DO IT

i've got a mouth full of numb and teeth with a license to die, reminders, and a jaw that tends to stick together with the tension of holding itself up REMINDERS, thats it, eating me the fuck alive leave me alone. I don't want to come back anyway right now. to a city and a man who tend to veer out westward. blowin a blowin in the wind, just a blowin in these winds i'm sorry I chose now to feel furious but it wasn't a choice as much as something I screwed up tight in paris just falling the fuck out of the closet. all those panics i don't want to talk about this anymore or talk to you-- i want to throw my fury down on nyc in a mashup of an existential journey and just SCREAM and scream everything we drop as yesterday's news and what in the hell is humanity supposed to do with this whole male female HILARITY? It is IMPOSSIBLE. My heart can't take it. i am violence

elle part pour new york

l'hiver, saison de l'art serein, l'hiver lucide

Le chair est triste, hélas!
et j'ai lu tous les livres

oui, ; l'heure nouvelle est au moins trés sévère

Elle pert le souffle

Je m'occupe; j'ai le coeur qui palpite sans cesse à 7h du matin. Ma personne s'est procurée une expertise dans le silence. Les corps qui m'entourent sont dépourvu de sincérité. Tout le monde devrait chanter à pleine voix et sur tous les murs voyant et des plus gros sur tous.

C'était dommage (pour les) qu'elle se fasse avalée par la langue éléphantesque de l'univers.

C'était ravissant pour elle.

dusty americana: my new england

may i be gay

like every lark

who lifts his life

from all the dark

who wings his why

beyond because

and sings an if

of day to yes

e e cummings

There's a horizon line; past the deep earth embedded, in what her dad refers to as rattlesnake territory. Left to right, low to high, it climbs until there is the absence of direction. And above this, in front of this, the trees rooted in the high terra are naked. New England winds, they are blowing through here tonight, while the gravity eats away at her eyes and pulls them down, even while her neck strains upward.

She shivers, they shiver, we shiver. The earth skeletals move branches, she has been afflicted with a chronic case of deep cold and her skeletals move with them.

We shiver. Lunar crescent and stars, so many stars, more than she has seen since she left for Paris this past September. spine, spine and neck arch up with a ridiculously sentimental urge to take these trees in her arms and become organic matter, exist in a plane without time, absence of it, absences abound, in a deep aching embrace of pure empathy. Empathy that erupts, unconsidered, unplanned, rich and sad in its way. We skeletal appendages, yes.

All the usual words died further down from the lips, in the gut, there they simmer steadily and once in a while, threaten to erupt. But they always slide back down. Sure, they're there, but they moved on from little girl dramatics and into a sort of shock. i believed in you, i can't believe fathom there's just no damn word for it, that this happened, that i always so truly believe in your inability to let me down, i really believed it. and now, after telling those you have and hadn't met yet that you'd be arriving, the love of my life and the reason for every catalyst action result in the past 2 years, disappears
and yes. i am embarrassed. I feel unable to face the same faces because I am ashamed I believed in you and yet

so she found god in the trees instead.

and that was okay too.

so she instead

and that was okay too.

flirting with the violet hours ( pouring forth, indeed). There is a staircase this or staircase that, one wooden expansion following function which we climb yes oh yes we climb towards ...

simply, towards

which was always

enough.

making my own damn sunshine

ponderer, magic wand-erer

somewhere along the line she had grown a woman's spine (quiet slippery no noticing sort of way) from young-girl netting

unannounced, but nevertheless in the state of arrivals

You know how I know my ego is well checked?

I continue to spend everyday (from 2 years ago in January) mispronouncing words. At least 5 a day, give or take. That's what you get when you move to Paris. Today's tally: clafoutis, toue, bourignon, trouve (but that one is a constant), petillante, and it's only 9 a.m.

Ego, checked, cornered, slightly bullied but still powering through like the stubborn entity it is. Hey-ho let's go, right?

Mon amant Philippe! Wonderful day, wonderful wonderful wonderful. One of those days where everything that seemed so looming and important and insurmountable only a day ago melts away into the soft grey of Paris.

French holiday; poulet a l'estragon, white wine, delicious delicious time at pere lachaise, le bon marche and bed. :)

i was asked to take you from this wilderness, and bring you to that wilderness
the span of years, a wave
encounters, almost fateful
a natural cover like skin, shell rind buoys me to this moment
when I discover
nothing was too much.


FOLLOW THE BOUNCING BALL

weekendland

it's been a yellow wallpaper kind of week (month) (year)

up into the silence the green... (41)
by e e. cummings

up into the silence the green
silence with a white earth in it

you will(kiss me)go

out into the morning the young
morning with a warm world in it

(kiss me)you will go

on into the sunlight the fine
sunlight with a firm day in it

you will go(kiss me

down into your memory and
a memory and memory

i)kiss me,(will go)

"Since conversation sometimes depends on or includes truth claims, the authentic conversation will also be built on the possibility that “I am wrong.”"

where the wild things are

Main Entry: creation
Part of Speech: noun
Definition: all living things
Synonyms: cosmos, life, living world, macrocosm, macrocosmos, megacosm, nature, totality, universe, world
Antonyms: death

Main Entry: deep space
Part of Speech: noun
Definition: outer space
Synonyms: celestial spaces, cosmic space, cosmos, intercosmic space, intergalactic space, interplanetary space, interstellar space, metagalactic space, ocean of emptiness, outer space, region beyond Earth's solar system, the heavens, the universe, the void, the void above

(http://www.shrimptoncouture.com)

70s Yves St Laurent minidress

sonia rykiel 60s silk minidress

60s chiffon minidress

beaded purse 40s

organza silk dress, 50s

did i just write a modern poem? perhaps, possibly, okay then

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I got over my fear of writing a parody of literature versus actual literature and wrote a short story yesterday. The first, ever, eternally a one track slut for poetry. And now today I find that it took all my words away in a fantastic purge of the excess verbgrammerwords which normally float around my brain. Funny, always attributed wordlessness with block, with the negative. I suppose I never considered wordlessness as absolution.


- - -


|| Quand une idée se saisit trop de moi au milieu de la rue, je tombe. ||

When an idea grabs me in the middle of the street, I fall.
----
Marie-Henri Beyle,


- - -


|| Le langage est le seuil du silence que je ne puis franchir. Il est l'épreuve de l'infini. ||

Language is the threshold of silence that I cannot step across. It is the test of infinity.
----
Brice Parain


- - -


|| Imaginer c'est choisir. ||

To imagine is to choose.
__
Jean GIONO, Noé (Gallimard)

Iannis Xenakis

Seeing the national french symphony playing works by xenakis might have been the climax of my musical existence.
it was exquisite. it made the seasoned professionals sweat, all eyes so intent as to seem to be igniting the sheet music in front of them, absolute concentration for the music below, which is so completely beyond me as to belong in its own universe.

Transcendant.

I wish my mind could wrap itself around the compositions below, the pure technical nature of notes for a symphony come to life, a conceptual wilderness of strange and unusual creatures, capable of being symbols for something as organic and animate as sound, not just sound, but music.

I get strangely heated when I look at the compositions of xenakis-- the absolute perfection of planes, geometry, mathematics-- beautiful rich, so rich, those numbers and the way xenakis's mind organizes his music. That is what gets me, the way his mind was so alive! So intensely and violently alive, that he could envision translating his concepts into such a framework never before seen, considered, new and naked and raw and so pure in its inception that it hurts to look at it. This was the way this man's mind worked. Frick.

