May 13, 2013
Early Morning



Despite my many years of poor sleeping, the wee hours of the morning are still best….after all is said and done. 
A night spent setting aside full dinner plates for my home late husband so he has little washing up to do and preparing for the mornings breakfast is all task. I move through these things like a machine. Having gotten the kids to sleep with pleading for calm and some frustration, a couple of room re entries and more kisses, i get to sit alone with sleeping cats and a wiry dog, eat my dinner and finish a bottle of red wine. A little numb, a little wondering where the time goes I walk the dog for her last pee, check on all morning things, create my list, cover the girls and get into bed. I have a good 2 or 3 hours of sheer dark sleep and then my day begins again. The dog growls at one of the cats, distressing me as my cats were in my life first and have every right to be on the bed too. My youngest has quietly entered the bed, like my husband. Space shrinks. My oldest child enters talking and negotiating space with me as she knows that i speak alert and keen no matter the time of night. We are all in the bed and I hear the deep sounds of breathing and the occasional cough and rattle that plagues children for months at a time. The dog curls below the kids feet, there is more room there. Mr. Coco begins his job of obsessive purring and head butting while the other 3 cats are silhoutted in the room agreeing from a distance. I am awake, if not to make sure that my husband rises when he must,then to get up and feed the cats so they can peacefully eat at 5 or 5:30 followed by loud play without dog interruption. The dog is lazy and will sleep beyond all of us in the large king sized bed that only she gets to experience alone. 
After my husband has left to catch his train, all breakfast is cooked and on hold in pans, bowls and toasters, cats are lounging, backpacks packed with just prepared lunches, jackets set aside, kids beds made,though they have not been slept in for hours, litter boxes scooped, clothes set out for the day and toothbrushes smeared with that one pea sized dot of toothpaste….I get to enter my bedroom and wake my children. 
The sleep is deep and warm for both. I crawl between both and begin. My oldest can be a sour riser. Whether by soft touch or voice, there is no right way. With the youngest, she adores waking by the sound and smell of me still. I touch her hair, press my whole face to her face and then kiss her repeatedly. I sink my lips into her still baby soft cheek and whisper her name. I rub her tummy and press my face to her still more, breathing her and knowing that she is soon to grow big and into a woman. She rouses smiling and loving me there….the wee hours lead up to this with my youngest, as they had done with my oldest years before. After all is said and done, having that moment when i do is deeply glorious and thick with the best of love.

© Leslie I Partridge Sachs

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March 25, 2013

I do not apologize, i am learning to edit. I put it out and later return, at least it gets to the page.

LPS

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March 6, 2013
David Foster aka Ragmanfotoart Its velvet…black hour when sound is breathing quiet life Shimmery fabric thoughts wrap around the back of the eyes It’s a weighty lightness Possibility endless Electric skin and moist spaces taken to bed Beware mornings drape of constructed realities and dreamy excisions © LPS

David Foster aka Ragmanfotoart

Its velvet…black hour when sound is breathing quiet life

Shimmery fabric thoughts wrap around the back of the eyes

It’s a weighty lightness

Possibility endless

Electric skin and moist spaces taken to bed

Beware mornings drape of constructed realities and dreamy excisions

© LPS

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January 29, 2013
Simply, there is nothing like the moments before the start of a performance. I remember well the flurry of excitement backstage. Props set, crew adorned in headsets with clip boards, trees set back in the wings, foots, scrims and flats checked. Scattered bares with dancers slung over and underneath, stretching and readying. Some performers with already perfect hair and make-up. A few principals on stage marking movement, breaking in shoes, under bright work lights.  Marks set, spikes refreshed. Lights to dim, a warning. The stage is emptied, last minute scuffling, the thrill palpable.  Beyond the thick enormous curtains the muffled continual chatter is like a heartbeat.  Moments stretch out. The lights slowly fade from dim to black and all is a beginning hush.  Three quick and loud taps of the baton on the pedestal. Silence is immediate and swollen. Breath is caught. The rise of the curtain merges audience to stage. It begins.

