I am...

Done. Over.
Resistance was futile.

Chimney Swifts

Becky told Michael and Michael told me.

Two cyclists and an imposter on an old Dutch to Broadway and 5th just before sunset to watch birds.

Thousands of tiny black birds.

Vaux Swifts. They're little. They're migratory. They're in love with a chimney. On their way to Guatemala, they stop by this abandoned building (and have been for a number of years) to roost, and inadvertently swoon the residents of Los Angeles.

I'm pretty sure there are people writing maudlin verses of poetry right now about these birds and this chimney.

But I get it.

I, myself, could not help but put an emotionally moving orchestral piece on this video.

Chimney Swifts from melanie bellomo on Vimeo.

Super

This kid. I hope she likes me as much as I like her.

BIBA

$10 keyboard from Rite-Aid that played mostly Christmas songs.
Biba fearless, reckless, and shirtless.
Grant and Jon holding down the beat.
Molly and I with the best seats in the house.
A dog in every corner of the yard.

And with that, Biba danced. And I mean, she tore the front porch down, channeling an amazing amalgamation of James Brown, Robyn, and Edgar Winter.


We did this for an hour.



When it was time to stop, Biba cried and cried in futile, childhood protest.

I believe we all cried, too. But only on the inside, as we have learned not to cause a fuss. We have learned that the fun inevitably comes to an end and you have to go to bed.

How do you explain that logic to a kid? You can't, because if you think about it long enough, you find that it makes no sense.

Le Monde Appartient à Ceux Qui Se Lèvent Tôt

I left the room at 5am with my Super 8 in hand to film the Parisian sunrise.

It was really hard to keep up the facade that I meant to dress in sandals and a sleeveless shirt while I walked through Monmartre in the rain. The weather had been perfect the past couple days, and I thought it was dark out, because, well, it was 5am... not because there were rain clouds doing their thing, and doing it well.

The sun wouldn't be rising that day. And that was ok. Because I was in Paris, and if there are two things I love, it's being alone and public transit systems. So a quick change of plans, and a quick look at the map and I was on my [soaking wet] way.

I hopped on and off the Metro a couple of times, and happened across an umbrella along the way.

There was not a soul in sight, save a couple of dedicated joggers and a groundskeeper.

Just me, in the rain, standing beneath the Eiffel Tower, hoping that the rest of the world would sleep in that day.

4

4 from melanie bellomo on Vimeo.

Spent the kind of day with friends where you find yourself repeating the phrase, "Is this really my life?" Over and over.
Weather too temperate, water too welcoming, food too good, people too cool, life too easy.
Everyone with cameras in hand, it has been called by some the most well-documented 4th of July of 2011.
Bryan & Alli and Ryan & Sonia opened their home and stretch of Malibu beach to us, and had every eastsider second-guessing their coordinates by the end of the day.

An Open Letter to the Universe

Dear Universe,

Your attempts to keep me away from this girl are nothing short of cruel. At first, I brushed it off as simple coincidence. But now, 2 years after seeing this lovely face for the first time, my absolute adoration has not waned, and you continue to mock me.

Coincidence, I think not.

Rather, full blown intent to separate. But for what? For why? I have put some thought into this, because, Universe, you are complicated. However, I believe I have figured it out. You clearly are threatened by the potential power storm of amazing magical explosions that will occur when Jasmine Ash and I rise above your futile efforts and, once and for all, fulfill our destiny to HANG OUT.

Well I have news for you, Universe. You will not keep us apart. We shall overcome. We will be in the same city for more than 3 days and we will meet up for coffee and we will talk about pups and nail polish and bunnies and the Beatles.

So get over it. Because it's happening. And the world will be a better place for it. So get on the goddamned bandwagon already and stop hatin'.

Regards,
Melanie

UPDATE: My browser crashed as I was posting this and everything was LOST! GONE! BYE BYE! That has NEVER happened before and frankly, Universe, I take that as a threat. Bring it, bitch.

