Friday, December 17, 2010

I would love you, even in that light
that brings out every bump and fold
in the skin
that stretches over your rounded, thick bones.

I would love you, even if every hair on your head
to ash,
making you bald and vulnerable.

I would love you, even in absolute blackness,
in blindness,
in doubt,
your likeness dependent only
on the confident baritone of your voice.

I would love you, even if shallow crows
called my love
for you

I would love you, even if more than a few paved streets
separated us,
if miles, miles, miles
or past loves, covered in soot and asphalt stood
between us.

I would love you, even if it meant giving up
my former life,
to lose myself in your
cynical brown eyes.

I would love you , even if you said I was
that hideous word
that places doilies on the heads
of all those that earn its title.

I would love you, even if you called
afraid that I was conning you
with my romantic verse.

I would love you, I do love you, I will love you.

Wednesday, December 8, 2010

Chapter 6 1/2


“What an indelible look you’ve got going, you son of a bitch,” Caleb said, drawing out each word as if it might be his last. He was partially right though, I was still clinging to the freshness of a Spring that would never flourish in our grey city, with my intentionally dewy skin and white cotton sheath. As often as Caleb now got drunk, I never discounted his words as if they were any less true. Even though I hated nearly every word that came out of his mouth, I knew he never lied. (That’s probably why I hated his every utterance) I had lived in flophouses and pseudo-crack dens so I was able to tell when someone was speaking an undeniable truth, even if it was provoked by an otherwise foreign substance.

“You’re fucking bitch, you know? I would do anything you asked me to, you selfish fucking bitch. But you, you just want to go out every night, licking the side walk, asking strange men to take you back to their apartments that they share with equally transparent assholes that don’t care about your college experience at some private school in New England.”

I wouldn’t cry before Caleb; he wasn’t a Buddhist alter or a burn victim. I furrowed my brow, unconsciously and deep, and sat down on a stoic wooden chair, my ass perched on its edge. I was ready to escape at any given moment.

“I think I’m sorry,” I said, ruffling my hair like I was tossing a garden salad. Really, I wasn’t sorry, but I thought that some added volume to my roots would increase my chance of making it out of Caleb’s apartment alive, or at least half-conscious. “I should have warned you months ago that I was only, you know, sleeping, sleeping with you or something.”

My vocabulary had been reduced to that of a horny sixth grader and I also noticed that I was stuttering slightly, a habit that Mrs. Habbitz had allegedly done away with when I was eight. I glanced over to my right, noticing a fish enclosure that only housed water turtles. Each of them was using their pathetic fins to try and climb their way up the algae covered glass.

“Yeah, well, I figured. I just don’t know what to say to you Violet,” he said, in a startlingly optimistic tone. I stared down at the floor as he gazed at me with his eyes that had always looked dead to me; eyes that belonged to a mummified ice man.

“Why did you even come over here?”

“I wanted to make sure you were okay. Is that okay?”

“Yeah, whatever.”



The shuffle of my feet on his bubbling linoleum floor.

“No,” I said, not sure where I was going with my argument.

Caleb looked at me, more intrigued than startled.

“No, not whatever. I’m so tired of this bullshit nonchalance. Obviously you really care about me and the fact that we don’t feel, I don’t know, the same, makes you upset. That’s why you left everyone last night and left us all searching the city, looking for any sign of your survival. I know I’ve been terrible to you. I know that I’ve used you. But, that doesn’t mean that you’re  allowed to terrify every member of our group of friends. It doesn’t  justify this transition you’ve made from a saintly, sane do-gooder to a self-indulgent asshole who’s obsessed with creating as much havoc as he’s endured. It may be fair to me, but it’s not fair to my brother, or any of your other friends. And what about your real family? Why the hell should they have to put up with your newfound addiction to grain alcohol and self-pity when all they’ve done is send you your monthly check so you can afford to live somewhere other than the streets? I won’t try to convince you that you deserve what I’ve done to you, because you don’t.  But I will say this; everyone has their heart broken Caleb. Everyone. I know that you like to think you’re different than everyone, that you’re better and somehow less deserving of romantic anguish, but you’re not.  Plus, this melodrama is just making you like every other sad, pathetic lovesick guy who whines about the girl he lost, or never had to begin with.  And isn’t that your worst fear? To be like everyone else? Please, just stop. I cannot handle this guilt trip jihad you’re on.”

“What the fuck do you know about my life Violet? What do you know? What do you know? WHAT DO YOU KNOW? Just cause you’re pretty doesn’t mean you have psychic powers. It doesn’t mean that you can read my mind. That doesn’t mean you have the right to as-s-s-s-s-s-sume you know what’s going on up here (using his index finger, he pointed to his temple). I love you so, so much. All I ever did was good. I did good Violet. I was honest with you. YOU. I was honest. To you, for you, by you. And you fucked me over. You lied to me. You said you loved me when you were busy fucking every other guy that looked at you. Well I don’t have to stand for that. No sir. No.”

His anger and sadness seemed to be making him even more drunk than he was when I had first arrived.

“Caleb, listen to me. I never promised you fidelity. I never promised you security or some everlasting fairytale tryst, okay? I’m not capable of that and I told you from the very start that I wasn’t. Hell, I told you point blank that I’m practically a con artist when it comes to deceptive abilities. But you want what you can’t have and that’s not my problem.”

“Even after you told me allofthat I loved you because you are ama-z-z-z-zing Violet. Or you were amazing. Now you just look like every other shallow, commitment phobe to me. But with a great ass, at least.”

“Shallow? I’m shallow? You’re the one who would rather opt for relationship with surface appeal than actually connect with the person you’re with,  as opposed to the fantasy girl you have on a marble pedestal in your head. That isn’t real life, Caleb. It’s funny because you’re the one always going on and on about reality and accepting life for what it is. Accept this! Accept it, please, so I can go back to being myself and you can go back to laughing at the Friday night stumblers, with their brown bag clarity. That’s the way it’s supposed to be.”

“Supposed to be, huh? Did you ever think that maybe I’m supposed to be with you, Violet?”

“Exactly my point, Caleb. It’s all about you. Did it ever cross your mind that maybe I’m not supposed to be with you?  That your happiness is contingent upon my misery, and always has been? You would honestly rather me be miserable, caged, and suicidal than myself? Because that’s the choice you’re forcing me to make.”

“Oh come on, you weren’t miserable when we were together.”

“Yes, yes I was.”

“But you told me all the time that you were happy, that I made you happy.”

“I’m a LIAR, remember? I’m a soul-stealing liar who has a thing for instant gratification. I liked the way you smiled when I said it. That doesn’t make it anymore true.”

“So you’re saying that every time I kissed you and you said you loved me, you were lying?”

“More or less, yeah.”

“I won’t accept that. I won’t. I fucking won’t. No, that’s not possible.  What the fuck is the point, Violet? What’s the point of lying about something like that? I don’t get it. Make me get it. Please. Help. Me.”

“I couldn’t tell you if I tried, Caleb. It’s just something that I’ve always done. I’ve tried since the time I became aware of my own behavior to change it, but I haven’t been able to. Hopefully I’ll find someone I don’t have to lie to in order to be with. But let me tell you, that is not you. It will never be you.”

“Fuck you. Really. Fuck you, Violet. Get out. Get out! Get out! Get out!”

He kicked a piece of cardboard in my direction and swayed momentarily, unsure as to whether he was going to fall or not. I shook my head like a nun who has just found porn hiding in the textbook of one of her pupils.

