers her gaze. 'What is happening to me' she seems to say as her head darts around seeing her reflection in the glass and not escaping an answer.
You could call it primal. A primal pull with an unseen rope tugging a self confessed city girl out of the glitz. Where was she going? It was a mystery to her as she walked and sipped. Some people never change. Some people radically change, she had read the stories in Marie Claire.
To progress out of the sleek sophistication of her local haunts toward a timeless indefinable, well, it was not in her nature or so she thought.
Lately, pseudo-friends would remark as she would brush past yet still within ear shot,
'How unlike a true cock-tail scene aficionado to miss big events with a wealth of cool-hunting Dark and Handsomes.' Not so long ago her days were filled with texts concerning those specific Dark and Handsomes. Just a few moments ago she announced, 'I am not answering calls right now or texts,' was the only response she gave to her roommate. She then sat in front of some program once her hand finally put the remote down. Not so long ago she would have turned the sound down and continued texting, setting up the nights plans. She didn't. She stared and listened. Some narrator was warning about the possibility of an Ice-Free Artic Summer by 2040. Another study predicts no summer ice in the Artic, but not until 2060. 2040-2060, well within her lifetime. 'I AM FREAKING OUT.'
What she didn't realize is that she was not freaking out as in going LOCO, having a break-down, or anything close to that. What she also didn't realize is that there were other humans her age and older and even younger having a similar reaction watching that same report on climate change. The program droned on about extreme losses in sea ice in such a rapid frame of time. The program ended by flashing potential dates and the impact of the rapid meltdown on Artic Ice and the effect on our oceans. The final statement by the narrator, 'The impacts on Artic Ice can still be minimized by society if we as a world can slow down the rate of greenhouse gases. But if greenhouse gases continue at their current rate then there is no avoiding a dramatic collision course with climate change...'
Sitting stunned on the couch she was in the throws of admitting to herself that an honorable pursuit in her very recent past would have been to deliver a friend, who in that moment would be on the verge of committing a social embarrassment. Her interest in this exclusive fancy was currently waning as the tug on her soul to get out was waxing.
tags: 8am weekday streets change

Jun 04, 2007
Another voice lost.

Another voice lost. As a result of this she begins to listen around her. She cringes, thinking to herself, that was me only yesterday, talking the same nonsense... Is that what I sound like? She begins to hang her head in her hands. An overly developed sense of self importance is probably the most unattractive quality she thought a woman could have. After beating herself up mentally for the last hour she decided that self-defeating mantras that you begin to repeat over and over in your head weren't going to improve her situation in the slightest. How this series of events got to where they were was all fuzzy to her at this stage. And yet somehow in this community, considered a desirable resort town, a Mother had lost her voice. There is nothing unusual about a Mother losing her voice. When the first one occurred no one thought much of it. Or the second, maybe because it was in the air. When the third mother was silenced, that in itself could possibly be explained by her shouting at the top of her lungs during her son's state soccer championship, "All you anorexic stalkers, I'm warning all those fleshless, boney asses that show up at my door, that I won't let a conniving plan from bee stung lips get in the way of my boy's glory." Some of us cringed, some laughed, but nobody thought too much of it. But in a very short span of time, house after house, street after street, mother after mother was being silenced. Early assumptions were that overly exuberant and possessive mothers cheering for their kids were the ones to be struck down by "The Hush." For good reason though, this theory was dismissed as an assortment of mothers began to lose their voices. Mothers who didn't cheer or even have children in competitive sports were taken over by "The Hush". To this day no one knows why it happened. It lasted for a whole season. There is a faint memory of a different looking sort of old woman that had come to stay with one of the silenced women who had lived alone after she had lost her husband in the war. Her children were grown and ritually came in 3 times a year for the holidays. As this was not during one of those holidays, her house would have been empty except of course for herself and the old-world dressed woman. A security guard on his way to work the late shift can vaguely recall many women going into this house one evening a while ago now. When people talk about the time of the "hush" very little is said about why it happened or who or how it could have happened. For some reason the need to unravel that puzzle has inspired very few. Nor have too many dwelled on the ominous fact that "the cause" of "The Hush" is still very much in existence. The question, 'How did they all get their voices back?' This question was voiced by most in the small resort town. The answer given consistently by the mothers themselves is just to smile a knowing smile reminding even the husbands of an expression you might find on the Sphinx herself.