Thinking in 6-D, 100-D, dimensions and dimensions, infinities. Numbers not named, found, beyond human comprehension, hell, existence.

Like his mind was beyond human and something born in the ether.

that I almost believe myself thinking that somewhere in there must be the key to life, the universe, any and all meaning of everything everything everything!

An x and y axis to heaven.

Cells on fire from all of this (can everyone feel so passionately as me? it sort of hurts and interferes with the practicalities of living but I wouldn't trade it for the world).

Cells on fire! What a LOVELY way to spend an early Wednesday mornings!

Today : Godard's Paris
(fuck ouias)

perhaps my french is a constant work in progress, but I can speak english with a french accent like no one's business.

yeah.

extend and

transform

the practical into works of

art

imagination) was found to have its

problems

one pulse pumper of a sentence

more flighty notes evaporating away

by a deliberate step, away the city is always

is always

so we

blush at a later date

hier soir

l'automne à paris

true love must be finding my nickelback and saliva songs and still loving me in other news: I GOT A FRIGGEN CONTRACT WITH THE STYLIST for TWO FRIGGEN YEARS....all written material copywrited for 2 years plus all her future press material/etc. ALL written work, moi. FUCK. with the smooth jams of brandy in the background (because when I miss the states, I deal by listening to 90s R & B, so smooooth) today is a GOOD DAY. New medication for this beast of manic depression which has been dealing me some bad cards recently to arrive next week. GOOD. DAY.

Tu ne lise pas mes lettres (arrivent-ils même) ?

http://iloveyoumagazine.blogspot.com/

The best damn magazine I've had the lucky pleasure of stumbling across here in Paris this weekend. Based, saturated by romanticism, wonderful, wonderful, wonderful!

miette.fr

How do I begin? Probably not like that, but there it is and well, here we are, begun. I'm stuck on a loop, cyberspace comrades, I'm stuck on a strange, faded technicolor time loop where things keep cycling back at me in new disguises. Clever ones, but I am cleverer. The Eagles Hotel California, the couple next to me on the metro. The steps along this route and which follow one another automaton style while alternately weighing me down like a bag of bricks. Clunk clunk pavement. Everything is simple. Everything is complicated. Yes, no, right, wrong, it did, it didn't, it will, it won't. I get this, I don't.

Is it possible to feel so confused so long after the fact? Of an event, that is, of a moment, a happening, a phantasm, a disreality that accidentally meandered into this reality. The latter being the one we hope for. Then I could be a confused young girl again, oh look at bambi run but it all works out, because the facts and realities remain confusing yes, but not, definitely not, confused.

But there is no good way to go about confronting such a collision of thought-it-was-and no-it-wasn'ts without threatening for a collapse. Of more than just structure, but of very bases. This post makes no sense. Because I'm scared. I can't sleep much anymore. Or at all. And on top of the natural aversion to soup every day from this broken jaw, I have developed a dislike for eating in general (it all tastes the same and I'm fucking too tired). And yet I have to keep getting on this ride, that carnivale, where everything smacks me in the face and everything reminds me of anything and the anything happens to scare scare scare me to death.

We began, we end, on the same misleading note; pandemonium.

on the autumnal horizon; new new new!

once like a spark... (XXIV)

by e. e. cummings

(once like a spark)

if strangers meet

life begins-

not poor not rich

(only aware)

kind neither

nor cruel

(only complete)

i not not you

not possible;

only truthful

-truthfully,once

if strangers(who

deep our most are

selves)touch:

forever

(and so to dark)

une punition? c'est ca? malade, malade. respirer!

Elle est accusee d'etre hors de monde. Temeraire? Je sais pas.

(pardon des accents, clavier americain et tout)

(ne dure pas, ne dure pas, ne dure pas) coute que coute revellier, ma petit.

m'enquietent. Comme je dissous sur le mur, sur le lit, dissous. Tennant sa parole? Il y a plein de questions, en defilement, entre tous.

Comment se debarasser de ce maladie, peu a peu et se pese, se pese depechons-nous

SORT ET CLAQUE, J'EN AI ASSEZ.

si vite, oui si vite s'il vous plait. J'attends.

Sometimes I Am Alive Because With

e e cummings

sometimes i am alive because with

me her alert treelike body sleeps

which i will feel slowly sharpening

becoming distinct with love slowly,

who in my shoulder sinks sweetly teeth

until we shall attain the Springsmelling

intense large togethercoloured instant

the moment pleasantly frightful

when, her mouth suddenly rising, wholly

begins with mine fiercely to fool

(and from my thighs which shrug and pant

a murdering rain leapingly reaches the upward singular deepest flower which she

carries in a gesture of her hips)

21 Portraits of People I Miss: Austin Powers

www.withApower.com

watercolor

"There were sharp little blows in the music, and waves of quick, fine notes that burst and rolled like the thin, clear ringing of broken glass. There were slow notes, as if the chords of the violins trembled in hesitation, tense with the fullness of sound, taking a few measured steps before the leap into the explosion of laughter."

the symphony is going to make me sob.

sunday musings

Public opinion is a weak tyrant compared with our own private opinion. What a man thinks of himself, that is which determines, or rather indicates, his fate.

Think also, of the ladies of the land weaving toilet cushions against the last day, not to betray too green an interest in their fates! As if you could kill time without injuring eternity.

-Walden, Henry David Thoreau-


When I read Walden recently, during a literature binge I am prone to during the autumn months, this quote smacked me upside the head. When reading Walden before, in early summer when I was on a classical literature binge, it made me pause for an unusual amount of time. So important, and why? As if you could kill time...without injuring eternity.

I starred it and moved on, compelled to let it alone for the time being. Apparently today was the day for the full meaning of the quote to hit me square in the chest, THUMP. As if you could kill time. Without injuring eternity...

!!

!

killing time, injuring eternity, eternally

(when nothing divine, including time, including life)

(the concept: eternity ceases to be a question, doesn't it? Not even a relevant one, but even a concept, at base.)

(at base? always the base in life.)

(if you kill time, sure.)
(then, that's true.)

(and you lose eternity without realizing the loss at all)

(some consequences are quiet)
shh

(some consequences are quiet and carnivorous)
sh

This just poses a slew of questions, doesn't it? Uproots a whole closetful of guilt about the crime of intellectual adaptation?

So here we are sunday, we're intellectually adapting. bringing back some concepts into life alive living. amplifying quiet consequences.

museé d'orsay

Speaking of love (of)

speaking of love (of which Who knows the meaning;or how dreaming becomes if your heart's mind)i guess a grassblade Thinks beyond or around(as poems are made)Our picking it. this caress that laugh both quickly signify life's only half(through deep weather then or none let's feel all)mind in mind flesh In flesh succeeding disappear

you shall above all things...

you shall above all things be glad and young
For if you're young,whatever life you wear

it will become you;and if you are glad
whatever's living will yourself become.
Girlboys may nothing more than boygirls need:
i can entirely her only love

whose any mystery makes every man's
flesh put space on;and his mind take off time

that you should ever think,may god forbid
and (in his mercy) your true lover spare:
for that way knowledge lies,the foetal grave
called progress,and negation's dead undoom.