I left, hoping and praying with all my might that Caleb wouldn’t try to extend some romantic gesture my way, knowing that I’d probably fall victim to his whiskey lips, if only momentarily.

Thankfully, he remained in the place that I left him, looking delusional and buoyant.


I did not say a thing to Caleb for three months.

An Open Ended Love Letter

It's strange to think of you sitting in an Ikea office chair, face aglow with the blue light coming from a computer screen. It's easier to imagine you etching prose into the stone walls of a cave or scrawling upon half-burnt papyrus. You aren't ancient- by standard or spiritual means. But, you seem to know so much, much more than me, much more than anyone I know.

I can see you hunched over a typewriter (missing the letters q, w, e), kissing the rain goodnight with your flamenco lips, raising a glass to the creaking floorboard above you, drawing pictures in the dust with your spiked heels, culminating your tribe of dutiful followers with each sentence.

I want to tell you, you're one of two.

Two: the number of women I find myself pining after, strictly (but not exclusively) on a literary basis. To say literary almost implies that you're dull and wordy, when you are nothing of the sort. To me, you're life, the partisan of FUCK YOU's, and the mother of youth. I cannot tell you how many times I've caught myself trying to look at my life from your glitter-impaired point of view. Basically, I've been your shameless, silent protégé while you've been shamelessly praising the ills of city living.

Courtship has long been dead. But, for the sake of paying honor where honor is due, I would travel cross country, through fields of boredom and the slick deception of the bayou, to fall before you, mud-caked notebook in one hand, candy rosary beads in the other. 

Show me.

Thursday, December 2, 2010

I'm ashamed that I've been so indirect
when it comes to this.
But here I go again, wooshing right by the truth.

I like to play games.
I like to be frantically clandestine,
imagining I'm some turtle-necked, finger-snapping venus fly trap
who speaks only in whispers and never smiles (or God forbid, giggles)

Now I am ashamed.
Ashamed that instead of telling you who I am and who I desire,
I've told you what I've heard people say about me, echos of my past, a reflection of my perpetual present.

Stories of closets and paranoid suburban housewives.
Stories of winks and notes and tangled limbs.
Stories of heart palpitations and laughable accusations.

I never speak with my own voice.
She said, she said, he said, he said.
Well, now I want to look you in the eye and tell you
I say.
I say.
I say,
that even if The Magi appeared before me now and told me that my universal attraction is something false, I would tell them to continue on their way.

Tuesday, November 30, 2010

Monday, November 29, 2010

Oh, Panacea come to me now,
I've been waiting for so long.
Three candles I've burnt through, Panacea.
I'm lost in my labyrinthine desires again, Panacea.
Oh, Panacea come to me please.
My head is tired, my brow hurts from squinting, I'm queasy.
I won't mind if you say,
"But I've never done this before."
Oh, Panacea. The evanescent tremors that glaze me over ever so often aren't enough.
Lasting Panacea, speak to me.
Hollow me out, maroon me if you must; anything.
Stifle the piercing sound of this imbroglio that is mummifying
what was supposed to be my temporary body. 
I do not want to be remembered for this, Panacea.
I do not want grave robbers to find me like this, Panacea.
I do not want to be a murderer, Panacea.
I do not want to kill him, Panacea.

Sunday, November 21, 2010

Halcyon mornings tell of spinning earths,
proper alignment,
sex and rebirth,
the scuttle of breakfast,
the grease of the pan,
burnt communal offerings
and the death of man.
Gray suit, gray tie, gray hat
gray crewcut:
the fodder of stigma,
cartoon of anticapitalist smut.
This man died.
This man is dead.
We were all there, beside the funeral bed.
He was an era of mold,
of hidden rapture,
of tubes of toothpaste, TV dinners,
and silent capture.
Ruminating through the annals now as the passive doe:
the exploited steer,
and to thought, the foe.

Monday, November 8, 2010

It's Here! It's Here!

Tumbleweed Zine is printed and ready to be sent out! If you're interested in a copy, email your address to

If you want to contribute, email your ideas to the same address.

Saturday, October 30, 2010

Say what you mean, goddammit!
Say what you mean!
Spit it out.
Quit dancing
Quit meditating
Quit hiding
and biding
and biting your tongue, my tongue.
If you've gotta scream, then scream goddammit!
No one here will be bothered.
Quit whispering
Quit whimpering
Quit whining
and lying
and trying to sound like something you're not.
Cry if you need to, goddammit!
Cry if you need to!
It's better than a clenched jaw
It's better than a clenched mind
It's better than a sad desire
for no one to find you
or that real moxy I know you have
that fire
that I know,
I know is there,
has always been there.
So, say what you mean goddammit!
Say what you mean!

Thursday, October 28, 2010

October was the month that everything broke.

the toaster
the washer
the car
the hairdryer
the bathtub
everyone's bodies
my head
my heart
my will

Too many things to fix.
Not enough money to buy anything, really.

I spent my days staring at my popcorn ceiling
Picking at callouses
Drinking nothing but water
Eating nothing but time
Clenching my stomach
Trying to ignore the shit all over the floor,
the spiders,
the dust,
the headache
trying to dream my way, wish my way to toleration.

We bought a new toaster, a new hairdryer.
We fixed the car and the washer.
We managed to afford some groceries.
But the gray water still won't drain out of the goddamned tub. 

And there's three more days left of October

Wednesday, October 27, 2010

Fashion, Fantasy, Lipstick, and Boobs: A Dissertation

On numerous occasions, when I’ve told someone that I’m interested in both fashion and modern feminism they not-so-subtlety hint at the possibility that I’m unaware of my own ambivalence.

“Okay, I know you’re really smart and stuff, so why are you so interested in clothes? Plus, how can you condone an industry that promotes fantasy over reality and propagates the objectification of women, as a self-proclaimed feminist?”

Their questions are always valid to me, via my belief that “no question is ever stupid, well…I mean, MOST questions aren’t stupid, etc.” However, what these curiously confused souls often fail to realize is the goal of feminism: freedom of choice. If a woman (or man) chooses to stay at home with their children, chauffeuring them to their carefully planned extracurricular actives, then they have the right to enjoy this decision, regardless of socio-cultural connotations. To claim that a feminist woman can’t wear lipstick or eyeliner because it turns her into a cartoonized male fantasy violates the very freedom of choice that feminism seeks to achieve. What if the woman likes the way she looks, with her lips tinted three shades darker and it has nothing to do with being accepted or being a desirable sexual object? Why should she feel as if she is an enemy to the movement, and thus carry with her the burden of guilt, just because she’s been into coral lipstick lately? If a woman chooses to invest herself in the fashion industry because she is in love with design and beauty, that does not make her a lemming, straddling the tide of low self-esteem and impossible aesthetic expectations; it makes her a conscientious observer, a sartorially devoted anthropologist who recognizes all at once the importance of clothing and its fleeting, material nature.