Simply, there is nothing like the moments before the start of a performance.

I remember well the flurry of excitement backstage. Props set, crew adorned in headsets with clip boards, trees set back in the wings, foots, scrims and flats checked. Scattered bares with dancers slung over and underneath, stretching and readying. Some performers with already perfect hair and make-up.

A few principals on stage marking movement, breaking in shoes, under bright work lights.  Marks set, spikes refreshed.

Lights to dim, a warning.

The stage is emptied, last minute scuffling, the thrill palpable.  Beyond the thick enormous curtains the muffled continual chatter is like a heartbeat.  Moments stretch out.

The lights slowly fade from dim to black and all is a beginning hush. 

Three quick and loud taps of the baton on the pedestal.

Silence is immediate and swollen.

Breath is caught.

The rise of the curtain merges audience to stage.

It begins.

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(Notes: 1)
  
December 17, 2012
Photograph:  Batsheva Dance Company Air static  Skin cracked Bleeding soul Healing not Time subdues Behind eyes Memory stills Pain is immediate ~Newton, CT ♡ © LPS

Photograph:  Batsheva Dance Company

Air static 

Skin cracked

Bleeding soul

Healing not

Time subdues

Behind eyes

Memory stills

Pain is immediate

~Newton, CT ♡

© LPS

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November 8, 2012
Etude Nu .© ChrisFalaise     Sexy, beautiful, sensual, has a penis and a vagina. Breasts are tiny, large, stomachs hard and flat or soft and full, buttocks every conceivable shape and size… As a young child I began to understand that my breasts would not grow to the handfuls and more that my friends, whose breasts were prominent, shyly idolized. As young as 12 I can remember a classmate, red bursting to color her face, leaving a class quickly due to teasing about the size of her breasts. She was so young and her body took full curves early. I was very young and mine did not.  I began training with New York City Ballet’s, School of American Ballet at 7.  As a dancer, the beauty of the body is expressed in line and movement. This knowledge was a seed planted early and became a cord that I returned to often, a lifeline, when self-doubt slipped into my mirror. Aside from the life struggles of many youth, dysfunctional family, loss, abandonment, trauma, feeling outside, being lost, I managed to straddle a fence where one foot remained planted. Dance cradled me.  In a studio my body thrived, though the struggles there were many. Here my body, my chest, breasts and heart, translated a beauty I am quite sure. I carried this understanding.  Still,  I happen/ed upon people – girls and boys, men and women, who speak flippantly of the body, the female body; broken down into parts,  fragments, adjectives that dismiss the owner.   As a young girl growing into my sexuality I gave my body power. With promiscuity I could prove my sensual nature with my tiny breasts.  I can  recall my hushed hesitation, wondering if in the hands of another my breasts could bring fulfillment.  I had secret promises with myself; if I had only one wish…. I grew all of my hair long, all of it, defying the standard ‘feminine’. Separating the whole and dissecting the parts, strips the moment from possibility.  Many have a part that is tethered to shame..from previous encounters by other’s shamed by others shamed by others, many women, sadly so many women and men. I have listened to comments about my breast size since I was a little girl, thoughtless words or spoken thoughts, jokes.  The pervasiveness of self-confidence directly connected to our culture’s perfect woman, perfect body is astounding. There is little celebration in the beauty of the moment, of the being. The dismembered parts weighed independently of the soul and spirit to whom they belong, utterly meaningless in this way, this is what we judge.  It is one of the small ways that we have removed ourselves from the beauty of living and loving, sexuality and sensuality.  I am my whole self, but I still drag the old parts that whisper behind me as I move more deeply into middle age.    2012© Leslie Partridge Sachs 

Etude Nu .© ChrisFalaise

 

 

