slow motion crawl

2009-03-25T16:36:00.001-07:00

moving this to TUMBLR
http://tulletulle.tumblr.com
see you there <3

2009-03-25T15:40:00.001-07:00

link

2009-03-24T19:41:00.001-07:00

click
here
and
here

2009-03-24T18:51:00.000-07:00

link

2009-03-23T18:43:00.001-07:00

2009-03-23T18:30:00.000-07:00

2009-03-22T20:19:00.000-07:00

old pictures of vivienne westwood
style.com

2009-03-21T11:42:00.000-07:00

..

2009-03-19T18:17:00.000-07:00

going through the hundreds of hedi slimane photos i have saved for a post on the other blog
this is not even half of it

2009-03-19T17:34:00.000-07:00

School is really just a part of my day I get out of the way. It's the first part of every Mon, Tues, Wed, Thurs, and Fri. Then when I get home my day begins, and I start doing the stuff I ACTUALLY need to know for my future. School is not my main focus. It's..middle school. It shouldn't be.

one
two
three
four
(i know how to count though!)

2009-03-18T18:45:00.001-07:00

chicago gang cards from the 70s/80s

2009-03-18T18:40:00.001-07:00

jethro cave by hedi slimane
slimane website

2009-03-18T17:36:00.000-07:00

"Rumbling voice and nicotine knit sweaters containing soft breasts like dollar bills folded too many times. She would scrub my scalp with shampoo singing "I'm gonna wash that man right out of your hair, I'm gonna wash that man right out of your hair, and send him on his way..." in a lilting accented voice. Her bony fingers with too many rings hit my scalp and I would wince but not say anything while my sister cried from the soap in her eyes. Because I knew that she tried.
I knew about her colour-blind husband and his beard and his sparkling eyes. I noted the dust on his hands and his heavy, laced boots.
Dear M,
I remember you talked of taking me and my sister to see your house and I pictured a one-floor place with a fake swan on the lawn and pink bedding and a picture of Jesus somewhere. And the smell of bacon and cigarettes. It made me squirm. It was all too strange and yet I wanted it more than I let you know.
Dear M,
One day my mother sat me down on the stairs. The carpet was red and scratchy and witness to countless occasions of life-changing importance. It seems my family doesn't like to use rooms. I pulled at the carpet and remembered a time when I sat crying on the stairs while you whispered "There there my wee pet."
But, anyway:
She's going, mother said. Some relative of her husband has died and now he's an earl. They've inherited land back in Ireland.
All I could think of was castles.
And then we said good-bye but I never saw her leave. I imagined her in opaque sunglasses and a private jet, clinking glasses of life-affirming champagne. She looked like Grace Kelly in my dream and seemed like a hard polished diamond that I never had a chance to hold. She glimmered and sparkled and I wondered where she'd gone."

by maddy (i love her)

2009-03-18T17:32:00.000-07:00

john ryan solis

2009-03-17T19:24:00.000-07:00

I found this picture at the public timeline for twitter...it was someone's profile pic and it caught my eye so i clicked on it. Weird way to find a picture.
Reminds me of a book about a girl that crayons on herself. Forget what it's called. Read it a lot when I was little.
here

edit: i think it's mika! well there you go.

2009-03-16T17:23:00.001-07:00

click

2009-03-14T21:00:00.001-07:00

MUTO a wall-painted animation by BLU from blu on Vimeo.

!!!!!

2009-03-11T15:11:00.000-07:00

the best part of chanel.want!
style.com

2009-03-10T22:24:00.001-07:00

fly

2009-03-10T22:23:00.000-07:00

vini.t

2009-03-10T22:20:00.000-07:00

via resolutions

2009-03-10T22:19:00.000-07:00

I really didn't have much appreciation for Kate Moss til I read the style book about her.
And til I saw this picture.
(lolita)

2009-03-10T22:16:00.001-07:00

click

2009-03-09T20:31:00.001-07:00

2009-03-08T16:10:00.000-07:00

got you and that's all i need

2009-03-08T16:08:00.000-07:00

Yay!

2009-03-07T16:39:00.000-08:00

"algebra class today

this guy asked our sub to go to the nurse, saying 'i feel like im not here, but i am. you know what i mean?'"
ana

2009-03-04T19:22:00.000-08:00

I can't wait another day for the turntable. Then it'll be Positively 4th Street and Mississippi John Hurt allllll day.
In fact, if it comes tomorrow that'll only be like the best day ever since my fisheye film will be ready tomorrow too. It's my second roll. The first was an epic fail. Only one picture came out. And it was ugly D<

2009-03-04T19:20:00.000-08:00

I first loved Gorey in..I think it must've been 4th grade, maybe 5th.

2009-03-03T20:39:00.001-08:00

2009-03-02T20:12:00.000-08:00

2009-03-02T20:10:00.000-08:00

the best thing you'll ever do

2009-03-02T18:52:00.000-08:00

SIGN IT !
You know why.

2009-03-02T18:43:00.000-08:00

"AVAILABLE FOR IMMEDIATE DELIVERY."

