amnesiac

radiohead works for me when I feel lonely in an indescribable way
- it succeeds in allowing me to dwell in some sort of sadness without delving in too deep. I enjoy using it for a most superficial sort of histrionic mourning. That's not to say it fails to deliver more thoughtful moments... c'est un undercover lover

signs are popping up everywhere lately, reiterating the things I already know i need to make happen
- the sheer frequency is enough to scare a gal. Enough already, universe!! (just kidding, it needs to be rubbed in, I'm a stubborn/dense gal)

hurdling romance

I can't believe I haven't written out one of those cliche, sitcom-character-style lists. The lists where you jot down all of the horrible qualities that your last dude had (i.e. he doesn't live in this country for most months; or, is a soulless narcissist). It should actually be required in order for girls to preserve their sanity in these trying cold winter months which mandate baggage-less clarity as a necessity if only just to have a warm soul in your bed for a few nights.

thoughts 12.24

I could really go for a cupcake right now
- and always.
My underlying need for perfection scares me
- Especially when it begins to affect those i care deeply about. The fact that it has flared up enormously since I've been home makes me realize it stems from something here.
Airports are full of attractive people
- And also full of humans I wish I never knew existed. Like the ones who let their children run rampant screaming. Or the grown adults who stand up and actually cough right over me without so much as a head turn or mouth cover. Better yet, the parents who play video games leaving their children to play with "old school" legos. These species scare me. Like in a Im-scared-for-the-future way.

thoughts 12.23

I'm surprised when movie stars are subtly thought provoking while off screen
- When a woman can possess that much physical beauty without triggering the most insecure parts of us, she is made up of good ole fashioned grace.
I often feel guilty like a junky might
- after taking hits from articles of my past. memories, physical notes, journals, and ticket stubs keep me up at night, and keep me away from my present.
Facebook is boring
- i vote for a move away from the overtly "social" on the web. Strangely I read an article by ashton kutcher about romance and technology, where he wrote a pretty uninteresting rant about how romance was dead but then again it sort of isn't because texting creates a whole new game people play, blah blah. My conclusion: I need to pick up the phone more often, because texting sucks.

fate and being alive and letting things happen. the string theory and being a coward.

thoughts 12.22

I really hate being last in line.
- Even if its just at a cafe. something about it makes me feel like i'm late to the party, a follower or something. i can't explain this feeling
I realize that i don't play the know-it-all very well.
- My sass is best doled out in small bursts in sober-ish environs. Under the influence of mind altering substances i tend to enjoy dwelling on a "gasp-worthy" opinion, without the devices to back it up. At these times I probably look blonde.
A ton of people spit cliches all day long
- If you describe your boyfriend as "incredibly supportive" as his most important trait, i will assume you are very boring and wear slacks.
2011 looks way more futuristic than 2010
- In other news, I realized that I will quite possibly live to see year 2050, and that I turn 30 in 2015.
Another one of my high school friends is getting married
- This makes 4 out of my 7 close friends. I take this to mean that I will remain alone forever, or that I should denounce my Texan roots because Texans girls get married in their 20s

limit to your love

JAMES BLAKE - LIMIT TO YOUR LOVE from martin de thurah on Vimeo.

James Blake's feist cover is super beautiful and a little creepy, and the vid is a nice companion. can't wait to hear more dubby goodness from this guy.

i guess ive given up any hopes of remaining anonymous here, so i'm just going to go for it.
ive been scouring old sketchbooks and computers all day, basking in the warm-and-fuzzy that comes with collegetime memories.


[2005, texere loft roof]

the grid, vol. 3

1- victor rodriguez, realist painter
2- witch hazel
3- creepy old nursery rhyme lithos
4- cat people
5- vintage gwyneth ( i feel sure ive done this one before )
6- paper margiela (www.jakandjil.com)
7- Kanye's My Beautiful Dark Twisted Fantasy (and being a closet popmusic addict)
8- breath
9- a warm bed on a cold morning
10- dancing in brooklyn under the glow of laser strobe lights
11- scripty tattoo fantasies
12- ethan hawke circa reality bites reciting gregory corso
13- believing in our innate intuition
14- dirty french messages
15- binging on books
16- johnny depp's 'stuff' a short film touring john frusciante's destroyed hollywood hills home (see it here: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aAJFgSz5TXY)

new york

time to catch up was so necessary. i saw old faces and within moments they felt as warm and dear as ever - instant good times.