Sexy, beautiful, sensual, has a penis and a vagina. Breasts are tiny, large, stomachs hard and flat or soft and full, buttocks every conceivable shape and size…

As a young child I began to understand that my breasts would not grow to the handfuls and more that my friends, whose breasts were prominent, shyly idolized. As young as 12 I can remember a classmate, red bursting to color her face, leaving a class quickly due to teasing about the size of her breasts. She was so young and her body took full curves early. I was very young and mine did not.  I began training with New York City Ballet’s, School of American Ballet at 7.  As a dancer, the beauty of the body is expressed in line and movement. This knowledge was a seed planted early and became a cord that I returned to often, a lifeline, when self-doubt slipped into my mirror.

Aside from the life struggles of many youth, dysfunctional family, loss, abandonment, trauma, feeling outside, being lost, I managed to straddle a fence where one foot remained planted. Dance cradled me.  In a studio my body thrived, though the struggles there were many. Here my body, my chest, breasts and heart, translated a beauty I am quite sure. I carried this understanding.  Still,  I happen/ed upon people – girls and boys, men and women, who speak flippantly of the body, the female body; broken down into parts,  fragments, adjectives that dismiss the owner.  

As a young girl growing into my sexuality I gave my body power. With promiscuity I could prove my sensual nature with my tiny breasts.  I can  recall my hushed hesitation, wondering if in the hands of another my breasts could bring fulfillment.  I had secret promises with myself; if I had only one wish….

I grew all of my hair long, all of it, defying the standard ‘feminine’.

Separating the whole and dissecting the parts, strips the moment from possibility.  Many have a part that is tethered to shame..from previous encounters by other’s shamed by others shamed by others, many women, sadly so many women and men.

I have listened to comments about my breast size since I was a little girl, thoughtless words or spoken thoughts, jokes. 

The pervasiveness of self-confidence directly connected to our culture’s perfect woman, perfect body is astounding. There is little celebration in the beauty of the moment, of the being. The dismembered parts weighed independently of the soul and spirit to whom they belong, utterly meaningless in this way, this is what we judge. 

It is one of the small ways that we have removed ourselves from the beauty of living and loving, sexuality and sensuality. 

I am my whole self, but I still drag the old parts that whisper behind me as I move more deeply into middle age. 

 

2012© Leslie Partridge Sachs 

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October 1, 2012
Ruminations I am ever amazed and annoyed by the many who espouse the sentiment that LIFE is something to grab up, feel joyful about, revel in, be thankful for…. that it is within the reach of all of us to have a bliss for being alive.   It does not ache my heart that I do not feel this way but it gives it a bit of a twist that others think it to be so. Perhaps it’s like those who carry their religion like a banner; they are the saved and worthy. My life here is being lived. I have my moments and when they arrive I recognize them if they are the ones that grab my heart and dance me to an ecstasy usually accompanied by tears. Also, I know the moments of wounds so deep that another breath feels impossible. For me I understand my life as nothing grand or not grand, there is no compulsion for me to find that everlasting happiness or perfection, I do not believe in it or for others. I suppose, again, it is the same with those who hold religion as the vehicle that brings them to such perfection, or a path of rightness. It is simple in my spirit and I align myself more with nature in this way, not reducing my human abilities with intellect by association.  Grabbing life up and forging ahead, meeting it full on, is an attitude that, for me, comes not by chanting it as a mantra to live by but by intuition and seizing the time when it comes into play….”carpé diem” as they say, however often or seldom and never with expectation.  It’s all in moments.  As strung beads or patchwork; sometimes the connections are weak, a solitary bead holds color and promise and then a stretch of muted tones. I do not find this dull. Each daily and probable repeated action holds it’s own significance in the same way a performance may be danced for hundreds of days. The subtleties are the fragrance no matter how slight. There is nothing grander than simply being. © LPS

Ruminations

I am ever amazed and annoyed by the many who espouse the sentiment that LIFE is something to grab up, feel joyful about, revel in, be thankful for…. that it is within the reach of all of us to have a bliss for being alive.  