I like the sound of that!
Since my dad is a dad is a dad is a dad he told me to look up the brand UO was selling to see if I could get it cheaper...this is the same kind except lighter and plays more kinds of records. It's cheaper but marked down from a price that was originally more than the UO one.
I bet later this week I'll find an even better model, like, lying on the street or something. But in mint condition. That's just my luck.
Time to make room for it-this damn computer is leaving my room this week and I'm glad. My friends think I'm crazy for wanting to get rid of it but it is distracting as hell to have it right next to where you do homework.

(if you want one so we can be ~twinz~~omg~)

3

2009-03-02T16:51:00.000-08:00

Brian Lichtenberg is a designer (he did RIP YSL and one with Balenciaga shoes on it, probably 2 my favorites from him). His house is in LA and very clean with just the right amount of clutter.

I need to distress my leather moto vest so it looks like this.

2

2009-03-02T16:37:00.000-08:00

This is Elisa Nalin. She is a stylist and shoe designer and owner of the best smile ever. Her house in paris is amazing and probably the one from The Selby I feel is most like me. This is because it is very messy! more photos here

what i want my room to look like: josh conner and lyz olko

2009-03-02T16:28:00.000-08:00

I'm going to make a bunch of posts with pictures from The Selby. Since I'm in the middle of kinda redoing my own room, whyyyyy not?

This is Josh and Lyz from Obesity & Speed. They are so cool and they make awesome clothes.

2009-03-02T07:26:00.000-08:00

I have realized I am kind of a hipster and I have come to terms with it. So I don't have a problem with myself for buying a turntable from UO (shut up)

2009-03-02T07:24:00.000-08:00

fffffffffffffffffffffound!!!!!!!!!!!!!

2009-02-28T19:48:00.000-08:00

1) krisatomic's illustrations
2. weheartit

2009-02-24T20:27:00.000-08:00

(lolitas.se)

2009-02-22T11:48:00.000-08:00

Turns out that awesome book is not for sale (darn)
It's actually not even really a book
Noriko Ambe made it for a really really epic exhibition
(check out more here, I want to have its babies)

2009-02-21T22:00:00.000-08:00

I need to find out where this book is from and I need to buy it.

I think it could bring hours upon hours of wonder.
thats a pretty nice haircut

2009-02-21T15:45:00.000-08:00

I think these would be very cool in dress form.

something to try?
via flickr

howl.

