lead-foot,
bottomless-pit,
drunk-dialer,
chain-smoker,
clothes-horse,

i want my cup filled,
i want my heart punched,
and my ears drowned in music.

i want to talk to you,
i want that book to read,
and just another hour away from home.

snort it sip it puff it touch it,
call me touch me text me love me.

what am i looking for

a "star birth". how radical.
from NASA

where are you

Feeling Fucked Up
by Etheridge Knight

Lord she’s gone done left me done packed / up and split
and I with no way to make her
come back and everywhere the world is bare
bright bone white crystal sand glistens
dope death dead dying and jiving drove
her away made her take her laughter and her smiles
and her softness and her midnight sighs—

Fuck Coltrane and music and clouds drifting in the sky
fuck the sea and trees and the sky and birds
and alligators and all the animals that roam the earth
fuck marx and mao fuck fidel and nkrumah and
democracy and communism fuck smack and pot
and red ripe tomatoes fuck joseph fuck mary fuck
god jesus and all the disciples fuck fanon nixon
and malcolm fuck the revolution fuck freedom fuck
the whole muthafucking thing
all i want now is my woman back
so my soul can sing

I start by saying, I don't feel sorry for myself. And I don't feel sorry for you.

I feel sorry that I can't reconcile this. That I can come to terms with almost everything in my life except for this. I can reunite with everyone else, I can think, with a clear head about my next steps, about my hopes and my desires. That I can make friends and keep them. That I can try something different and that I can be alone.

But I cannot close this. I cannot speak to anyone the same way, feel comfortable with anyone else the same way. I cannot stop thinking about it, and cannot understand why it was the only thing that made me feel real, and outside of myself. That besides then, I have not once in my life felt unselfishly sad. A type of sad that has yet to exist inside of me again, one that hit me so deeply inside of my heart that it could not escape me. Instead it sat in the pit of my stomach replacing food, replacing reality. My literal hunger was replaced with a driven, sad calm.

There are many things to be said.

song for me

I bought the album as if I had a record player to play it on. As if there were no distractions.

I put it in my stereo, put my headphones on, laid back with my arms up on the couch, and closed my eyes, listening. I was taking myself back to a time. Back to a time where I would never live, to a place where I had a pile of carpets and maybe even a fireplace. A place where I would lay on the floor on a pile of pillows. (They would have tassles on all four corners) And I would lay alone, my only goal to listen to the Byrds or to Gram Parsons all night long. Eyes still closed I would imagine the times I had read about them in the paper, or perhaps even met them. Satisfaction and happiness would wash over me, for I appreciated every strum, note, and lyric. And every letter that streamed out was spoken only to me, entering my ears, down my throat and into my stomach, sitting there digesting, sending the blood up into my heart. Simplicity at its most fulfilling.

My mind wanders between now and then, between the past that was never my past, and the present that isn't really my present either. But for now, the sound makes it start to feel like it is.

"So take me down to your dance floor / And I won´t mind the people when they stare / Paint a different color on your front door / And tomorrow we will still be there"

apparently i'm late to the game on watching this, but i'm re-in-love with this song. the video is just perfect and complements the song, highlighting the bits and pieces that add up to make it so great.

Chris Bell - I am the Cosmos

Pete Yorn and Scarlett Johansson - I am the cosmos

the massage

Someone often told me, "if it works, its obsolete".

Few wise words have be drilled into me as much as those McLuhans, and they come to mind at this moment as I feel so utterly out of whack, so out of touch with all of the things that I'm feeling. I realize that I have chosen to be borderline content. To forgo wracking my brain to get to the root of it, choosing instead to blissfully huff along. I have taken to distracting myself with shiny objects, home projects and planned trips out of this repetitive city.

There are interesting new people, there are places to go, and maps to route out, but I feel no desire to experience them. I'd rather sit with my semi-sibs watching food network til 4am salivating over the corn paella and sea urchin flan than hit up that same-ole party. I might like that bartender, but I'll just wave as I walk up to my apartment while he tries to mouth something to me through the window.

I'm more content with being alone again. Sometimes it's almost too much effort to invest in these places and these restaurants and these jobs. My apartment never says the wrong thing or bugs me; the streets of downtown never get tired or stump me with awkward silence, and my own company rarely causes me anxiety.

Alas, I also realize that my apartment doesn't make me laugh, and the streets of downtown certainly do not teach me about mind control or space conspiracy and will not be around to try to figure out vanilla sky with me.