It does not ache my heart that I do not feel this way but it gives it a bit of a twist that others think it to be so. Perhaps it’s like those who carry their religion like a banner; they are the saved and worthy.

My life here is being lived. I have my moments and when they arrive I recognize them if they are the ones that grab my heart and dance me to an ecstasy usually accompanied by tears. Also, I know the moments of wounds so deep that another breath feels impossible. For me I understand my life as nothing grand or not grand, there is no compulsion for me to find that everlasting happiness or perfection, I do not believe in it or for others. I suppose, again, it is the same with those who hold religion as the vehicle that brings them to such perfection, or a path of rightness.

It is simple in my spirit and I align myself more with nature in this way, not reducing my human abilities with intellect by association. 

Grabbing life up and forging ahead, meeting it full on, is an attitude that, for me, comes not by chanting it as a mantra to live by but by intuition and seizing the time when it comes into play….”carpé diem” as they say, however often or seldom and never with expectation.  It’s all in moments.  As strung beads or patchwork; sometimes the connections are weak, a solitary bead holds color and promise and then a stretch of muted tones. I do not find this dull. Each daily and probable repeated action holds it’s own significance in the same way a performance may be danced for hundreds of days. The subtleties are the fragrance no matter how slight. There is nothing grander than simply being.

© LPS

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September 26, 2012
Photographer:  Manolo L B Mantero ✦      ✦      ✦ Seattle Man After 2 years, both painful and precious, in Seattle securing my MFA I found myself packing for my departure back to Manhattan. My return would have me engaged to be married, contracted for a teaching position at University of Mass. in the upcoming autumn and readying myself for a 6 week dance workshop teaching fabulous youth in Stockholm.  It seems that superficial retrospect offers a rainbow prism to see through most always, but upon deeper reflection I can still feel the hurts sustained by the systemic illness in academia and the simple truth that I was not at all liked by most faculty and the two peers with whom I shared my most intimate work during my MFA process, though beloved by all students. I feel right in claiming that these ills in academia are magnified ten fold when the department is in the arts, more specifically dance. Here the sensitivities with form stretch beyond papyrus and land with continual beatings to the ego, the physical body.   With the scars and scorns to be neatly folded along with my belongings, my husband to be and I set about cleaning up loose ends.  Finally, I was filled to the point of giddiness that I was returning home to Manhattan to find the ground that supported the ‘me’ that I’d come to be.  Yes, a brief stint home before more travel and appointments but I was empowered. Seattle to me, then, was a muffin served slowly with a smile. I desperately missed my orders packaged with the speed of light and served up with nothing but a brown paper bag. I was embarking on a new chapter and it began with the closing of my Seattle segment. So, boxes obtained, good-bye’s relayed and a truck booked for the cross-country trip that I longed to take for my return.  Everything ready to be loaded, Sun, my then fiancé, and I went to Penske to pick up the truck. Unlike my trip to Seattle and having never owned a car, we ordered a car hitch since we were taking his car to NYC.   I have had a vast history with Penske. In the city I had been to many offices and centers for car rentals and truck rentals, the latter having to do with my short lived life as a PA and Prop assist in the film industry. This Penske in Seattle was a tiny little place.  When we arrived, the quiet was loud and there was no one in sight. Trucks lined the gated parking area, yellow for local travel and white for ‘one way’ – our way. We wandered a bit and from within an office that was for the most part hidden a tall lanky man greeted us. I will never forget this man or the interactions that ensued. There was nothing big or fanciful, nothing quick-witted or dim that holds my memory intact. It was the purity of his being, the simple goodness that he exuded that he breathed over me, like an elixir of what to aspire to.  We all exchanged the business formalities in a less formal way. His kindness was his skin.  He explained the hitch and potential complications, we paid and we departed.  In my heart I knew this man was special. I hold this still. It informs me that those who may scrape gum from a subway car may be far more along a life path than I. After returning to our almost ‘not’ home, we loaded and then set about getting the car hitched to the rear of the truck. This proved difficult, and then impossible. It was late, and in Seattle late for a Penske is far earlier than NYC, still I phoned the office we had left hours before and reached this very same man. The location had closed for the night, (heart sinking hearing these words), but he stated he’d be happy to come by and have a look….and he did. There was no rushing or impertinence. This man arrived in his personal car on his personal time. He looked over the problem, used the tools he had brought and fixed what needed to be fixed. He smiled broadly, spoke casually with us in a manner so unfamiliar: grand yet not superior, brilliant yet humble. Our truck was prepared for our journey and this very wonderful man set a tone for ours that speaks to me still, so many years later. © Leslie I Partridge Sachs