Just me, an empty chair, a glass of malbec and a bunch of people twice my age.

like magick

these are the songs that can surely get me out of a funk. eerily intense, i feel at once small and adequate, and most of all like they're my little secrets.



now ill (illegally) give them to you.
John Frusciante - Untitled #6
The Doors - When the Music's Over

is mercury in retrograde?

i can't communicate for shit.

like a shotgun needs an outcome

i love lykke li's evolved look.

let me be your one light

we are fickle beings.
i realize that sometimes i ask alot of you. probably too much, more than anyone should require.




Kendal Johansson - Blue Moon (Big Star Cover)

this image represents everything that I love about what i'm working on, and also every bit of apprehension and flash of failure that feels stuck in my eyes like a fuzz i can't get out.

but boy was it great seeing it on the printed page.

also im ready to love, or maybe just like, a man again. when it rains it pours, and my gut knows that quite well.

Matthew Dear - You Put A Smell On Me

bright like neon love

marni resort 2011

hallucination, stat.

live drawings, laughing faces, bombs, apocalypse, and fish tanks. make me normal again.

In what most might consider his piece de resistance, "Under the Bridge", Anthony Kiedis wrote "sometimes I feel like my only friend is the city i live in". His words haven't rung more true as I entered my city, his city, feeling the kind of depression that one feels after returning to a new home after leaving an old one, one filled with family and history that still doesn't outweigh the 7 or so years I've spent here in Los Angeles.

I feel lost and allergic to my surroundings, unfulfilled by my job, enlightened by my books, and distaste towards those I consider my friends. A general feeling of malaise overcomes me hourly as I struggle to remain focused and inspired in the way I feel when I listen to Kiedis' lyrics or Huxley's words. There's plenty around me to snap me out of it, and it just almost works until I slip back again.

If Los Angeles is my only friend, why can't she show my what she's made of? Why is it so hard for me to simply snap out of it? The perfume in the air is enough to send me into a rage of anger, of bitter feelings.

beauty

photo by sam taylor-wood
i love her

unstable

the boswell sisters

Endless, nameless

"today was a good day." yes it was. Despite my lingering feelings of general indifference mixed with a dash of inadequacy tonight was carefree, good ole fashioned fun times with people I heart. It felt nice to be in a place I'd normally never go dancing on tables drinking only energy drinks and smiling the big kind of smiles that seem to have become rare on my face.

Dipping low and having ice fights in front of a very cute Jack osbourne was innocent and refreshing and I just didn't give a shit and I will not apologize for it. I'll knock into you and dance around you and put my arms in the air without apology while I command my corner. So don't bring me down, say it was weird or feel shitty that your boyfriend wasn't there because dude, that is life and that is why I live in this fine city.

Alone. Xo

the difficult hazardous poetic way

Sitting here, absorbed in myself, its easy to lose track. Time spent with my eyelashes in the pages of books, nose in gin and tonics, and eyes towards the ground to avoid bumps and shit piles of real interaction, its easy to forget, to realize what my selfish actions say to everyone around me.

If at best, I feel present a month later, a half-year later, maybe more, when will I realize how those sideline relationships have changed? Will I wake up and realize that your best friend might not be so anymore, because I can't remember the last time we spoke on the phone? Or to suddenly see that I've unfficially been excluded from a group I once considered close, to be a true outsider, because I had my own shit and felt it would be a burden to catch them up. It sort of sucks, because it's not like I can ever catch up when its been that long, like you can swing a last minute flight to vegas to participate. The next time, their inside jokes will flow, and lost, I'll pretend to laugh while feeling inadequate and clueless and bitter all at the same time.

But it's worth it right? All we have is our "Self" and our "gods" and our crystals and our feelings and knowledge and egos. Sometimes these things seem to project our worth in inflated terms; our stock rises as self-consciousness flies out the window. Sweet witty acquaintances reach out to tell their secrets because they felt you'd care. Admirers from afar keep quiet until they reach your city, bombarding you with feelings they've been repressing for months, existing in the ether while you strut up and down streets, pick your nose and read yet another rock biography.