2009-02-20T21:43:00.000-08:00

                           I 

       I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by 
              madness, starving hysterical naked, 
       dragging themselves through the negro streets at dawn 
              looking for an angry fix, 
       angelheaded hipsters burning for the ancient heavenly 
              connection to the starry dynamo in the machin- 
              ery of night, 
       who poverty and tatters and hollow-eyed and high sat 
              up smoking in the supernatural darkness of 
              cold-water flats floating across the tops of cities 
              contemplating jazz, 
       who bared their brains to Heaven under the El and 
              saw Mohammedan angels staggering on tene- 
              ment roofs illuminated, 
       who passed through universities with radiant cool eyes 
              hallucinating Arkansas and Blake-light tragedy 
              among the scholars of war, 
       who were expelled from the academies for crazy & 
              publishing obscene odes on the windows of the 
              skull, 
       who cowered in unshaven rooms in underwear, burn- 
              ing their money in wastebaskets and listening 
              to the Terror through the wall, 
       who got busted in their pubic beards returning through 
              Laredo with a belt of marijuana for New York, 
       who ate fire in paint hotels or drank turpentine in 
              Paradise Alley, death, or purgatoried their 
              torsos night after night 
       with dreams, with drugs, with waking nightmares, al- 
              cohol and cock and endless balls, 
       incomparable blind; streets of shuddering cloud and 
              lightning in the mind leaping toward poles of 
              Canada & Paterson, illuminating all the mo- 
              tionless world of Time between, 
       Peyote solidities of halls, backyard green tree cemetery 
              dawns, wine drunkenness over the rooftops, 
              storefront boroughs of teahead joyride neon 
              blinking traffic light, sun and moon and tree 
              vibrations in the roaring winter dusks of Brook- 
              lyn, ashcan rantings and kind king light of mind, 
       who chained themselves to subways for the endless 
              ride from Battery to holy Bronx on benzedrine 
              until the noise of wheels and children brought 
              them down shuddering mouth-wracked and 
              battered bleak of brain all drained of brilliance 
              in the drear light of Zoo, 
       who sank all night in submarine light of Bickford's 
              floated out and sat through the stale beer after 
              noon in desolate Fugazzi's, listening to the crack 
              of doom on the hydrogen jukebox, 
       who talked continuously seventy hours from park to 
              pad to bar to Bellevue to museum to the Brook- 
              lyn Bridge, 
       lost battalion of platonic conversationalists jumping 
              down the stoops off fire escapes off windowsills 
              off Empire State out of the moon, 
       yacketayakking screaming vomiting whispering facts 
              and memories and anecdotes and eyeball kicks 
              and shocks of hospitals and jails and wars, 
       whole intellects disgorged in total recall for seven days 
              and nights with brilliant eyes, meat for the 
              Synagogue cast on the pavement, 
       who vanished into nowhere Zen New Jersey leaving a 
              trail of ambiguous picture postcards of Atlantic 
              City Hall, 
       suffering Eastern sweats and Tangerian bone-grind- 
              ings and migraines of China under junk-with- 
              drawal in Newark's bleak furnished room, 
       who wandered around and around at midnight in the 
              railroad yard wondering where to go, and went, 
              leaving no broken hearts, 
       who lit cigarettes in boxcars boxcars boxcars racketing 
              through snow toward lonesome farms in grand- 
              father night, 
       who studied Plotinus Poe St. John of the Cross telep- 
              athy and bop kabbalah because the cosmos in- 
              stinctively vibrated at their feet in Kansas, 
       who loned it through the streets of Idaho seeking vis- 
              ionary indian angels who were visionary indian 
              angels, 
       who thought they were only mad when Baltimore 
              gleamed in supernatural ecstasy, 
       who jumped in limousines with the Chinaman of Okla- 
              homa on the impulse of winter midnight street 
              light smalltown rain, 
       who lounged hungry and lonesome through Houston 
              seeking jazz or sex or soup, and followed the 
              brilliant Spaniard to converse about America 
              and Eternity, a hopeless task, and so took ship 
              to Africa, 
       who disappeared into the volcanoes of Mexico leaving 
              behind nothing but the shadow of dungarees 
              and the lava and ash of poetry scattered in fire 
              place Chicago, 
       who reappeared on the West Coast investigating the 
              F.B.I. in beards and shorts with big pacifist 
              eyes sexy in their dark skin passing out incom- 
              prehensible leaflets, 
       who burned cigarette holes in their arms protesting 
              the narcotic tobacco haze of Capitalism, 
       who distributed Supercommunist pamphlets in Union 
              Square weeping and undressing while the sirens 
              of Los Alamos wailed them down, and wailed 
              down Wall, and the Staten Island ferry also 
              wailed, 
       who broke down crying in white gymnasiums naked 
              and trembling before the machinery of other 
              skeletons, 
       who bit detectives in the neck and shrieked with delight 
              in policecars for committing no crime but their 
              own wild cooking pederasty and intoxication, 
       who howled on their knees in the subway and were 
              dragged off the roof waving genitals and manu- 
              scripts, 
       who let themselves be fucked in the ass by saintly 
              motorcyclists, and screamed with joy, 
       who blew and were blown by those human seraphim, 
              the sailors, caresses of Atlantic and Caribbean 
              love, 
       who balled in the morning in the evenings in rose 
              gardens and the grass of public parks and 
              cemeteries scattering their semen freely to 
              whomever come who may, 
       who hiccuped endlessly trying to giggle but wound up 
              with a sob behind a partition in a Turkish Bath 
              when the blond & naked angel came to pierce 
              them with a sword, 
       who lost their loveboys to the three old shrews of fate 
              the one eyed shrew of the heterosexual dollar 
              the one eyed shrew that winks out of the womb 
              and the one eyed shrew that does nothing but 
              sit on her ass and snip the intellectual golden 
              threads of the craftsman's loom, 
       who copulated ecstatic and insatiate with a bottle of 
              beer a sweetheart a package of cigarettes a can- 
              dle and fell off the bed, and continued along 
              the floor and down the hall and ended fainting 
              on the wall with a vision of ultimate cunt and 
              come eluding the last gyzym of consciousness, 
       who sweetened the snatches of a million girls trembling 
              in the sunset, and were red eyed in the morning 
              but prepared to sweeten the snatch of the sun 
              rise, flashing buttocks under barns and naked 
              in the lake, 
       who went out whoring through Colorado in myriad 
              stolen night-cars, N.C., secret hero of these 
              poems, cocksman and Adonis of Denver-joy 
              to the memory of his innumerable lays of girls 
              in empty lots & diner backyards, moviehouses' 
              rickety rows, on mountaintops in caves or with 