The argument that fashion is art has been beaten to death already, so I’ll avoid spending too much time rehashing what has been said many times before. I am a subscriber to the belief that fashion can be art, though it’s not necessarily always the case. In the same way that a rectangle is only sometimes a square, fashion is only sometimes used as an honest expression of emotion, truth, and beauty (the best designers make the viewer question what each of these really mean, i.e. Rei Kawakubo, Charles Anastase, the late Alexander McQueen). Runway shows that seem more like an art installation (see: are the most obvious arguments proving the “Fashion IS Art” dogma. However, individual expression of personal style cannot be overlooked when examining the potential creative outlet that clothing provides. Within the last two years, the personal style blog has become a ubiquitous demonstration that both girls and guys can be smart and style savvy. Conventional beauty is not really a mainstay amongst this online community. Instead uniqueness is promoted as the highest virtue attainable. Of course this has resulted in a lot of “weird for the sake of being weird” ensembles, not unlike the art world being overrun by people seeking an alternative brand of conformity. But most importantly, this community fosters and celebrates expression on the most basic human level. We all have to wear clothes (Well, we don’t have to, but that’s enough material for an entirely separate thesis). So, to take a universal necessity and turn it into something that turns the mundane into the fantastical is something that isn’t required, but is just fun.

This leads to the next question, or contradiction that people point out to me when it comes to my interest in fashion:

“As a realist and a part time cynic, how can you find it fulfilling dressing up for fantasy’s sake?”

I find this one a bit more difficult to answer because it requires me to admit that my realist tendencies and my ever-expanding wardrobe (Each new item I buy seems to be exponentially more strange than the last I bought) suggest an underlying hypocrisy. However, I do have an answer. As far as life goes- decisions, goals, relationships- I tend to be incredibly grounded in reality. I’m not a pessimist, however, but I do value the sanctity of logic and reason. Sometimes, though, I find myself wanting something different, something more, something ridiculous, frivolous, and fun. Herein lies the root of my obsession: a desire to be playful, especially when my life is ruled by limitations and seriousness. I do not believe in full throttle escapism because that leads to possibly being featured on Intervention. I do believe in making life as interesting as possible and, for me, clothes are incredibly interesting. Not everyone has to agree with me when I say that clothes are innately fun, because that’s a subjective truth. I cannot stand Sudoku or Dancing With the Stars, but that doesn’t mean that I don’t value the value that they have for certain people. We’re all entitled to our vices and our little means of making life a bit more tolerable. For some, this means watching the live feed of the Alexander Wang show. For others, it means being resolutely devoted to a sports team. And, neither vice implies something about the person enjoying them. The fashion fiend is not necessarily a vapid clotheswhore just as the sports enthusiast is not necessarily a chicken-wing-eating, sexist drone.

Finally, the notion of comfortability is called into question.

“How can you tell me that high heels are not a sexist accessory designed to make a woman feel uncomfortable? How can you say that fashion isn’t anti-feminist when it stuffs women into sausage casings and tells them that that is the only way they can be beautiful? How can you find lingerie sexy when it disrupts the natural shape of woman’s body?”

Before these questions can even be addressed, “comfort” has to be clearly defined. If we’re talking strictly in terms of physical comfort, then yes, some items of women’s clothing aren’t exactly a dream to wear. The repeated wearing of high heels can lead to the deformation of bones, bras that don’t fit lead to chaffing, and girdles are the garment equivalent to medieval torture. However, if we’re talking about comfortability of the spirit and the general ease of living that comes along  when one’s self-esteem isn’t a cesspit of self-doubt, then comfort in relation to fashion takes on an entirely different meaning. For example, I have never felt comfortable wearing “just jeans.” I could sit here and try to analyze the reason why I’ve never felt like myself when I dress down, but really, it’s irrelevant. I just know that I feel most like me when I’m wearing another daily experiment of mine and enjoying my freedom from repetition. Sometimes, this experiment involves shoes of gargantuan proportions, other times it involves dressing to feel like a co-ed in a New England university, just ‘cause. I’ve developed blisters over the years and I’ve been sent home for “inappropriateness” (The first time was in fifth grade when I wore a pinstripe skirt that allegedly showed more pre-pubescent leg than the administration was willing to tolerate). So, in a sense I understand why people don’t get it, why they don’t see the “suffering for fashion” mentality as a fair compromise, especially for women. But if a woman feels comfortable, to her core, wearing a pair of spiky patent leather stilettos, then the bunions she develops as a result won’t seem like much of a nuisance. So long as she isn’t a slave to the image she sees when her legs are elongated, she isn’t giving anything up; not comfort, not her dignity.

Society expects women to be fashion oriented and expects them to buy into the false commercialization that advertises beauty as a woman’s ultimate goal. This is why I think I find so many people, particularly those whose ideals are the opposite of society’s (Neo-Nihilists, Pseudo-Anarchists, New Wave Feminists), who oppose fashion and its adherents. But the thing is, if men and women genuinely enjoy the perpetual motion of the fashion world and the ever-revolving door of inspiration that’s to be found within it, then they shouldn’t be forced to feel guilt, shame, or inferiority. Anthropologists frequently study the clothing habits of past civilizations, recognizing the key role that fashion has on a society’s culture. But today, if you show an interest in modern day clothing, intellectuals may turn their nose up at you and tell you that you are only interested in vanity and being sexually attractive. Their snobbishness is simply a different breed of narcissism, the same narcissism that they vehemently oppose the fashion world for.

So: fashion, fantasy, lipstick, and boobs; not one of these things should elicit shame or guilt. Fashion can be expression and it can be art. Fantasy can be fun. Lipstick can be warpaint or face paint, and boobs can be hoisted and bolstered or they can hang loose and free. The key word here is can and it provides the direct connection between fashion and feminism. Feminism strives for the expression of equality and freedom of choice while fashion strives to provide freedom of expression. They are both about possibilities, and the expansion of choice.

Wednesday, October 13, 2010

Chapter Six

Rap, rap, rap.

Forming a fist to knock on Caleb’s door took every ounce of energy I had.  My hand was noticeably shaking as it levitated in the air in between taps. My heart; a metronome with the thud of a sonic boom. Sickness was finding its way up my gastrointestinal tract as I attempted to make a pact with myself, promising not to cry upon seeing Caleb’s face, surrounded by gray blond hair and contorted into a half-smile. 

I heard foot steps and something fall to the ground.

“Wait!” the breathless voice I knew so well called out.

“Okay,” I said, trying to inject some kind of congeniality, some familiarity into my reassurance. Instead, it came out sounding strained, like a parrot trying to imitate a three year old.

“Shit, he knows it’s me now,” I realized.

Three seconds later, the door creaked open. Caleb’s long, bone white fingers curled around the door’s edge and he rested his head on the door frame. That head, so full of wicked dreams, spiteful thoughts, obsessive decencies. Love for me.

“Violet,” he said, as if to remind me who I was. He drew out the “v” sound, as he typically did, like he was hanging on the ridiculousness of my existence. I didn’t know what to say, or how to begin explaining how sorry I was, or how much I hated him for making me feel like I was a subhuman species, intent only on raping and pillaging hope from the nubile brains of impressionable young men.

I went with the safe, superficial option: “How are you?”

“Oh, you know, just feeling like shit. Nothing new. You know, just being depressed and hating everyone and everything. It’s great. Really great. How about you Violet? How are you?”

He wasn’t really asking how I was, but rather suggesting that I was responsible for his current condition and that he didn’t care how I was. It’s likely he presumed I was only there for selfish reasons. I didn’t know why I was there, to be honest.

“I, um, I don’t know. Can I come in?”

“Yeah, I don’t care. Whatever.”

It had been a while since I had been in Caleb’s apartment but it looked remarkably unchanged. Even the pile of laundry in the corner of the living room seemed to be in the exact same soiled order. There were half eaten bowls of cereal on every table I could see. Empty water bottles covering the floor made the place look like a recycling center had exploded somewhere nearby and the fallout had landed in Caleb’s apartment, which also happened to smell like cheap red wine and mold. I noticed a story I had written for him when we first started talking regularly sitting on his coffee table, with certain lines crossed out.