Lesson Unlearned

I guess I play the piano. I mean, I think I do.

We grew up with a little Story&Clark in our living room on Oakmont Ct. It started innocently with that song where you roll your fist on the three black keys, then pound the flanking black keys twice as hard you can in between each fist roll... You guys know the one. I would do that nonstop, because it really didn't have an ending. And man, it sounded as good as it felt.

From there it all came pretty quickly: Mary Had a Little Lamb, Heart and Soul, the Top Gun Theme. Pretty soon, my left hand joined in, and I was making up my own pretty little songs. PS:Here's the great thing about not knowing how to write music down... You must never stop playing or you will forget it all. Therefore, I never stopped playing.

Lessons were never even considered. To be completely honest, I didn't even know such a thing existed. The piano bench was the most popular seat in my house, and maybe my parents knew that the last thing we needed after a long day of guilt and redemption at St Rose of Lima Catholic School were rules and regimen. Thankfully, apart from the actual architectural structure of our house, structure was the one thing that was brilliantly lacking in our home.

Papa Joe played piano. Without a doubt. He was a bona fide piano player. One of those never-took-a-lesson-in-his-life types. He would play anything and everything for hours. And purely for enjoyment. His and ours. We would dance wildly around my grandma's living room while he banged out the 12th Street Rag and the Flight of the Bumble Bee, following each note with a corresponding leap, spin ,or crash. Then he would kindly slow into Love is a Many Splendored Thing, and as the sweat on our collective brows would begin to cool, he'd pull out his ace...

Twilight Time.

Ugh, Twilight Time. Even at 5 years old, that song broke my heart. No words, just music. And it moved me deeply. I've been able to hear it only in my head for the past 7 years or so and I cannot think of one thing that I want more than to hear him play it again. In his own special way. The way that I have searched for and have failed to find.


When Papa passed, I mourned. I never understood that word before that moment he left. But then I knew it so well, because he was gone, and he took it all with him. His scratchy beard, the smell of car grease on his skin, the nicknames that only he called us, his piano playing. Gone. I cry now while I write this, because the loss remains. And I want it all back.

I decided to start taking piano lessons. I decided it would be a good idea to learn what notes were and where they lived on the piano. I decided that it was time for me to know what all those little loopdeedoos and flags on sheet music were. I decided that this would be the way for me to finally be able to play all of his songs to myself so I could listen to them again.

I went for my first lesson today. The instructor asked me what my skill level was, to which I replied,

"I don't know where 'C' is. I play by ear. I know nothing."

Then he asked me to play him something. I played him about 10 seconds of a Chopin song Angelo had taught me 15 years ago. He had a tape casette recording of this song and we obsessed over it until it became this ridiculous mutation of the original.

This definitely gave the instructor the wrong idea. I think he [so wrongly] thought that I knew what I was doing.

The next 30 minutes was a whirlwind of phrases such as, "No start with your third finger, " "One and a-two, and-a skip, and a-three, and-a.." "that empty circle with the dot means it is 2.5 notes" and the very popular "Start again." At minute 28, I started crying. Commence meltdown sequence...

"I don't understand anything that you are saying! All the ones and a-twos... and...I don't know what b flat means! Or how to find it! I don't know any of this! I was being honest! I only know how to memorize which keys get hit at the same time and the rest is my ear saying which way to go! Up or down! Up or down! I ONLY KNOW UP OR DOWN! "

When I got home tonight, I played every song I knew to exorcise the lesson demon. Half way through an old Sicilian folk song that Papa Joe frequented, it hit me...

I'm a Bellomo. We don't do piano lessons.

Just figure it out. Use whatever fingers you want. Let your ear tell you where to go. If you get stuck, call your brother.

Because, here's the thing... I want to hear Twilight Time again. Badly. But I don't want to hear a "lessoned" version of it. I want to hear Papa Joe's version. The version that's in my blood. So help me, I am going to find it, and when I do, I'll finally be home again. And I cannot fucking wait.