              gaunt waitresses in familiar roadside lonely pet- 
              ticoat upliftings & especially secret gas-station 
              solipsisms of johns, & hometown alleys too, 
       who faded out in vast sordid movies, were shifted in 
              dreams, woke on a sudden Manhattan, and 
              picked themselves up out of basements hung 
              over with heartless Tokay and horrors of Third 
              Avenue iron dreams & stumbled to unemploy- 
              ment offices, 
       who walked all night with their shoes full of blood on 
              the snowbank docks waiting for a door in the 
              East River to open to a room full of steamheat 
              and opium, 
       who created great suicidal dramas on the apartment 
              cliff-banks of the Hudson under the wartime 
              blue floodlight of the moon & their heads shall 
              be crowned with laurel in oblivion, 
       who ate the lamb stew of the imagination or digested 
              the crab at the muddy bottom of the rivers of 
              Bowery, 
       who wept at the romance of the streets with their 
              pushcarts full of onions and bad music, 
       who sat in boxes breathing in the darkness under the 
              bridge, and rose up to build harpsichords in 
              their lofts, 
       who coughed on the sixth floor of Harlem crowned 
              with flame under the tubercular sky surrounded 
              by orange crates of theology, 
       who scribbled all night rocking and rolling over lofty 
              incantations which in the yellow morning were 
              stanzas of gibberish, 
       who cooked rotten animals lung heart feet tail borsht 
              & tortillas dreaming of the pure vegetable 
              kingdom, 
       who plunged themselves under meat trucks looking for 
              an egg, 
       who threw their watches off the roof to cast their ballot 
              for Eternity outside of Time, & alarm clocks 
              fell on their heads every day for the next decade, 
       who cut their wrists three times successively unsuccess- 
              fully, gave up and were forced to open antique 
              stores where they thought they were growing 
              old and cried, 
       who were burned alive in their innocent flannel suits 
              on Madison Avenue amid blasts of leaden verse 
              & the tanked-up clatter of the iron regiments 
              of fashion & the nitroglycerine shrieks of the 
              fairies of advertising & the mustard gas of sinis- 
              ter intelligent editors, or were run down by the 
              drunken taxicabs of Absolute Reality, 
       who jumped off the Brooklyn Bridge this actually hap- 
              pened and walked away unknown and forgotten 
              into the ghostly daze of Chinatown soup alley 
              ways & firetrucks, not even one free beer, 
       who sang out of their windows in despair, fell out of 
              the subway window, jumped in the filthy Pas- 
              saic, leaped on negroes, cried all over the street, 
              danced on broken wineglasses barefoot smashed 
              phonograph records of nostalgic European 
              1930s German jazz finished the whiskey and 
              threw up groaning into the bloody toilet, moans 
              in their ears and the blast of colossal steam 
              whistles, 
       who barreled down the highways of the past journeying 
              to each other's hotrod-Golgotha jail-solitude 
              watch or Birmingham jazz incarnation, 
       who drove crosscountry seventytwo hours to find out 
              if I had a vision or you had a vision or he had 
              a vision to find out Eternity, 
       who journeyed to Denver, who died in Denver, who 
              came back to Denver & waited in vain, who 
              watched over Denver & brooded & loned in 
              Denver and finally went away to find out the 
              Time, & now Denver is lonesome for her heroes, 
       who fell on their knees in hopeless cathedrals praying 
              for each other's salvation and light and breasts, 
              until the soul illuminated its hair for a second, 
       who crashed through their minds in jail waiting for 
              impossible criminals with golden heads and the 
              charm of reality in their hearts who sang sweet 
              blues to Alcatraz, 
       who retired to Mexico to cultivate a habit, or Rocky 
              Mount to tender Buddha or Tangiers to boys 
              or Southern Pacific to the black locomotive or 
              Harvard to Narcissus to Woodlawn to the 
              daisychain or grave, 
       who demanded sanity trials accusing the radio of hyp 
              notism & were left with their insanity & their 
              hands & a hung jury, 
       who threw potato salad at CCNY lecturers on Dadaism 
              and subsequently presented themselves on the 
              granite steps of the madhouse with shaven heads 
              and harlequin speech of suicide, demanding in- 
              stantaneous lobotomy, 
       and who were given instead the concrete void of insulin 
              Metrazol electricity hydrotherapy psycho- 
              therapy occupational therapy pingpong & 
              amnesia, 
       who in humorless protest overturned only one symbolic 
              pingpong table, resting briefly in catatonia, 
       returning years later truly bald except for a wig of 
              blood, and tears and fingers, to the visible mad 
              man doom of the wards of the madtowns of the 
              East, 
       Pilgrim State's Rockland's and Greystone's foetid 
              halls, bickering with the echoes of the soul, rock- 
              ing and rolling in the midnight solitude-bench 
              dolmen-realms of love, dream of life a night- 
              mare, bodies turned to stone as heavy as the 
              moon, 
       with mother finally ******, and the last fantastic book 
              flung out of the tenement window, and the last 
              door closed at 4. A.M. and the last telephone 
              slammed at the wall in reply and the last fur- 
              nished room emptied down to the last piece of 
              mental furniture, a yellow paper rose twisted 
              on a wire hanger in the closet, and even that 
              imaginary, nothing but a hopeful little bit of 
              hallucination 
       ah, Carl, while you are not safe I am not safe, and 
              now you're really in the total animal soup of 
              time 
       and who therefore ran through the icy streets obsessed 
              with a sudden flash of the alchemy of the use 
              of the ellipse the catalog the meter & the vibrat- 
              ing plane, 
       who dreamt and made incarnate gaps in Time & Space 
              through images juxtaposed, and trapped the 
              archangel of the soul between 2 visual images 
              and joined the elemental verbs and set the noun 
              and dash of consciousness together jumping 
              with sensation of Pater Omnipotens Aeterna 
              Deus 
       to recreate the syntax and measure of poor human 
              prose and stand before you speechless and intel- 
              ligent and shaking with shame, rejected yet con- 
              fessing out the soul to conform to the rhythm 
              of thought in his naked and endless head, 
       the madman bum and angel beat in Time, unknown, 
              yet putting down here what might be left to say 
              in time come after death, 
       and rose reincarnate in the ghostly clothes of jazz in 
              the goldhorn shadow of the band and blew the 
              suffering of America's naked mind for love into 
              an eli eli lamma lamma sabacthani saxophone 
              cry that shivered the cities down to the last radio 
       with the absolute heart of the poem of life butchered 
              out of their own bodies good to eat a thousand 
              years. 

