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.