Mstrace 

10 creative works found

• Come See!
  by mstrace

  When I happened to mention to our talented and gorgeous moderator of the Blue Room how cool it would be to have one of her heart pieces i…

  When I happened to mention to our talented and gorgeous moderator of the Blue Room how cool it would be to have one of her heart pieces incorporate a few of my favorite things (flames, the color purple, animal-print), she created This is Lust even dropping in some words from my recent poem “Distraction”. I hope anyone reading this journal will go checkout LittleHelen Her artwork and photography is a delicious mix of sexy, touching, wicked, whimsical, dark, humorous, compassionate and luscious!

• Why I luvs me some.... MsTrace
  by JTomblinson

  Lately I’ve written about a couple of RB features and whatnot, and then it occurred to me: I have forgotten to recognize the most importa…

  Lately I’ve written about a couple of RB features and whatnot, and then it occurred to me: I have forgotten to recognize the most important one of all. But first, some background. I lived in Southern California for six years. While I had many experiences and grew immeasurably as a person, in my opinion I gained only two lasting things while there: / 1. My college degree, and / 2. My kinship with Trace. It began simply enough. I was living in a tiny apartment in a crazy neighborhood, working three jobs and going to school full-time. One day there was a knock at my door. It was the new chickadee from next door with the long blonde hair (yes, she was a stunning blonde in those days, now of course a stunning redhead). Something had happened and she needed a ride. I was really surprised, but what could I say? No? Not hardly. Of course I gave her a ride. And then… we weren’t just neighbors, we became friends. And then we were coworkers. And then over time she became my family. My daughter knows her as Auntie Trace even though I can count on one hand all the times they’ve seen each other in my baby’s lifetime. Doesn’t matter. I was honored to be there when Trace first began seriously pursuing the art and craft of poetry. I am honored every time she makes time to visit with me, whether it’s online or in person. I am honored (and amused) every time we recommend a book to the other, only to learn the other has just finished it, or bought it, or is in the middle of it. I am honored every time she comments on my RB entries (and she’s often first, if not the only). Now for the long-overdue recognitions: I was indescribably honored when she chose my photo of my husband and daughter as one of her two favorite pieces on RB. Understanding why she chose it only makes her gesture more special to me. Further, I was honored, touched and, yes, intimidated when she wrote a recent journal entry about a couple of my writings. I am not the writer she is, but I am her friend. And so when I write about something meaningful to me, she feels it like perhaps no one else. I realize, on the surface of our RB lives, it may not be obvious why Trace and I are friends. Recent events aside, my art tends to be fluffy bunnies and smarm; Trace’s is nothing short of primal. We don’t seem to have many groups, favorites or watchlist folks in common. Doesn’t matter. Here is the thing: I am a person who easily misses people. Not like misses them when they’re gone, although I often do; I mean like misses them to start with. They go this way and I go that way; on the occasions we intersect, I seek to slip by unnoticed. It’s not that I really want to be that person; it’s just my very oldest habit, a survival mechanism. Should anyone actually find a way to connect with me, I often misplace them, as if they were car keys or used-up checkbooks. I forget to put myself in front of them, or to stop and notice when they are putting themselves in front of me. The simplest way to summarize our relationship is, for whatever reason, Trace just never allowed me - allows me - to lose her. And for that, for her generosity and support, I will always try to give back to her, at least an equal measure of the gifts she has always given me. Thank you, my sister.

• Ruthless Before Lightning Which Comes After Roar
  by mstrace

  opening as I am / as I do, as I must / with every thrust / my hard hearted ways to your black autumn lust

  This is third installment of my Storm series. The first can be found here and second can be found here I almost always remember my dreams. Sometimes they are bizarre, sometimes full of horror, or sometimes crazy erotic. But always, almost always they are so vivid it can take awhile upon wakening to shake them off. This was one such dream…so lucid and visceral and real. I woke up with such an ache in my groin I cannot tell you. Sucks to be single sometimes. Anyhow…I hope you enjoy.