                           II http://lowegallery.com/

       What sphinx of cement and aluminum bashed open 
              their skulls and ate up their brains and imagi- 
              nation? 
       Moloch! Solitude! Filth! Ugliness! Ashcans and unob 
              tainable dollars! Children screaming under the 
              stairways! Boys sobbing in armies! Old men 
              weeping in the parks! 
       Moloch! Moloch! Nightmare of Moloch! Moloch the 
              loveless! Mental Moloch! Moloch the heavy 
              judger of men! 
       Moloch the incomprehensible prison! Moloch the 
              crossbone soulless jailhouse and Congress of 
              sorrows! Moloch whose buildings are judgment! 
              Moloch the vast stone of war! Moloch the stun- 
              ned governments! 
       Moloch whose mind is pure machinery! Moloch whose 
              blood is running money! Moloch whose fingers 
              are ten armies! Moloch whose breast is a canni- 
              bal dynamo! Moloch whose ear is a smoking 
              tomb! 
       Moloch whose eyes are a thousand blind windows! 
              Moloch whose skyscrapers stand in the long 
              streets like endless Jehovahs! Moloch whose fac- 
              tories dream and croak in the fog! Moloch whose 
              smokestacks and antennae crown the cities! 
       Moloch whose love is endless oil and stone! Moloch 
              whose soul is electricity and banks! Moloch 
              whose poverty is the specter of genius! Moloch 
              whose fate is a cloud of sexless hydrogen! 
              Moloch whose name is the Mind! 
       Moloch in whom I sit lonely! Moloch in whom I dream 
              Angels! Crazy in Moloch! Cocksucker in 
              Moloch! Lacklove and manless in Moloch! 
       Moloch who entered my soul early! Moloch in whom 
              I am a consciousness without a body! Moloch 
              who frightened me out of my natural ecstasy! 
              Moloch whom I abandon! Wake up in Moloch! 
              Light streaming out of the sky! 
       Moloch! Moloch! Robot apartments! invisible suburbs! 
              skeleton treasuries! blind capitals! demonic 
              industries! spectral nations! invincible mad 
              houses! granite cocks! monstrous bombs! 
       They broke their backs lifting Moloch to Heaven! Pave- 
              ments, trees, radios, tons! lifting the city to 
              Heaven which exists and is everywhere about 
              us! 
       Visions! omens! hallucinations! miracles! ecstasies! 
              gone down the American river! 
       Dreams! adorations! illuminations! religions! the whole 
              boatload of sensitive bullshit! 
       Breakthroughs! over the river! flips and crucifixions! 
              gone down the flood! Highs! Epiphanies! De- 
              spairs! Ten years' animal screams and suicides! 
              Minds! New loves! Mad generation! down on 
              the rocks of Time! 
       Real holy laughter in the river! They saw it all! the 
              wild eyes! the holy yells! They bade farewell! 
              They jumped off the roof! to solitude! waving! 
              carrying flowers! Down to the river! into the 
              street! 

                           III

       Carl Solomon! I'm with you in Rockland 
              where you're madder than I am 
       I'm with you in Rockland 
              where you must feel very strange 
       I'm with you in Rockland 
              where you imitate the shade of my mother 
       I'm with you in Rockland 
              where you've murdered your twelve secretaries 
       I'm with you in Rockland 
              where you laugh at this invisible humor 
       I'm with you in Rockland 
              where we are great writers on the same dreadful 
              typewriter 
       I'm with you in Rockland 
              where your condition has become serious and 
              is reported on the radio 
       I'm with you in Rockland 
              where the faculties of the skull no longer admit 
              the worms of the senses 
       I'm with you in Rockland 
              where you drink the tea of the breasts of the 
              spinsters of Utica 
       I'm with you in Rockland 
              where you pun on the bodies of your nurses the 
              harpies of the Bronx 
       I'm with you in Rockland 
              where you scream in a straightjacket that you're 
              losing the game of the actual pingpong of the 
              abyss 
       I'm with you in Rockland 
              where you bang on the catatonic piano the soul 
              is innocent and immortal it should never die 
              ungodly in an armed madhouse 
       I'm with you in Rockland 
              where fifty more shocks will never return your 
              soul to its body again from its pilgrimage to a 
              cross in the void 
       I'm with you in Rockland 
              where you accuse your doctors of insanity and 
              plot the Hebrew socialist revolution against the 
              fascist national Golgotha 
       I'm with you in Rockland 
              where you will split the heavens of Long Island 
              and resurrect your living human Jesus from the 
              superhuman tomb 
       I'm with you in Rockland 
              where there are twenty-five-thousand mad com- 
              rades all together singing the final stanzas of the Internationale 
       I'm with you in Rockland 
              where we hug and kiss the United States under 
              our bedsheets the United States that coughs all 
              night and won't let us sleep 
       I'm with you in Rockland 
              where we wake up electrified out of the coma 
              by our own souls' airplanes roaring over the 
              roof they've come to drop angelic bombs the 
              hospital illuminates itself imaginary walls col- 
              lapse O skinny legions run outside O starry 
              spangled shock of mercy the eternal war is 
              here O victory forget your underwear we're 
              free 
       I'm with you in Rockland 
              in my dreams you walk dripping from a sea- 
              journey on the highway across America in tears 
              to the door of my cottage in the Western night 

howl by allen ginsberg
photos

2009-02-20T18:00:00.000-08:00

STUFF TO BUY
More Kurt Vonnegut
More Edward Gorey
Dress form (though it requires $$$)
Blonde on Blonde, because though I haven't paid for an actual CD since 3rd grade (i luv teh internetz) this is one I have to have in 3-D form
will update this when more stuff comes to me

