Baudelaire's Perfume: The Art of Waiting; The Depth of Disguise

This morning is 9 AM pizza and coffee.

I am currently awaiting a meeting that I have been both anticipating and fearing since about 4 PM on Friday.  These ambush meetings are the worst, at times.  Hopefully they will involve an element of the best.  Only time (90 minutes and counting) will tell.

While I wait, I listen to the sounds of planes overhead.  I learn the creaks and pounds of an apartment I do not live in, empty but for me, my coffee, my nerves.

(I pause to turn on a lamp.  There's no need to behave like an actual intruder. I have been invited here, after all.)

Last night I went to temporarily replace the scarf I left at a dear friend's house who lives 61.8 miles away.  It won't actually replace the scarf, but will act as a soft and decent stand in for the next few weeks.

(pause)

I know that you read me as the responsible one in this. That my mystery is all in your head.  That everyone's excitement and quixotic tales are in the past. That's not the case with me.  I know you sense this, and I know it turns your stomach into an apple'd, acidic mess.

I hide my undoings well.  I wash and obscure the scent of these tales off of my arms, my neck, my chest before entering the room. You compliment the spice of my cologne.  And when our eyes meet, you dare yourself to read as much of me as you can, through them.



be well; be loved,

k.

(photo via trashy princes tumblr)

The Crinkling Sound of Your DIY'ed Owl Costume's Wings

A good and productive day.

The taste of cinnamon in my mouth, a hunger for potatoes in my stomach, and the crave of a thick lotion from my hands.

I realize that I'm different. But I can still relate to people. They may just be more akin to the lads in The Wolfpack documentary.  

Costumes diy'ed out of cereal boxes and cut up yoga mats?  

Fuck yes, and please. 

Isolation growing up may be horrific, but it also gives you a lot of time to think, and to become resourceful.

 Be well; be loved; find a job where the hiding, costume making and thought juxtapositions continue,


k.

(photo: damaris goddrie by wikkie hermkens for volkskrant magazine via mazzystardust tumblr)

The Tone of Your Voice: Echos In the Submarine

I went to the water today.

It was a gray, toothpaste green color and the winds were driving it wild.  Foam and waves and crashing and bitter cold, everywhere.

It was beautiful from behind a window.

There are days, and there are parts of this city, that make it feel like an abandoned seaside town.  It has something to do with the wear of the paint upon the houses that line the water.  Usually pastels that have been worn down to white and paneling, in parts. The picket fences around them that are too small, crooked and have given up.  There is something both reassuring and other-worldly in their state.

There was a time I had wanted to meet you at the water.

Instead, I have come here alone.




Be well; be loved,

k.

(image: Julia Mangold, Untitled, 2014- 0301, 2014 pigment wax on paper via vjeranski tumblr)

Plum-Colored Smoke and the Art of Artfulness

Tonight I'm here with blankets are all around me. I have on an oversized black knitted sweater and thigh high sweater socks. (Underwear, too. I have on underwear.) I have a bit of a headache, but my sweater socks tempt me to forget all of that.

I've been drawing and painting like mad as of late. It started, randomly, with a book I was reading that talked about how the brain works, how it memorizes things, how sound influences drawing, how images impact writing...basically the interconnectedness of art. It goes into a lot of the bullshit ideas of "good art/bad art". It gets into the idea of practice, just as any dancer, professional pitcher, singer, violinist, etc. would do.  It's gotten me to let go and just fucking make shit.  And so, I am.  It feels good.  It's interesting to see how it's impacting other creative spaces in my life. (I'm defining this loosely, here.  Creative spaces defined as conversation, flirting, work, humor...among other things.)

Anyway. I've been moved to incorporate more of my daily interactions into my art.  We'll see how it goes.

Like last night, for example, when a drunk man at the bus stop came up to me speaking in Spanish asking if I was French. I answered him in Spanish asking why he thought I was French.  He told me it was because I was tall. Then he pondered my accent and asked me what country I was from. But before I told him, he said, definitively, that I was from Portugal.

There's a four panel comic in that, somewhere.

Keep creating and keep expressing. 

It saves us.

It saves each other.

Don't let anyone convince you that makeup or gelled eyebrows is not a form of art. 

(And if they try and tell you this, take a glance at the eyebrows of those who say it. Haters gonna hate, and they know that you are brilliant enough in how you hold yourself to be in a museum on that merit, alone.)

Be well; be loved,

k.

(image: Jing Wen shot by Benjamin Lennox/ Makeup by Mathias van Hooff for Vouge China December 2015. via mazzystardust tumblr)

Open My Heart Like That: Just This Once and Forever

I'm experimenting with Sumi (Sumi-e) Ink, again.  I tried a number of years ago (roughly 7), but gave it a rest.  I'm back with it, again.  It makes everything looks so beautiful and gray scale once you get a feel for it. 

I'm going to get my feel for it.

(pause)

Things have been good.

Directed.

Productive.

I've been thinking a lot about silence and friendship and productivity and love and life goals.

I've been listening to lots of vinyl while doing so.

