Cherry cherry boom boom...

I'm gaga over this dress.

Too bad it's been sold already! Anyway, if you like crazy custom stuff and people who are trying to start their own collections and brands, click here.

Other fun stuff: vintage turtle-neck knit sweater from Shopcuffs.

Please feel free to wear it with pants, though I am partial to the leggings and shorts for aesthetics, pants just seem to make more sense, uh, thermally.

Also, i've been thinking about my saddle shoe days. I'm hoping for a return of the saddle shoe, which I think will be a lot easier now that fresh saddle shoe inspired styles such as these from The-Glade are on the market.

Wooooot. There's nothing else I can say. Ehhh Ehhhh.

my feet are freezing.

Hey. I know you've always wanted to rock a classic blue blazer. Don't even pretend you haven't. Fine, pretend, but being bitter about it isn't going to help. Yeah, I know that "lady" blazers can be really weird and men's blazers are wayyy to big and you can't think of even going vintage because they'll probably be weird AND have ridiculous shoulder pads. Unless you're into that). But there's hope. I assure you. If you're like me, you want a school boy blazer. Except you probably don't know any school boys you can beat up /haggle for theirs. SO. I present to you the secret of getting the most perfect classic blazer ever.

First, go into Brooks Brothers and ignore all the sideways glances you'll receive from the customers /lady who will ask if she can help you because OBVIOUSLY you meant to walk into the toy store across the way and she's going to take it upon herself to be the one to break it to you that there are, in fact, no bubbles and hoola hoops here. Damn. Well, there's no turning back, so you might as well look around, right? Go over to the little boy section and find the "Hefty XL" size or whatever in whichever style you like.

Put it on and hear the angels rejoice. Then sell your arm and maybe your leg to buy it.

Or, you know, buy this slightly cheaper one from J. Crew and embrace the manufactured feminine shape. Yes, you should probably roll up your sleeves to.

Then outfit it.

Probably with your favorite scarf, possibly from A Peace Treaty, because, you know, who doesn't love those?

I also suggest cray cray (cray cray= crazy) jeans from Cheap Monday that I probably can't fit into but, hey, maybe you can!

and then, you know, party like a rockstar per usu.or whatever it is you do.

the pagemaster.

the decent into madness is not a decent. it's a zig-zagged wommple fromp that looks straight in dimension 4, perpendicular to destiny in dimension 7 or 12, and that moves to the sound of a wrinkle on your grandma's forehead when she smiles always. So, to re-cap.

You ---(zigzagwommplefrompD4straightD7/12destiny+perpendicular*motion*wrinklegrandmaforehead)

---Madness

I am going to write a book entitled: "Insanity". It will chronicle some things. It will make lots of sense and little sense. Maybe it will be funny. In the foreword, amongst other things, "things", it will say: "...part of the reason i wrote this book was so that i could say: 'i wrote the book on insanity' and not be a liar. Which i feel would be a nice change." Yes, i'm not planning on capitalizing my "i's"... at least some of them. Probably yes. Also, I may or may not have a chapter dedicated to pesto. It will definitely include a recipe. Once I learn how to cook. Or do anything. Is the glass half full? Is the glass half empty? What glass? I only see a cup. There will be no black beans and rice for thanksgiving. le sigh.

----------------------

Today, the prisoner began his emotional breakdown for real. His silence was the loudest thing in the room, at least to the ego-muse. And so when he left she followed. She found him de-robing on the balcony, his bare-feet dangling from the side; he wanted nothing more than to embrace every gust of december air so he stretched his naked limbs to the sky and suppressed every shiver. or maybe he really couldn't feel the biting cold. He was being burnt alive inside. The he asked the ego-muse for something prescriptive. Anything she had. "Only if you come inside". He felt that was a fair trade...assuming he could feel anything at this point. So back inside they went and as he rustled through the bag of medicine in search of something hard to swallow the synthesizer added her words of wisdom: "it won't help".

And then he swallowed. The twitch sat concernedly, the first time in a long time he wasn't thinking of himself. "Would you rather feel a lot of pain or nothing at all?" he asked the twitch. The twitch didn't know what to say. "This is the most beautiful breakdown i've ever seen" Thought the ego-muse.

Last night I couldn't sleep because I was too fascinated with the idea of life as a hierarchy of mazes.