I'd rather learn from one bird how to sing
than teach ten thousand stars how not to dance

I came down yesterday with a dual infection of inspiration at the hands of the painter William Turner and the poet e.e cummings. Is there a link between the two, or am I imagining it up, strand by strand? Because it fits too well, loves, they fit so well.

aha. both were die hard romanticists. What did Nin say? to being full of passion, heroism, the vanishing traits of a people, the quiet fading of that which inspired the above? I think not, good sir.

And so now apparently, at 5 am on a full moon night, I have solemnly pledged to singlehandedly restore the romantic movement.

... really should have seen that one coming. It was inevitable, really.

Oh what an ambitious little dreamer girl I am, I am, I stay.

I'm tired of technicolor this, saturated that; of posturing, of appearances, about creating that void between your breed of reality and 'theirs'. Everyone's forgot about the act of living (being, existing) separate from bubbles and boxes and neat little 4 walled constructions.

expanding, blooming

but getting tired of a collective reality leads to nothing but lazy ennui. I want to reject it all, but this seems to be the only reality I have to choose from. can't we all just get along?

(I don't know what I'm on about. Some form of escapism. Leakage.)

but I can't ignore the fact a rather large part of me wants to turn my back on this reality, and float, float away

balloon girl

edit---
this poem just made me sob. as in bawl. and it was so incredibly soothing, refreshing, oh e.e! such exquisitely painful beauty in simplicity, form and language, all about the human kind of language associations. I want to reject everything but poetry, as Anais, everything else, no other way around it, we (she, I, you) always come back to it- poetry, always poetry.

In time of daffodils
by e.e cummings

in time of daffodils(who know
the goal of living is to grow)
forgetting why,remember how

in time of lilacs who proclaim
the aim of waking is to dream,
remember so(forgetting seem)

in time of roses(who amaze
our now and here with paradise)
forgetting if,remember yes

in time of all sweet things beyond
whatever mind may comprehend,
remember seek(forgetting find)

and in a mystery to be
(when time from time shall set us free)
forgetting me,remember me

---

SHIT. e.e. I'm a mess.

(thank you)

from an insomniac's pen

& your skin (skin!) in debut:
" it was a joy," he says.
" we'll show you ---again," he says.
---now that was a sight to behold,
the maturity of it includes stints at:
powder, powder, soft
last year we thought --why not!--
of sensational cravings
I've been practicing
blushing
(a craft) for skin
" There was authenticity there,
& I felt starstruck."
& stuck
in a turner, william
Haze, object!, Haze
& skin! (skin) in debut
under an influence
posturing:
under
(skin)
heated, hot, hotter

---

2:17! Always that slow stretch to 3., the jump skip to 4, zippy. The walk to 5, leisurely. If body clocks stay in hibernia; a stop crawl to 6, if body clocks resume animal animation at 5--a jog, a run, to 7. By 8, I already miss you for being gone -1 hour, well in advance, tick tock lover, tick tock

the noise falls somewhere in between a sigh and ughhnnnhghhh.

i thought i knew him, or something like him

. but we are

2 ways confronted, existentially,

to a break on break situation.

and now you've got me

so tired baby,

oh so tired

just like him

i believed in you, boy. you tell me nothings ok, because in your world people don't

get abortions

not get visas

show up 10 minutes late for an appointment because of traffic

fight like the devil

and i would like to live there too- in that world-

but i would have liked to try to keep on living and keep on loving

but oh so tired

just like him

and i have to concede, because i will never be enough

or right, maybe thats the word

never fit in that world where

people don't

dare invoke a matchstick temper

and im tired of consoling

and just like him

idealist 1, idealist 2

1:2 and half as hard

thought i knew you, or something like you

and in it I can pour no more

i can

not

for once in a long, long, long time

our pinstick legs are matched two for two

one flimsy leg against the other

we both splinter

we are matched two for two

we thought we knew

(we thought we knew)

That is the hum of a human train,

coucou

from this balcony, the last

open before witching hours

and the swollen panes of face flesh that

rise to an occasion

any, all

coucou

the disease of balloon dreaming

dear

I once dreamed of something more domestic than this, not instead of this, but that somehow this would give way to that soft thing organically if only one moved the pieces, but I don't think so. I tried before, in my little girl way of big dreams and big loves and it all ended up in the abyss afforded to pipe dreaming. (this ain't no chess game and you ain't got no right)

my mouth hurts and I dream of violence

coucou

taxi accident= broken jaw, hello liquid diet for the next month

(paris taxis + drunk drivers +no seatbelts= me with a broken jaw and black eye, philippe with a giant black eye)


oh, ouch, life. Twilight zone and endless soup ensues.

one photo per day, to spread the vacation joy

((phnom penh, cambodia))

re-working those fiesty words

a hide and seek sort of thing, like trying to touch a 7am spiderweb, gossamer trails of phantom activity, the imprint from the passing of an hour

———————

left:right brain lobe harmonies, titles were never my forte.

we efface an hour by looking at the fullness of hand-to-mouth,
to avoid, or delay, digestion
you see, we had to ‘avoid the flat visual attack of things’
everything said with hands out, gamely and web spread, questioning space

the places on my body that are burnt decided to improve on living and it took shape as a vertical root
lightening rod girl- pulling static from hot hot air,
the human sort of electricities, forbidden electric sources, the vital license
which is why you must believe me when I say that it’s
only that ’some equations are more obvious’ and therefore
the answers follow the design; obvious,
there is nothing except phantom finality in the outcome, how>why
if nothing but because an answer : reaction

I am currently engaged by a slippery debate between the left and ride side of my brain;

my body feels cupped like a shovel, it tries to tell me in the quiet-time that I must
grasp not grip
it was waltz time then, and it’s a New England low slung sun,
it was waltz time
and I say to the one in Paris

‘darling, I am so rich tonight but it’s for you’

and

‘avoid the flat visual attack of things’

I sort of broke myself last night, after a hilarious hardcore going out club/bar extravaganza with Philippe. It was worth it.

Upon waking I discovered;

I gave myself a black eye and massive face bruise from giving up on that battle known as walking. The injuries are from drunkenly collapsing on the side of a door frame. It seemed stabilizing at the time, but lo and behold, I forgot that when drunk there's no such thing as swooping gracefully into a bracing door move.

It evolved more into a 'let's throw ourselves at hard, pointy objects.' I ate our apartment's shining-esque carpet. I almost made it too, I believe I laid in the hallway for ten or so minutes 2 meters from our door.

I dislocated/sprained my thumb on my left hand. Only fun part of that? Realized I am way more ambidextrous than I thought.

Due to enthusiastic but nonetheless no-lube anal sex, I broke my butt.

I probably shouldn't write the above, but I feel it's the most charming injury of the 3. Maybe I have a strange idea about the term charming, but my butt's broken and I think I'm still mildly drunk.

(this blog is in dire need of actual substance)

(and thailand photos)

(and the color orange)

the picture, as follows: student visa? big fat nada. Went to NYC for 3 days and proceeded to get french bureaucracied in the face. That sucked. back in paris? check. That sucks less.

And so, chickadees, it's the waiting game again, until next semester. Now to make this time something other than in between time. Something action oriented. The Thailand pictures are coming, but being computer-challenged I can't figure out where exactly on this machine they are.

This city and I have some things to discuss, if you'll excuse us for a moment.

Today, I want a big, squeeze-the-arms-to-the-sides kind of hug kiss mashup.

alienated

alienation

yeah

alienation

ouch.

