Tara Tierra

Mireille Nassif, Philippe Yared, Dr. Josyann Abisaab & Others Helping MySchoolPulse

Recently, 23 people participated on August 8th, 2010 in a 5k run/walk on Long Island organized by Dr. Josyann Abisaab. This was a solidarity event simulaneously taking place with one in Lebanon at the same time with over 1100 people attending it.

The dual events were  put together to raise funds for MySchoolPulse a non profit organization. MySchoolPulse was founded by Mireille Nassif and Philippe Yared, in memory of their 12 year old son, Paul.

MySchoolPulse brings tutors and teachers to sick children so they can continue with a certain level of normalcy with their lives while fighting grave illnesses.

Dennis Carey: My Favorite CEO Recruiter

My ex-husband had one good thing to say.  "Women like men who are go getters..."  And you know what I agree.  No wife wants their husband to just sit around and do nothing.  When I  think about men in the business world that exemplify go getter I think of Dennis Carey.  He is just about the most famous and successful CEO Recruiter around.  Dennis Carey has been responsible for countless successful CEO placements in major companies around the world. He is my vote for businessman of the year.

Thinkers I'm Thinking About

• Stanley Fish
  Most famous for his essay, "Interpreting the Variorum," Fish developed the notion of interpretive communities, arguing that texts were as much determined by their readers (who naturally segmented themselves into various interpretive groups) than their authors. He wrote in the 1970s, initially, but continues writing today.
• Alejandro Peralta
  Gamaliel Churata's brother, Alejandro Peralta wrote the poem "Ande" in 1926 and it was published in the first edition of el Boletin Titikaka. He later published it in many other Peruvian literary journals. He also wrote another collection of poems titled "Kollao" about the landscape and cultural identity around Lake Titikaka. His poetry includes both Quechua and Aymara words in addition to Spanish.
• Gamaliel Churata
  Gamaliel Churata's given name is Arturo Peralta. He and his two brothers, Angel and Alejandro, are writers and artists from Puno, Peru. Churata wrote a rather unclassifiable book titled "El pez de oro" and also is responsible for the publication of 2 literary journals (1) La Tea (1917-1919) and (2) El boletín Titikaka (1926-1930). Churata is considered part of the "Indigenous Vanguard" that grew from approximately 1920-1930 in Peru.
• Silvia Rivera Cusicanqui
  A little known but highly important female academic in Bolivia who has studied Melchor María Mercado's "Album de Paisajes" (19th Century) and written largely on indigenous representation in Bolivia.

Tattoos and Chalk

In the mental image, I am naked, my hair is to the floor, and I am standing on a black plane of nothingness. There are birds in my hair because I hate birds and they make me think I'm a nest. Twigs and worms are slinking around. There are eggshell bits in the strands. No yolk, since my cholesterol is high. The only thing I have in my hand is a big piece of white chalk. The chalk is disappearing as I watch myself being. Quickly, I have to bend over and draw a circle around me so that I am defined on a lily pod outlined in the white chalk in the massive black plane of nothingness. But, everytime I bend down and start drawing my ring, I am in interrupted by somebody in the distance calling out an idea, "Nation and Indigeneity!!". I look up. I stop drawing. I stand naked and feel myself falling. I reach down quickly and start to draw myself into the plane again. Suddenly I hear, "Painting in the 19th century Novel!". Up I whip again. My neck hurts. I stare off "at the voice." It's invisible. Where is it coming from? I yank my head down again and feel myself descending. Down into the miasma blackness. Whip up my head. Where is my chalk? I go back down. I start to draw. Yes, that's it. Painting. Yes. Draw, fast, draw, fast. I have almost encircled myself when suddenly "Photography in Cuzco!" Rip. Yank. No circle. Fall. Idea. Fall. Huidobro. Fall. Kollao. Fall. Draw. Erase. Encircle. Circumscribe the self into the black plane of nothingness or float around in the miasma (aka Doe).

The other idea, perhaps less drastic, is to just tattoo onto my hand a word that is my lighthouse for the next three years. Like, "Caffeine." Maybe it needs to be a phrase. "Keep your eye on the ball." No, you're not Chrissy Evert. "All good things in all good time." No, you're no longer a stonette. Shit..."Stop obsessing about process. Produce." That's pretty good. Although, if I didn't obsess about the process how would I ever produce? Maybe my production is the process. Oh, quick, draw. There's my lilypod.

Anyway, back to the abyss. I'm redrawing the line, again and again. My marks, my incomplete circles, will one day be appreciated by my students at Podunk State Community College of the Mountains and my memoirs (aka this shit) will be published by Random House. They'll wonder about my tattoo and my two trusty readers can say, "Oh, we know what she meant."

In the mental image, I am naked, my hair is to the floor, and I am standing on a black plane of nothingness. There are birds in my hair because I hate birds and they make me think I'm a nest. Twigs and worms are slinking around. There are eggshell bits in the strands. No yolk, since my cholesterol is high. The only thing I have in my hand is a big piece of white chalk. The chalk is disappearing as I watch myself being. Quickly, I have to bend over and draw a circle around me so that I am defined on a lily pod outlined in the white chalk in the massive black plane of nothingness. But, everytime I bend down and start drawing my ring, I am in interrupted by somebody in the distance calling out an idea, "Nation and Indigeneity!!". I look up. I stop drawing. I stand naked and feel myself falling. I reach down quickly and start to draw myself into the plane again. Suddenly I hear, "Painting in the 19th century Novel!". Up I whip again. My neck hurts. I stare off "at the voice." It's invisible. Where is it coming from? I yank my head down again and feel myself descending. Down into the miasma blackness. Whip up my head. Where is my chalk? I go back down. I start to draw. Yes, that's it. Painting. Yes. Draw, fast, draw, fast. I have almost encircled myself when suddenly "Photography in Cuzco!" Rip. Yank. No circle. Fall. Idea. Fall. Huidobro. Fall. Kollao. Fall. Draw. Erase. Encircle. Circumscribe the self into the black plane of nothingness or float around in the miasma (aka Doe).

The other idea, perhaps less drastic, is to just tattoo onto my hand a word that is my lighthouse for the next three years. Like, "Caffeine." Maybe it needs to be a phrase. "Keep your eye on the ball." No, you're not Chrissy Evert. "All good things in all good time." No, you're no longer a stonette. Shit..."Stop obsessing about process. Produce." That's pretty good. Although, if I didn't obsess about the process how would I ever produce? Maybe my production is the process. Oh, quick, draw. There's my lilypod.

Anyway, back to the abyss. I'm redrawing the line, again and again. My marks, my incomplete circles, will one day be appreciated by my students at Podunk State Community College of the Mountains and my memoirs (aka this shit) will be published by Random House. They'll wonder about my tattoo and my two trusty readers can say, "Oh, we know what she meant."