“Hey, I remember giving that to you. Why did you write on it?”

“I crossed out the lines I didn’t like.”

“What? …Why? You told me you loved that story.”

“Because I realized that you’re full of bullshit Violet. That story you gave me was just another example of you trying to be sly. It was full of sexual innuendos. I thought you gave it to me because you liked me and trusted me enough to read your writing. But now I know that you just wanted to fuck me. Don’t get me wrong, your writing is impeccable. It’s too perfect though. Like you.”

Never before had Caleb ever used the phrase “sexual innuendos” or  the word “impeccable”, at least not in conversation. I suddenly felt jealous, imagining him laying in bed with some generic literature major while she kissed his neck, whispering things in his ear like “Oh, Caleb. You are heaven sent, you cherubic incarnation of all that I have ever desired. Be mine”

“Well, you figured me out Caleb! You’re right, I have no soul, no feelings, no emotions. I just fuck anything I can and then run away before I start to feel attached. You were no different. I told you the night we slept together that it didn’t mean anything. It still doesn’t mean anything now. So you can just stop whatever you’re doing because it’s not making me want you anymore,” I said, surprised at how much conviction there was in my voice. It wasn’t because what I said was true, but because I had rehearsed these lines on boys before Caleb and in my head when I started to feel like I had been taken advantage of.

“You’re crazy. I don’t know why I care so much about you, cause you are obviously out of your mind. You’re a nymphomaniac. You’re a sociopath.”

Again, he was speaking words I thought he didn’t use, making them sting even more. The Caleb I knew made fun of psychoanalysis babble and preferred to keep speech comfortably colloquial.

“I’m so sorry, Caleb,” I said as the tears I had been suppressing surfaced as if the water main in my face suddenly ruptured. It didn’t take long before I was crying so hard I was dry heaving, wiping my snot on the hem of my summer dress. Caleb just stood there, looking down at me with a smug look plastered on his face, like he was afraid to pity me.

“I…I…Caleb, I don’t know what I’m saying. I just know that I probably didn’t mean what I just said. Because obviously, obviously, I care about you or I wouldn’t be here right now. I made a mistake, Caleb. I made a huge mistake. Problem is, I don’t know what it is I did wrong yet. But I can feel it, I did something terribly wrong. I don’t know if I lied to you or if I lied to myself. But last night, when they couldn’t find you, I felt so guilty. Responsible for you drinking, especially. You didn’t even touch wine before we started hanging out. It’s like I made you into a monster. A really, really sad monster who likes to do things out of character. I’m sorry…..I’m….(sob)….so…(sniff)…sorry. Please, please don’t do this. I think I love you or something,” I half spoke, half slobbered. I wanted to say more, but I couldn’t focus on anything besides Caleb’s eyes which were starting to turn red.

“You say one thing, then do another. You tell me something, then contradict yourself five minutes later. You tell me you just wanted to fuck me and then you tell me you love me, Violet.”

“I know, I know, I know.”

“No, you don’t know. This is one of those times where you really don’t know.”

“I just know I don’t want to feel like this anymore.”

“You just don’t like the way it feels because you don’t have the control anymore, because I’m not rushing back to you the minute you say you love me.”

“I made mistakes, so many fucking mistakes. You’re the only person who I can actually talk to. You know? When I say I love you though, I really mean it.”

“Do you understand how confusing that is to me? You tell me you mean everything you say; that honesty is your policy. So when you tell me I’m just some sad, depressed little boy who likes you too much- you mean that. When you tell me you love me and that you need me and that I’m an amazing person-you mean that too? You can’t feel both of those things.”

“But I do! And I never mean to hurt you with anything I say. I just, god, I don’t know Caleb! I know that I dream about you every night and then I wake up and try to convince myself that you don’t mean anything to me. But then something like last night happens and I can’t keep lying to myself. You mean a lot to me.”

“Then prove it, Violet. Stop acting like you feel nothing because you somehow think that makes you better than everyone.”

I was stunned into silence. Both Caleb and I didn’t believe in the concept of souls or extra sensory perception. But, in that moment, it was like Caleb looked into my soul, spotted my weakness, reached in and poured hydrochloric acid all over it, making every single one of my fears bubble up and intensify. To say I felt alone is more than an understatement. I felt like I was the single most evil human being to ever exist and that I didn't deserve to even entertain the thought of Caleb forgiving me. That I didn’t deserve to be sitting in Caleb’s apartment which suddenly looked like heaven. That I didn’t deserve the memory of Caleb breathing on my neck while he slept, the dark circles around his eyes somehow lightening in the orangeish light of dusk.

“You deserve so much more than a neurotic,” I said, getting up to leave.

I desperately wanted him to try to stop me from leaving, to grab the back of my neck and start kissing me. Instead he just stood exactly where he had been standing the entire time, with the same look still plasticizing his emotions. The redness in his eyes had faded.

He said nothing as I turned the knob of the front door.
He said nothing as I closed the door behind me.
He said nothing for three months.


I try to not think about death.
Because despite what some heavy souled
artists, poets, masters of perception and deception say,
it's not a glamorous thing.
It's not an aspiration.
But sometimes, it creeps in- not quiet, not loud.
I think about my last words.
I think about the color and fabric of the blanket
that'll tie me down to my deathbed.
I don't want to die, but that isn't to say I fear it.
I fear becoming a recluse, I fear people hating me.
But death, death I do not fear.
Ants die. Plants die. God incarnate died.
But sometimes I get this sick feeling that I may not die:
that I'll be the exception.
That I'll be forever suspended in limbo; paralyzed and decomposing.
That I'll be conscious of the silence.
I reassure myself, though.
I say, self, you won't be the exception.
You weren't the exception when it came to love.
You weren't the exception when it came to love.

Sunday, October 3, 2010

Speakeasy Logic

I was a hijacker tonight: a thoughtless, meandering, slobbering hijacker.

With a little scream and a little sniffle I won the keys to the car and drove in ovals and U’s.

Followed paths worn down by lovers’ past.

Made loops while I beat the night into submission with my WHYs my FUCKs my OH MY GODs.

Because I was in Honors English I know that this is called “situational irony”.

Because I was the one parked alone in a parking lot at midnight, watching a man in a suit too nice for my neighborhood get out of his chauffeured car, I know that it’s called “fucking misery”, a “dog from hell”.

Then, with an especially loud “AHHHHHHHHHH” and a pounding on the poor, poor steering wheel I had that awful sensation of being punched in the nose. That bitter, inexplicable taste of being dumbfounded.

The thing is, I wasn’t supposed to be doing this. I wasn’t supposed to be wearing three day old clothes, unwashed hair sticking to my forehead, while choking on the humid air coming out of my broken air conditioner.

Transcend humanness.

Fuck that.

I switched out the CD that was filtering melodic sex through the speakers and put on something a bit more angelic.

All that did was remind me of the time we were driving on the side of a cliff and it was just black.

Remembrance. And not the scrapbook/yearbook/memory book variety.

And then like a choreographed stage production, just as my tears stopped, a hungry vigilante took their place.

I wouldn’t have it though because that son of a bitch was the reason for the tears anyways.

I pressed on, thinking of anything and everything that makes me well up. Salty, make-up streaking evidence that I’m not an emotionless humanoid.

Quite the opposite, really.

The beastly tyrant insistent upon vindication shut his mouth and I felt like I had fallen into a pile of clean hotel linens.

