Everybody wants everything.
This is a given.
We want the collective “we”
and the infinitive I.
We want our better motives codified
and our worst offenses anthologized.
We want to simply ooze
essential faith.
We want to be lucid when we’re invisible,
delicious even when overcooked.
We want to love,
absolutely love,
the extravagant multitude
of complications
of everything (everything, everything.)
we admire, crave,
or could never hope
to understand.
- (sic) and i forget
I took the shuttle on a shock-wave ride,
where the people on the pen pull the trigger for accolade
I took a bullet, and I looked inside
Running through my veins
An American masquerade
I think the best part is that he sings like he doesn’t remember why he’s singing at all
It never fails to amaze me when I come across well-written blurbs attempting to induce an audience in some way – whether they want you to click a link or buy a product. It’s an art in and of itself. For example, notcot.org, or rather, the artists and agents that submit material need only to conceptualize their otherwise bland or ordinary ‘product’ to get me interested.
This bit of architecture is somewhat average and I’d normally pass it over if not for the tagline: “House at Lago Rupanco, by Beals Arquitectos in the chilean south forest. It´s made out of wood, painted by black on the outside that makes the house disappear in the forest.” It doesn’t actually make it blend into the forest but it’s an intriguing concept nevertheless.
Likewise with this photographer’s collection which is just a string of random candid shots of a girl made marginally evocative by the backstory: “This is the documentation of the 44 days – during the summer of ‘08 – Laura and I spent together in New York before I went to Montreal and didn’t return.” – Mikhail Wassmer. It’s rather ambiguous and I should wonder why I care at all save the way it was written.
Anyway
I’d like to meet Andrzej Dragan and shake his hand.
A ridiculous prefab design:
Now..”Why do you waste my time?”
Is the answer to the question on your mind
Had that reoccurring dream in which I remember I’m enrolled in a French course every Monday but it hits me only after half the semester is done and there’s no way I can catch up or redeem myself as I don’t even know what the teacher looks like or where the classroom is then I check my schedule closely and see I’m not even signed up at all and it seems a metaphor for all those irrational fears I entertain; all my dreams are this hot and heavy complete with pseudo panic attacks as I writhe in bed over deadlines
Age 22: Walked around Meijer with Drano in one hand and a large brown box of pastries in the other
Age 16: In Twelve Oaks: invited to a model call by tall African woman who chased me to the elevator from inside a Kay’s
Age 4: Digital coloring book on a computer, relentlessly filling in Big Bird with different color combinations (green made him resemble broccoli)
Various Ages under 10: Refused to be anything but inanimate objects for Halloween
Age 18: Wrote first drug story including the Virgin Mary and a strung-out kleptomaniac
Age 22: Considered checking out Jumping the Green for the 30th time, went with Bret Easton Ellis instead; discovered am still not out of transgressive literature phase
My dish: Scallop Chardonnay linguine & caramelized onions