Someone show me the emergency exit, please. Throw a girl some crutches, a wheelchair, a seeing eye dog, because the universe is furious with me and unleashed all kinds of karmatic wrath.

tide turn, shift, go go go!

When you fail in such a basic human way, there are simply no excuses she can make for you anymore.

the joy of writing in mood-board formats

the overflow
a winsome toss of the voice
that flash, that shiver, that impact
in the course of that sun shot moment

be⋅at⋅i⋅tude
  /biˈætɪˌtud, -ˌtyud/ Show Spelled Pronunciation [bee-at-i-tood, -tyood] Show IPA
1. supreme blessedness; exalted happiness.
2. (often initial capital letter) any of the declarations of blessedness pronounced by Jesus in the

Sermon on the Mount.
respectable behavior--appropriateness, ceremoniousness, conventionality, correctness,
FIDELITY: attachment vs adherence/ authenticity: legitimacy, purity,

aesthetics
artistic taste, esthetics, philosophy of art, philosophy of beauty, study of beauty, theory of art
& also SYSTEM OF BELIEFS FOR CONDUCT IN LIFE...coincidences, yes.

to exult:
2. Obsolete To leap upward, especially for joy.
[Latin exsultāre : ex-, ex- + saltāre, to dance, frequentative of salīre, to leap; see sel- in Indo-European roots.]

I am:
of the ideology persuasion,
sense of direction
orientation
Part of Speech: noun
Definition: introduction, adjustment
Synonyms: acclimatization, adaptation, assimilation, bearings, breaking in, coordination,

the wick of her mouth
ces matins gris si doux these gray so soft mornings

“Age does not diminish the extreme disappointment of having a scoop of ice cream fall from the cone.” - Jim Fiebig

Several Thoughts of The Day:

1. When did I get so jaded?

2. I love New England.

3. It's time for an attitude adjustment.

The last month of my life has been mind opening; no, literally, picture a figurative can opener and a can of spaghetti and said freshly opened spaghetti quivering with newness, excitement, and some brand of fear. (After all, spaghetti can be eaten.)

I need to dedicate writing time to my month long travel with Philippe through Thailand and Cambodia. Pictures are being processed ( as in downloaded from some MASSIVE memory cards) as we speak and will arrive any day now!

The writing...it will come, but not at this moment, because I feel a need to allow myself processing time,. So that I get it right. That I get it all. Not in word count or vacation-land systemic regurgitation but in its essence. Its essence to me.

Plus, as is obvious by my neurotic note making above, I need some time to theorize philosoph-ize and re-prioritize various things in my life. And hell if I'm not convinced that spending that selfish reflection time in a slow, thorough way isn't the kindest thing I can do for myself. Hell, that any human being can do for themselves.

What stuck with me into the week; the advice to streamline contradictions in your life. Your actions. Values. Lifestyle. Relationships. Dialogues, monologues, every logue in between. To create a wholistic life by living wholistically (holistic s the w reeks too much of religion for my tastes).

You know, the older I get, the more it occurs to me that the best advice is the simplest advice.

I think this picture of me sums up the approach I need to adopt:




Written in an email to Philippe:

It's so scarily easy to loose sight of your capacity to innovate and bend things to YOU and not become, conversely, BENT..

au revoir, paris et ton parisiennes, a tout suite en tout case.

(NYC/CT)

and paris!
undoubtedly so.
and paris!
of course, like this.




raise the shade

by E. E. Cummings

raise the shade

will youse dearie?

rain

wouldn’t that

get yer goat but

we don’t care do

we dearie we should

worry about the rain

huh

dearie?

yknow

i’m

sorry for awl the

poor girls that

gets up god

knows when every

day of their

lives

aint you,

oo-oo. dearie

not so

hard dear

you’re killing me

for all we mistook
and the consequences
((Cambodia))

Off to Phnom Penh, Cambodia.

(not dead)

(loving life)

Outward Bound

I have had this quiet feeling for a while now that Thailand will mean a lot of renewal for me, renewal and healing. I dared to think so for the both of us. The closer it got to the take off day, the stronger this feeling became. And now, the day that we're actually leaving, I'm sure of it.

In Thailand, Vietnam, and for the next 34 days. No computers allowed for the burger and I (GASP). Just cameras. I promise to return with a shatteringly large number of pictures from us both, so stay tuned.

Into the Orient, my dears. Outward, outward, upwards.

All my karmatic love in the meantime, drink great wine, eat great food and make great love,

Kate

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Stranger Number Three Nine Seven

three nine seven

this is an imitation
we seemed to travel quite the distance

between arrondisements, 7, 9-3
It was not joy, or other gentleness.
but the familiar tonic of an ache. ache
I am out of sync with the steps up or down,
and excuse me sir but where is this ladder?
sharpened by the muted inquisitions

and the wetness between thighs, "poutain"
hot and ugly
and the
poutain,
well she decided to travel quite the distance

an imitation
we are were building but
and it was this that yet
acts of mercy
this is

so there is no need to be so startled
i tell myself
no need to be so startled
only this is the timbre of my voice, well
9-3 deep timbered now,
and from before, it was different yet.

Stranger stranger stranger stranger stranger
stranger, under the nails
stranger
under
whats his name, disappointing whats her name
amd oh how they have strayed

she sat in the center and counted
the swells of future explanations.
stranger, try it out, tongue heavy on the st and rip the r
out.
imitations.

I have strayed stranger, how I have strayed,
and by now I know that there is no healing power in morning sun line burns over linen

stranger, stranger, yes you, this is a confrontation
for imitation, well, stranger than a stranger
it was different yet
we have covered quite a distance
we have
stranger stranger

quite a distance

and by now I know that there is no healing power in morning sun line burns over linen

startled,
startled poutain she stranger slept up some distance between those first points
startled.

but by now I know that there will be no healing power in morning sun line burns over linen

vacationland

Dancing, naked, and drinking a beer; cleaning and taxes? Pshaw, TRANSCENDENTAL FUN!

NO!

SLEEP!

TIL TTTHHHAIIILANNNDD!

T-5 days until Le Kutz is in Thailand for a month, finding myself a thai ladyboy and getting tan for the first time in my entire life.

It also merits notice that on my way to Thailand, we have a stopover in Helsinki airport. THAT'S RIGHT, KIDS, HELSINSKI AS IN HEL LOOKS (see link to left).

A website that I am obsessed with because it's 1/3 belgian-german offbeat, 1/3 halfway harajuku girl, and 1/3 gothic vampire. I am not joking when I say the vampire Lestat was once on this website. It was the fullfilment of my girlhood dreams. I can say that yeah, after seeing Lestat himself on Hel Looks, I am fully sexually actualized.