Photographer: 

Manolo L B Mantero

✦      ✦      ✦

Seattle Man

After 2 years, both painful and precious, in Seattle securing my MFA I found myself packing for my departure back to Manhattan. My return would have me engaged to be married, contracted for a teaching position at University of Mass. in the upcoming autumn and readying myself for a 6 week dance workshop teaching fabulous youth in Stockholm. 

It seems that superficial retrospect offers a rainbow prism to see through most always, but upon deeper reflection I can still feel the hurts sustained by the systemic illness in academia and the simple truth that I was not at all liked by most faculty and the two peers with whom I shared my most intimate work during my MFA process, though beloved by all students. I feel right in claiming that these ills in academia are magnified ten fold when the department is in the arts, more specifically dance. Here the sensitivities with form stretch beyond papyrus and land with continual beatings to the ego, the physical body.  

With the scars and scorns to be neatly folded along with my belongings, my husband to be and I set about cleaning up loose ends. 

Finally, I was filled to the point of giddiness that I was returning home to Manhattan to find the ground that supported the ‘me’ that I’d come to be.  Yes, a brief stint home before more travel and appointments but I was empowered. Seattle to me, then, was a muffin served slowly with a smile. I desperately missed my orders packaged with the speed of light and served up with nothing but a brown paper bag.

I was embarking on a new chapter and it began with the closing of my Seattle segment. So, boxes obtained, good-bye’s relayed and a truck booked for the cross-country trip that I longed to take for my return. 

Everything ready to be loaded, Sun, my then fiancé, and I went to Penske to pick up the truck. Unlike my trip to Seattle and having never owned a car, we ordered a car hitch since we were taking his car to NYC.   I have had a vast history with Penske. In the city I had been to many offices and centers for car rentals and truck rentals, the latter having to do with my short lived life as a PA and Prop assist in the film industry. This Penske in Seattle was a tiny little place.  When we arrived, the quiet was loud and there was no one in sight. Trucks lined the gated parking area, yellow for local travel and white for ‘one way’ – our way. We wandered a bit and from within an office that was for the most part hidden a tall lanky man greeted us. I will never forget this man or the interactions that ensued. There was nothing big or fanciful, nothing quick-witted or dim that holds my memory intact. It was the purity of his being, the simple goodness that he exuded that he breathed over me, like an elixir of what to aspire to.  We all exchanged the business formalities in a less formal way. His kindness was his skin.  He explained the hitch and potential complications, we paid and we departed.  In my heart I knew this man was special. I hold this still. It informs me that those who may scrape gum from a subway car may be far more along a life path than I.

After returning to our almost ‘not’ home, we loaded and then set about getting the car hitched to the rear of the truck. This proved difficult, and then impossible. It was late, and in Seattle late for a Penske is far earlier than NYC, still I phoned the office we had left hours before and reached this very same man. The location had closed for the night, (heart sinking hearing these words), but he stated he’d be happy to come by and have a look….and he did. There was no rushing or impertinence. This man arrived in his personal car on his personal time. He looked over the problem, used the tools he had brought and fixed what needed to be fixed. He smiled broadly, spoke casually with us in a manner so unfamiliar: grand yet not superior, brilliant yet humble. Our truck was prepared for our journey and this very wonderful man set a tone for ours that speaks to me still, so many years later.