• Random Thoughts on Bodies, Things and Pieces
  by mstrace

  I don’t want to shrink inside. I don’t want short hair or thinning hair or cracks in my heart.

  This sucks like toast on crackers. But I’m in a bit of a writing rut and decided to write nonsense until I write myself out of it. Seeing it posted is always like looking at it with fresh eyeballs. I hope to rework it into something digestible. Or am I saying that because I’m hungry? Don’t feel particularly hungry after mentioning “fresh eyeballs”. Blech. Gotta get hungry for Thanksgiving dinner tomorrow. Cooking for that big American Starch Festival should cannonball me right into a place of writing genius. Not. If this meandering description of nothingness is any indication, its gonna take a lot of random drivel. Okay, I’m going to shut up now.

• A gifted writer!
  by Mel Brackstone

  NSFW

• A Thank You Never Given
  by mstrace

  I came home today, after a late night of election celebration and attending an all day city leadership retreat to find that my story “Oct…

  I came home today, after a late night of election celebration and attending an all day city leadership retreat to find that my story October is a Memory Hammer has been featured on the main redbubble writing section This is the second piece I wrote about my childhood and most especially, my relationship with my Dad. The first one, Hey Dad, I’m 40 was also featured on the main writing page on redbubble a couple of months ago. I feel I must give a long overdue thanks to redbubble for, well…existing in the first place dammit! It is this site and all you outrageously talented, compassionate and brilliant people that provides me every day with a much needed outlet for the words that churn inside me. I’m ever so crazy grateful for this website, this community, and all you beautiful fracking people…for reading my words, for providing comments of support and solace and for most of all – helping me find joy in my voice once again.

• 

  Untitled
  by LittleHelen

  breathe girl….. COME ON!

• Lost Are the Words as Buried Treasure
  by mstrace

  they’d glisten / like juice, like rubies / daring to be found / but they’re gone / like a crevice in my flesh / gone

  Sometimes, words fail me.

• Los Angeles: the peanut moment
  by bellmusker

  “Be quiet now for Daddy – my medicine is just starting to kick in.” / Overheard in Disneyland !http://images-3.redbubble.net/img/art/...

