Tuesday, March 6, 2018

I'm Back Sleeping or Fucking or Something

A few weeks ago I started reading Sartre's take on Baudelaire. It was mostly sparked by an obsession I have with scents. How scents intoxicate us. Impact us.

The Dandies and the Decandents knew the power of this.  Here, I have to share a string of the sexiest sentences I read within my research.  It is from the preview of a chapter in the book Scents and Sensibility that is written by Catherine Maxwell.  I'll underline the part of it that got me most flustered in the best of ways. It reads:

This chapter examines the decadent olfactif as represented by Oscar Wilde and the poet and critic Arthur Symons, who understood how perfume helped shape their identities as dandies and sophisticated men about town, with both of them alluding to new synthetic scents. Wilde’s use of perfume as a sign of decadent sexual identity, explored in Dorian Gray, is rudely interrupted by his imprisonment in 1895, but the idea of perfume abides with him during his incarceration as an important ideal and consolation.

I am absolutely on my knees that one's  use of perfume as a sign of decadent sexual identity can be rudely interrupted by incarceration. Yes, please. 

In any case.  Back to Sartre (although he annoys me).  I want to bookmark his discussion of the white blackbird.  Did you know that they exist?  They do.  And I want to return, perhaps in the next entry, to the construction and comparison between Baudelaire and/as a flamboyant, somewhat self-obsessed yet self-uncertain blackbird that is completely white. 

More on this soon, indeed.


Today was one of sunshine and phantom excitement. New leaves and new bodies turning over to feel the heat of what may be shining, above them.

The last few months have been beautiful and blotchy. Deep kisses and good music. Complex incense and meticulous order. The multitudes of thick fabrics and textures. The delicate snap of eyeglasses.

I'm setting my suitcase down for a bit. 

The one I've been sprinting around worlds with. 

The leather is worn

but I still know how to stash my trash and secrets within its lining.

be well; be loved,

(title via Moss Icon)
(photo by Paul Graham via untrustyou tumblr)

Wednesday, November 15, 2017

Your Diamonds and Your Pyramids: A Smudging

I've been listening to Chad Lawson's A Grave Mistake album. Mostly piano with some other effects that was composed to accompany a particular episode of a particular podcast.  The episode mostly revolved around people who were accidentally buried alive.  I believe that you will like it.  You, who listens to mostly non-lyric'ed albums by candlelight. Sure, it is on Spotify, but Lawson's website also offers the option to buy it on vinyl. Even the art on the cover is good. Or, at least, stereotypically me.

One word on the podcast it is connected to:  I want to believe the hype about Lore.  I saw the art on the front of the book (which came after the podcast and a series that was just made on Amazon based on the podcast), and this is how it ended up on my radar.  I listened to a few episodes.  The narrator and creator of it seems a bit too self conscious of his cleverness that isn't really that clever.  The topics are researched, but not as well researched as other programs or books are or can be. I'm curious what you think but, to me, it reads like a gothy version of Sex and the City. Each episode- and here I will admit listening to only eight or so of the 18 minute-ish episodes- the narrator seems to ask a question or make a statement in the same cadence that Carrie Bradshaw would while staring at her computer screen and blinking cursor.

In any case, as with anything in life:  It was worth it for what it lead me to which, in this case, is this album.

[Here is the Spotify Link]

It is something to read to. Something to write to. Something to paint to. Something to think to. Something to calm to. And, my favorite from last week, something to drive through 40-to-60 mile per hour winds in the rain across a bridge at night to.

Be well; be loved.


(image: Vincenzo Agnetti, Free-hand photograph, 1974 Osart Gallery, Milano....via giampxxx tumblr)

Thursday, November 2, 2017

Find Me On the Grit; Find Me On the Pavement, or, Walking From Around the Corner of a Building

There is something in the air that is something between premonition and conjuring.

I see your tired eyes and fitting jacket.  Your ruggedness and perfect frays.

There is something that is about to come.

Be prepared for it.

I already am.


(Image: Splish Splash; Marilyn Minter)

Sunday, October 8, 2017

Do You Believe in Magic?, or, Your Belted Hips and Paint Spattered Pants

Dear C,

It has been just over a year since you died.

It is the autumn that reminds me of you the most.

That face, those hands, that laughter and that wild, wild look in your eyes upon learning.
I miss you everyday, and can hear you best as my shoes click upon the pavement.


Sunday, September 10, 2017

The Solitude of Corpses, or, The Depth of the Ocean

There are odd, even embarrassing facts that follow us at times.  Accidental occurrences that instantly expose a truth and/or contradiction of ours that is undeniable.  One of these accidental occurrences is that, every time Miley Cyrus's Adore You comes on somewhere, I think of a person I am surprised I think about so readily. Always. (I know, I know. Where am I that this song is coming on?  It's as if this sliver of pop culture haunts me through the electrical sockets of most buildings.) It's a funny, sad, weird betrayal of heart and mind.  But it's enjoyable all the same.  The truth rises no matter how deep you attempt to bury it.


This weekend has been one of recharging.  Of writing. Of creating. Of friendship. Of late night adventures with people I sort of know. Of revisiting a film that speaks to me in different ways every time I watch it.


I have been thinking about time, lately.  Not in the typical ways of scarcity or big questions of life. Rather and simply, the enjoyment of time.  Even when that enjoyment involves sadness or worry or fear.  There is so much going on in the world.  I want everyone to feel safety and certainty, but I also know that these terms are relative and can instigate so many ugly things. But in a fundamental way, a basic way, I want people to feel these things, and for these things to be true.

be well; be safe


(image: Lush Paintings of Solitary Swimmers by Pedro Covo via genetic-freak Tumblr)

Tuesday, September 5, 2017

A Penny Dropped Into a Puddle of Oil

As the core of the world goes up in flames (literally; figuratively), I am relaxing into things with a functioning box fan and a red bra.

