Friday, April 30, 2010

McQ by Alexander McQueen Fall 2010

See the brownish blonde girl with the teal streak and bitter sense of wisdom in her eyes? I picked this up after she threw it at some passerby.

stupid girl
your vision is gone

it left in his pocket

how will you get on

you don't have to blink

it's already black

your eyes they live

in the groove of his back

stupid child

you don't recognize me
you're ashes and cinders

no, not finally

you do what you want

go ahead sell your soul

was it worth it though

to share a cereal bowl
stupid girl

you let him slip in

those nightless hours
weren't really with him

i see you now
for what you really are

a cowering girl

who hid away too far.

except not really.

Thursday, April 29, 2010

clenched brain grooves

The hang nail on my left hand has been holding my interest more than this blinking cursor. The newly blank wall behind me is also an object of distraction. My ancient wood bunk bed turned out to be infested with some kind of wood munching insect that my friend and I discovered when were sawing our way towards an under-bed-secret-hideout. We ended up cutting down the whole thing with the herculean help of my iron muscled grandmother. Now I feel like I sleep in a tea house being so low to the ground without a frame. But this wall, mmm. I haven't had blank space to work with for at least a year. My scanner is also out of commission and I have so many things to share that I can't substitute with words. My pineal gland is telling me it's day time. It, in fact, is not.

When I think of white walls I think of Angela and Emile's apartment. Clean.
(Une Femme est une Femme)


+Fifty of you internet lovelies. Thank you.

Saturday, April 24, 2010

i've been filled

Alright, just seeing this makes me excited. My prayers have been answered; my god moves at the speed of bent sound.

fill my empty bones

I had mapped out my entire nervous system, with stars and circles at every important point. It wasn't to scale or even drawn with a steady hand, but it was the transparent map that hung above my bed, assuring me that I had listened well to each whim that crossed the circuit in my head. It told me what I was and what I wasn't; an analytical model that somehow convinced me I
was more than flesh.
I participated last night in a melancholy and exploitative jive with sweaty bodies thrashing in drunken unison to a percolating twang of guitar and grisly vocals. These are songs I sing in my head when I'm the only living soul in my house and I let the lonely silence seduce me. These are songs I injected straight into my being until they became partners with my red and white blood cells. These were those songs at least.
They might remind me now that they inspired me to become my own opposing argument against my belief in the god of Freedom. I took advantage of the one I pray to each night when I ask to wake up to another day of wanton bliss. He's scolded me for being greedy and stockpiling supposed ideal memories; swaying freely but to a selfish beat. I literally abandoned compassion, seeing the forced smiling of my friends flash in and out of my vision as another "free spirit" danced in front of me.
My hands were in this stranger's hair and he was singing those lyrics I know so well into my ear, but my eyes were heavy with the wrong kind of tears. I was disgusted with myself, him, and every inebriated flailing body around me. From so many miles away I ripped down that map of myself from the ceiling of my bedroom. The legend was the first to go; I watched myself burn a hole through the new, crisp paper.The rest of the destruction was violent and mournful and I couldn't stop. Once I was back in the folds of my familiar sheets, I couldn't sleep without having that confident reference to keep me company. I woke up every hour, not being able to define reality from dream or nightmare.
I'm tired now and I feel the pull to dress myself again in a private skin while I determine whether or not I'm just made of flesh and instinct. I'm praying to Freedom. I cannot be a prisoner to the constructs of the unreal one more time and I feel my self being dragged to the prison house.

Wednesday, April 21, 2010

Chapter One

Tears warm and heavy slid down my face streaking my heavy black eye liner into pyramidal dilutions of what was a charred and caked water line mask. That thick mucus that accompanies every crying session, yeah that was well formed in the back of my throat. The brick wall that was in front of me blurred into a solid baseball diamond colored mass with each blink.

My fucking dress was ruined. I had spilled my cranberry red cocktail down the front of myself like a fucking savant when I fell forward onto the green marble bar which some leather covered asshole had so graciously ushered me into.

I looked down at my feet; veiny and pallid. Viscous snot dribbled down over my lips and then to the shiny black asphalt. Really, my private encounter with the rock hard bar hadn’t bothered me that much. It was the phone call that I received once I made my way outside that had jilted me into my blubbering state.

My phone had rung with the clarity of an AM radio station.

-Guess what just happened to me?
-Some fucking-
-I have to tell you something, like right now.

My brother sighed into the receiver, sending static pinging and ringing through my ear with the gust of a wildfire. I swallowed hard, biting the inside of my cheek. In the course of my family history, I have become accustomed to cell phone calls that begin with a foreboding sense of disaster. That does not make each new one any more expected or welcomed.

-Okay, go ahead then. Just cavalier your way through this conversation.

My brother should have laughed. Instead, he cleared his throat. I could practically see his nostrils flare. Oh dear mother of fucking Jesus.

-You know how last night I went with Tom and that other kid I introduced you to the other night and we were gone even when you came back home?
-Well we didn’t get back till like eight in the fucking morning.
-Uh huh. What’s new?
-Fuck Violet! Just listen.
-Okay, calm the hell down.
-We were out looking for Caleb.

At this point, I sat down on the curb, curling my legs up to my chin when really, my legs were too long and my dress was really too short to be doing so.