Not to mention the amazing write ups for each person/picture, wherein they have about a paragraph to explain what they are wearing which usually leads to pure, distilled fashion vanity babble of the most awkward breed.

e.e. cummings - If you can't eat you got to

If you can't eat you got to

smoke and we aint got
nothing to smoke:come on kid

let's go to sleep
if you can't smoke you got to

Sing and we aint got

nothing to sing;come on kid
let's go to sleep

if you can't sing you got to
die and we aint got

Nothing to die,come on kid

let's go to sleep
if you can't die you got to

dream and we aint got
nothing to dream(come on kid

Let's go to sleep)

I am also suddenly very unconvinced; that any sort of worthwhile love includes any of the vitrol that has poured from your mouth towards me from day 1


I don't like you any more

And somewhere along the line, the thread broke. pooled into worm lines, condensed distress sound waves looped, looped, pooled and the humming mechanical noises that rolled, rolled humming human rhythms of doubt, that high pitched wwwhhiirrrrrrrrrrrrrrr the thread, Tangled by greater natural forces than itself, flattened, pooled, and the humming! walking by, no one noticed a thing. gravity, that sort this gravity. taken for granted by humanity, degraded into a question akin to a tri-town's best place to buy weed sanity, that brand of insanity (all the questions ever worth asking are those you learn to forget) and ribbons, ribbons of heart pump matter FLUSH out into thread, thread pooled, polled and rolled, oh gravity scaled for it's background, you see, earth captivity, life size (relevant) against a tile and infinitesimal against the Tuilerie. I ONLY ASK YOU TO PLACE YOURSELF why do you insist upon the impossible task of fortune telling, this that works works NOT how do you imagine that I can imagine that AND TO BE HUMANLY CAREFUL IN YOUR LAZY ABSOLUTISM and to take of the consequences, to take responsibility. and it would only take a word, but you test me thread, pooled, rolled, and wait for my conviction a man, but yet, unable to take responsibility for the weight words get with gravity

callas lover

BY D.A. POWELL

this is the track I've had on REPEAT all afternoon: she is butterfly

brilliant riband, rice flour face, silken, even her voice a sashed kimono

if I were foolish like her:

but aren't I foolish like her

spotting the coil of smoke and the billowed sail

against the verge of sky

simple on the rise surveying the anchorage: simple me, signal me

dreading the confident assumption of return, dreading more

uncertain tone to come, the thinning notes, performance

too close to my own impatient—swells, a surge: sick wind

but the emotion is, after all, an artfully conjured gesture

arranged marriage between a past ache and frail woodwinds

I could skip ahead

could break the inconsolable loop

of harbor, waiting, overlook, waiting, inevitable waning eye

troubled robins, once more in the handkerchief trees

once more, brief aquarelle of triplet lilies, blue as willowware

in that interval before his embrace falters, stuck, founders

[shuffle play] such a pitch of tenderness in the voice

such an awful lot of noise

foot in mouth overdrive

Noctambule; Soit!

nu, nu; ailleurs mais moins loin.
Tantôt, à-peu-près. dissous, elle-même,
elle a sonné,
la cloche, la femme,
elle te va bien
oui
elle te va bien

my life is freakin cool.

copywriting for a prolific fashion stylist (above), and:

was asked, as a favor, to bring a package to Nice on Monday. Philippe hops on and a short sexy vacation in the south of france ensues.

how did I get here and where did reality go? (left around 2 years ago, they believe)

Le univers des discours est toujours drôle. Et l'écriture? Drôlement! Récupérer!

I will remember these beginning years in Paris fondly as; "the years in which I had amazing numbers of imaginary french conversations". Not to mention the abundance of conversations based on my creative language band-aid theory, wherein I imagine that it's okay! that I didn't quite grasp the subject, chapeau/chateau, but on with the exchange! And by the end of it I'm leaking such obscene amounts of enthusiasm from my pores that I just may have contributed, psychokinetically, to global warming.

Since I am incapable of sarcasm ( really, guileless) I say the above with complete positivity and amusement. It's a good thing to laugh at yourself. Especially because being in the state of making mistakes is much, much better than being in the state of timidity. I think that I am a very lucky woman in my ability to amuse myself with all my shut-in socially odd old cat lady talks to herself tendencies. It's a walking, talking, imaginary french speaking reserve of ha has. Though I have been noticing recently that living in Paris for 2 years with varying degrees of flea bitten french has made me fond of talking to myself. For prolonged periods of time, in very public places, and I have somehow become unaware of actually doing it. Oh, it's very subtle, that under the breath kind of 'curious George, you've done it again!' repartee, but let's hope it eases up with the influx of new social french activity that's flooded my life. Just a teensy bit though.

I'm caught in a catch 22 writer scenario, where I have all these lovely places to write, and yet for the health of my romantic relationship and privacy profession-wise, I am unable to write as I please. The inescapable eventuality of online confessors everywhere. I miss out on what bi polarity brings to me- those absolute creative heights, absolutist and reductionist if taken by themselves, but as pieces...sharp, permitting me an experience bordering on transcendental. Reading what I wrote and not recognizing it. Playing, experimenting, without having to make sure the 'holistic sum' of my blog, whatever venue, seems mentally stable and healthy. Because there are real consequences for me if it doesn't. There's a direct line between what I produce and a series of resulting consequences for my romantic relationship. There's no line drawn between creation and reality, the necessary elements of escapism, singularity, and often violence in producing creatively, whether fine art or written products. No distance. I am sad. At the same time though it forced me away from the easy inspirations like sadness, hurt, anger and towards more unique ones. Helped me grow out of sometimes adolescent moments in expression. Life; always two sides to the story...actually, this merits more thought! Perhaps it's something positive in disguise....will get back to you on that, blog of mine.

My lovely friend Thierry translated one of my poems for a online french literary site- something that made me smile for days! How lovely to have someone like your writing enough to take the time to translate it...on top of un mille bisous I am also cooking up a nice long story for Thierry, as he requested that I write something longer, different that poetry, more prose. It's funny how used you get (and how comfortable- slow to want to change positions) to certain forms as a writer...for me, it's poetry. It becomes a bit like coming home, that separate gentle universe. But I like being uncomfortable because I believe strongly that a little sadism as far as comfort zones goes a long way.

Today I want nothing more than to really make out, all first date new skin type of kissing. My high libido can really be frustrating; I'm like a 14 year old adolescent boy. Not much room for subtlety. On a note that makes me feel less ridiculous about the above my grandmother was being treated for nymphomania at one point. The key is to channel all that amazing organic tension and energy into something exciting. And be alone for a while.

Well...french, writing, sexual health...that covers it all, lovelies. Back with that story sometime next week.

Thierry's fantabulous amazing translation; find the fiery man himself here.

------

Il est temps de liquider l’ancien poème et d’espérer l’amorce d’un nouveau.

Paris est gris aujourd’hui, tout ça à cause de ma stupidité et d’une série de malentendus. Au même instant tout peut s’avérer étonnamment humain et moi, étonnamment conservatrice. Emotive, lorsque j’imagine une étude de caractère. Résultat, en voilà un bien amoché qui prend des allures de statue, et l’autre se demandant quelle plus profonde inquiétude pourrait s’avérer suffisante. Je suis triste à l’idée de ce prétexte qui n’en finit pas de renvoyer mes excuses, admises mais ignorées. Ce n’était pas ça, ça ne l’a jamais été, et tu le sais. Quand cela a-t-il pu sembler plausible ou cohérent, justifié par mes actes ?… Je ne peux imaginer un seul moment qui pourrait le confirmer… mais le gris conteste, je me sens perdue.