I different kind of “ahhh”.

But, BUT guess who arrived just in time to the grooves of my mammalian brain?

The Harlequin girl in her pointed heels and fishnets.

This time she told me that I didn’t have to listen to her sermon on single-mindedness so long as I promise to regain my ability to lust without implications. HAH.

“Pathetic” ones at least.

“Your words, they’ll come back. Kiss a stranger and they’ll come back. Stake love in the heart and you’ll come back.” Puff, puff, blow. 

I shook my head. No, no, no. Another obligatory “FUCK” escaped my mouth along with a gusty breath so violent it burned my throat. 

 “I’m not her anymore. He took that away, he made me….he made me.. this. I’ve never been jealous before. I never understood why people would kill in the name of love till right now. Right this very moment.”

“Oh, stupid girl. He’s just trying to be you. You’re the promoter of poly-amorous living. And you, you’re trying to be him.”

“Yeah, poly-amorousity that I feigned because I was trying to not be my mother. When I drove by the strip club a few minutes ago I even thought to myself, maybe I should just walk in an ask for an application. God knows I need the fucking money. But guess what? The thought repulsed me because it’s bullshit. All of it’s bullshit. I’m floundering here.”

Puff, puff, blow.

“Well you let me know how this self-pitying thing goes for you. Love is a myth remember? Love is a trite, one syllable word that you cast off because you preferred the raw showcase of sexuality. Remember that one? It’s my personal favorite.”

“Yeah, well the fucking bonding hormones have obliterated that naive ideology.”

She laughed at me then, and left. Leaving her trail of smoke billowing behind her.

I drove home.

Tuesday, August 24, 2010

I Really Like Airplanes

Pixelated pastures,
buckwheat caterpillars tucked snuggly into cocoon barracks,
checkerboard cities, neatly compacted into grids.
Human design, carved into the natural landscape of dust and hazard.
Fingerling crevices etched into brown mountains
look like protozoan chicken feet.
Rivers and exploited dams might as well be kiddie pools,
from my celestial perch.
My forehead is pressed against the quadruple layer glass,
slitting my bangs into two chunks,
leaving my skin exposed to the translucent cold.

I want to call out to the woman who's wearing Velcro shoes, leering over a thousand page document. LOOK LOOK LOOK OUT YOUR PORTHOLE!
Now is the only time we get to be avian counterfeiters, more than human, less than observer.
"You must not get out much," she'd say with a slicing gaze.

Monday, August 16, 2010

No More Proverbial Kool-Aid

There is no sense in pretending here kids. I've been lazy. I could tell you that I've been spending time reflecting, leafing through life-changing books, or dedicating my life to living off the grid in a little shack in the middle of the desert. But, in reality, I've been becoming disillusioned with the realm of fashion blogging and sleeping till five in the afternoon. This blog deserves a full conversion, from part fashion blog, part writing showcase to an all encompassing dumping site for my work. If I happen to throw a few fashion musings into the mix, it's just because I oftentimes think in terms of fabric and platforms, turning my closet into an allegorical clothesline that's strung up inside my head, reaching from ear to ear. I've missed out on so much while gone on my leave of absence and I can't help but feel a little bad for returning from Seattle with not a single shred of photographic evidence. But now that this is no longer a "fashion blog" I guess I can just sigh and say, oh well.

Wednesday, August 11, 2010

Chapter Five

I had made it home.

My white sheets and yellow pillowcase were covered in tar black smudges and my day old dress that bandaged my sweaty body still smelled vaguely of bitter cranberries. I crawled out of my bed like a stop motion centipede; squirming to the floor in avoidance of my jilted ligaments. My mouth was dry, more dry than it had ever been before. My brother was eating cereal in the linoleum kitchen. I could tell, even from my stale sleeping chambers, because I heard his signature clank and slurp routine. Time was a terrifying concept at that point. I turned my head away from every clock as I walked out of my bedroom and down our miniature hallway: the wooden cookoo, the electronic alarm, the microwave. I didn't require a millisecond of reflection to remember the disaster that had occurred last night, had been occurring for months.
My brother wasn't at all alarmed by my red, white, and greasy face as I sat down across from him, sending his way my best attempt at a melancholy grin.

"You look like shit, you know," he said with a mouth full of freeze dried marshmallow and puffed rice.

"Yeah, I would have guessed. You don't look that hot either. Get me a bowl, I'm starving."

I poured my milk into the bowl first. Never before had I committed such an atrocity against nature.

"Well, any news?" I asked, trying to appear indifferent. It couldn't have worked because before my brother had even opened his mouth, my eyes were turning red and I could feel my face flushing hot.

"He called me to tell me had gotten home alright about an hour ago."

"How did he sound? Should you go check on him?"

"He sounded, I don't know. It was weird. Like normal I guess. But almost robotic. All he said was 'I'm home, man. Tell Violet not to worry' and then he hung up. I was fucking pissed. I wanted to tell him how unfair what he did was, for everyone, including you. I'm not going over there cause all I'm gonna do is yell at him and tell him to fucking quit this Caulfield bullshit he's trying to pull."

"I am to blame for all of this though, you know. I knew exactly what I was getting into."

"Bullshit Violet. Stop turning this into your one woman masochism parade. Caleb is fucked. Unfortunately, you and I both love him and we have to make sure he'll at least stay alive for another week."

"I'm going to see him," I said with false determination. I knew better.

"He's gonna take that the wrong way, like he always does."

"I don't care."

I did.

Listlessly I undressed and redressed, pulling on a white linen dress and stuffing my hair into a nest at the base of my head. I scraped the underside of my eyes with a musty washcloth, trying to make myself look somewhat clean. I pulled on thousands of bracelets, rings, and necklaces. Unwittingly, I was preparing for battle and my baubles were my ornaments of war. Avoiding mirrors now instead of clocks and ruffling my brothers head in an anxious rather than affectionate way, I made my way out of the apartment and into the stairwell.

Sunday, July 25, 2010

Cherubs Are Allowed to Snort, Snore, and Sleep Drool

elastin takes over my sister's face while she sleeps,
her skin pulled taught and smooth.
there isn't one rogue pulse of blood
jetting across her dozing eyes.
and that soft, unblemished skin
is still youthfully rubbery and resilient
but it becomes her war mask;
the opaquely fleshy guardian of what's brewing
behind her scanning eyes.
and her lips form a cherubic envelope,
parted to let air in to fill her lungs
and dry her tongue.
and the corners turn up in honest grin,
chivalrous obligeance, uncertainty.
they move to make words that sound
too old to be coming from such a virginal face.
i watch her sleep, while she becomes
what she really is, while she reverts back to
the infant in the white bassinet,
the strange life that shares my blood and my thoughts,
the girl child who clutches a stuffed chimp in
her ambidextrous grip.

Tuesday, July 20, 2010

I'm a Liar and a Cheat Who's Been Flirting with the Nebulae

First things first, we have to talk about Christopher Kane Resort 2011, which is delicious, spacey, and all things that I love. Observe:

(Listen to this too and while you gaze/drool)








Secondly, I have to apologize for not being an avid blogger and instead being a sleep deprived, food-devouring zombie. Good news is that I'm leaving for Seattle in twelve hours and I'm bringing with me some precious cargo: my laptop where all desirable magic is brewed, and my grandma who has a thing for taking heinous amounts of pictures. My suitcase is overflowing with the strangest items in my closet so I promise, absolutely promise some outfit fun when I get back. 
Lastly, my friend and I are starting up our own zine which should be coming out sometime in August. I'll have some links/more information for you soon. Email me if you are interested, we're open to just about anything as far as writing and art goes. If you even have an inkling of interest in getting involved, talk to me. I'll convince you to actually do it. Get excited kids!