To be truly present seems something that can only be learned through experience. All I can gather is that if one acts instantly, the present will come more naturally. Sans procrastination, everything can be revealed.

it feels less infinite

It's just become June and like some frilly little child of 10 my stomach did a miniature flip because it means that in just one day I'll be a year older. I don't even like birthdays, in fact I dread them but for some reason when the clock struck twelve, I just knew. It is now my month. My beautiful summery, one-year-older, attention-dodging month. The other months slide by under my radar, like any other day, oh its march? Fancy that. But June holds a special place for contemplation, inevitable ick thoughts and the inventory of the past 365.

What's strange is that I cannot for the life of me remember how I spent my last birthday. I can remember various friends 23rds and 24ths and 25ths, but I'm sitting here drawing a blank on my own. It's strange, thinking back on a year of your life. Your short life, long life however you view it, and trying to realize what you've accomplished what you fucked up, what brought you joy. The laughs, the down-and-outs and the gasp stories accumulated over the year.

I've hardly lost any friends, kept a job (touch wood) and felt passionate and a little bit more whole. but what does it matter when I can't remember the very moment of turning 24. I can assure myself that this year I'll remember, I'll clink glasses with my gals and guys and can only hope that champagne will be involved. But will I remember this one? WIll I forget like its a just a page in some novel, forgettable like a poorly written page of a great book?

When you're getting older, is it still okay to focus on the birthdays? Just like anniversaries, are they truly important? If I refuse to admit to having a boyfriend, refuse to celebrate a monthly anniversary, much less a relationship with the idea that every moment should be spent celebrating a bond or a life or a kiss and everything, what makes my birthday any different? Photos will be taken cette an.

Record Club: INXS "Mediate" from Beck Hansen on Vimeo.

im in the corner, watching you kiss her

i would have "retumbled" this if i used tumblr.

"Wandering Tumblrville, I’ve seen a lot of digital bumper stickers: sage observations and inspirational phrases rendered artistically. College students seem to be using Tumblr as a corkboard, a place to tack these up.

I am not disparaging this practice. I just wonder how helpful a phrase can be when it isn’t in your face all day. As Tumbls accumulate, the sis-boom-bah advice will slip behind the footage of cats playing theremins."

- sasha frere jones

is a genius.

from http://sashafrerejones.tumblr.com/post/580572864/wandering-tumblrville-ive-seen-a-lot-of-digital



i prefer chalkboards or my hand because some things need to be in your face all of the time. especially personal mantras.

from marilyn manson "i believe in dreams, i believe that every night on the planet everything that is, was and can be is dreamt. i believe that what happens in dreams is no different and no less important than what happens int he waking world. i believe that dreams are the closest equivalent presentday mankind has to time travel. i believe you can visit your past, present and future in dreams. i believe i've dreamt half of my life that hasn't happened yet. i dont believe in chance, accidents, or coincidences. i believe in the Delusional Self, which is to say that I believe tha thte things I talk and think about change the world around me and result in events that appear to be coincidental."

marry me?

the gün clüb

the thing is, i think id prefer a man who i believe to be the type that would cheat.

the cool crowd (pt 2)

ummm yeah

yum.
i want a big ole lusty crush in my life.

tony ward in WAD mag

all of my faves

summer will be great.

i left and came back a rockstar

beyond

how exciting, i want to do this i want to get better i want to make it my everyday!!!
now to figure out how!

the nausea

i feel defined by that song, the one we talked about. not because of you or because of me or because of james murphy or anyone in particular, but because it all happened so quickly, its all I have to hang onto. That song has sucked up the night like I might slurp up the last sip of a glass of crisp white wine while sitting at a table of people I don't want to be with; swiftly but subtly signifying the end of that moment.

Listening fills me with a desperate emptiness, a yearning to figure out what the fuck happened. I feel excited to have experienced passion, but why did it have to be with him? the amazing catastrophe. And I don't have the guts to decide what to do. My fate is being drawn by the simultaneous refusal of thought and care of thought, and by my inability to come to any conclusion on how I feel besides the simple path of dwelling in it, treasuring it, smelling it and listening to the feelings.

i feel weak for changing my mind so erratically, for being unable to create a clear direction.

let me have my cake and eat it too

Cake from FLY 16x9

"From a historical standpoint it probably will look like the troubadour period of France. I'm sure it will look incredibly romantic. I think we're going to look very good to future people, because so many changes are taking place and we're really handling it with a flair." - Jim Morrison

patterns

my life became a series of patterns.

everyday I awoke at approximately 7 am, maybe earlier, maybe later, depending on the level of drunk I allowed myself to get the night before paired with the hour at which my mind stopped racing, usually around 2 to 3 am.

