Monday, December 21, 2009
Wednesday, September 23, 2009
One night, one night in many many nights like the glint of a velvety pebble
in the rim of the brown moon's swallow
I lay in bed feeling the itchiness of my skin running taut through a parsed
desert of stillness.
I sighed into my own hair, imagining it was your's and I began to be afraid of what
I did not know.
The most understated and beautiful part about a person's features are their eyelids, when they glance down as in to collect their thoughts. Their eyelids are like the waxy bellies of ripe buds and I stagger a smile inside.
in the rim of the brown moon's swallow
I lay in bed feeling the itchiness of my skin running taut through a parsed
desert of stillness.
I sighed into my own hair, imagining it was your's and I began to be afraid of what
I did not know.
The most understated and beautiful part about a person's features are their eyelids, when they glance down as in to collect their thoughts. Their eyelids are like the waxy bellies of ripe buds and I stagger a smile inside.
Monday, April 20, 2009
A memorandum
Very few people follow this, thus I can write whatever the fuck I want.
My favorite dead man had a son, his son was rumored in 2008 to begin publishing his father's "new" book:
"Sounds like the late Russian novelist Vladimir Nabokov just pulled off a literary feat. Thirty-one years after his death, and from the grave, he's giving the world a story. And it's playing out through his son, Dmitri Nabokov, and how he has resolved his moral dilemma over whether to destroy or to publish the incomplete manuscript of his father's last novel, “The Original of Laura.”
Vladimir's dying wish was for his son to destroy the work, written in pencil on about 50 index cards."
Well here we are in 2009: Nabokov's son finally strikes
so yes. what a man.
My favorite dead man had a son, his son was rumored in 2008 to begin publishing his father's "new" book:
"Sounds like the late Russian novelist Vladimir Nabokov just pulled off a literary feat. Thirty-one years after his death, and from the grave, he's giving the world a story. And it's playing out through his son, Dmitri Nabokov, and how he has resolved his moral dilemma over whether to destroy or to publish the incomplete manuscript of his father's last novel, “The Original of Laura.”
Vladimir's dying wish was for his son to destroy the work, written in pencil on about 50 index cards."
Well here we are in 2009: Nabokov's son finally strikes
so yes. what a man.
Sunday, March 22, 2009
A very simple non-memory
You are pinocchio, we share the same things in common
a wall covered in the thinnest of paper to denote the thickest of books
it is just like me, what are my hands but a few crumbled, browning napkins dangling
from the neck of apples?
A jar of dusty fruit butter weighs heavily on a metal shelf, it's glassy ass cradled
by the inverted crown of a circle stamped in hastily cut out cardboard squares
over the years it becomes spongy and soft, like what I had imagined prostrate cancer to feel like
The door opens and there's no one.
It's cool, it's all cool because I wasn't looking in the first place
my heart is a tight metronome at night, it's the lion who has tourettes in
a jungle of creases and fleeces.
At night cotton turns into blood and I wade in dimpled red
Is he looking? Did he stop one day, one nanosecond?
Does he feel like he lost? Like I feel...artificially whole?
Would he ride snow covered trains forming the narthex of countries,
splicing up continents like minimalist basilicas?
or is he content right now? a belly filled with accidental fish scales
old knees creaking against the branches that are his bones.
My bones.
The television casting a fluid ghost over his skipping pupils
breathing behind a pair of heavily rimmed, shit brown glasses while
his son, in frayed and loose shorts slap on the tiles with his feet
and slam into his quickly retreating lap for attention?
Maybe I'm above all that.
a wall covered in the thinnest of paper to denote the thickest of books
it is just like me, what are my hands but a few crumbled, browning napkins dangling
from the neck of apples?
A jar of dusty fruit butter weighs heavily on a metal shelf, it's glassy ass cradled
by the inverted crown of a circle stamped in hastily cut out cardboard squares
over the years it becomes spongy and soft, like what I had imagined prostrate cancer to feel like
The door opens and there's no one.
It's cool, it's all cool because I wasn't looking in the first place
my heart is a tight metronome at night, it's the lion who has tourettes in
a jungle of creases and fleeces.
At night cotton turns into blood and I wade in dimpled red
Is he looking? Did he stop one day, one nanosecond?
Does he feel like he lost? Like I feel...artificially whole?
Would he ride snow covered trains forming the narthex of countries,
splicing up continents like minimalist basilicas?
or is he content right now? a belly filled with accidental fish scales
old knees creaking against the branches that are his bones.
My bones.
The television casting a fluid ghost over his skipping pupils
breathing behind a pair of heavily rimmed, shit brown glasses while
his son, in frayed and loose shorts slap on the tiles with his feet
and slam into his quickly retreating lap for attention?
Maybe I'm above all that.
Monday, February 23, 2009
Spring 2009 came early
Despite the bone chilling deep freeze that exists in reality world, spring has come for the fashion sphere. So here I am, in bed sipping chocolate soy milk and listening to the Kooks while I present...my tippity top picks for this season (so far, as I have seen):
Oh Rodarte, I loved you since I first met you when I was a young girl two years ago in front of the ol' teevee. The sisters have been leaning towards more apocalyptic chic-with the layered criss crossing of chaotic swaths and the flashes of tinsel green embedded in a sea of neutral tones. I really miss the draping though, Rodarte is amazing with chiffon and flowy things...so that's my personal suggestion
I like the short skirt and the rib hugging kick ass shape.