© Leslie I Partridge Sachs

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September 20, 2012
Photographer: Daria Endresen                             ❉      ❉       ❉ The simple joyous continuity that some espouse If it is a being state inherent  Or adopted by desire How can the parts be sewn together with no seepage Shallow skating offers a glide perhaps That cruise must hit a wall, no? Oh but the peaks of darkness  Pitted in the soul Are they not absolute Nature cradles ugly and offers it The vomit we tend so carefully How, then, can we not relish the murky spirit So essential to really exist Weathered skin and slices of sinew Gaping organs open up frayed, detached ends And color spills across folds and wire Ripped flesh, scarred skin Boils of deceit and charred lies Tears cannot wash such a mess …but they begin © LPS 2012

Photographer: Daria Endresen 

                           ❉      ❉       ❉

The simple joyous continuity that some espouse

If it is a being state inherent 

Or adopted by desire

How can the parts be sewn together with no seepage

Shallow skating offers a glide perhaps

That cruise must hit a wall, no?

Oh but the peaks of darkness 

Pitted in the soul

Are they not absolute

Nature cradles ugly and offers it

The vomit we tend so carefully

How, then, can we not relish the murky spirit

So essential to really exist

Weathered skin and slices of sinew

Gaping organs open up frayed, detached ends

And color spills across folds and wire

Ripped flesh, scarred skin

Boils of deceit and charred lies

Tears cannot wash such a mess

…but they begin

© LPS 2012


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September 12, 2012
Photographer: Nina Neykova                           *** One misstep can bring a crash of bones against marble Shattering dreams that held a smoky, sensual reach Find me and breathe beneath my breast that I may lift The tip of a star is all I need to sight © LPS

Photographer: Nina Neykova

                          ***

One misstep can bring a crash of bones against marble

Shattering dreams that held a smoky, sensual reach

Find me and breathe beneath my breast that I may lift

The tip of a star is all I need to sight

© LPS

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July 25, 2012
Photographer: il piccolo istrione      ☆          ☆           ☆ Protected heart o’er lock and key walks silently beneath me Fragments of the fractured soul From tightened grip with no console For holding love encased by day Sustains and nurtures deep dismay Release the grip of wretched fear And welcome one, wet kiss and tear Only then can blossoms trail With folding arms and deep inhale © LPS 2012

Photographer: il piccolo istrione

     ☆          ☆           ☆

Protected heart o’er lock and key

walks silently beneath me

Fragments of the fractured soul

From tightened grip with no console

For holding love encased by day

Sustains and nurtures deep dismay

Release the grip of wretched fear

And welcome one, wet kiss and tear

Only then can blossoms trail

With folding arms and deep inhale

© LPS 2012

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June 26, 2012
Photo: Antoine Correia Artist - ? A dim and dusty night, awakening to murmurs, my confusion is immediate and then as much so replaced with an innate understanding.   The air was dank and the hole, deep and unlit but for some stream of evening light. No women just myself. I began to stand with no assistance. The need to vomit and pee was overwhelming. Joining the rumble of movement and adjusting my eyes to the fears my heart held I moved forward. Each body shifted side to side and forward, a helpless sway.  Ahead under a brighter glow one at a time men relieved themselves. My shuffling closer had me see the human excrement scattered in the puddle of light and the urine settled over the dirt floor. My body descending was upheld, someone behind me at my elbow and waist.  I don’t know what clothed me. Coming to the glow that screamed for me, my insides explosive, I could do nothing but moan my cries from deep in my chest. I would not let go, I could not, my frail self would poison. Somehow each man became decent, despite rags and the putrid shit, wet and dry markings. I continued to be held and then leaned, each turned away and permitted me a moment of honor.  © Leslie I P Sachs/ 2012

Photo: Antoine Correia

Artist - ?