I walked to my car, where 1 in 5 days I would find a parking ticket tucked neatly under my windshield wiper. 20 percent of the time I would get upset, twitter some nonsensical gibberish about how my day had started wrong, and how I intended to either dwell or improve it. The rest of the time I'd simply toss the red and white envelope on my passenger seat, silently concocting ways to contest, looking for loopholes in the system that systematically stole hundreds of dollars a month from my dwindling bank account.

I'd crank my music up too loud for anyone's ears at 8 in the morning, shuffle to find the CD of my most recent rockstar crush; Red Hot Chili Peppers, the Doors, Marilyn Manson or perhaps Nirvana. Kurt Cobain, Jim Morrison Anthony Kiedis served as my sonic boyfriend, my date for the ride to work in Hollywood from my dingy downtown adobe.

I'd work for 8-10 hours that day, 1/4 of which was spent scrolling through my google reader, following their blogs, reading their thoughts, looking at their pictures.

Who were they? Their photos littered my desktop. My huge iMac was a conglomeration of them and me.
They were models, photographers, writers, magazine editors, musicians, DJs, girls-about-town, 13 year old fashionistas, ex-boyfriends, and friends. They were idiots, enfants terribles, insightful beautiful somebodies. They possessed something I didn't, and I worshipped them for it.

They wrote better than me, took photos that were expertly composed, they had evolved taste in furniture, more money, better skin, a solid haircut, cooler friends, and charisma that charmed me through my glass screen.

once it becomes public, i dont want it anymore.

its important to keep these things to myself.

teen dreams

The importance of doing things for me has become apparent in recent moments of contemplation. i don't know if i'd call myself a selfish person, but yes, a flake maybe. there are a few people i allow into my everyday life for which i will put selfishness aside, and flakey-ness becomes a non issue. i bring this up because my desire to become a full on hermit has been flaring up recently, threatening to blow up into a full fledged research phase.

my thirst for inspiration and for "knowledge" in the form of learning of other's experience, of their intellectual paths and sources has become almost unbearable as there is just too much to cover. i have begun to think it is almost unconquerable in fact, that if i spent every waking non-working moment reading all that I put on my plate, it would still not get done in the capacity i want it to get done in. if i could listen to every album that is sent to me, or that i have downloaded on a whim. If i could devote a day to listening to the first Doors album, or the new Beach House album (conquering as this post is being written - it's gorgeous) I could perhaps be the person I want to be, I could perhaps skim the surface of the long road to enlightenment I feel so close to beginning.

I visited Dallas for a few days, with the intent to travel to Austin for SXSW, a festival I have yet to conquer. Lack of planning on my part made a hotel reservation impossible, and I was lucky enough to stay with a friend for one night allowing me just 24 hours in the city of music. Experiences like those, in a city unfamiliar with so much potential sitting within grasp, just a hop skip and a jump away is exhilarating, and these types of trips always leave me wondering why I don't treat my own dear city of Los Angeles in the same way. There is always something to do, often too many things to choose from, but in Austin, with the tangible end in sight, everything becomes possible.

We smoked a self-rolled joint on a stoop in downtown Austin, proceeded to visit a shanty-town of bands and groupies standing in defined groups, all unapproachable to us, our cold feet dirtied with dusty grime. By chance we ran into some friends from LA, we were all introduced and discussed the importance of "never letting them know you know who they are" and being proud and tipsy and high on life. By chance we ran after a van stuck in traffic and hopped in, to make new friends in the back seat. Pipes and beers were passed around like business cards, acquainting us with each other in the best of ways. It felt meant to be, as the driver played solid 60s and 70s rock including the Doors, my current personal favorite, and it just was. It was life, and the way it is supposed to be.

I left the next day stumbling upon snow in Dallas in March, unfamiliar cold temperatures and cold meetings with parents who I don't identify with anymore. Inane questions and rich food and general uncomfortable situations made me wonder if I could hermit myself away from my own family. Perhaps its a sick thought, but yes I am still a vegetarian, and no, just because you got me a meat sandwich, I will not eat it!