  “Be quiet now for Daddy – my medicine is just starting to kick in.” / Overheard in Disneyland During one late night phone call to LittleHelen, one of us casually mentioned “wouldn’t it be wonderful to fly over to the US and visit MsTrace?” And so we found ourselves on a 14 hour flight to the land of Reece’s peanut butter cups, cowboy hats and cheese in a can. It didn’t begin well. What you really don’t want to hear is ‘we’re sorry to inform you that Melbourne Airport is now closed due to fog.” And so I missed my flight to LA, as did Helen due to Brisbane fog, throwing us sideways to an airport hotel in Sydney, where the rain was relentless, the bar was closed, and my bags were missing. All we wanted was that moment when the flight attendant hands you the peanuts, and you know you’re on your way. A day late, the stretch limo purred to a halt in Los Angeles and we threw our arms open for Trace, a beautifully vibrant and generous soul who’s opened her house to us, right down to ‘B’ and ‘H’ personalised towels. Despite it being 8am, we cracked open the champagne as the limo slid through the streets of LA, and we were welcomed in fine style. It’s been a riot of vintage clothes shopping and tequila, high heels and chocolate, all in glorious Californian sunshine and deliriously high spirits. One of my first stops was an American supermarket, where I spent far too much time squealing at the food. Then there was Disneyland. Yes, I went to Disneyland, which will surprise many of you. Luckyvegetable has set me three challenges, the first being to get my photo taken with a Disney character. So I found myself lining up with shrieking children, and when Tigger caught sight of me, in suede mini skirt and tattoos, my fiery plaits topped by Tigger ears, he knelt at my feet and bowed down to me. It’s quite a skill entrancing grown men in animal costumes, but I use my power wisely. The rollercoaster delighted Helen and Trace, but I couldn’t decide whether I wanted to do it all again, or throw up. And if you think Bell in Disneyland is incongruous enough, prepare yourself for what follows. I refuse to discuss it. We drove through the Hollywood Hills for a good view of the sign, and found our favourite stars on Sunset Boulevard. I bought a killer corset at Frederick’s of Hollywood, and we sauntered through a flea market at Long Beach. Trace took us to a baseball game, where I threw myself into the spirit of things and devoured Coors with a mustard hot dog, and shared a bag of peanuts with the man next to me, throwing the shells on the ground and yelling at the LA Dodgers. We bought beautiful jewellery at Venice Beach and sang to the Beach Boys as we drove down Pacific Coast Highway, and drank peanut butter shakes as we watched a surfing competition at Huntington Beach. Trace’s lovely friends threw us a welcome bbq in a gorgeous 1920’s villa, sipping margaritas next to the jacuzzi as honkytonk music played and the delicious Mexican carne asada was grilled to perfection., It’s my birthday on Wednesday, so we jet off to New York tomorrow. As a pre-bday gift Trace treated me to lobster, truffles and champagne…I may never come home. And of course, there’s been plenty of vodka under the stars in Trace’s back yard, singing to Guns and Roses and taking the kind of silly snaps that tell a hundred stories, and will make me smile for some time. Helen and Trace send their love, and will post their stories soon. Until then, thanks for all the bubblemails, and I’ll speak to you from New York! And I mean it: I refuse to discuss the pink bridal Disney hat. Did you notice my buxom eyelashes? Helen / You speak really good English. What language do they speak in Australia? my pedicurist_ / It was poking me in places I shouldn’t be poked Helen / Did I hiss at someone in the bar last night? me / If I come to Australia, am I gonna be able to funk out? drunk guy in pub

• New York City
  by bellmusker

  Hey darlin’, I’ve walked all over New York looking for you. It’s true – just ask my feet! / Guy in Times Square !http://images-1.redb…