tags: Mother, voice

Jun 07, 2007

Traveling through Europe she observes how different countries tackle the broad concept of consumption. The French have their portions. These portions are smaller than other countries. The people don't seem to be wanting on any level when it comes to their food, or when comes to their wine. They don't starve themselves, they don't go without meals. They enjoy putting delectables into their mouths. What they put into their mouth and how much is something that some of us could learn. She thinks this to herself. She doesn't speak to anybody about it because she doesn't want to offend. She doesn't want her friends thinking she's suggesting that they eat too much. Some of her friends eat strangely so talking about portions can be taken the wrong way, so she just keeps it to herself, but she wants to shout it. Shout it from the nose of a plane with a megaphone flying over beach communities in America. She can see herself trailing behind other prop planes with their signs- 2 for 1 All You Can Eat. She believes a quick nosedive of her plane and a clarion call will emancipate everyone's swollen stomach, which are flipped open more akin to flippers baking in the sun. Make every bite beautiful, every bite delicious and it will be enough. A smaller portion, it will be enough. No more aching, no more groaning. The two words, eating and pain never have to be married again. Unharmonious these two words together.
Her mind turns to Germany and consumption. The land of the Green think-tank. A burning drive to deal with the topic of wastefulness. Do the Germans have the energy, the mental energy, the physical energy to lead the world, marching into this new philosophical way of living. She wonders. No, it is not a way of living; it is a way of surviving. The only way to survive. The predictions with every week that passes, the camera freezes its frame on a future that is beyond menacing, beyond a wasteland. What will it take to put the necessary changes into place? She ponders this over and over in her mind as she rides the train from city to city across Europe. There are always the little things, she knows that. But it will take more than just the little things to turn this around. In fifty years time, will the masses be weeping and wailing, shuttering amidst all kinds of horrors if only you could go back to 2007. If only we had begun to heed the warnings, the G8 Summit- will they do more than just idle talk? We need brave thinkers and braver doers. On the whole, the masses never want to hear about limitations, but limitations are freeing in their own way. We are starving from having too much. Starving for what is proportional. She takes a breath, closes her eyes, smiles to herself as she does another nosedive in her mind.

tags: isabel blog consumption #5

Jun 21, 2007
Devils and Gods

Songs have different timelines concerning when they show themselves in a completed form. On the album version of "Devils and Gods" on ADP, the song seemed to be complete at the time of recording. Things began to change when rehearsals commenced. The drummer, Matt Chamberlain, began developing a primal rhythm, which created a space for the song to develop. Just to put any lyric confusion to rest the correct lyrics are printed below. Feel free to pass these along in order to correct misinterpretations.

Devils and Gods

Devils and Gods now that's an idea

But if we believe that it's They who decide

That's the ultimate detractor of crimes

'cause Devils and Gods

They are You and I

Devils and Gods

They are You and I

Devils and Gods

Safe and Inside

Rebels as Gods

So Are they out there?

one would surmise that this must be the case

Some are not ok

with what's taken place

long ago

A covenant made

On earth long ago a covenant made that

One could not rule

but all would partake

Devils can hide inside an idea

Placed there by Gods for you to think like this

If I were dead would he love me then?

That then begins a secret death wish

That then begins your secret death wish

You'll gain his love

but too cold to kiss

Oh don't let this lady lay

Don't make this lady lie

No don't let this lady lay

Don't make this lady lie

Devils and Gods now that's an idea

But if we believe that it's They who decide

That's the ultimate detractor of crimes

'cause Devils and Gods

They are You and I

Devils and Gods

They are You and I

Devils and Gods

Safe and Inside

tags: devils gods blog isabel documents

Jun 26, 2007
Comparative View

Everyone is being affected by being in Eastern Europe. One young woman has done a comparative study of the cities Warsaw and Prague. She spoke about it for rather a long time, sitting at a cafe one day with perfect espresso and yet another rollup.

"Did you notice," she began, "that there weren't many trees in Warsaw?"

"Tell me more, " I encouraged her.

"Have you looked into the eyes of the people in Poland?" She continued, "The people there are the city. Some of the architecture made an impression on me but for the most part the people are the lifeblood of that city. I haven't been a lot of places where a city is almost completely defined by the people and their stories and their passion for their city. But passion for what, because let's be fair here, you're not being assaulted by the likes of the Acropolis. And then I began to understand how hard they've had to fight to be Polish, to be independent from an oppressor. I guess you're just shit outta luck if it's your city that gets flattened by an invader. No it wasn't fair, but these people haven't wallowed in self-pity. I was amazed to learn that old Warsaw had been rebuilt exactly as it had been before it had been destroyed."

I was studying her, "These people have made an impact on you haven't they."