Exhausted mentally I escaped to my favorite used bookstore to further my studies. The "dark nights of the soul" were plentiful, and finally, I was back on a plane to los angeles, only to feel an even darker night of the soul, But these nights are a part pf feeling change. I opened my mailbox upon arrival to find my first published article, and felt proud for just a moment, but who to share it with? I didn't really miss anyone in LA while I was away.

Time to find my Laurel Canyon abode. Time to read my books and to develop my photos and to make my lists of Jim Morrison inspired reading. To try to absorb as much as I can, for I might rather be a jack of all trades and a master of none if it means I can absorb and put things down on paper. To be well spoken while doing it.


my favorite of artists from SXSW, Washed Out, in a steamy club on sixth street, this song is great
Washed Out - Feel It All Around
xoxo

i met you

I am playing catchup.
I spend my days in the present and my nights cultivating my innate curious connection to the past.

I see myself in the groupies, sweet talking my way into the first Byrds show at the Troubadour. I feel the dissatisfaction in Jim Morrison's blood, his poetry pumps through my veins. I want to pick up his copy of William Blake's The Marriage of Heaven and Hell to thumb the pages he dogeared. His footnotes would spur a great debate between us, because how does one break down the doors of perception?

I sit in a Panton chair next to Timothy Leary as we take LSD and live to analyze his mental state while under the influence. He would tell me all about his trip and I'd lay back and put myself in his shoes, interpreting his rants. I sit smiling up in the Hollywood Hills on a couch next to Rick Rubin listening to Flea tune his bass and John would tell me why we are all fucking delusional. Marilyn Manson would sell me on Satanism and I might lend him my copy of Nietzsche's Genealogy of Morals.

I want to disappear here with Bret Easton Ellis, to experience existential crisis with John Fowles, and to shoot the shit with Charles Bukowski.

I want to be them, I want to be with them. I want to be their confidants and for them to show me their secret Los Angeles. To take me to shows or to recite poetry on the fly with. I want to slow dance on their persian rugs.

Nietzsche wrote "Present experience has, I am afraid, always found us 'absent minded': we cannot give our hearts to it - not even our ears!" ... "So we are necessarily strangers to ourselves, we do not comprehend ourselves, we have to misunderstand ourselves, for us the law 'Each is furthest from himself' applies to all eternity - we are not 'men of knowledge' with respect to ourselves."
(from on the genealogy of morals)

Their past has become my present. They are all my philosophers, and each one offers a page in my Basic Writings.

Beach House - Real Love

blue

yup,

published.

NO magazine #9, so so so excited.

the colors!

marni a/w10

be who you are

fionaapple

the perfect level of angst for my thriteen year old self.

thewallflowers

soundgardensmashingpumpkinsradioheadholenirvanapavementstonetemplepilots

come on and get your overdose

i was a freewheelin' Miss P with the optimism of Oscar, leaving responsibility to live a little. We, dressed in our modern day lace and crochet filled to the brim with the finest karma traveled down to my whiskey a go-go to sweet talk the Henry-est of Chinaskis.

Armed with gifts of marlboro reds and personalized mints he accepted andthanked us as if we had handed him a hundred dollar bill and a bag of diamonds. "These were expensive", he said as he bashfully slicked back his already greased mop. He had a kind toughness to him, he would have looked like elvis when he was younger and would always pull a lady's chair out. It began to rain but instead of feeling phony I felt inspired like it was really about to happen.

You can tell a true gentleman by how he holds an umbrella, and that Holden on the curb surely was not one. As we hid beneath a loosely knit awning of our own creation the rain poured over us washing off the cynicism and egos leaving only the great elan of a child. our good deeds rewarded us and poof we were in.

after decades of waiting and reapplying lipstick and margot-like stares, they took the stage, and I was captured in the visuals of geometric molecules and particles zapping across the faces of the fine musicians i was lucky enough to be in the presence of. An hour reduced down to a thick rue of sensory satisfaction, he spoke right to me, and i understood him for just a moment. i left with a body high and the optimism of Charlie in the haze of a stoner.

Its nice to know that some chains of events feel truly fated. Maybe it's that we can control our destiny with a little effort.