Monday, July 12, 2010

we laugh at the folly of others,
we laugh together; out of fear,
fear of having to live in a moment of lucid silence,
fear of trampling on the conscience of the other,
fear of ourselves, mainly.
so i sigh when we're done with our belly warming chuckle
because i know that what we've just done
is a crime against truth, against knowledge.
we have violated the very rules we invented,
and only for the sake of youthful self-centeredness.
when we've finished laughing, laughing together
i'll want to break away and cry,
beating my hands upon the vial walls
we will have erected in the name of ignorance,
a false kind of ignorance, because you and i know
what it means to lie, deceive, to tantalize the
baby bird with an earth covered worm
and these skills only belong in the skill set of the knowledged
i hate laughing at things the idiot would and does find amusing
because it's the worse kind of pretending.
it's the desecration of all that i love,
the admittance of easiness
the scalpel that shreds through the surreal;

Wednesday, June 30, 2010

GFW 2010: Everything is Holy






The work of Middlesex graduate Liesamarie Schulte, Everything is Holy is a body of work that is memorable in an ephemeral sort of way. Combining two unlikely things, geometric metallics and the fluidity of floorlength tulle, she created exactly what she was going for; looks that inspire landscapes of impossibly lucid dreams. There is something warrior-like about the collection that isn't at all disturbed by the ceremonial type veils and youthful floral appliques. It's absolutely beautiful and reads a lot like a modern day Julia Margaret Cameron photograph, with added square backpacks and delicate cleanliness.

Tuesday, June 29, 2010

Chapter Four

I heard a high pitched tweet, followed in succession by several low warbles. I opened my eyes to see two birds, the city kind that belong to no particular species outside of science, perched like gregarious kings on a branch that jetted out from a hideously ancient trunk. My tongue was immobilized by the arid climate of my mouth, which tasted salty and stale, like I had slept all night with a saltine cracker pressed against the roof of my mouth, slowing melting its way to a mass of pasty gluten. My neck ached. I had twisted myself into an inhumane sleeping position, curled up like an overgrown toddler trying to seek comfort in returning to the fetal curl.
    I felt a brief seizure of pride that came from my new-found ability to be a legitimized tramp. I thought I deserved a congratulatory laugh from Violet or at least a cigarette. What a low-down, self-deprecating, dirt-crusted, love-blinded fool I still was, even after my night in the park that I shared with what I assumed to be the neighborhood bag lady. She looked completely at ease in her position she had assumed on the bench parallel to mine. As she went about her nightly routine, I noticed the ease of her movements that can only come from a feeling of complete comfort; home. The park was her home. From the corner of my eye I watched her secure her plastic wares in her shopping cart and toddle away, her right foot lagging slightly. I closed my eyes tightly and let out an inaudible moan with a gust of hot air. Heaving my self up, and scraping the sleep crust from the corner of my eye, I decided I needed some direction.
    I patted my left pant pocket, an instinct born from my attachment to technology. There was no phone there, and I suddenly remembered the blonde I had given it to the night before. Either I had asked for her number, or she had asked for mine, but most importantly, I decided giving her my phone was my best chance for escape. My wallet was as lost as my phone, except I couldn’t remember at what point in the previous night it had gone missing. Without any means of communication or any monetary stability, I stood up, arching my back against the smog tinted sunbeams of an early city morning, and began making the fifteen mile trek back to my apartment.
    It would be at least three hours before I would make it back to my refrigerator, which was stocked with newly purchased nothing. Before I even completed my first quarter of a mile, I grew sick of looking at the pavement that I was trotting upon with heavy feet. And then it hit me at a loud, fume saturated intersection five minutes later. I was still in love with Violet and she still didn’t love me. Plus, no one had searched that desperately for me the night before because I woke up in the same bucolic sleeping quarters I had settled into after my stint with the psychic. Now that it was the day after, the sun was shining, and I was going to have to explain myself as every one laughed at my misguided attempts to woo a girl who had no interest in my existence.
    I hated the way the cars lined up behind one another as they waited for the light to turn green. They looked so patient and comfortable sitting there, because they knew eventually the little circular oracle would again turn that instigating shade of green and they would all be free to accelerate and continue traveling. Their little engines were content with sitting idly while the driver assumed that “onward” was the only direction that was possible. I had to gather up the nerve to press the button for the crosswalk because I wanted to melt onto the sidewalk, right there and then just to prevent having to go back to living with the same people that I abandoned. I pressed it though, and it left my fingers smelling metallic. Off the curb I went, joining the masses, traveling by foot, dreading the prospect of the future.