Be well; be loved,

k.

(photo: From the ink wash series Party Girls by Emily McMorran as seen on Kat Thorsen's blog)

I'll Leave You My Car Keys, In Case You Want to Leave

Ghosts emerge this time of year.

It is not quite Halloween.

It is, sometimes, All Saints Day.

It is, sometimes, the Day of the Dead.

It is not quite the tales of the ghost of Christmas Past.

All of this, and none of this at once.

Perhaps it has to do with the turning of seasons.  Perhaps it has to do with the change of the moons.

Who knows.

What I know is that people's ghosts come out and around them.  Haunting, taunting, reminding, pulling. And it ends up impacting the choices that some make.  For worse.  For better.

Tell me: How have you been sleeping these nights?

Be well; be loved,

k.

(image: To Repel Ghosts by Jean-Michel Basquiat)
(title: lyric from Damien Jurado's song Rachel and Cali listen to it, here. It is worth the description of love and friendship.  And crowds. And everything. Trust me on this one.)

"We're Not Sluts...We Listen To Bauhaus!": Thanksgiving Edition

Good morning. It's roughly ten in the morning the day after a national holiday. I can hear a few cars on the street outside my house, but not many. 

As much as some may have strong feelings about the holiday season- for, against- I'm into it simply for the feeling of apocalypse:  Empty sidewalks, people gathered inside of their homes having shut their doors to the world, odd stretches of available parking in parts of the city in which that is unheard of.

(pause)

Today, I sip coffee. 

With whipping cream in it because I am feeling indulgent. 

Five feet away from me, I see the blanket atop a loved one rise and fall with their breath.

Orphan holidays, indeed. 

(pause)

I have come to enjoy the solitude and indulgence of these days. Strange how brilliantly things may shine once you invent, and eventually live, a narrative true and earnest enough to counter the mainstream story.


Be loved; be well,


k.

(photo credit: I believe I grabbed it from lecollecteur tumblr)

Open That Pea Coat and Show Me What Will Get You Arrested

Here I am: Reporting live from underneath a light bulb with my tongue slightly scalded by hot chocolate.  I've been painting most of the evening.  I'm not sure what all of this is about.  It's not my usual medium, but I'm going to go with it.

(I painted my first boob tonight.  Although I have drawn many a boob in the margins of note taking in high school and into college classes, I have never painted one.  It was not from a model or anything. My imagination. So of course it is a bit unrealistic.  I don't care.  It's my first boob. It's pretty hot in that "oh this is art, I'm not suppose to say that" type way. HOT.)

Moving on.

I've been feeling pretty internal as of late.  Focusing in on art and psychic shit.  Sure, at this rate I'll end up living in the street and talking to myself but I'm fine with that. I feel like this is the month that I should be "setting goals" and things of that nature but, frankly, I'm content with watering my plants, fucking who I want, and getting way the fuck too into Jean Genet's sailor shit again.

(Pause to take in the photo, above.  Genet's sailor shit, again.)

In addition, I've been watching way too much ¿Quién mató a Patricia Soler? I can't help it. I justify it as language study (it IS!) and end up getting way too wrapped up in the plot.  I mean, can you imagine not being able to tell your children that they are your children because you've been in prison for 16 years for a murder you didn't commit? It's all totally relatable.

Okay. That's all for today.  I'm a bit obsessed with paint and with grape flavored gum.

Obviously I need to exorcise these demons out of me.

Be well; Be loved,


k.


(photo credit: I can't recall. I swiped it from Tumblr. I'm usually so good about this.  I was distracted by the hot faggots.)

You Answer The Phone Before I Call; I Hug You Just Before You Arrive.

Here we are, folks.  A Sunday morning in the light, the air smelling of milk and honey because of my hand lotion and smile.

Let's talk about the healing nature of dreams and why it's so important to get enough sleep.  The rested mind is so incredible. As is the hydrated mind.

I know I may sound like a hippie, but it really is true.  Things I can't see clearly in the sleep deprived waking life come into focus with the light and sound of a well rested mind.

Insert something, here, about interconnectivity and the conversations I have with a particular, magnetic woman who is, mostly, a stranger to me.

(pause)

Let's take a moment for the highlights of the transit this week:

The man with the shitty tattoo on his face asking me directions to the water park:  I feel solid in my directions and hope you got there.

A conversation with Holland about class and jobs and unions and the importance of archives.  You may look like a Hollywood handsome gangster but, well, but nothing:  You kind of are.

The woman who pointed out to me that there was a make up lesson happening in a department store glass window that evening : Well- lit and with students watching.  The participant was being painted as special effect type zombie.  It was gorgeous.  The sun had just gone down, and all eyes were on this illuminated and center-staged beautiful monster.

How could it have been any other way?

(pause)

As an aside that is not an aside: The conversations with L. have been hilarious and healing and validating on all fronts.  It feels good to be falling back into our every-few-day phone date pattern.

Seasoned friends are everything.

It's where I learn the most.

Be well; be loved; be looking for what matters with that rested mind of yours,


k.
(image: via cosmicclusters tumblr)