momentarily a 'fashion' blog

blame the returning onset of cold (which resumed after a couple days of fleeting freshness & plus six spring weather) blame the onset of boredom, which set in surprisingly quickly after a lover retired once again to france, blame the consistency of 'fashion blogging' and its influence, legitimate or otherwise... but I am sort of proud of both of these, which I made today. if anyone wants an illegitimate 'keep it real' shirt, or bat-winged plaid, you know who to talk to....

undoubtedly spiraling into mac photo booth loser territory, loco.

mes compliments,

he approached her, bug eyes protruding from thick frames. asking her to strike up a conversation she didn’t want. he gave her a compliment. she refused. and, with bug eyes turning quickly from lust to spite, he demanded what sort of person rejects a compliment? - she was a wicked one.

she, thoughout this, was without answer; this she told him in a foreign tongue.

in the forefront of her mind, however, many answers desired a leap to her mouth, though she bit the inside of her cheek, thinking it no use to provoke a bug-eyed strange.

he continued, though. on and on and on. in foreign tongue: she, the temptress, the snubber of compliments, should be shamed. he, a kind stranger, should punish her cruelty.

they separated. she detaching herself with the speed in which they met.

but

a lingering, acute sensation of penetrating bug eyes followed on her tour. in a calculated unison, around corners and isles, out doors, down blocks, into the night, fifteen-or-so paces behind in a silent menacing stare; she could feel the unblinking bug-eyes on her back.

but

she, being the faster one, climbed up the hill in wide strides. away away away.

wondering, only, what kind of a person rejects a compliment?

com. creep

with the permission of a woman whose apt wit, psychic eyes and perchance to becoming a loud-but-loving party animal, I did it. following years of dick giving me the verbal nudge to join, of temptation to snoop, of wondering what so&so is up to or the events & company that are missed, I finally took a gander. Sucked into the void, (person after person, picture after picture) it dawned on me that I had done none of the things on the ever-growing things-to-do-before-2nd-semester list and I had basically lost an hour of my life because I am a creeeeep. not a very good feeling. so, despite satisfying a craving, it remains in stone: I will never, ever join facebook. ever.

they asked us at ckut why the dissociation with myspace and all things like it. I shied away from the answer lest be called hypocritical, but made the point that it was owned by fox and was thus the antichrist of democratic journalistic integrity. or something. the truth is that communication shouldn't be commodified.

& you know, it isn't even that, that isn't even the biggest beef (though it is up there); the issue is time. how many hours can be dedicated to creating, preserving, and creeping on such social networks? on maintaining the illusion of status or sociability? of uploading your life? of staying current? of signifying? & you know, I am not trying to be an elitist here. it is equally pathetic that a myspace account can be traced back to my name (operating for the sole reason of craving the brilliance of one mr. rob vilar from time to time, who makes me feel inspired and with purpose.) & you know, there are a good many people (whom I love, admire and respect incredibly) who follow their own sets of facebook rituals each day & good for them. & you know, maybe it is unique that a person can fall off the face of the earth with their clan, but feel just fine the next time they visit. perhaps it is old fashioned to enjoy a letter in the mail, an unexpected phone call, a random drop-in, a knock on a door. maybe it is because all these gestures are physical, as opposed to technological.
--- --- --- pause.


It is nearly 2009 and so am deleting 2007 from my intensive, collective, photo memory. I am going to commit them, little by little, to the blogosphere where they may live forever. Here are a couple faves (pt1) before they go:








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loco

lay the tracks

I forgot to share these gems from expozine:
JP KING did them well
& I uploaded another one on the manstream
(which I expect certain lady bike enthusiasts will enjoy)



I have been decadent in my purchasing of art, lately. It is even better traded, though. even best when it is given. many ideas of collective magic have been bubbling all around me. starting with neil young, turning wide eyed and full of questions, to zine making on the corridor (if we don't eat our hats (we won't)), to moustache building, to CKUT, to things that are not schoolwork. to things that are mine.



it feels good and productive, but siphoning energy away from where it should be in these final days, hours, minutes, marks. I feel good, but I'm OVER a first term, thanks. it was wonderful but I want it done. I want to enjoy capote and my own musings. The institution doesn't have an everlasting hold on me, I have discovered, but still cannot wait for a school chomage second semester. but FIRST! can news be objective? has it ever been? what factors conspire against it? these are the questions laid out before me and which i must pay particular attention to in the coming days. I have sat on this issue for awhile, reviewed the facts, and am happy to report that the academics agree with me: it is an idealized, elevated, impossible practice for a person to be entirely objective about anything - ESPECIALLY MEDIA - now if all the conglomerates tumble we can start over as citizen journalists on the internet and if everyone will admit their biases we could go back to a revolutionary press once again! independence!
in obvious conclusion, media power in limited hands doesn't serve anyone who doesn't have an agenda or a finger in the pie. long live the internet, the high-tech throwback print press of 1608 today! at our fingertips! limitless! but I should really quit wasting time & get on with it. nobody marks a blog and CERTAINLY no one pays for its maintenance. not yet.

well, actually today I marked this , which nullifies the previous sentiment because I would certainly pay this person to keep posting. & it reminded me of you, cbass. right up the alley. enjoy.

the third eye opens, loco

reverie.

this is a lovely hand-print from nadia moss :

I will preface this post in saying I hardly ever dream.
& when I do dream it doesn’t feel like a dream at all.

somewhere in the ether of consciousness, I know that what is happening is little more than a series of semiotics trying to deliver messages liberated from emotion. delivery is a good starting point (or ending point rather) to describe what happened to me in my sleep last night, as I distinctly recall touching swollen breasts & belly & hips with an understanding that the life living inside of me wasn’t life at all. labour is actually the conclusion. the finality. the end.









((in addendum, this is what the internet told me: to dream that you are pregnant symbolizes an aspect of yourself or your personal life that is growing and developing; a new idea, direction, project or goal.... ))