The Gospel According to Danny

Don't talk to me about digital. I've got hypo in my veins. The stains you see on my shirts are Dektol. I like the dark room, the radio, the yellow light glowing. I rip the printing paper into quarters. One square is swimming in the Dektol. Through the clear, brown liquid I see my work emerging – my picture. Then I take it, the little piece, and give it away, a gift, to the person pictured in it, a return for what they have given me. Thirty years pass. People die. Children grow old. They keep the little piece, stuck up on a wall with thumbtacks, creased and stained: themselves, young and alive, forever. That is photography.

-D. Lyon (photographer, keepin-it-realist, personal hero)

#sickmoviebro

Sick movie, right bro? Just some friends, on a roof, raging.

Sarah Rayne has Skillz.

She does. But whatever, you guys. Calm down, because it's not even a big deal. It's just fact. So you don't need to freak out about it, you just need to deal. She has skills.

And she will share them with you.

Like, check this out...

1. She steals. As in she's a thief. As in literally. As in mini bars and reality television production cheeseburgers. But she will give all of her spoils to you.

2. Sarah has 3 different (legitimate) music projects going on (that I know about). One with her bros because she is a family oriented person, one with her friend Brian because she is a good friend who likes to collaborate freely, and one on her own because she is an independent woman with a keen sense of self.

3. If you are crying, she will take a picture of your face.

4. If you are laughing, she will make it worse and take it to the next level with dick jokes.

5. Sarah has a Monday night beard during dodgeball season.

6. She knows every swimming pool game in existence. And if you try to make one up to throw her off, she will have it wired immediately and add three new rules that make it more satisfying than it ever was when you were playing it without her.

7. When playing sports and doing general athletics, Sarah does not put her hair up in a ponytail.

8. She will go to the beach with you at 4am. This is "hearsay," but I believe it to be true with all my heart.

9. Sarah will make you feel OK about looking up the short skirts of women who walk by while you are floating in a pool.

10. No one, and I mean no one, can "do dead" better than Sarah Rayne.

11. She makes coffee cake that can and will open up your soul.

12. She always has extra capes.

13. She will make you feel like you are full of worth on your most worthless days. I swear. It is some kind of sweet black magic.

If it weren't 3AM, I'd keep going. Anyways, I'm glad I got at least this much off my chest. In summation, Sarah clearly has skills. If you see her, remind her of that. And also tell her I love her. Because I do. So much. How could I not?*

*see below.

And Another Thing

I've changed my mind about a few things.
Insert randomly chosen photograph here...
Cool.
Goodnight.

What Is Up

Making my way back over here.
I have Netflix and it's ruining my life.
I love it so much.
The good news is, I'm in the mood to write starting tomorrow. It's just a hunch.
But I'm thirty now.
Which means I get to call "a hunch" my intuition.
And no one effs with intuition.

Googling Sophia Loren

My Google search history for the past week...

1. Young Sophia Loren Underwear
2. Reddit True Story
3. Pet import Russia
4. Cock sock
5. What do you call it when two guys' dicks accidentally touch?
6. Thesaurus truth
7. analog emoticons
8. How often should you cut your hair?
9. Pet import Japan
10. Maple Center

52 Card Pickup

During one of my extended stays with Great Aunt Harriet, she asked me if I wanted to play 52 card pickup.

I looked down at her wrinkled hands and saw her thickened, yellow nails gripping the worn, soft-blue deck of cards that had taught me how to play such staples as WAR, Go Fish, Rummy, Gin Rummy, and Slap Jack.

"Yes."

She smiled and patted the so-blonde-it-looked-invisible hair on my oversized head and we walked into the kitchen her mobile home.

"Alright, pay attention. I don't wanna explain this twice."

The deck of cards began flying madly into the air as she laughed so violently in my face that her chin hairs shook.

As the cards began to settle, her laugh trailed off into tiny hiccups. After a moment of my stunned silence, she pointed at the ground...

"There. 52 cards. Pick em up."

and walked out of the room.