illumination! (shoe wizardry)

Nicholas Kirkwood for Rodarte LIGHT UP HEELS.
that is all.

a wedesday night revelation

coddled children will look at him
see his drool, the strange shape of his mouth and head
they'll see his tiny limbs, limp and dead
and he'll look at them,
with what they think are dead eyes
but they aren't. no, no they're not; they are masterful spies.
i was a coddled child until the other night
when he leaned in to speak straight through me
and with his observance he nearly blew me, blew me right away.
"it's not his brain"
i had heard them say, i had heard myself say
a smile, a pat on the head should suffice and then just as soon go on
my way,
their way
far away
i don't know why i did what i did, or said what i said
but i reached into my bag pulling out trick after trick,
and his gurgling laughter creeped into my head.
we went on a walk then through the hall and outside
to see if his friend was tucked away in his parking lot
Winnebago
he wanted to play 21, i wanted to say no stay, don't go
i talked to him like i'd want him to talk to me,
not a carcass
not a shell
but a kid who likes music and being free.

synesthesia

deep, banging bass pushing me from side to side
Layered beneath an exquisite twanging guitar
that extends its steel fingers through my ear canal.
wide, seductive expanses
surround me, caress me, sooth me,
Oh.................that lush trickling sound.
The voice of
apa
thetic
beauty sings through
Her breath breathing cooly
down my neck
Sing more, more of your angelic lust
Pierce me again, again with your subliminal passion
I hear you
two music box dancers are spinning, twirling; never intertwined
but always breathing each others' air

Oh.............that lush trickling sound.

McQueen Fall 2010

these woman, cloaked in what should be intimidating fabrics, stand instead like demure, golden statues molded by the incredible handcraft of alexander mcqueen. the dresses are all at once warrior-like, imperial, subdued, startling, and (i never use this phrase) breath-taking. the printed fabric was special ordered by mcqueen and has images of archaic angels and demons, replicated from photographs, cast on it, an obvious, yet still genius way to express his dark-aged inspiration. with their pale faces and capped heads, these women pacing slowly down a gilded hall, striking in their ornate appearance, but soft-spoken have the wisdom gained from bearing witness to cataclysmic tragedies, but the grace of every woman of every era. religion is something that i've tried to ward off using every type of repellent, but this collection which is so deeply embedded in the shimmering images of byzantine churches has reminded me that spirituality can, and has, resulted in fantasy inspiring artwork and structures. i experienced another type of spiritual awakening upon viewing the collection for the first time. after trying to hide the thought of mcqueen's death so far away from my consciousness, i still cried when my eyes ran over the detailing and the elegant lines. never before have i welled up from looking at still photographs of clothes. i questioned whether it was really just the fact of his death that had crept back up into my conscious that was producing such a guttural reaction. but i realized it wasn't. i was crying and trembling because the designs are simply so beautiful. within me, a realization as to why i love clothes so much flourished. the feeling of indescribable awe, transforming every notion of what beauty really means, sending me through time and back again, still wondering what just happened to me is why i am so invested in fashion. it isn't art, it just is. it doesn't need an explanation, even though every fashion journalist tries to attach words to an abstract feeling. mcqueen's final designs, ornate and startlingly perfect, express just that theory. there is nothing i can say that can accurately describe what this collection is or what it means to me. it is something romantic; something spiritual.

like when you squint your eyes and everything is blurry and light is stretched and everything looks perfect

i had on cobweb lenses;
snaring and entrapping every flickering light.
low glow and sweet smoke sat heavily and important,
torturing me into accepting that reality was better than delusion.
daring glances flew across the room dodging incantations;
their echoes are still bouncing blindly off my walls.
trembling inconsistency spilled itself empty;
its glass was sitting clear and clean, ready to rest infinitely that way.
voluminous anthologies laid themselves open;
pages blank and expectant, varnished with the intoxicating scent of hope.
the ground we were sitting on: leaves, sand, dirt, clay, grass?
i wouldn't have known hovering in my cloud of celestial fog.

an admirable gentleman

all i have desired in a man.

family meal time

silver pools in silver chalices, lapped up with silver lips and silver tongues. snaking fingers grip the stems sliding up and down their silver bodies. black pitted eyes stare at each other, through each other, and slay each other. the vultures use their talons to pick apart the fowl carcass until mother sets down a dutch oven full of steaming apples spiced just right.

who's the fly?