A dim and dusty night, awakening to murmurs, my confusion is immediate and then as much so replaced with an innate understanding.  

The air was dank and the hole, deep and unlit but for some stream of evening light. No women just myself. I began to stand with no assistance. The need to vomit and pee was overwhelming. Joining the rumble of movement and adjusting my eyes to the fears my heart held I moved forward. Each body shifted side to side and forward, a helpless sway. 

Ahead under a brighter glow one at a time men relieved themselves. My shuffling closer had me see the human excrement scattered in the puddle of light and the urine settled over the dirt floor. My body descending was upheld, someone behind me at my elbow and waist.  I don’t know what clothed me. Coming to the glow that screamed for me, my insides explosive, I could do nothing but moan my cries from deep in my chest. I would not let go, I could not, my frail self would poison.

Somehow each man became decent, despite rags and the putrid shit, wet and dry markings. I continued to be held and then leaned, each turned away and permitted me a moment of honor. 

© Leslie I P Sachs/ 2012

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June 16, 2012
  photograph- -Fellini-Hera-Headshot     My mother’s bedroom served as the family room in my youth. When my mother came home from work, often having stopped for dinner with colleagues first, she would change into her nightgown. Traipsing into the kitchen, she’d return arms full with a tub of dip, crackers and raw onion. Laying in her bed food set aside until pin curls were expertly capped to her skull, Chrissey, my sister and I would join her in her bedroom.  I feel, the oddity and dark comedy of these scenes and experiences from my childhood. Chrissey had a lounge chair recliner that sat beside my mother’s bed. It was never opened for fear of locking or crushing a cat inside. My sister lay against the headboard beside my mother and I took up the foot of the bed where I lay on my stomach and closest to the television for easy access to adjust the bunny ears or change the channel. This is where we gathered as a family in my preteen years. We had the one boxy television, yes tinfoil on the antennae for better reception, and windows that faced West End Avenue and 103rd street.  I grew up in a single parent home, my mother’s, but was raised by Chrissey, my British mother – no blood relation.  On the side table where my mother stored her nibbles, there were ashtrays, generally full, piles of books, cigarette burns on the table surface, and sadly the mattress. I can’t recall full conversations or meaningful dialogue. Television was flimsy glue, but glue nonetheless. There were good and right things. I feel convinced there must have been. Books, a strong work ethic, an acceptance for anything ‘other’ and an emphasis on education surrounded me. I survived the ‘70’s having explored most of the dark corners that came with the era. Visiting youth memories is a necessary evil, I see the carvings in my soul. © Leslie I P Sachs   2012

  photograph- -Fellini-Hera-Headshot    


My mother’s bedroom served as the family room in my youth. When my mother came home from work, often having stopped for dinner with colleagues first, she would change into her nightgown. Traipsing into the kitchen, she’d return arms full with a tub of dip, crackers and raw onion. Laying in her bed food set aside until pin curls were expertly capped to her skull, Chrissey, my sister and I would join her in her bedroom. 

I feel, the oddity and dark comedy of these scenes and experiences from my childhood.

Chrissey had a lounge chair recliner that sat beside my mother’s bed. It was never opened for fear of locking or crushing a cat inside. My sister lay against the headboard beside my mother and I took up the foot of the bed where I lay on my stomach and closest to the television for easy access to adjust the bunny ears or change the channel.

This is where we gathered as a family in my preteen years. We had the one boxy television, yes tinfoil on the antennae for better reception, and windows that faced West End Avenue and 103rd street. 

I grew up in a single parent home, my mother’s, but was raised by Chrissey, my British mother – no blood relation. 

