Fuck it. Here we are.

Smile!

Even the most contrite could out drink me at a cocktail party. Dress and all, heels and such. Under the table with submission.

Here we are. Swirling and subtle. The wag of a tail holding us together. The realest moment in fragmented compositions.

A coiling wag. A wave from a motorcycle. The holding open of a door. It's the smallest gesture that admits our largest flaw.

Smile!

We're all doomed the same fate. You and me,

both.

Idle Hands

Somedays, Spencer Moody's vocals is just what you needed.

Hecuba: The Magic

Hecuba "The Magic" [Official Video] HD from Hecuba on Vimeo.

Here's my lady Isabelle and her man Jon Beasley. She rules. Buy the Hecuba album.

Can't See with all the Seafoam in My Eye

I have the hardest time believing this dress is Tommy Hilfiger. Alas, I love it so.

OK. So, Maybe Summer Ain't All That Bad

Untitled

When we die will we
be wrapped all up in ourselves
still.
And when we die
will we
still be remembered
old reserves soiled on shelves.
And for the rest of us
still wrapped up
in ourselves,
be still
beside ourselves
in anthems of recessionals.
When I die I hope to lie next to myself with enough space
still
remembering my lines.

iDye Packaging Love

I just want to keep a collection of these dyes on hand because of how kickass they look.

Gimme Gimme Gimme

Gimme gimme gimme
I need some more
Gimme gimme gimme
Don't ask what for

*photos from style.com/Marcio Madeira

Legs as Shapes and Items in Space

Frederico Garcia Lorca

Lorca is grand. I'll share a few. Plus, it keeps my Spanish flowing.

Memento

Cuando muramos
nos llevaremos
una seria de vistas
del cielo.

(Cielos de amancer
y cielos nocturnos.)

Aunque me han dicho
que muertos
no se tiene
más recuerdo
que el de un cielo de Estío,
un cielo negro
estremecido
por el viento.

Memento

When we die
we'll take with us
a series of shots
of the sky.

(Skies around daybreak
& skies in the night.)

Though they've told me
that dead
we don't have any memories
past a sky in midsummer,
a black sky
shaken up
by the wind.


Confusión

¿Mi corazón
es tu corazón?
¿Quién me refleja pensamientos?
¿Quién me presta
esta pasión
sin raíces?
¿Por qué cambia mi traje
de colores?
¡Todo es encrucijada!
¿Por qué ves en el cieno
tanta estrella?
¿Hermano, eres tú
o soy yo?
¿Y estas manos tan frías
son de aquél?
Me veo por los ocasos,
y un hormiguero de gente
anda por mi corazón.

Confusion

Is my heart
your heart?
Who is mirroring my thoughts?
Who lends me this un-
rooted passion?
Why are my clothes
changing color?
Everything is a crossroads!
Why does this slime
look so starry?
Brother, are you you
or am I I?
And these cold hands,
are they his?
I see myself in sunsets
& a swarm of people
wanders through my heart.

and this one...i'll just do this one in english....

Three Prints of the Sky
Dedicated to Señorita Argimira López,
who didn't love me

I

The stars
don't have a lover--

doesn't matter how pretty
the stars are!

They will have to wait for
their heartthrob--
to carry them off to
his perfect Venezia.

Every night they'll slip out
to their railings
--o thousand-tiered sky--
& make lyrical gestures
at the ocean of shadows
around them.

But wait up, muchachas!
Because when I die
I will drag you away,
one by one,
on my couldcovered pony.

Bought a Plane Ticket to the Ocean

...Aunque estás muy lejana,
yo te veo
llevar la mano de iris
a tu sexo
y arreglar indolente
el almohadón del cielo...

Hello.

Horizontals

UnEdited: Story Two: Paula, That's My Dad

I was probably six. I grew up in Topanga Canyon, look it up. Each year there is a pseudo hippie fest that caters to escapist LA types that, once a year, like to throw on some fairy bells, a fringe leather vest, drink beer, dance with their shoes off in the dirt and have their face painted in some psychedelic motif, to later, come home and tell their friends that they ran into a Doobie Brother. It's called Topanga Days. It's coming up this Memorial Weekend. Book your flights now.

On one such occasion, I was with some school friends and we were in the more carnival-like section with normal games: ring toss, the bouncy castle, etc. There was a lecture being held in a tight circle, lead by Sky LaBrot's mom, Paula. A rotund woman with white blonde hair and a penchant for astronomy, she held us tight and was telling us the dangers of strangers.

"Keep close.
Always stay together.
Meet back here in 20 minutes.
Yell if anyone touches you.
Don't talk to people that look strange or scary....like that man over there.
The one with the ponytail
and the hat
and the torn jeans...

No, never talk to him."

"Paula." I tugged on her shirt.
"That's my dad."