2009-02-19T22:42:00.001-08:00

What makes you laugh: Helen, some movies and TV, some books, the autistic fish terrorist man
Cry: I'm Not There, Fried Green Tomatoes, Click (it is such crap but SO INTENSE), certain songs specifically from 70's bootleg Dylan+Freewheelin+Blood on the Tracks+Wilco's Yankee Hotel Foxtrot, when some other people are sad, when pop tarts die, other things
Happy: Many things but sometimes not enough
Angry: Siblings, leech people, moochers, narrow minds
Inspired: Art and every branch of it
Active: Red Bull

2009-02-19T22:37:00.000-08:00

i dont know where i got this...link from we heart it maybe? oopsydoops. oh well its my wallpaper now.

klara sjons nilsson

2009-02-19T22:34:00.000-08:00

It's like a less drugged cdg. I like. Going to stalk this designer's future, I want to see where this goes.

source.

2009-02-17T20:50:00.000-08:00

weheartit

2009-02-14T07:04:00.000-08:00

akatre.com

2009-02-13T17:40:00.000-08:00

all

2009-02-12T22:46:00.000-08:00

photo

2009-02-12T22:45:00.000-08:00

i have a secrettttt

2009-02-11T22:00:00.000-08:00

one
two
three

2009-02-09T20:11:00.000-08:00

2009-02-09T17:05:00.000-08:00

Now this is a fun rural area! (oxymoron?)
photos from weheartit.com

2009-02-08T21:14:00.000-08:00

Ampersands are so pretty! If I was a punctuation mark I would be one of these I think. At least I would like to be. It promises something more. And "..."s are so AWKWARD (though maybe more suiting for me).
photo

2009-02-08T20:58:00.000-08:00

I really don't care for the model but that kerazy knit thing is awesome.

This man would have been a much better model! This is like me and Sophie when we talk about the meaning of life.

I don't like this model either but THAT MCQUEEN DRESSSSSSSS

I don't care for this model either! Her expression isn't playful enough. But I like the tiny monsters and shoes.
To sum up: Old men make better models than most girls.

i think so too

2009-02-07T21:03:00.000-08:00

2009-02-06T21:36:00.000-08:00

this is my wallpaper. it gives me seizures.

2009-02-06T20:53:00.000-08:00

photo

2009-02-06T15:08:00.000-08:00

2009-02-06T15:03:00.000-08:00

"this is life: you're a baby, you're born, you learn how to talk and walk and stuff, you go to school, you learn how to do all basic things that need to know how to do when you're an adult, when you complete school, you get married if you're the average person, and you have kids, and they do the same thing you did, and you find a job, and you work until you retire, and you die. the end."

-sophie

2009-02-05T21:31:00.000-08:00

2009-02-05T19:16:00.000-08:00

2009-02-04T07:51:00.000-08:00

2009-02-03T19:44:00.000-08:00

2009-02-03T19:34:00.000-08:00

weheartit.com

2009-02-03T19:00:00.001-08:00

2009-02-03T18:59:00.000-08:00

2009-02-02T20:47:00.000-08:00

jenstark.com

2009-02-02T20:12:00.000-08:00

2009-02-02T18:16:00.000-08:00

http://weheartit.com/entry/198547

stop itttttt

2009-02-02T16:56:00.001-08:00

WTF ITUNES LEARN HOW TO OPERATE

2009-02-01T13:53:00.000-08:00

photo

2009-02-01T11:58:00.000-08:00

2009-02-01T09:17:00.000-08:00

2009-02-01T09:16:00.001-08:00

mewant

2009-02-01T09:11:00.000-08:00

via the selby

leaves

2009-02-01T09:09:00.000-08:00

sun

2009-01-31T22:10:00.001-08:00

sun, originally uploaded by style rookie.

a hard rain's a gonna fall

2009-01-29T21:46:00.000-08:00

Oh, where have you been, my blue-eyed son?
Oh, where have you been, my darling young one?
I've stumbled on the side of twelve misty mountains,
I've walked and I've crawled on six crooked highways,
I've stepped in the middle of seven sad forests,
I've been out in front of a dozen dead oceans,
I've been ten thousand miles in the mouth of a graveyard,
And it's a hard, and it's a hard, it's a hard, and it's a hard,
And it's a hard rain's a-gonna fall.

Oh, what did you see, my blue-eyed son?
Oh, what did you see, my darling young one?
I saw a newborn baby with wild wolves all around it
I saw a highway of diamonds with nobody on it,
I saw a black branch with blood that kept drippin',
I saw a room full of men with their hammers a-bleedin',
I saw a white ladder all covered with water,
I saw ten thousand talkers whose tongues were all broken,
I saw guns and sharp swords in the hands of young children,
And it's a hard, and it's a hard, it's a hard, it's a hard,
And it's a hard rain's a-gonna fall.