On the side table where my mother stored her nibbles, there were ashtrays, generally full, piles of books, cigarette burns on the table surface, and sadly the mattress. I can’t recall full conversations or meaningful dialogue. Television was flimsy glue, but glue nonetheless. There were good and right things. I feel convinced there must have been. Books, a strong work ethic, an acceptance for anything ‘other’ and an emphasis on education surrounded me. I survived the ‘70’s having explored most of the dark corners that came with the era. Visiting youth memories is a necessary evil, I see the carvings in my soul.


© Leslie I P Sachs   2012

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May 25, 2012
Photographer: Manolo L B Mantero         Dr. B We were just about through with a pediatrician, my sister and me. We’d moved from the Upper West Side in the ‘80’s off Bway to 103rd st before my pre-teen years. Finding a family doctor was simple; he worked in the ground floor of our building. Many recollections of my doctor visits are clear and well preserved. He was a fine doctor and a decent man. His nurses were kind, friendly and took a liking to all of us. Dr. B cared for my health from a gawky young girl into my adulthood.  Small gems of wisdom were slipped in during visits. He was genuine, a doctor in the widest sense. It wasn’t until years later that I had gone over some of these memories and I am delighted by my experience, it’s uniqueness and, more broadly,  the way in which I was raised. Dr. B died 4 years ago, a loving husband and father, a notable figure in his profession and an African American. Just before leaving for college I scheduled my check-up with Dr. B. His office was now down the block, a little larger to accommodate his ever-growing following. In the waiting room it was the first time that I’d noticed I was the only white person. It was simply a quick mental note, a snapshot I’d taken before sitting down with my book and keeping my nerves in check for the imminent blood to be drawn from my arm. Warm smiles passed between the nurses, the same nurses, and me and I set about waiting.  Jewels of memory inform me of what I came from and who I am. © Leslie I Partridge Sachs

Photographer: Manolo L B Mantero

        Dr. B

We were just about through with a pediatrician, my sister and me. We’d moved from the Upper West Side in the ‘80’s off Bway to 103rd st before my pre-teen years.

Finding a family doctor was simple; he worked in the ground floor of our building.

Many recollections of my doctor visits are clear and well preserved. He was a fine doctor and a decent man. His nurses were kind, friendly and took a liking to all of us.

Dr. B cared for my health from a gawky young girl into my adulthood.  Small gems of wisdom were slipped in during visits. He was genuine, a doctor in the widest sense. It wasn’t until years later that I had gone over some of these memories and I am delighted by my experience, it’s uniqueness and, more broadly,  the way in which I was raised.

Dr. B died 4 years ago, a loving husband and father, a notable figure in his profession and an African American.

Just before leaving for college I scheduled my check-up with Dr. B. His office was now down the block, a little larger to accommodate his ever-growing following. In the waiting room it was the first time that I’d noticed I was the only white person. It was simply a quick mental note, a snapshot I’d taken before sitting down with my book and keeping my nerves in check for the imminent blood to be drawn from my arm. Warm smiles passed between the nurses, the same nurses, and me and I set about waiting. 

Jewels of memory inform me of what I came from and who I am.

© Leslie I Partridge Sachs

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May 12, 2012
Photographer: Manolo L B Mantero                       ******* We build up who we are from first light Each touch; tender and harsh Sound; warm and hard  Telling Saving information unable to be replicated Science unable to create a human heart The essence of us swims circles alongside  A cloak of silence; protection and threat Keeping Crested waves and flattened shore  We mimic grander schemes  How blind the consummate eyes Taking One deep and touching love threaded Tendril to tendril Elements may survive save our souls Shifting ©LPS

Photographer: Manolo L B Mantero

                      *******

We build up who we are from first light

Each touch; tender and harsh

Sound; warm and hard 

Telling

Saving information unable to be replicated

Science unable to create a human heart

The essence of us swims circles alongside 

A cloak of silence; protection and threat

Keeping

Crested waves and flattened shore 

We mimic grander schemes 

How blind the consummate eyes

Taking

One deep and touching love threaded

Tendril to tendril

Elements may survive save our souls

Shifting

©LPS

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