I need the contact again. Not the live-in contact which eventually did become obsolete, but I need the friendship, the companionship, and the person to fucking talk it out with. I want it back.

part two.

On the second night, I left my zone again, traveling away from my downtown everyday, my job, my collection of tea and my organized dishes; I was leaving comfortable for the canyon. Upon my arrival I was greeted with hugs and waves and kisses, all from one new friend and was led to a bungalow covered in vines and through one of those beautiful doors. The kind that hardly has a lock, dark forest green wood with window panes and a tiny doorknob. The room was filled with candle light and the smell of sage, the walls lined with books.

I sat down in front of a man with a young face, and old, eyeliner-rimmed eyes filled with jaded experience. He wore a thousand bracelets, and twice as many necklaces. I later noticed two long dreadlocks flopping down his back, as long as an old mans beard and then some. He was to be our tour guide for the night, telling stories over countless cigarettes and swigs of Jim Beam whiskey. I wondered briefly if I was back in the 60s Laurel Canyon, talking about the kind of life things I have yet to experience and astrology and our bodies. I was in the company of some of those educated types who don't have it together, the ones who get evicted, who subsist on whiskey and coke, and who look back on their past successes and failures with seemingly no regret and only stories that beg to be passed on. The kind of men who love women, and while maybe trying to sleep with you, they back off upon hearing you're "someone else's girl" for that night.

I struggled early on in the night as an outsider, wondering why I was there, why these characters were accepting me into their fucked up world, telling me the most intimate details of their lives all the while complementing me and touching my hair and asking nothing in return. i soon let it all go and gave in to the night.

I was in a foreign country, and I loved every uncomfortable minute.

I want to write about tonight specifically because it was just so generally blasé. Neither good nor bad I felt both inside and outside of the scene. For once I was fairly impressed with the sartorial choices that LA brought to this particular party, and I was met with familiar gorgeous faces with whom I conversed, though briefly, amongst the aural goodness that Busy P, Sebastian Tellier and crew brought to the table.

Perhaps its a sign, a sign that I have overcome L.A. That I have taken all I need from it. Because, I know the people there that I want to know, I danced with the best of them, and even recruited some to the blue screen dance floor up on the 8th floor Roosevelt room sanctioned off for an upcoming exhibition.

A lovely Brit who reminded me of a friend I still hold dear brought it into a strange perspective.

Why was this night not "cool"? Why am I so unsatisfied? It's fucking LA for godsakes, and I am surrounded by actual INTERESTING people! Not the kind who feign coolness - the kind who dress up in their finest Forever21 and Louboutins and pretend they are wearing CDG with said Louboutins! I mean, actual card carrying filmmakers who are working towards something.

Perhaps my gin and tonics were not doing the trick, but for 13 bucks a pop I need them to offer me some hazy goodness!
Alas, LA, you might be slipping from my grips. My current craziness and unhappiness might be in reaction to you. A trip is in order, and dear blog you will be the first to hear about it. Relocation '10.

on a lovelier note. j'adore les FENDI stripper shoes:

I want to be adopted.

No, not like that. I'm good with my parents, love the sibs, etc etc. I want to be adopted by a man. If anything, when it comes to me and the opposite sex, I claim to be independent, a loner, a pre-spinster-aged spinster. I live alone, I work alone, and generally, I feel safe alone. But lately I feel very different.

I miss my old friend. I miss having a local partner in crime. And I have finally come to terms with the idea that I want and need to be rescued.

I want you to see me walking alone on the street.
I want you to come up to me, to invite me to your friend's party.
I want you to tell me to stop by your store to see the new pieces you've designed or the film you're working on.
I want to be hugged and to be caught before I faint.
I want to be led blindly through this city, to new places with new people.
I want you to teach me things, tell me your favorite stories and touch my hair while doing it.
I want you to take my hand, and walk me down the steepest hill, looking up at me as I look down at the ground hoping not to slide and slip in my ballet slippers.
I want to be okay with the silence, but to fill it up with laughter when you joke.
Most of all, I want to feel loved, to feel important, and to be okay with you.

re⋅straint
-noun
1. a restraining action or influence: freedom from restraint.
2. Sometimes, restraints. a means of or device for restraining, as a harness for the body.
3. the act of restraining, holding back, controlling, or checking.
4. the state or fact of being restrained; deprivation of liberty; confinement.
5. constraint or reserve in feelings, behavior, etc.

like a leather jacket that would last 50 years

this is too much.

"I enjoy inventing things out of fun. After all, life is a game, not a career" - Brion Gysin

until i figure that whole thing out