Mùm - If I Were A Fish / A Take Away Show from La Blogotheque on Vimeo.

a meditation on beautiful

The prisoner crushed up the remainder of his percocet and, listening to a gritty calypso that encapsulated the gritty white mess in front of him, cut and snorted five neat lines of his medicine. He grabbed a paint marker and wrote "expectation = history" on the kitchen table and spent much of the night trying to figure out what that meant, pretending not to notice as the ego-muse stole the homeless key that had been nailed above the sink. What she was to do with it, he did not know. What the ego-muse was going to do with it was wear it. So that the rust could brush up against her skin and in so doing remind her what a life-altering disappointment reality continued to be. This key used to have a purpose, she thought, now it was covered in crust, it's solidarity and uselessness displayed above the dishes drowning in their own sink-water.

Little sister, twin sister

Today the prisoner juggled, or at least tried. He wanted to learn; he was looking for greener pastures. He ran barefoot in the rain and skipped from the room, but he always came back. The ego-muse was glad for this. Any company, really. His Leslie was on the phone, communicating. The ego-muse was listening to an Indian sing a powerful chant--if not powerful, than fitting. She was not sure what to do with this new possible love interest, outside of compiling for her these chants. This new possible everything. Leslie came in and grabbed the prisoner's face: "I need to pluck you" she said; they wandered out, following the promise of coffee and cigarettes,

the prisoner probably still looking for greener pastures. Greener anything. Probably yes.

Fidelity will always be the jam to end all jams.

As comforting as Usdan eggs or a childhood friend's fridge filled with high-c.

8th day of the week

The prisoner placed three carrots in his shirt pocket. Orange plaid on a strawberry blonde. He snacked contentedly. The ego-muse watched. Watched the twitch caress his volley's leg. The ego-muse turned back to the stale story, not minding, she was lost in a daydream. Or what she had discovered to be a different dimension. Daydreaming, she concluded, is actually dimension jumping. If you give yourself fully to your delusions, thought the ego-muse, it means you are truly living them. That is your life as much as this is your life; just in another dimension. Though the ego-muse herself found this theory a bit unstable, there was no one who could prove to her otherwise, and thus it might as well be a fact. Twitch twitched, he watched the prisoner collapse his head into his lap, all carrots having been consumed. Worried, the twitch reached a finger across the ego-muse to the synthesizer. He motioned his concern. The synthesizer, per usual, shrugged. This was all the reassurance twitch needed, and he turned back to his volley.

-------------

The stale story has been played. Now the group of odd couple-esque inventors are left to their own devices. Their dharma and their auras all fitting and rolling together like waves filling a fish tank or like any Howard Hawks feature. The twitch begins to toss raisins, aiming at his volley's open mouth. Soon they're all trying to do it. Leslie asks if the prisoner has put raisins in her hair. A raisin fight ensues. The prisoner takes aim at all, he feels no mercy. In the kitchen, goofy tries to get a piece of toast out of the toaster with a knife. The housewife, finding goofy has left the door ajar, escapes from his room; bouncing in her cha-cha dress, she hides behind a wall hanging of Ganesh. "Wowie wowie" says the prisoner in response to this. He has been slapping his knee silly tonight. The housewife has had far too many cosmos. She giggles behind the curtain, giving away her position. Goofy comes to sweep her off her feet and carry her back to bed. The ego-muse lies on the floor, tracing her henna. Nobody in the room including the ego-muse can figure out where her mind is.

The Scene Changes, Screamin' Jay Hawkins Remains

"Remember this picture of me:"

Fohawk hair, patterns on my hands--a reaction from the henna--compulsion.

We will risk our health to be this way; yes, it's true. The proof is in your lying smile, and the one person in the room who will cover your back. Who knows your difficult situation but tries just as hard as you do to hide it from the others, for your sake. I assist in the damage of yourself, but aid in the projection.

"Her proudest moment:"

When she learned the spelling of 'anonymous' by closing her eyes and visualizing it.

"She hid her thoughts in quotes, so that if anything seemed too foreign, anything seemed too real, it would only be the thoughts of some anonymous writer. Not of the girl they thought they knew."

Why did I stop posting after Tuesday, April 14, 2009 ?

I wonder what started going right. Or wrong.

Do it.