She looked out and responded, "In ways I never thought possible. I've been surrounded by boredom for so long and just an acceptance that life should be a certain way but these people in Warsaw that I'm speaking about have such pride and value for an ideal. Now Prague, how do you begin to talk about a city that has been able to maintain its glorious architecture for hundreds of years? I wonder if there isn't a little bit of luck involved. Yes I see the people but it is the structural grandeur that has survived for so long that has romanced me personally."

By then we had welcomed in the evening. I had a pervious engagement.

She concluded with, "I don't think I'll see life in the same way when I get back to the States."

I smiled at her, "That's a good thing."

Jul 11, 2007

There are only remnants now of black smoke that have scorched the roof at Glasgow airport. Presently, the evidence of any terror are the Heckler and Koch MP-5 fully automatic 40 caliber rifles and the disorganization rampant at every check-in counter as far as the eye can scan. The war drums on, masses are weary. There has been a flux of career war professionals that go from war to war. If one were jaded, one would comment, "what would some of them do without a war?". It is a fact that some war correspondents went from the Balkans to the Middle East. This is normal life for these people putting themselves in harms way to capture the truth or a truth of a complex conflict. Some of these collectors of information and images are loners. Some have relationships "back home" some lead a dual existence. The presence of the Croatian beekeepers at the show in Ljubljana dialed my mind back to the time of the Balkan War. There was a someone covering the war as a correspondent who led one of these dual lives that I speak of. I hadn't thought of him in a long while now, but for some reason with the group of female beekeepers from Croatia as they began to dance their primal dance it all came flooding back. His passion for Croatia was evident and always constant in conversations. Recent information from a reliable source affirmed that he was presently in Gaza.

Jul 23, 2007
The Past and The Future

Now in Ramallah a photojournalist recounts his experiences, a somewhat recent mass exodus of news media from Gaza has had a relocation affect on all who had been covering stories there. Some specialists have suggested that journalists are at risk for developing PTSD (post-traumatic-stress-disorder) mainly because they are exposed to people experiencing traumatic events termed secondary traumatization or they are exposed to immediate existential threats known as primary traumatization. But some photojournalists consider their line of work to be more of a mission of sorts. One such journalist I had lost touch with for years. A memory of him was jostled and ignited through the symbolic arrival of the Croatian Beekeepers. Through subsequent investigation I learned that after he had covered the Balkan War for many years he eventually ended up covering the Middle East crisis. Approximately this time last year he had been camped out at Israel's northern border subsequently he moved on to take powerful photographs in the Gaza area. I met him for lunch in Jerusalem. Hearing him account the last few years of his work life, which is not separate from his personal life, I began to realize these kinds of men are a different breed. He has witnessed events that I have only read about. His stories have the power to draw me in.

When he asked if I were staying on and he would show me around, I asked him if he were still married.

He looked surprised and responded that, "things fell apart within months of you Isabel telling me you couldn't explain why we couldn't continue to see each other."
I explained to him that, "breaking up a marriage is a bad scene for all involved and I didn't want to be the reason that it ended."
He said, "She's remarried with children. I get a Christmas card from her every year, she says she's never been happier."
I asked him, "How do you respond to that?"
He smiled, "I can honestly say I'm really happy for her, but I don't think about her much. We should have never been together in the first place."
Seeing someone from the past can have absolutely no affect on you whatsoever except thanking your lucky stars that you took a different bend in the road or it can have the affect whereby something only they seem to be able to do to you happens and feelings bubble to the surface almost instantly. I'll be staying on in Israel with no definite plans.

Sep 20, 2007

Opinions about most subjects run rampant. Opinions about places are easy to receive even when you don't ask for them. An opinion about Adelaide is one opinion that almost everyone seemed to want to share with me. Never having been here before I had no judgment. An extremely amusing character pulled me aside and revealed an Adelaide anecdote. He had flown in to meet with people to discuss a project not so long ago. He found himself staring at a bare breasted waitress over a business lunch.
The city of churches he called it, "churches always seem to bring out the quirky, sexual habits of your typical average citizen."
He assured me he wasn't a conservative kind of guy but I knew that already, he didn't need to defend his position. He continued being bewildered through the lunch because he really didn't have an appetite for protein, that had been the first culinary desire to go and then he felt as if he was staring at an abundance of carbohydrates so there was really nothing left, consequently he abstained from anything solid. He settled on soup. Another person informed me that Adelaide was seething with a dark underbelly. They went into detail about judges and other arms of the law tainted with the subject of pedophilia. As for myself, Adelaide reminds me very much of a town in America called Austin. If you like Austin, then you will like Adelaide. I found myself in a tapas bar enjoying incredibly good local wine. The women here have an intelligence that they wear well. It nestles somewhere over their stylish glasses and glides down resting casually around there hips. In the city of churches, the goddess is alive and well.

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