-Why were you looking for Caleb? Wasn’t he supposed to be at those people’s house you were going to last night? I talked to him right before you guys left.
-Yeah, well um no. I mean he was supposed to be there. But he wasn’t.
-Did you try to call him?
-Yeah we did and some girl answered his phone. Said he gave it to her along with a letter that was addressed to you.
-What the fuck Christopher! Why are you just telling me now?
-To be honest, I really thought we would have found him by now. But he obviously was going through something, I mean I don’t want to scare-
-What do you mean obviously, like I was supposed to know and do something and I didn’t?

I was digging my heel into my own right palm at this point.

-No, I just mean that he could of done something. I’m sure he didn’t but we still haven’t found him yet.
-He’s probably fucking dead in a motel somewhere.
-Why do you have to be that way? We’ll find him, he’s probably fine.

He didn’t believe his own words. I could tell because he was using that saccharine sweet false voice of reassurance that was as transparent as the sliding glass door of our old house that my mother kept obsessively clean. Our mother.

-No, you didn’t hear him the other night. He’s unbalanced. I don’t know why I let myself ever sleep with him.

My words smelled like bile as soon as I heard them.

-It’s not your fucking fault.

I tried softening what I was saying to match my real and unsettling visions of Caleb lying delicate and dead somewhere, his last thought being of that night that meant far more to him that it had to me. But I had loved him. Just not as much as he loved me.

-He just seemed so sad you know? I liked that. God, I’m disgusting.
-This isn’t about you right now. I don’t wanna have to call his parents. Do you understand Violet?

My brother had never sound so self-assured. He was confident in a way that I imagined drill sergeants to be; belligerent and subdued. He sounded like my father. Our father.

-Yes I get it. I get it.
-Where are you right now?

I didn’t want him to know.

-It doesn’t matter, I’ll be back to the apartment in a couple of hours. I need some food.

I hung up without saying goodbye, standing up to feel the lingering affects of the alcohol in my brain. I pretended that I could feel the combination of whiskey and Caleb’s blood sloshing up inside my head. I trekked my way over to the alley and kicked the wall a few times. I had seen so many angst/grief ridden movie scenes where the main character melodramatically takes out their frustrations on an inanimate and often unmovable object. That was my moment.

Saturday, April 17, 2010

Sophie Devereaux

As a child with thin braids and stick legs she made it a habit to close her eyes and shrug a shoulder and say, "Oh but isn't it marvelous? Isn't it divine?"; drawing out her a's with the same luxurious delay she heard when she went to the movies. Her forced accent was particularly pronounced when she had dirt from the dry plot of land next to her family's garage caked beneath her fingernails and was surrounded by her mates of play. They were never bothered by her pretensions, which expanded beyond her vowel pronunciation into the fields of her family lineage (She was the great-great-great-great-granddaughter of the Prince Archduke of Himalaysica and the niece of Rita Hayworth) and medical miracles (She was born with diamonds for eyes but her parents had them removed because they were afraid she would make the other children jealous if she had princess cut corneas). The ragtag team she spent her fall afternoons and summer sunsets with knew she was a fake, but her stories were fun to listen to and her mother made the best lemonade and chocolate peanut butter cookies, so they let her, the dusty-faced girl with pin thin braids, continue on with her fictitious personality and when she asked, they would tell her that her cotton ball and butcher paper stole was the most beautiful thing they had ever seen.

Thursday, April 15, 2010

Can I tattoo this on the inside of my eyelids?

feeling sweaty?

(In my original review of the Rodarte Fall 2010 I referenced sandalwood wax so naturally I had to drip the real deal down this tribute which also features Harry Potter coins)

I haven't made good use of my keyboard recently. My fingers feel foreign and unprepared as they strike down on letters and buttons of punctuation. My friends and I have been occupied with adventures and the promise of starting our own cult. I've also been feeling completely uninspired in terms of dress (probably because I haven't done my laundry in a month, I am not exaggerating). Every sheer, lacey, sparkly thing I own smells stale. It's gross.

However, I have a treat for you.


These were my contributions. Click on the article to make it more legible and not in a type that is humanly impossible to read.

Also, visit Audrey's Etsy. The girl is a goddess.

Thursday, April 8, 2010

bed of roses.

that bed you are lying in, like a dead deer, so calm and sprawled out, do you really want to lay there till the sky crumbles to pieces and every stone effigy of every known god has weathered down to unrecognizable heaps of nothing? rose scented air, petals cupping your elbows; a sensory feast upon the romantic pillows of nature. it has the sound and appeal of bathing in ambrosia. but you would tire of the smell of roses and you would wish that the stems hadn't been dethorned, haunted by what it used to feel like to be pricked in the finger and seeing crimson proof of your human design. stand up while there is time left, and walk away from that four poster throne and go make yourself a home amongst the tangled weeds. they writhe and steal, but at least they don't conceal their motives and want to live as badly as you do.

i picked up a pair of vintage michael kors platform wedges for $16. i want to share pictures, but i'm afraid one of you might come and steal them. they are that good.

Monday, April 5, 2010

I will silence you:
implications of what it means to be,
of letting sound fall accidentally from my lips,
of inhabiting a home that is not my own.
But if I can't, and I probably won't,
then the lapping of silk at my ankles,
the firm exhalation of the chambers in my chest,
and the burning sensation of smiling too wide
will be the the tokens of living I wear,
not around my neck,
but swallowed without pride
that are to rest eternally,
never being fully digested.

Friday, April 2, 2010

the excitable tales of april

the lovely jessica of marvelous things chose this little scrap of a blog to feature,
the interview is here

also, in the near future the newest addition of sweat zine will be up which i've been lucky enough to contribute to, along with jess of IDOLS CRAVING BALLERINAS who began the independent publication.

back to consumer math studies now. damn you reality.