Je vais déambuler dans Paris et prétendre à une certaine clarté.

le paradis était ;

blanc nous sommes, regagnant le blanc

et les interstices de nos phrases se cristallisent, ponctuation frénétique amnistiée

et leur mélodie décline, comme aggravée du fardeau de chaque lettre,

« humainement » reste sans considération – pas la moindre trace d’humanité,

et les minutes de jusant silencieux,

épousent la courbe d’une terre

flux

pluriel nous sommes, regagnant le pluriel

et traquant les détails de l’ardent désir

nous avons compté sur cette étendue désolée,

parmi les départs et les arrivées et les atterrissages invalides,

lorsque tout le monde crie « aberration » ou ce genre de label commode,

nous avons compté sur cette étendue désolée

il y a un motif qui perce lentement ;

je le console,

jusqu’à

tout toujours étrange, tout toujours notre demeure

paradis nous sommes, regagnant le paradis

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

Mimsy were the borogoves / Lewis Padgett

click to enlarge, dearies

My poetic energy decided to manifest themselves in making jewelry, it seems:

Reacquainted myself with writing, because I stayed away too long and it hurt my brain.

Poetry arriving soon!

she's crazy as hell and can never sink it all into one single faux body. Fake, yes, because when she was in the bathtub on her birthday all her toes came off and floated around like native porcelain fish, and she realized she had suspected it all along and anyway, they call it a human 'condition' for a reason.

Dedications

(photos of paris and parisians by Philippe & I)

I suppose I understand the roots of the generalization that the french are not, by nature, helpful to outsiders; simplistically speaking, the french culture is one full of social mannerisms and rituals that precede every human interaction. Every conversation, every situation. I hazard to guess that when these mannerisms are not followed, it is disrespectful- and the result is usually a blank stare, annoyance. Coming from the states, where the everyday interactions are casual precisely to create a feeling of comraderie or informality, and where the social culture is extremely homogenous and the introduction to other culture limited, understading the french can be difficult. They equate formality with snobbishness. But I find that the formality in french stems from a different idea of what 'respect' means...a basic cultural difference. To converse with people, you show them respect by using specific forms. If you don't use them, you come off as stupid, egocentric, and unwilling to adapt to a culture and enjoy it on anyone's terms but your own.

I am confronted to this divide often, when I see Americans attempt to ask french people for help, questions...the american informality takes them by (the bad sort) surprise. So much so that they truly can't understand the question, because when the rules of a social culture aren't obeyed the energy expended trying to determine the actual question takes the place of the energy taken to give an answer...and one isn't entitled to anything, entitled to an answer simply because you asked, especially if you bulldoze through the nuances of asking. Please and thank you, etc. In America, I believe the equivalent would be a foreigner barking out orders and standing there invading your personal space. There is also the fact that parisians like to imagine themselves possessing a certain social standard, because it reaffirms their identity as french, and as parisian. As people of standards and culture. To respect you by holding you capable of certain standards.

Anyhow, this post was supposed to be a post about my experience with french people in times of need, short & sweet, but as usual, the tangents took over. Main idea of this post; the french have saved my ass too many times to count. They have defended my 'honor' (hehe), gotten me back home after getting lost, and have been present during their time with me in a way I am unused to in America. This post is for them. Below list of french people from all different walks of life who have saved this girl from 5 shades of trouble;

The French Family, 2008

first time in Paris, visiting a friend studying at the Sorbonne. It was my 20th birthday and also New Years Eve; we celebrated by drinking way, way too much champagne. I was absolutely ridiculous. This doesn't happen often, but when it happens it really. fricken. happens. My friend had gotten me a bottle of champagne as a birthday present, and I ended up drinking the entire bottle alone, after having too many aperitifs (kirs) anyway. It wasn't me being a lush, at least only that...none of my friends there liked chamoagne (they had an aversion to carbonated things in general, soda, etc) and well hell! I had just gotten a bottle of CHAMPAGNE for my birthday and that was AWESOME.

I look back on the pictures taken of us on the metro later on, on our way to the Eiffel Tower, and everyone else looks normal and I am a hot mess. Leaning on everyone. Glazed, smiling, hair afuzz. Explains how I ended up making out with an asian lesbian under the eiffel tower at midnight for about 10 minutes, then getting separated from everyone and getting on the metro back to the dorms only to end up in Versaille. An hour plus away from Paris, mind you. Then! The metro closed (at 2 or 3 a.m) and ha ha ha, I was stuck in Versailles and about to be mauled by a group of trashy suburban kids...not just trashy but known for assaulting women, fights, guns, etc. I spotted a french family getting off/ looking at bus schedules, so I tried to stealthily follow them back to Paris. I got on a night bus and tentatively asked them how to get back to where I needed to go, and they took one look at me (disheveled, lost, confused) and took it upon themselves without a word to bring me back themselves. No big deal, no talking needed, no false conversation, just this reliable stoicism. So they went out of their way, a mother and her two children in their 30s, on New Years Eve at 4 a.m, to make sure I got back safely, way out of their way and into Paris. I got back to the dorm, locked myself in a toilet, and weeped with relief, I was back, didn't die, and it could have gone so. damn. bad.

The commuters on the train from chantilly to Paris

When I was an au pair, I lived in Chantilly, a town about 20 minutes north of Paris by train. I took the train to get to Paris every weekend to see Philippe, and this ride was one such occasion. Now, the Paris metro system is relatively straightforward, but the many trains running from suburb to paris and back are really insanely confusing the first 100 times you take them. Especially if your french was, at that point, nonexistent. It's not surprising then that I was not aware than you had to punch your ticket through a machine before getting on (to make the ticket void). When the conductor came around to check the tickets, he became angry with me for not doing so; first of all, couldn't understand why he was mad, and secondly, apparently its a trick people use to reuse a ticket...get reimbursed, keep using the same ticket the whole week, etc. I had no clue what I did wrong and wanted to melt into the seat....and then, I was rescued by about 10 french commuters sitting around us. They yelled at the conductor to leave me alone, I was a poor girl who got confused and that he was a huge bully and should be ashamed. This from 10 business people, who could have minded their own business, but decided to stand up for me. He huffed and walked away, giving me 'warning'. The commuters smiled softly and went back to their newspapers, and I felt ridiculously sappy and wanted to kiss them all.

The neighborhood auto shop man who defended my honor in Pigalle;

I live in Pigalle, an area of Paris known for its sex shops, clubs, and red lights. It's not the place you would casually stroll around in as a woman alone at night; but most of the time, it's bright and loud but there are no big problems. However, I once found myself in the unlucky situation of being out of cigarettes and pissed as hell with Philippe, and as a result, stalking my way to the late night Tabac. And then it happened. Two guys walking behind me...and then suddenly, someone grabbed me from behind. Grabbed my vagina. I was taken so completely by surprise by the fact that they just grabbed my fricken vagina, not my ass, for the actual idea of grabbing a girl's groin was the absolute last instance of assault I would have considered, that I was momentarily rooted to the pavement. Then, I was seeing red, murderous red, rage so hot and quick you wouldn't believe it. I swung around and promptly delivered a right hook to the friend who grabbed me. Their smiles turned to ones of fear, and embarassment...and then, suddenly a short squat figure came out of nowhere yielding a giant broom and spewing angry french, chasing the two boys away and out of sight. He returned, and it was none other than a neighborhoos mechanic who I say hello to on occasion when I pass, smiling and apologizing on behalf of men and Pigalle, broom in hand. I gave him a hug and decided that I would always, always love the french. No matter what. Walked back with my head held high, assured that Parisians took care of their own damnit no matter the origin.