And what did you hear, my blue-eyed son?
And what did you hear, my darling young one?
I heard the sound of a thunder, it roared out a warnin',
Heard the roar of a wave that could drown the whole world,
Heard one hundred drummers whose hands were a-blazin',
Heard ten thousand whisperin' and nobody listenin',
Heard one person starve, I heard many people laughin',
Heard the song of a poet who died in the gutter,
Heard the sound of a clown who cried in the alley,
And it's a hard, and it's a hard, it's a hard, it's a hard,
And it's a hard rain's a-gonna fall.

Oh, who did you meet, my blue-eyed son?
Who did you meet, my darling young one?
I met a young child beside a dead pony,
I met a white man who walked a black dog,
I met a young woman whose body was burning,
I met a young girl, she gave me a rainbow,
I met one man who was wounded in love,
I met another man who was wounded with hatred,
And it's a hard, it's a hard, it's a hard, it's a hard,
It's a hard rain's a-gonna fall.

Oh, what'll you do now, my blue-eyed son?
Oh, what'll you do now, my darling young one?
I'm a-goin' back out 'fore the rain starts a-fallin',
I'll walk to the depths of the deepest black forest,
Where the people are many and their hands are all empty,
Where the pellets of poison are flooding their waters,
Where the home in the valley meets the damp dirty prison,
Where the executioner's face is always well hidden,
Where hunger is ugly, where souls are forgotten,
Where black is the color, where none is the number,
And I'll tell it and think it and speak it and breathe it,
And reflect it from the mountain so all souls can see it,
Then I'll stand on the ocean until I start sinkin',
But I'll know my song well before I start singin',
And it's a hard, it's a hard, it's a hard, it's a hard,
It's a hard rain's a-gonna fall.

___________________________________________

I'm going to use one of my billion sketchbooks I've got as last minute birthday presents from people over the years to draw a bunch of sketches, each one pertaining to a different lyric of this song.

We'll see where this goes.

2009-01-29T21:45:00.001-08:00

don't think twice, it's all right

2009-01-27T21:33:00.000-08:00

It ain't no use to sit and wonder why, babe
It don't matter, anyhow
An' it ain't no use to sit and wonder why, babe
If you don't know by now
When your rooster crows at the break of dawn
Look out your window and I'll be gone
You're the reason I'm trav'lin' on
Don't think twice, it's all right

It ain't no use in turnin' on your light, babe
That light I never knowed
An' it ain't no use in turnin' on your light, babe
I'm on the dark side of the road
Still I wish there was somethin' you would do or say
To try and make me change my mind and stay
We never did too much talkin' anyway
So don't think twice, it's all right

It ain't no use in callin' out my name, gal
Like you never did before
It ain't no use in callin' out my name, gal
I can't hear you any more
I'm a-thinkin' and a-wond'rin' all the way down the road
I once loved a woman, a child I'm told
I give her my heart but she wanted my soul
But don't think twice, it's all right

I'm walkin' down that long, lonesome road, babe
Where I'm bound, I can't tell
But goodbye's too good a word, gal
So I'll just say fare thee well
I ain't sayin' you treated me unkind
You could have done better but I don't mind
You just kinda wasted my precious time
But don't think twice, it's all right

why do these lyrics make me sad when i've never ever been in an even remotely similar situation? ack. maybe it's the tune? maybz? huh.

anyway, i've become better at playing this song on guitar than i have at any others i know. including jesus etc and buckets of rain (rare rare, ive been working on those for a whiiiiiile)

unloading some pictures

2009-01-27T21:29:00.000-08:00

now something a little more COLORFUL.

this is my dream house! i wonder where it is.

