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