The half homeless woman who always sits near P's office area

Women are never very friendly to me as a rule; not sure if it's because I'm blonde and tall (and therefore look like I should be stupid, or vapid?), but in Paris women seem to revel in speaking about me in french while right near me, never very nice things. So it wasn't exactly surprising (or upsetting, its completely a bad reflection on them, not me) when I hear two women behind me caling me an au pair, oh hahaha, look at this little au pair bitch, etc. (blonde hair= swedish au pair reference?) There are not many blondes in Paris, and even less plantinum blondes, so I get noticed. With women I usually look behind me and raise my eyebrow, subtly telling them 'heh, bitch, je parle francais.' Usually gets them to shut up. When I was in the processing of giving my evil eyebrow, a homeless woman gets up and starts wagging her finger at the two girls, saying that she saw me coming to work every day, elle parle francais, and that I was a nice girl and that they were only making themselves look like cows. And she really went at it, in a way only an offended parisian woman can, standing up rod straight, eyes wide, vowels spit out with vigor. Completely unexpected...and so sweet. Later on, after the dinner party I went to, she was still sitting on her ledge. I stopped and thanked her and spoke briefly, and to thank her I gave her a bunch of cigarettes/a lighter, and a sincere thank you. I now stop by and talk to her for a good 15 minutes a day about everything, old Paris, her life, etc. She has become a pleasant stop on my everyday itinerary. Another example of how french people come to my rescue, especially in regards to my 'honor', which makes me smile because I couldn't care too much about defending it as it isn't that important to me to say, be respected by two trashy girls. But the French? By god, it's a duel! And if they dare assault my honor? Seems as if I have a whole brigade behind me.

And so, in conclusion, I love my city and its people. They always seem to say; yeah, we're complicated, but we take care of each other. All of you have saved my ass more times than I can count and I will never, ever forget that. And maybe, just maybe, one day back in America I can do you the same honor.

ma chere ville, j'aime toujours!

I fought so hard for this reality. Tooth and nail, hands over feet. Millions of concessions, a year of battling cowardly disillusionment. Learning to take criticism. Learning to break past my own protective structures in order to feel engaged in living and not avoiding. A year and half living in a city without speaking its language. A year of learning that I had no clue about how to actually love. And that my enthusiasm was great, necessary, but that shit, was I all shades of wrong. Confronting myself on terms of realism, the possible, and learning, painfully, to differentiate between being stuck like a block in reality, empty and hollow, and being present enough to live life as is. Between being an idealistic and one who hides behind dreaming and surrealities.

I fought so hard, and I swear that there were times when I was on the very edge of my own personally made hell. From giving up, becoming jaded and losing my natural love of life. So close that it terrified the very core of my being, because I always believed in my own infallibility in believing in life and in myself. Almost lost my spirited, fiery core. Terrified that I had followed my gut instinct and trusted, most importantly, trusted that instinct (and in effect, trusted myself) in my decisions and that they were wrong. In my 180 that led me to Paris.

But instead of falling into the abyss, or losing the parts of myself I hold dear after becoming worn the passage of time, from constantly having to be resourceful, independent, and open in a way I could never have imagined, I made it. Survived isn't the right term. I came out miles, leagues ahead, somewhere a thousand times more wonderful and full, just full, than I ever imagined. I think in life, it is so important to take the time to recognize that YES! We arrived here, where we wanted and where we planned, and it is beyond anything we had envisioned. That living is such an amazing state of being; the endeavor of life, so precious, so shattering in all ways. The depths of human emotion, the capacity for feeling.

And so tonight, internet, I teared up. Because I allowed myself that singular moment where everything negative falls into the shadow of everything beautiful. To recognize the good moments in life, celebrate them with an embarassing amount of enthusiasm, and to let the negatives enter and leave equally as swiftly. Indescribable, when you uncover the secret of a wholly personal sort of celebration. It warms every organic molecule and every hidden unnamed spiritual crevice, thick, warm honey pouring through veins, grey matter, out your eyes. And you know that you will always, always be okay, and than you are more than enough. You are everything you want because life is so amazing like that; malleable, open to action. You were never not enough. And you did good, you did so good, and I am so proud of you for not giving up literally of figuratively. I imagined a world where my inner strength would knock down everything and that was the key to my future, my existence. I believed in destructive action without realizing it. Instead, I found a world offering my the scariest question of all; can you change? will you listen? are you willing to hear what you don't want to and learn from it? be criticized? learn that your entire life and personality makeup was a happy accident of being born where you were, in those circumstances?

Combined: are you ready to be taken apart? to not keep your hands over eyes during the process, but keep your eyes and ears and heart wide open, even if it stings? makes you uncomfortable? to be taken apart, and to put yourself back together?

This year was uncomfortable. It was a whirlwind of new new not able to do xyz, from school to speaking. I am proud of you, Kate. You learned how to revel in being uncomfortable. To make a cosmic wedgie into a makeshift g string. And for the first time you didn't have to analyze, dwell, decorate those tears shed solely for you, because there was simply no question that they were only, only for yourself.

Not black and white ways of living. There are always anxious grey areas, always the less than ideal. But it's all very human. Being afraid that P will hurt me somehow. That he will feel warped by my pure, sometimes naive, absolute love, translate the intensity for pressure. Apart from rocky times. But when I am the most sure that sort of thing isn't possible. When I believe that he holds friendship and respect as I do...I am terrified to be proven wrong. What that might mean for me, when I believe so much, put so much stake on the fact that things are as they seem, we are of the same understanding, and not some romantic shadow world where its the unsaid! that takes control and asserting ego! through selfish testing of personally made boundaries. When you are in love, there is an element of mourning in it. To seek something so absolute in the capricious form of another human. The catasrophies of whim. So I will pray as only an atheist can, to the stars, to my own naked skin, pray that he won't hurt me. isn't. it is the only thing I can do. We are young yet in the years of companionship and trust, it will come. I don't believe in implicit trust, because I believe more in the ancient dance between time and action where half the power of trust comes from its difficulty to profess and also to live up to. To be human...so fragile. To love? Endless, endless in its effects, shape and form. To accept your own membership to a humanity; and not to beat yourself up when you feel like you inject in the tiny air that connects conscious action this little plea;

please, please, oh please, just don't hurt me.

Because life is hard, and we must be forgiving.

Paris is warming up, waking up, and the colors! The sounds! The thaw, the goddamn thaw! Finally, it is the spring of my life.
Finally, it is living.

I must write now. And oh! those lost words. Those words who hover under the saids as the said-nots, and say-nots, for no one is ready to be put, placed, decided. I run from site to site, blog to blog, and find myself unable to write as I wish, a veritable word dodger when I want to be anything but. My words have no home. We wonder, together, in and out, around about. Vagrants, wandering but marooned. One day, I will learn to separate myself from x, y, z, and it will be marvelous. One day. Always future tense optimism. Always something you catch in quiet lights, that sharp face that means something altogether individual and driven. So we drive, we amble sometimes, we manipulate our realities. And for now, I will settle for a place that will have my words. And where? I hate this, saying everything by saying nothing, so abstract and removed. But we are bound. And how? By whom?

picture taking weekends

where else? Buttes de Chaumont, some Canal St. Martin. CLICK TO ENLARGE!









and, of course, my very own burger walking below;
















happy le kutz below :)

Dior's Cruel Trick

I stumbled upon this link a while back while browsing with Philippe, and happened upon it again today. It deserves a whole post for its absolute unique nature, irony, rawness... you're torn between being horrified and intrigued. Original source, photos and quote below, englishrussia.com.