Paula was so embarrassed, she went over to him and explained. My dad, very casually and with a big grin said:
"Don't worry about it. I'd give them the same advice."

My dad and me then:


and now, still creepin' out ladies with his ponytail:

Take Me to the River

and drop me in the water.

Antony Gormley

UnEditied: Story One: 1989

1989. My mom went on an overseas business trip, without me. Perhaps I was still too young. She's gone now, not like I can ask. And, if she were here there would be that parental separation that keeps reserved children from asking personal questions about their pasts. Whatever the reason, my sister, 10 years my senior, was left in charge. She wasn't the craziest of my 2 sisters, but she wasn't a saint. I was eight. She, eighteen. I can't recall the circumstance, but it was summer. There was no way my sister was missing the Dead Feat (Little Feat + the Grateful Dead) show in Eugene, Oregon because of babysitting. I commend her determination. I actually think it may have taken more sense of responsibility than the reverse to make sense of taking your 8 year old sister on an 800+ mile road trip. In the back, and by back, I mean bed, of a Toyota pick-up.

So, my sister and I, her boyfriend and another friend would take turns riding in the bed of the truck. 2 in the back and 2 in the front. Definitely not legal. My sister's boyfriend had fastened a sheet of plywood across the bed so we could duck under and sleep. We made it to Eugene. We camped nearby the amphitheater. I had never been camping before.

The next morning, the show started. It was a lengthy pathway into the venue. It was lined with people selling vegan sandwiches, hacky-sacks, and tye-dye tapestries. We were perched on the high bleachers. I remember having a pair of wayfarer-esque gas station shades. They had oil spill effect palm trees across the lenses. I must have had a contact high; I was laying face up on the bleachers, pulling the lenses close to my face and then out again, staring at the clouds. The show was underway and the crew wanted closer. We made it to the front, center stage. I was perched atop my sister's boyfriend's shoulders so that I could see. The music started and the entire crowd was a wave of flailing arms, fairy bells and indian skirts. However riveting, I had to pee.

The boyfriend lowered me down, and unwilling to lose their prime spot, pointed out the red cross banner near an exit and told me, half-screaming above the music, "If you get lost meet us by that red cross in 40 minutes!" I agreed and went about my way. Along my way, I stopped to play hacky sack with a group of people. One man was wearing overalls. Nothing underneath. I had never seen a man's package before. I carried on. Went to the bathroom. Came back to center stage. My sister and her man, bewildered, eyes open with surprise, asked, "how did you make it back?!" There were about 40,000 people in the amphitheater, and crammed pack. I memorized the pattern of blankets people had laid on the floor.

That night, after we had some communal camping dinner, we were walking back to our tent and my sister was singing and skipping and taunting some geese nested near the lake's edge. She ran, face first, into a tree and rolled down a hill. We all thought it was the funniest thing in the world. Years later, I found out it was because she was on acid.

When the show wrapped, we were about to head out on our long journey home. We looked for our fourth passenger. He wasn't where he had said he was to be. We left him. We got back to Topanga, CA, to the local market. He was standing in front of the store shooting the shit with some other locals. He had hitchhiked the entire way home and made it back before us.

***this is an excerpt from my life. i haven't decided if my anecdotes are really worth sharing, but this is the first one. so, yeah.

This is a shot from inside the pick-up looking out at me in the bed of the truck.

Caturday

shaved cats are hilarious

Dead Meadow

Imaad Wasif is their support act for this tour. His drummer is amazing.







Dead Meadow put on a stellar performance, despite Urban Lounge being absurdly loud. Once I was behind the speakers, life was golden.

Modern Dinosaur: II

Sorry, but he's just so interesting to watch. I can stare at him all day, just preening. And, he's the perfect subject to learn how to become accustomed to manually focusing my camera.

Snowtime Anytime It's Alright

There's nothing, NOTHING, more ethereal, more soul-satisfying, than a completely quiet, still, white, night.

Vintage Photo Contest: Fuck 'em All

So, there have been a slew of "vintage photo" contests out there: the sartorialist and UO, to name a few. Well, my aunt went to prom with Tom Selleck. Try and beat that. I bet my aunt Marsha was too much for good ol' boy Tom to handle.

Madonna - She's a Dick

You know, just what a little Tuesday needs.

Dark Crystal

I had my eyes dilated today, for the first time today. What the fuzz. . . Freaky shit. I'm wearing sunglasses as I type this because the brightness of the screen hurts my eyeballs. And, I don't have glaucoma; all this mess for nothing.

Going to Dead Meadow tonight, at least it will be dark.

Curtis Jensen, Eagle Twin, Scott Carrier

This lot performed at Ken Sanders Rare Books on Saturday. Curtis read some poems, Scott told a compelling Elizabeth Smart story, and Eagle Twin did what they do best - blew books off the shelves. Then it was off for pizza and a party. And then a drunken last photo with Annie.