These days have been odd, indeed.

From time to time, I pair myself with someone quite the opposite of me. I like to study their stitching; their routine. I think of it as a form of self restraint- my curiosity peaked by their checks and balances; the way they butter their toast.

It's only a matter of time before I daydream into the more complicated.  I take a bit more time for myself to ride the anchor down to the bottom of this sea. Past the firm handshakes and punctuality; past the sports fans and socially acceptable DUIs.

During my descend, a thousand images of black, blue, purple and a pitch gray.

It is where I find home.

Above, there are the perfect haircuts of the blue eyed, blonde-haired religious children of the corn, all grown up.

Below, there are the perfect haircuts of those sable- and black-haired beauties who study and practice the most dutiful way to shine a boot.

There is a difference, after all,  between one who cums in a surprise and fear of their own body, and one who familiarly taunts you with its peaks.

(image: Betony Vernon The Boudoir Bible via korlaena tumblr)

Wednesday, July 26, 2017

Angled Asylum

There is, of course, something to be said of the feeling of a hand clutching the face.  Fingers spread over fingers and eyebrows, a thumb almost touching an ear but failing to. The meat of a hand pressing into your mouth.

There is something to be said about this.

Tell me about the last time you had lipstick spread across your face. Who was the original wear-er, and why, please tell me, was it spread?


Last evening I had eleven minutes before I had to board a train. It was rush hour.  He was in his high towered office that looks over downtown from a middle height. 

"I'll run,"  he said.

He did.

He met me as I sat perched upon a ledge that long outdates most of this city.

"Let me walk you underground."

The thing about rush hour is that, while everyone is running and walking everywhere, no one is running up that winding staircase that has at least five flights of stairs. No. Not when there as escalators. Elevators. This collective laziness and expediency offered stone-stair isolation between the third and fourth flight, and it was only a split second after I turned that sharp corner, that my spine was pressed up against its wall.

Here is to expediency and the pain and pleasure of ninety degree angles.


(image: Florence Henri, Portrait, 1928)

Wednesday, July 5, 2017

Upon the Wilderness Quixotic

This morning I woke up in what looks to be a stylized Italian mourning dress.  My make up was still on, but my shoes had disappeared.  There was no drugs involved. No alcohol. Walking past a mirror at 6 AM was both odd and enticing. I showered. No one was there to stop me.  I dressed, quickly, and left while there was still water dripping from the tips of my hair.

I have been lead up to a project that will begin, officially, tonight.  Although its pieces have been falling to me from the sky, found in sandwiches, written on crumpled up pieces of paper I find one the bus: It is tonight that it officially begins.  The air is still in its knowing.

Will you hold my hand as I go on my adventure? I wouldn't ask.  And even if you did make movement to hold it you would find, upon squeezing it, that you had been left holding
a thick rubber hand.


(photograph: This is a photo of Renee Zettle Sterling's Object of Mourning Veil #4. Here is an article about the art of Renee Zettle Sterling)

(To accentuate: From the 2014 display at The Met )

Wednesday, June 21, 2017

On Wondering if You Have Dodged a Bullet or Lost the Love of Your Life

The past few days have involved a lot of dancing, amazing conversations, and wrestling with furniture.   I've been reminded that all of the beautiful and complex minds in my life are exactly what I need at any given moment.  These conversations just continue to affirm that it is best to be who you are- always and boldly- in an unapologetic fashion.

(It's not my concern that you don't understand my gender, my inclinations, my high heels and tie wear.  I see you.  Your widened eyes and quickened pulse, coming at me: a finger fascinated with the blades of a propeller.


Around this time last year, I was in a class learning about oxytocin. This time around, I am a graduate once again and ready for the next step in this dirty-clean forest.  I am both nervous and excited about it.  I look forward to floundering and making atrocious mistakes so that I may get better.  The art of saving face has long since been abandoned:  There is no thrill to it.  Look like an ass for a while.  You'll feel the burn of your face, the beat of your heart, the thrill of the lesson. Save the perfect masks to hang from walls. They simply are not worth the lessons you lose by wearing them.


As per usual when the sun comes out, I am covering myself with the pages of books scribbled with thoughts and prose.

Book wise, I've been reading David Sedaris' newest book and it cracks me the fuck up.  His observations are so stark, accurate and deadpan.  How does he not laugh at his own jokes?  I must study him if only for this reason. (I'm listening to the audio version because he reads it.  I've always loved his cadence and delivery).

I appreciate that the latest book is made up of a series of diary entries from the 70s through the 2000s.  Within his stories, there are threads - single sentences- that breathe the beginning of the AIDS epidemic. He talks about his father getting weird about him drinking out of other people's glasses in a way he isn't with his other siblings. There is no pain in his voice or words- it is stated simple and matter of fact.

 I've been thinking a lot about how the things one witnesses, reports and does day to day can matter in a way one is not aware of in those exact moments. Best to think that everything you do matters. What you are a part of in this moment you can only begin to imagine.

So begin to imagine.

be well; be loved,


(image: via crystal-black-babes tumblr)
(title: slight wink to the embarassing fact that I, admittedly, can't get the Zayn and Taylor Swift song out of my head.  I have been watching this choreography video for the past 3 days and am not stop dancing in the same outfit as the first woman who dances. See it here if you are curious. )