  Hey darlin’, I’ve walked all over New York looking for you. It’s true – just ask my feet! / Guy in Times Square I could live here. Just letting you know that from the beginning, so you understand the total exuberant joy that will be threaded through this journal. MsTrace, LittleHelen and I jetted in after a week of beaches and sunshine in Los Angeles, to the jarring and utterly addictive noise that is New York City. It never stops, and I mean that literally; the yellow cabs honk all night, you can buy divine thick pretzels from a street vendor at any hour, and the flashing neon of Times Square doesn’t dull for a moment. We know this, because thanks to some wrangling from Trace, our hotel room looked directly down onto this seminal part of New York, right in ‘the shit show’ as it was charmingly called. And we absolutely loved it. / View from our hotel I’ve been to NY twice before, and both times fell head over kitten heels in love with it. It’s brash and exhausting and utterly spellbinding, and I find myself in no time striding through crowds (“coming through, step aside”) and scowling at people on the subway, to the point where I got mistaken for a native New Yorker more than once. This time, it delighted me to lead my girls to places I remembered, from shops in SoHo to restaurants in the East Village, beginning with the best coffee in the US: Cafe Angelique on Bleecker Street. Absolute bliss. We walked to the Brooklyn Bridge, admired squirrels in Central Park, took the Staten Island ferry past the Statue of Liberty and sat people watching for hours in parks. I’ll leave it to Helen and Trace to do it photographic justice, but here are some I took. / Washington Square Park, where Dylan used to busk, with the Empire State Building in the background / View from the reservoir in Central Park What would my journal be if I didn’t revolve it around food and drink? I munched on hot pretzels so salty my mouth ached, and bagels crammed with lox and cream cheese. I bought a hot dog from a vendor in Times Square and as I lifted the mustard smothered ‘dawg’ to my mouth, a horrified passerby actually stopped and admonished me with ‘hon, you’re not actually gonna eat that thing, are ya?” I did indeed, then had to go lie down with a cold washcloth on my forehead in a darkened room for a spell. But the three of us will never forget the China Grill, a lavish hotspot where the coconut martinis won Helen’s heart, the crispy spinach tasted like incredible potato chips, and the duck in chocolate orange sauce left me feeing as though I’d just been seduced, and damn well. But I’m still a Melbourne girl at heart, and when I visited the restrooms and found a woman whose sole job it was to pour soap into my embarrassed hands, I couldn’t meet her eyes, nor mine in the mirror. The delectable food fuelled us for all the shopping we needed to do, and believe me, we shopped up a storm. But remember, on your birthday there is no budget, no diet, and absolutely no shame. Yes, my 37th birthday led us all out to the streets of the Lower East Side with trembling credit cards and high expectations, and the city didn’t disappoint. We visited the old CBGB’s haunt, punk mecca that it was, ate vegan delights at Angelika’s Kitchen (my favourite restaurant in NY) and then headed into the trendy Bowery Hotel, where the rich and famous stay. What is that? / I think it’s a jumpsuit. / And is she a midget? / I’m thinking yes. / What kind of place is this?! We got merry. It’s difficult to get too merry on $28 martinis, but we managed it, and the little red book of quotes got serious action. We weren’t allowed in the back bar, which we dealt with…..until we saw a man bring in a dog on a leash. For a start, no dogs are allowed in bars in Australia, but the thought that this whippet was deemed more suitable than our fine group outraged the two Aussie wenches, and amused Trace no end. You know what I don’t like about the martini? The glass. I mean, put it in a fucking schooner. Helen I’d like to include more quotes, but the handwriting got a tad messy after a few cocktails, so we headed back to the hotel room for a game of scenarios, which amused us no end and saw my birthday to a joyous, indulgent and mirthful close. / Look, Johnny Depp just walked in! (His utter beauty is one of the few things Helen and I disagree on). / What do you mean, the whippet’s classier than us? / Could you handle another tub of Ben and Jerry’s half cooked cookie dough ice cream? / What’s the next one? Don’t go to sleep yet! Let’s go for a swim in the hotel pool….are you girls awake? I’m having another espresso martini! And I will leave you with a story that will make me grin for some time. I bought myself a present of a trip to a day spa on the Upper East Side, and the moment I walked in I understood the ‘no refund’ policy completely. It was one of the most surreal experiences of my life, and I hope I can do it justice. The Iranian hairdresser took one look at my Medusa curls and handed me the brush with a curt ‘you get started’ as she walked into the back for a coffee. The Nepalese manicurist simply chopped my long nails off, and then swept the cuttings onto the floor before demanding to know why I had no wedding ring at my age. She then advised me not to marry an American because “I can’t stand them”. The masseuse, a brusque and rotund Russian woman called Tatiana, had sharp nails that literally left me bleeding after my massage, during which she demanded to know what I was writing and then give me curt advice on the direction my novel should be taking, literally talking over the top of me as she bruised my startled flesh. Why did I stay? Because it was so damn absurd that I wanted to see what could possibly come next. When they began discussing blonde foils for my fiery locks and I started seeing the face of Jesus in the cracked linoleum floor, I made my escape to Central Park and sat curled up on a rock, shaking my head and thinking…..damn, I love this city. Don’t talk about stilts while I’m drinking martinis. me I don’t want to watch your arse Helen / That’s really hurtful Trace You don’t like polar bears? Trace / Well I don’t know them that fucking well Helen Is that the AC/DC album where they did smack rap – is that a genre? Sammy, our hotel bartender You should always end a sentence with ‘whippets shouldn’t be allowed here’. me TV newsflash in the cab coming home: lavish jailhouse bar mitzvah not so kosher. To Helen and Trace, my companions over the last two weeks and provider of some incredible, unforgettable memories…..thank you girls so damn much. I miss you both already. X