next to a cork coaster that's got thousands of water ringlets on it but no glass or bottle is a little trail of honey drops and dribble, leading all the way to the end of the table. biscotti crumbs have been eaten up by the sticky trail, suspended like insects in amber. there's also a bottle of red wine sitting like a skyscraper amongst the remnants of a romantic feast, empty except for a very shallow ringed pool that's polluted with sediment. a fly descends to make a meal for itself out of the sweet filth that litters the white table cloth. it flies like a drunken pilot though, careening into the wine bottle and landing on its back in a honey droplet. its wings are weighed down by the heavy syrup, but they keep a slow and steady beat. they're drenched though, slathered and batting uselessly. its legs pathetically claw out at the air. it resigns to its fate and eases its motions, sinking deeper into the honey with bubbles forming around its tiny, hairy little body. every one of its eyes looks out but all it sees is the white, white ceiling.
three inches below the fly is the tallest straw of hair that is growing straight out of frederic's scalp. six inches below the fly and three feet over is the face of clementine, red with her previous imbibing of the merlot and surrounded by a net of brunette curls. they've been looking at each other, each with a question the other dare not to ask. frederic's face isn't nearly as crimson as clementine's but his temples are perspiring and the renegade strands that seem to sprout at every angle from his dark mass of hair are sticking to the side of his rounded face. they've been sitting like indians beneath the table for almost an hour. frederic played the white rabbit and instigated their hideout from the after diner dishes and from the world when he ran his foot up clementine's leg and slithered out of his chair and through the white table cloth curtain. clementine followed him down curiously, sliding out of her own chair, smashing her head on the table when she sat up again once she was fully under the table, rattling the silverware. her movements were like a jellyfish, graceful but without form and her drunkenness only intensified this. but in one motion she was nose to nose with frederic, taking the handkerchief out of his pocket to wipe the honey stain off of his collar and chin. clementine closed her eyes deliberately and smiled, letting out a small gust of a laugh.
You know how to clean me up, he said
You're too messy to ever be really clean, she said
You're too clean to ever be messy, he said
clementine furrowed her frow at his accusation, crawling back into the apartment air for only a minute second to grab the spoon of the honey bowl without scraping the excess on the side, leaving the honey trail on the white linen. one she was back in the clandestine den of after dinner affairs, she sat criss-crossed, taking the honey and spreading it all over her lips and letting it run down her chin onto her spotless but damp summer dress. clementine then crawled to her knees, kneeling in the face of her doubting lover.
I concede. You're a pig. An every day pigsty hog, he said
So are you, Mr. Magoo, she said
We're a match then, honey lips, he said
clementine inched only a few inches further and her bee hive flavored lips met frederic's wine stained lips and with time they were both wearing a syrupy mask. but she couldn't stand the feeling of being covered forehead to neck in a substance that made her feel dirty, like she was drowning. she stretched out her hands pressing against frederic's chest trying to free herself from him. clementine turned her face away from his, with strings connecting their cheeks. she distanced herself so far that the honey bond between the two of them broke and she reached for frederic's handkerchief which was under his leg. she wiped her face vigorously until she almost rubbed off her top layer of freckled skin.
I'm sorry, she said
I told you, you're to clean to be messy, he said
And you're too messy for me, she said
now they are sitting with a few distant feet between them, clementine counting the grooves in the wood flooring and frederic counting the flowers on clementine's dress. during the entire hour that had sluggishly dragged on, clementine wanted to escape the post-embarrassment fort to wash her face with warm water and soap but it had quickly become a fortress that held them both hostage. he knew what she meant by messy this time. she had promised that she would never talk about it again, she crossed her heart and hoped to die. she knew what he meant by clean this time, and it made her blush even more, shocked that he could say something like that without his face changing. clementine grabbed a hold of her ankles, rocking back slightly and sighing with the power of the wind. she rolled her eyes back, and all she saw was the underbelly of the dining table. frederic cast his eyes downward, rubbing them, then balancing his jaw in his hand, and all he saw was clementine.

i can hear my sister reading aloud to herself in a phlegmy english accent

Fendi Fall 2010 RTW crafted a distinct character of feminine modesty that is empowering rather than dated. Navy, mustard, black, and forest green represent the majority of the palette that Lagerfeld drew from. Cinched waists provide a classic shape to a collection dominated with heavy looking longer skirts. It's whimsical to me because I can see the woman that would wear every single one of these outfits going to work in a WWII factory and returning home on an autumnal evening to change and take the kids to the park. Or a woman sitting well adjusted in a european apartment with molded white ceilings and grey furniture. It's classy.





Manish Arora, Fall 2010 RTW completely veers away from what I am usually attracted to. But that can get boring anyways. This collection is covered in beads and sparkles and the shoes in the last picture are what a Matryoshka doll would be if it were a pair of stumpy heels. Electric colored cartoon hair on all the models is so fun. And tell me the first outfit doesn't look exactly like those sour candy strips you can buy in bulk or steal a sample of in a candy store. Who wouldn't want to be encased in a full body version of kiddie candy?








Balenciaga, Fall 2010 RTW instantly made me think of a future NASA headquarters filled with desks and offices that levitate and within them, these girls manning the headsets and coordinating space flights. It's an obvious nod to futurism with the geometric lines pastel brows. Thankfully, it's not the same obsession with a distant fashion era that will never actually be that is all silver and shiny. The shoes look like sensible ankle protection devices.

static grief

the walls wouldn't recognize you
my eyes wouldn't recognize you
and the dog would think you're a stranger
your footprints have been cleared
every last top note of your aftershave
has drifted out the windows
i see your etchings sometimes
on scraps that haven't been incinerated yet
and when i blink
hard pressed graphite that carved
with efficiency melted into dread
your imprint is gone now
but when i look down the mirrored hall
i still bargain with the heavens
to see you standing in front of me