Sunday, June 20, 2010

In Which I Rant

I could go on for days. Let me break it down, real nice and simple.
  • If someone were to go on any kind of diet (low sodium, low fat, high fiber, kosher, cannibalistic, etc) it would be incredibly annoying and redundant if that person filled up your Facebook homepage/Twitter feed/Tumblr dashboard/conversation with details on their latest meal and how it’s suited to their dietary needs. What someone eats is their own goddamned business, so therefore, I do not want to hear that you just munched down some vegan snack item, or you are planning a vegan potluck (which usually consists of junk food manufactured and distributed by the same conglomerates who make other products that DO contain animals/animal parts, but just happen to be vegan because they are loaded with artificial preservatives and other space chemicals). I am all for sharing vegan recipes and having genuine conversations about how harmful animal products are to the human body, but if the person I am talking to is eating an Oreo, I won’t be able to focus because I’ll be laughing. Even the occasional, “Oh I just had a delicious vegan (fill in the blank)” or “(name of restaurant) is really fucking tasty” is FINE. But the constant vegan this, vegan that, vegan, vegan, vegan, VEGAN is just obnoxious and makes me want to commit very non-vegan acts of violence.
  • Knowing that veganism is a trend right now means that is won’t be a trend in a few years, or however long it takes to die out, because trends by nature, end. Of course there will still be vegans, animal friendly restaurants, and hopefully, new innovations, but the sea of kids that are flocking towards this beacon of “authentic” light are not going to be there to be a part of it. Those who will have moved on will have done so because one of their friends told them they should or they got sick because they didn’t put any effort into maintaining a well balanced diet. Animal consumption will resume because the teenage “revolutionaries” will be tired.
  • And because it is a trend, I fear that those who are becoming vegan are doing so for all the wrong, narcissistic reasons. Yeah, vegan restaurants tend to attract some blandly good looking bearded men. However, becoming a vegan so that you may eat at this restaurant and possibly strike up a conversation about animal liberation (you heard some one use this term once, and you aren’t quite sure what it entails, so instead of working it into a logical argument you talk about how cute cows and chickens are) does not count as a valid reason for making a life altering decision.
  • I choose not to eat animal flesh because it is terrible for my digestive system, makes me feel tired and gross, and because it’s incredibly taxing on the environment. I also avoid anything with gelatin in it because the idea of anything derived from “hooves” makes me wince. Recently, I’ve abandoned eggs and dairy too due to their high cholesterol levels and their antibiotic/hormone contamination. I’ve been avoiding milk because I’m mildly lactose intolerant, but I’ve still been eating yogurt and cheese. It’s more of an experiment right now, to see if my body prefers to live completely off animal byproducts or if it’s more suited to the occasional smearing of goat cheese (vegetable rennet of course) on freshly baked bread. I spend countless hours joyfully searching out new products and recipes in order to accommodate my dietary decision in a way that is cost effective and beneficial for my whole family. Basically, what I’m trying to say is that I put a lot of thought and effort into my diet. What I choose to eat and where I choose to shop are not choices I take lightly. I enjoy the food that’s in my life because it’s delicious and it makes me feel good (also helped me lose thirty pounds, no big deal). Trendy vegans, “vendies” if you will, typically don’t have a solid reason behind doing what they’re doing. They may say that they love animals, or something vague about the environment but it’s usually obvious that they are abstaining from meat, eggs, and dairy because they are on a hip whim. And they typically don’t abstain for more than a week or two. Maybe three.
  • I won’t call myself a vegan because I know that it’s likely I will eat a little bit of cheese, or bake something that requires eggs (cage free, organic) sometime in the distant future. I eat what I want and I don’t brag about it or talk about it unless asked, or in this case, provoked. If others would do the same, I would be less likely to roll my eyes and say of course every time I hear this (cause it totally happens all the time)
“Yeah, so I’m a vegan now.”
“Oh really? For how long?”
“It’s been about four days now I think? I’m getting kind of hungry though. My mom doesn’t know how to make tofu, so I’ve just been stockpiling Oreo cream in a little Ziploc bag in my bedroom. Then some ants got to it and I had to raid those little fuckers. I fucking hate bugs.”
“Aren’t bugs technically animals? Do you ever feel like a hypocrite when you kill one? I mean, I know I would.”
“Nevermind. So why did you choose to become vegan again?”
“Well my friend got hired at this vegan place and he’s been sneaking us out food for free. But he got fired recently for showing up hungover like ninety percent of his shifts.  That had a great impact on my decision. I liked the free food, so I figured why not? Also, I’ve really been feeling connected to animals lately. I couldn’t bring myself to eat one. It’s  probably because I own a cat.”
“Isn’t your mom always bugging you to feed it though? You told me you hated that thing.”
“Yeah, well she takes a cute picture. So have you ever considered being a vegan? We should do brunch sometime.”
“I have considered it, but right now I just don’t want to risk my health due to bad planning or-“
“You know that is really selfish of you. I’m sorry, but there are animals dying. And you, you are responsible.”
“I don’t know how you’d like me to respond to that.”
“Yeah, whatever. I have to go anyways. My blood sugar is dangerously low and I need some Oreos.”
Spazzmatic fingers are trying to steady themselves in the warm space between here and my low ceiling. I see no calligraphy obsessively scrawling itself out on the invisible parchment I keep in front of me. I hear a shrill harmonica trying to make itself known, but I don't have any extra space in my ear canals.  I do feel the pointed heels of a Harlequin girl standing on my collar bone. She's taking in long drags of what smells to be foreign smoke, laughing while I try to settle into something more serious. Her painted lips don't part, but she's making her presence and her intentions obvious. She's preaching single-mindedness. I wouldn't mind listening to her sermon if it didn't distract me from being a habitual thinker, criss-crossing different optic paths every other day. But she is the only one I find myself talking to; it's a one sided conversation with a silent clown. If I starve myself of her influence, I feel like I used to; a super charged version of a teenage girl who does impossible things. But if I give in to her crooked smile, I am hoisted up into this parallel universe where there is nothing but limited speaking and infinite physical contact. I'm going to let her stay on my shoulder for a while, kicking up her fishnet legs, hissing at intellectual pursuits. I enjoy being purposefully useless, with no dancing calligraphy making it hard to see in front of me. And, it steadies my hands.

Thursday, June 17, 2010


Resort 2011: Part One (In which I spend more time discussing my love for a movie about statutory rape)








Jean-Jacques Annaud's The Lover is set in 1929 Indochina, where the streets are trodden upon by hurried shuffles and heavy rain drops. The story is one of forbidden lust between a young, impoverished girl and a wealthy Chinese business man. I've heard this movie compared to soft core porn numerous times, and I've also heard many complain that the actors are nothing but pretty faces. However, despite the sometimes uninteresting plot line, I really liked The Lover; maybe if only for the clothes. The young girl, who is never given a name, wears the same silk dress throughout the movie, along with her man's fedora. Once she is beyond her mother's sight and control, she also smears on red lipstick in a way that is daring, yet sloppy because of her innocence. While she claims she has no love for the man she visits in secret in the Chinese quarter, they develop an attachment to each other that goes beyond their violent passion. While they were becoming attached to each other, I was falling in love with the costume designer. I know that there was not much work to be done to create a singular look for the leading woman, but it's just so GOOD. The silk dress has been patched and re-sewn numerous times, yet still it's the dress' cleanness that makes it so beautiful. It serves its function; to be a useful garment of protection and attraction.

Which brings me to Erin Fetherston Resort 2011






The lines vary between crisp and slightly flowy, with a masculine twinge. The collection is effective and mature, yet maintains functionality which is why it reminded me so much of the young girl's outfit and perspective. (Hello added Spring/Summer inspiration)

Monday, June 7, 2010

A Brief Debriefing

One of my contributions to the latest Sweat (link in the sidebar). Click to enlarge and buy a copy!

Last night I partook in high school tradition and went to prom. The first thing I noticed was the gyrating sea of teenagers, overdressed and made up of mostly unfamiliar faces and the DJ who was positioned in front of, what looked like, the gate to hell. But the evening turned out to be a visceral heaven on Earth. I want to relive it. Right now. 

I will be free of educational obligations in two weeks which means more regular posting and the completion of some of my little projects. Somehow I'm going to make outfit postings a more frequent thing too.

Summer; it's practically here. I've seen so many summertime inspiration posts that if I see one more, my frothy/pastel/lacey/sheer/sunray/floweryfield eye glaze will become permanent. Having said that, I still crave more, even though I'm afraid that by mid-July I'll be going through some chunky professor cardigan phase but I'll have to settle for sun dresses and fabric that is barely there.

And, I want to thank every single one of you who take the time to read my stuff. I didn't start this blog with the intention of networking the way I have and I think that's why I enjoy it so much. I've been really lucky to meet and work with some genuinely talented girls who share my passions and obsessions.

Now go listen to Egyptian Shumba by the Tammys and dance your way through the week.

Tuesday, June 1, 2010

Chapter 3

My right toe felt engorged and as though it had it’s own tiny heart, the painful result of my assault on the brick wall outside the bar. Miraculously, I had found my way into a taxi and as I sat on the vaguely damp leather seat, my mind wandered the streets of the city, looking for Caleb. I was trying to convince myself that I didn’t care about the pale faced boy who had called me two days ago to tell me he missed the way my hair always got stuck in my eyelashes when I slept with mascara on. Two weeks ago I was sure that I didn’t want anything to do with him if it involved lips or hands or anything near my bed. Yet, I kept thinking how desperately I wanted him in the taxi, sober and nowhere near death, with his timid arm curled around my shoulder, my forehead nested against his neck. I had forgotten why it was that I was so supremely confident that he was nothing more than a body with eyes that looked dead half the time. I had a copy of the letter with me that I had dropped in his mailbox fifteen days ago in a dramatic declaration of my undying non-attraction to him. I needed to remind myself, so I uncrumpled the cranberry stained pages and began reading, moving my mouth along with my own words as light from the lamps and signs above throbbed in and out of the back seat of the taxi.