2009-01-23T16:22:00.001-08:00

When yer head gets twisted and yer mind grows numb
When you think you're too old, too young, too smart or too dumb
When yer laggin' behind an' losin' yer pace
In a slow-motion crawl of life's busy race
No matter what yer doing if you start givin' up
If the wine don't come to the top of yer cup
If the wind's got you sideways with with one hand holdin' on
And the other starts slipping and the feeling is gone
And yer train engine fire needs a new spark to catch it
And the wood's easy findin' but yer lazy to fetch it
And yer sidewalk starts curlin' and the street gets too long
And you start walkin' backwards though you know its wrong
And lonesome comes up as down goes the day
And tomorrow's mornin' seems so far away
And you feel the reins from yer pony are slippin'
And yer rope is a-slidin' 'cause yer hands are a-drippin'
And yer sun-decked desert and evergreen valleys
Turn to broken down slums and trash-can alleys
And yer sky cries water and yer drain pipe's a-pourin'
And the lightnin's a-flashing and the thunder's a-crashin'
And the windows are rattlin' and breakin' and the roof tops a-shakin'
And yer whole world's a-slammin' and bangin'
And yer minutes of sun turn to hours of storm
And to yourself you sometimes say
"I never knew it was gonna be this way
Why didn't they tell me the day I was born"
And you start gettin' chills and yer jumping from sweat
And you're lookin' for somethin' you ain't quite found yet
And yer knee-deep in the dark water with yer hands in the air
And the whole world's a-watchin' with a window peek stare
And yer good gal leaves and she's long gone a-flying
And yer heart feels sick like fish when they're fryin'
And yer jackhammer falls from yer hand to yer feet
And you need it badly but it lays on the street
And yer bell's bangin' loudly but you can't hear its beat
And you think yer ears might a been hurt
Or yer eyes've turned filthy from the sight-blindin' dirt
And you figured you failed in yesterdays rush
When you were faked out an' fooled white facing a four flush
And all the time you were holdin' three queens
And it's makin you mad, it's makin' you mean
Like in the middle of Life magazine
Bouncin' around a pinball machine
And there's something on yer mind you wanna be saying
That somebody someplace oughta be hearin'
But it's trapped on yer tongue and sealed in yer head
And it bothers you badly when your layin' in bed
And no matter how you try you just can't say it
And yer scared to yer soul you just might forget it
And yer eyes get swimmy from the tears in yer head
And yer pillows of feathers turn to blankets of lead
And the lion's mouth opens and yer staring at his teeth
And his jaws start closin with you underneath
And yer flat on your belly with yer hands tied behind
And you wish you'd never taken that last detour sign
And you say to yourself just what am I doin'
On this road I'm walkin', on this trail I'm turnin'
On this curve I'm hanging
On this pathway I'm strolling, in the space I'm taking
In this air I'm inhaling
Am I mixed up too much, am I mixed up too hard
Why am I walking, where am I running
What am I saying, what am I knowing
On this guitar I'm playing, on this banjo I'm frailin'
On this mandolin I'm strummin', in the song I'm singin'
In the tune I'm hummin', in the words I'm writin'
In the words that I'm thinkin'
In this ocean of hours I'm all the time drinkin'
Who am I helping, what am I breaking
What am I giving, what am I taking
But you try with your whole soul best
Never to think these thoughts and never to let
Them kind of thoughts gain ground
Or make yer heart pound
But then again you know why they're around
Just waiting for a chance to slip and drop down
"Cause sometimes you hear'em when the night times comes creeping
And you fear that they might catch you a-sleeping
And you jump from yer bed, from yer last chapter of dreamin'
And you can't remember for the best of yer thinking
If that was you in the dream that was screaming
And you know that it's something special you're needin'
And you know that there's no drug that'll do for the healin'
And no liquor in the land to stop yer brain from bleeding
And you need something special
Yeah, you need something special all right
You need a fast flyin' train on a tornado track
To shoot you someplace and shoot you back
You need a cyclone wind on a stream engine howler
That's been banging and booming and blowing forever
That knows yer troubles a hundred times over
You need a Greyhound bus that don't bar no race
That won't laugh at yer looks
Your voice or your face
And by any number of bets in the book
Will be rollin' long after the bubblegum craze
You need something to open up a new door
To show you something you seen before
But overlooked a hundred times or more
You need something to open your eyes
You need something to make it known
That it's you and no one else that owns
That spot that yer standing, that space that you're sitting
That the world ain't got you beat
That it ain't got you licked
It can't get you crazy no matter how many
Times you might get kicked
You need something special all right
You need something special to give you hope
But hope's just a word
That maybe you said or maybe you heard
On some windy corner 'round a wide-angled curve

But that's what you need man, and you need it bad
And yer trouble is you know it too good
"Cause you look an' you start getting the chills

"Cause you can't find it on a dollar bill
And it ain't on Macy's window sill
And it ain't on no rich kid's road map
And it ain't in no fat kid's fraternity house
And it ain't made in no Hollywood wheat germ
And it ain't on that dimlit stage
With that half-wit comedian on it
Ranting and raving and taking yer money
And you thinks it's funny
No you can't find it in no night club or no yacht club
And it ain't in the seats of a supper club
And sure as hell you're bound to tell
That no matter how hard you rub
You just ain't a-gonna find it on yer ticket stub
No, and it ain't in the rumors people're tellin' you
And it ain't in the pimple-lotion people are sellin' you
And it ain't in no cardboard-box house
Or down any movie star's blouse
And you can't find it on the golf course
And Uncle Remus can't tell you and neither can Santa Claus
And it ain't in the cream puff hair-do or cotton candy clothes
And it ain't in the dime store dummies or bubblegum goons
And it ain't in the marshmallow noises of the chocolate cake voices
That come knockin' and tappin' in Christmas wrappin'
Sayin' ain't I pretty and ain't I cute and look at my skin
Look at my skin shine, look at my skin glow
Look at my skin laugh, look at my skin cry
When you can't even sense if they got any insides
These people so pretty in their ribbons and bows
No you'll not now or no other day
Find it on the doorsteps made out-a paper mache

please come to chicagooooo

2009-01-23T16:15:00.000-08:00

They say prophet, genius, legend...I really just want to sit down with him with a guitar and talk about politics.

2009-01-23T16:07:00.000-08:00

This is a new blog, for things non-fashion related. Posts will have less of a pace, this is mostly just so I can remember all the things I find that I love without saving them all and killing my hard drive.