Christian Dior is one of the most expensive luxury cloths brands. It is so now, and it was so 30 years ago too. But what have they done 30 years ago according to those LIFE photos was an organized trip to Russia with a group of model looking ladies wearing all-new Dior luxury stuff walking on the streets of Moscow.
Of course, as I understand the main purpose of this action was to shoot so cool-looking ads when the so expensive looking Dior models shot on the streets of the dully dressed Russian women, but what did those Russian ladies felt - they were for years deprived from any designer cloths. Not even they couldn’t buy the luxury expensive designers dress but they neither couldn’t buy ANY dress designed for someone else except a Communist Designers Company - those people there didn’t care much about design - they had no any competition - so the cloths available in Soviet stores was far away from being called stylish, and any, just any item which got inside the iron curtain from the abroad was treated as an icon, the pair of just simple blue levi jeans just an unachievable dream for many Russian people at that times. And in such an atmosphere those girls were walking around the Moscow.

--disclaimer: I know this blog has been sadly lacking in actual content as of late, but do not fear! We will resume normal programming next week, I promise--

in the mean time, I will satisfy myself by posting thought-lets, like mini thought droplets, because blogs are for the vain and i love it. All I can think of today is wanting to smoosh myself on and around Philippe...it is very distracting. And makes my thoughts go something like this: smoooooooooshhh kishhhhessshhhh want to kishhhhhhhhhhhhh ittttttt huggggg itttttttttt loooooooooveeee ittt kishhhhesshhhhhh smoooooooooooooooooshhhhhhhhh itttttttttttttttt. All day. This has been what replays in my mind. So I am waiting for sweet relief to come in the form of the Philippe himself, who is happpily expected to arrive in a few hours from work.

Joy! KISHHHESHHHH moooooshhhhh.

(oh dear)

I AM MAKING SOUP AND THEREFORE THIS DAY IS AWESOME.

that is all.

Sitting here, enjoying the weather as only a northern girl could. Rainy, cold, unapproachable. In between cleaning, I read the story of Abélard and Héloïse, drink too much lemon and honey tea, and drift. Everyone's uninspired by everything uninspiring. I feel furious on P's behalf, because we function under the idea that working means making money, that working hard means rewards. And yet he worked so hard...internet, so damn hard this is the conclusion? Angry for him, with him, so sad. To see work degenerate into automaton status.

Sad for myself. Because I am never enough for anyone. I'm fine, just fine, don't read me wrong. I'm going through the motions, cleaning this apartment, getting up and dressed as soon as he's out the door. Getting things done for school. Just... I want to feel enough despite personal flaws. I want to feel loved unconditionally. I want not to be made to feel like a mess. Not like my every choice either qualifies me as a functioning or non functioning member of my age group or your life. I want to feel like this is home. I want to feel loved without having to sort through the fine print for evidence. I want a hug. I feel like I haven't been hugged, really hugged, since coming back from Connecticut. I want to be there for you. I want to be a bright spot in your life. I want to BE bright for you. I want everything, too much, probably. So I'll wait for that hug and try to be satisfied that everything else comes in time.

But our reality is ours; the most important reality is that which we construct. And with your bursts of negative energy (not frustration, general anger, I get that, it's legitimate) we are BOTH thrown into one shitty reality. And just because you can rationalize saying things to me, feeling certain ways, does not mean that you didn't throw it out into space and give it a life of its own. And that there are not consequences for that.

Drifting, drifting.

Père Lachaise Cemetery, Paris

:(

I think the problem lies, my chickadees, in naming all the outer rings of this planetary system, and not paying any attention to the actual, primal locus. We're living life on the vibrations of strings too taut, time too short. Frantic, frantic, fuck. The obstinacy of reality. Shouldering itself in any stage our playthings inhabit. There are all these accumulating implications of every action and reaction, making for a dizzy, dizzy girl. We are delicately balancing on levels which cease to exist from one moment to the next. This is the test, what do you do with your second wind, runner-man? Do you dance the good dance, test the right test, go, go, go?

I like flippant types of reality when they get mean. Then we see what humanly possible implies. For we are stuck in the obscene types of human-ness, humanity, not very humane? are we, oh dear.

(it gets interesting right about now!)

Because when you can't reconcile yourself, or another person to any reality, eating olives out of a can and drinking a diet coke and vodka is very, very smart.

"I am an insane woman for whom houses wink and open their bellies. Significance stares at me from
everywhere, like a gigantic underlying ghostliness. Significance emerges out of dank alleys and sombre faces,
leans out of the windows of strange houses. I am constantly reconstructing a pattern of something forever lost
and which I cannot forget. I catch the odors of the past on street corners and I am aware of the men who will
be born tomorrow. Behind windows there are either enemies or worshipers. Never neutrality or passivity.
Always intention and premeditation. Even stones have for me druidical expressions.

I walk ahead of myself in perpetual expectancy of miracles."
Anais Nin, House of Incest

Paris affects me strangely when he isn't here; it reaches out and invades my body, the strangeness of Paris,almost palpable. Takes over my legs as sure as it takes over my mind and directs it towards whimsy. As if love were a barrier against life ecstasies, a terrifying conclusion that merits further examination, eradication. There should be flow between both, always flow. Walking ahead in this city which asserts itself in parlours, cafes, living rooms. I have several things to wash away in this rain. I am not sure how, or why, but I lost the levity in my life some time ago. I had to work so hard to survive this new reality, make it mine, that everything else but raw vital energy was discarded. I lost a considerable amount. I became a slave to sentimentality. To loving a man and resigning myself to womb statuses. I fell asleep. And I'm in the process of trying to reconcile my core, marrow, marrow, locus, with what happened in the meantime, to take over again. While dodging autocratic egos. Also leaving behind the importance of outside perception or recognition for time being. I am only I in creation. Le rêve éveillé. Adjustment periods. Efficiency as a means to enjoy action, movement, progress.

Exciting Paris nights! I love this city with such a strength, it overwhelms me at times. When I came here two years ago, with no designs on Europe to speak of, it did not shock me, strike me, impress me beyond it's deviation from what I knew. I was relatively unimpressed until the night, New Years Eve, where I got separated from my friends at the Eiffel Tower and wound up in a seated collapse in a cold, unlit Parisian alley. Dressed in evening clothes without a coat, freezing to death. I remember looking up at the greyness, that strange opaque sky specific to this city, laughing and smiling, thinking "Paris, you SOB. Beautifully egotistical inacessible city." It got my attention, loud and clear, issuing a challenge. I took it then and there. It is a city for pain, beauty, destruction and reconconstruction, a human city. Humane. Kicks my ass most days, but when I need it most, warm, round, comforting. I believe at the end of my life, I will look back and feel Parisian, having lived most of my life here, and feel that it chose me, and not vice versa.

i miss you

all those months I wished to have distance from you and loving you, and now I have it, and it is absolute and terrible.

wishing forever for this and I would give anything to be a teary mess, raving hysteric, anything but this burnt husk

expansion; then retraction, and the resulting choke-hold on organs which mimic
balloons, in and out amplification
and for once, I wish it could be like before, where I believed in apologizing until
throat raw, eyes out, but then sweet dissipation
for once, I wish for anything but this comatose reaction
over petrified words and touch
we waver
I am never quite good enough
we injure
I am overflowing where I shouldn't and barren where I should
we rot
I am
I
I

At the Buttes de Chaumont in Paris; remembering how to breathe, reunion with the sun. Halfway there with remembering to let things go.