I’ve been thinking a lot lately about what it means to be me. As I sat in my kitchen tonight, with the oily skin I always have after a day where I’ve been awake longer than six hours, I explained to my brother my latest theory. It’s a doughy, not-even-half-baked type of notion; the kind that the stringy haired kid with a pock marked face who murmurs to himself in the back of the class would come up with.

    “Sometimes, if I think I want something badly enough, and I obsess long enough, the universe gives me exactly what I want. I mean, what I thought I wanted. So, I must control the universe then. My manipulation is that good.”

I was talking about you.

He stared at me for only a split second before we both started laughing. My lips have been cracked since that day you made me walk from my apartment to the drugstore in the cold to buy myself Chapstick because I told you on the phone that my lips were bleeding. That made me feel helpless, which I hated so I threw away the Chapstick as soon as I got home. It hurt me to smile and laugh with my brother.

“What the hell though? Seriously, that’s not good is it?”
“No, it’s not good!”
“I know, I know!”
“We’ve got some bad habits.”
“Yes we do.”

But these bad habits: my delusions, my obsessions, my skill set of manipulation that borders on sociopathism, is that me? I’d like to think it isn’t because that wouldn’t make me anything but a plastic doll reciting predetermined phrases. But I have to make room for these traitorous pieces of darkness that sometimes surface if I’d like to keep this whispering voice of enlightenment within earshot because that is what is driving me to stay alive. It’s the only companion I’ve feared true abandonment from, the positive, proportional counterpart to all that is intrinsically bad about me. The better a person is at finding the precise TV station they are looking for, the worse they are at carrying on a conversation that isn’t centered around the plot line of a grainy daytime drama. With me, it seems like the more I am able to accomplish independently, the worse I am at interacting without becoming something independent of my innermost goodness. I thrive on dimness and living in a self-imposed moral fog, because it’s fun and dangerous and has proven to result in brilliance and disaster. However, I am by no means a person that intentionally seeks out opportunities to hurt people or myself but I’m fucking sure I’m going to hurt you.

So as I was thinking out loud in my kitchen tonight, the tea kettle hissing and my brother still laughing at my ridiculous attempts to explain why I am the way I am, I saw you (figuratively of course). I think that you are the greatest thing that’s resulted from my conniving and my wayward values. When I look at you, I see this innocent person who needs to see the good in me. I know that you’ve convinced yourself it’s there and I hope you’re right. When I want to know what I am or who I am, I think of you because you’re more than a mirror. I dredge myself in these lies and when I see you digest them, absorb them, let them become a part of you, and I see you become the living lie that I’ve been telling myself. I wanted someone to fulfill my self-indulgent fantasies and you were there, vulnerable and in love with the idea of perfection. I lied to you without even speaking a single untruth. I used my eyes; I can make them say whatever I want them to. But your goodness and your decency has kept me attached to the image of your face which is the first thing I see when I wake up. Then, I realize I wish you were actually there to be lonely with me.
What I am trying to say is that I don’t know who I am or what I want. I’m reckless, self-destructive, and observant of everyone but myself. At times, there is nothing more that I want than to be alone with you, in the dark literally and figuratively. Then other times, I see myself dancing my way into some stranger’s life just to feel the rush of someone new. I can’t do that, I tell myself, because it makes me that girl I don’t want to be. But I thought it. And I willed it. I just don’t know how the universe will respond to my latest disturbing inquiry.

What matters, is that I do want it. And because I want it, unabashedly and powerfully, that want is a part of me. I want lust, not love. What I don’t understand is why you want me and all my bad habits.

I do love you though, strange as that may seem. But please, don’t come over for a while.


Monday, May 24, 2010

Topshop Dump

Meadham Kirchhoff paired with Topshop to create an "affordable" collection. What resulted of this pairing, which should have been cosmically amazing, is a little lackluster. There are some standout dresses that are covered in sparkly, lacey detailing, but the six polka dot t-shirt things that make up like a fifth of the whole lot kind of kill the depressed fairy vibe and make me want to do aerobics instead.

What I do love:



Things that fall in the why? category:



The glitter is already falling off! Meadham! Seriously?

Now, Kate Moss SS10, which I really dig. There is quite a bit of variation, yet the whole thing still resembles a coherent collection. For a Spring/Summer collection there is a good amount of black which somehow works well with the nudes and pastels. And then there is the video which accompanies the line, in which Kate Moss will try to seduce you. If the Strange Boys hadn't been used as the shimmy-inducer here, I probably would have stopped watching because you can't even see the clothes that well. It's more a showcase for Kate's squinty/sexy eyes, golden locks, and weird dancing. That being said, I've still watched it three times in the last ten minutes because I love Ryan Sambol's voice and the blinding lights.






I've also had a long-standing love affair with Topshop's shoe department, and these are my recent flings:



I need. And I know everyone is going NUTS over the makeup line, and while I like the packaging, I think it's overpriced and not gasp-worthy.

That's enough, I need to get back to living. Not really.

Sunday, May 23, 2010

Truth is supposed to be what's real,
the highlighted line of solid YES amongst the mess
of images of women I've never met,
lines I've never heard spoken in a fluorescent lit cafeteria,
nor heard uttered by any other hungry diner.
I want to outline my ideals in a bold black felt tip marker,
because I don't know what they are after every daring admittance of mine.
My hands were steady, as they are every time the fleshy beast reaches its
taloned claw out my drawn open rosey lips.
I take it as a sign of truth, that steadiness.
I pried open my own mouth and let it all slide out, every indiscretion
as I saw the disappointment land on my sister's face,
as she saw the family tree sprouting another bulb ripe with carnal-centricity;
I love everyone, and everything a little too much for her taste.

Saturday, May 22, 2010

All the nature, the nature
it just isn't natural anymore.
Who will read a poem written
about the wilderness that is a blade of grass
or the house that is a great oak
a thousand times?
The words, they're stale.
But I'm sure those masters never thought
images of spring would fall limp and gray
as a pile of winter sloughing of dead skin.
And that's sad,
but it's not a shame.
We are the children of nature,
but not this docile,
powdered whore who they call our mother.
I have a window, and right outside it, is a tree.
I can look at it anytime I feel like I need to return to the fold of Earth.
But, I have a double layer of curtains,
because I feel like it.
I think they forget that nature is a brute monkey,
a hyena feasting on discards,
biting cold,
sand storms,
hair growing underneath the arms.
Stealing, that is nature.
Kindness is a corruption of what is natural.
Yet, we have learned from our mother's drunken mistakes.
We are better than her, we don't have to reassure ourselves.
But we still don't own her, we cannot own what gave us, us.
Why then the odes that go on for hours in endless
self-conscious praise of a matriarch,
who left us at ten, snotnosed and dumb?
I don't know, I prefer to keep my curtains drawn.  

Lady Vibes


The only pictures I ever like that haven't been dug out of a decrepit dresser drawer are the ones my friend Michelle takes. It may have something to do with the professional lens, but it's probably because they are usually of/with people I wouldn't mind spending twenty four hours a day with.


Explosive TNT

Nothing seems flat,
in the realms of the unreal
where sound sits beside me
in an act of paternal comfort.
Nothing slides or slithers,
because it doesn't have to;
it just melts.
I gather my teeth and I settle my tongue;
this evening has been a treacherous joy.
Numbness is the deepest sense
I know, and taste is the realest feeling I know.
I am awake with the realization of unbridled

Tuesday, May 18, 2010

Inspiration as of Late

I've been in a Louise Brooks/Egyptian/Seventies/Gypsy sort of mood lately.