I usually don't like Marc Jacobs very much, but the high cinched purple waist does it for me
Proenza Schouler talked about how the velvet melted into chiffon and it was all about tearing it away and breaking it down
Erin Fetherston, this is a bit gothic for me(not to mention, scary model) but I like heavy fabric and complicated silhouettes
Oh Rodarte, I loved you since I first met you when I was a young girl two years ago in front of the ol' teevee. The sisters have been leaning towards more apocalyptic chic-with the layered criss crossing of chaotic swaths and the flashes of tinsel green embedded in a sea of neutral tones. I really miss the draping though, Rodarte is amazing with chiffon and flowy things...so that's my personal suggestion
I like the short skirt and the rib hugging kick ass shape.
I usually don't like Marc Jacobs very much, but the high cinched purple waist does it for me
Proenza Schouler talked about how the velvet melted into chiffon and it was all about tearing it away and breaking it down
Erin Fetherston, this is a bit gothic for me(not to mention, scary model) but I like heavy fabric and complicated silhouettes
Tuesday, February 17, 2009
Sunday, February 15, 2009
heet.
in the dim circular light of the kitchen, like beneath the warmth of mother's skirt or the lovable oddity of wearing a drum on the crown of your head gingerly seconds before it careened off your chin, hijacking your neck and crashing into hollow noises at foot's level
she bit into the rib of the edamame, its cousin's swooping shells of dead green skins brimming in the plastic bowl
the delicate thread of a membrane cupped and oozed on the hitch of her teeth
and the birth of a moist silken bud alive in its heat
she bit into the rib of the edamame, its cousin's swooping shells of dead green skins brimming in the plastic bowl
the delicate thread of a membrane cupped and oozed on the hitch of her teeth
and the birth of a moist silken bud alive in its heat
Wednesday, February 11, 2009
Monday, February 9, 2009
(in the tune of the strokes) daotha niiiighhhtttt
I got pretty drunk at Aggy's crowded party(all her parties ended up butt to butt where all the girls are usually wearing less clothes than I am)
so drunk that I threw up all of the previous dinner party's salmon on a subway station somewhere near Houston street. If I was really famous someone would sell that on ebay. I'm not famous so it probably got washed off the same night
In other news: I really do love Alexa Chung. I think she's hilarious...and here I am thinking girls can't be funny
Wednesday, February 4, 2009
the archenemies
my blog now has an evil twin she-goat of a sister...the one of I have to write for class.
Just to explain to anyone unfortunate enough to fall upon this piece of shit I don't write for you.
I write for me.
and I like it.
(it's kind of lonely though)
Just to explain to anyone unfortunate enough to fall upon this piece of shit I don't write for you.
I write for me.
and I like it.
(it's kind of lonely though)
Tuesday, February 3, 2009
Thursday, January 8, 2009
konk de konk
The more I stay in California, the more I miss New York.
But don't get me wrong, it goes visa versa when I back home
We woke up today early to send Mark off at the airport, the day slipped along with hot chocolate, dressing Lucky up as various ethnic stereotypes at the Coffee Bean, hours of 30 Rock, furniture building and furniture moving, stepping on astro turf and barely missing poop, blind Bischons, one feverish nap where my mind was so busy worrying, ending the day with a comic book store, veery veery goood Thai food and stale champagne.
California has pockets of excellent days
Did I mention I watched Frost/Nixon, The Reader and various other Oscar buzz movies in the comfort of our living room while peasants have to watch them now in the theaters?
lucky duck.
But don't get me wrong, it goes visa versa when I back home
We woke up today early to send Mark off at the airport, the day slipped along with hot chocolate, dressing Lucky up as various ethnic stereotypes at the Coffee Bean, hours of 30 Rock, furniture building and furniture moving, stepping on astro turf and barely missing poop, blind Bischons, one feverish nap where my mind was so busy worrying, ending the day with a comic book store, veery veery goood Thai food and stale champagne.
California has pockets of excellent days
Did I mention I watched Frost/Nixon, The Reader and various other Oscar buzz movies in the comfort of our living room while peasants have to watch them now in the theaters?
lucky duck.
beauty is not for the fat. And I don't mean that in the literal way. Surprisingly it is not for the
bold, the strong willed, the ever pleasant pulpy state of mind of knowing exactly what you want. And it is not the direct opposite of all these things either. Beauty stands in the margins, it seeps and settles, it is the jello in the cracks. While pedigree and the fieriness of ambition cakes a human solidly like pig marrow, beauty is hardly present.
I find it harder and harder to write-and- it used to move so easily from me. Now its like drawing the last ghosts from aching, archaic pipes deeply rooted in musty earth. The foundation curls from the ground, rusting with the surrounding leathery mud and it forges a stationary article with little actual present force. My words resemble a museum like resilience and stagnancy.
I'm a clothed shell.
3
bold, the strong willed, the ever pleasant pulpy state of mind of knowing exactly what you want. And it is not the direct opposite of all these things either. Beauty stands in the margins, it seeps and settles, it is the jello in the cracks. While pedigree and the fieriness of ambition cakes a human solidly like pig marrow, beauty is hardly present.
I find it harder and harder to write-and- it used to move so easily from me. Now its like drawing the last ghosts from aching, archaic pipes deeply rooted in musty earth. The foundation curls from the ground, rusting with the surrounding leathery mud and it forges a stationary article with little actual present force. My words resemble a museum like resilience and stagnancy.
I'm a clothed shell.
3
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