"Dogs -->Humans-->Angels"

He pushes back his chair to the middle of the kitchen floor and stares at the table once surrounded by his friends. Now sat a panel of judges. He feels trapped, he orders: "Stop peering into my soul! All of you!" They held positions of power. "Which one will send me to eternal damnation?" he thinks. Then he re-thinks. "This is like that painting of the dogs playing cards around a poker table!" yells the now-bound prisoner. He puts his wrists together behind his chair. Tilts back his head in despair--his lanky body a stem in the spotlight. He envisions basement interrogation. For they were, interrogating him. They laugh, he is obviously out of his mind. They think: "We just went from being fates to dogs around a poker table...maybe he's had too much". He knew better. The prisoner continues to yell: "And the dogs in that painting,they're sitting up. So the first thing you think when you see that picture is: 'That's an impossibility! Dogs can't do that'. And you observe them in this habitat, with these cards. It's just like with humans." They watch the prisoner struggle before them--in his words, in his actions. "All of this because we told him maybe his severe cramps was from his alcohol consumption and not a lactose sensitivity" they think. Let's remember, after all, that hangover that lasted for two weeks. They think: "He should be worrying about his liver; not of our soul searching abilities, not of our impossibilities". But they are curious. They can recall the painting of the dogs. They interrogate: "What about humans?" He answers: "Dogs to humans. Humans..to..angels." He suddenly can't remember how he got to this conclusion in the first place. His phone starts to ring. He unbinds his hands to reach for it. It's Leslie. He looks at his friends for help. For now they are his friends again. "What do I do?" he says. They look at him sympathetically, trying to provide moral support. "Pick it up!" they say. "What should he do?", they think. One turns to the others: "He should tell the truth". Another nods. He overhears, he looks up. Is that what he should do? The one turns to the other and says: "We are like the conscious in his soul, aren't we?" Another laughs. They leave the room. He bows his head. He is left alone with the voice on the other end, far away from angels.

All my movie titles will be analogical of the plot. "Dogs to Humans, Humans to Angels" "Apples and Wildebeests; Apples and France"

Also,

and

relatively.

"So i'm not going to tell you the story because you know the story. I'm just going to tell you the moral". A moment of silence. "Well see it was two weeks ago..." he stops and apologizes, "it seems the moral is the story".

Hygemony, Cartoons, Exploration

Welcome Home.

Imagine you had the song "Exploration" in your head constantly on repeat as played by the Hungarian Symphony Orchestra,

and although you don't know French you sing it aloud as if you did, attracting "sideways" glances from the leaf blowers in your yard because really your headphones are around your neck and you're muttering gibberish; then imagine waking up everyday and discovering a new definition of "going crazy", such that when you tell people "I'm going crazy" you mean: last week I was convinced the shadows in my room were playing the 3rd movement of Mozart's 4th Horn Concerto. This weekend I played a game of chess against myself and lost. Yesterday I decided to write a ethnography, or a novel, or both, about my life in this niche of queer hipsters--because if I don't, no one else will. Last night, I didn't go to class, but instead stood between a graveyard and a collapsing barn and dared myself to go further. I didn't. And today I can't stay awake because I just don't care enough; nothing out there (motions around frantically to the world) is interesting enough. Now imagine no one cares. Welcome to my November.

Last night, after turning from the graveyard, Rory and I started to watch "The Great Mouse Detective". I started to explain to him how remarkable it is we take for granted these cartoons. Because, yes, they're just silly cartoons, and we all hear about the sexual things slipped in that we never actually notice and blah blah blah it's racist sexist prejudiced really just wrong in every way. However, I feel like we get side tracked in what's really important here. How this generation (motions around to me, to Jared in the kitchen, to Rory in his room) first learned about ANYTHING was through these colorful lines running around on our VHSes even all that bad stuff. For instance, the first time I heard about this thing called World War I was not in some history class, it was here:

So, okay, there's this war thing and some how the French were involved. Or something.

Later in life, though still younger than I should have been (my parents were crazy, yes)

I saw the South Park movie in theaters and again, before I knew anything about the World Wars

I see this French character all disheveled helping this American kid and sneaking their way across a

war-zone...something something viva le resistance...when I finally do learn that there was such a thing as

World War I academically I already had some kind of notion that the French would be involved, that their country

was a mess, that there was resistance and confusion and...man, I could write a whole dissertation on

childhood cartoons and the foundations they laid for us. We understand the world today through a lot of different

means yes, but they were the first. No matter if they were this that or the other thing, in our cannon

of knowledge, these moving lines were our first exposure to what life (is? was? could be?) like.