Saturday, April 4, 2015


I feel happy. I could never understand what I was doing with this blog. Fashion reviews are clearly not my thing. Haha. I don't even know if I could ever stick with anything and decide that it was working. But I am happy. I am so happy.

Friday, November 28, 2014

zadie smith on camus

It's taken, like, a million years, but I'm finally reading Zadie Smith's White Teeth and (wouldn't you know) really enjoying it. Some of the time during which I haven not been reading has been dedicated instead to looking for other things she's written, or said – I think this curiosity about who she is and what her life is like has, in part, been incited by the fact that she was so young when she wrote the book and, you know, awfully, endlessly anxious as I am I've been pilfering the Internet for some means of demystifying this otherwise magically precocious talent.

In any case, the quote I've included above comes from a piece about her that was in Interview. I picked it out of the few available gems because I really like how she puts Camus' appreciation of life – "He was nothing but love for existence, for what there was." I have been thinking often, recently (I'm in New York) about all the times that I have been happiest, and why – and I've realized that despite the emphasis on the intellectual, or academic, that happiest moments (of which I've been reminded because I'm here in New York, where I have often found myself deliriously happy) have been happy because they come from this "love of all there is".

Although it may seem like I'm a die-hard rationalist devotee to the poststructuralists and that surrounding, scattered crowd of smarty-pants I really do think this appreciation comes not from some elitist, academic desire to qualify all that there is but, rather, from that very same love or being-magnetized by the magical and terrifying beauty of our inscrutable world. Barthes is alluring not only in his intellectual pursuits but also in his sensitivity to this beauty. The same goes for SS and even Koestenbaum (only choosing this glorious trifecta as example right now because I'm in the middle of My 1980s, and it is proving very, very good).

Saturday, November 22, 2014

november, 2014


I feel bad about not really thinking or planning or considering what i've been wearing lately. Fashion used to be so important to me – a means of escape, or conjuring fantasy; relating to the alternative and worlds of the films I liked and people I wish I was. I guess I can't be too hard on myself, though – going to school and trying to learn things is difficult. Plus it'll probably all end up being for the better. It's just strange to feel yourself moving into being someone different from who you remember being. 


From the top –

Anna Karina in Pierrot le Fou
Aziza Azim
Chanel SS 15 – though I have to admit I'm a little disgusted by Chanel – can no longer see anything other than a fascist Nazi legacy continuing its work (profiting off the iconography of a specific movement, twisting signifiers so they seem "fashionable"; divorcing everything from its explosive meaning...)
Edie Campbell in i-D summer '14
Miu Miu
Charles Moore, from Inside Today's Home
Valentino (I think)
LV (by Nicolas... !!!)
Screenshot from Alain Robbe-Grillet's Eden and After

Monday, July 21, 2014

" What will survive of us is love. "


Sorry for the absence. I will be back soon. 

Monday, February 3, 2014

yesterday i walked to the cvs in the rain– it wasn't romantic and it wasn't poetic and it wasn't like a smiths video


i was surprised when i started listening to "dreaming" by Mac DeMarco and finding how much I could relate and how much sense it made to me. i remember once telling a person that I was someone really "grounded in fantasy" (god sounds so pathetic and infantile which i guess is why he laughed) but it's true; i'm not very good with reality or at least i prefer the narratives that exist in people's heads, that are almost fictions (except not really at all any more a fiction than anything else - "all seeing is seeing as" - duh). in a way i feel like it's these types of things that make people R E A L , because once you have these it's like you have this whole sea inside you, this whole sea of yourself, and that's kind of what's beautiful about people. (yes i am writing this – wow, sad) (sad as in pathetic b/c i'm supposed to be like a misanthrope who hates people, because that's the cool thing to do , right ?)
anyway, on the song– i guess sometimes i think about love and think the dream is better, the dream is the only thing that'll satisfy ( maybe [s]he's best in dreams ). who needs real love when you can invent and live through dreams, dreams that bring you closer to you, through which you can learn you (which is really really really what i need right now)
but also i guess i see and i feel and in a sense i think i might even know the other side the other way of feeling it, which is, like, like the dream IS reality, to have enough of a dream (or not "enough" – not "sufficient" – enough in terms of quality, in terms of good enough, full enough, s a t i s f y i n g ) you need to have something "real" in the conventional sense and not in the sense in which i mean it (which is true)the best dream is the one that is your whole life and that one is not all fantasy –it's the one that has the trips to the drugstore and the (annoyingly! fuck!)cold showers and the breakfasts where you sit alone but aren't really thinking about anything except, like, having to go to the bank and like maybe maybe that's better all better because even though it's mundane sometimes it's still a dream and it's still got those bits in it, those bits of magic
magic real .life truth fantasy: MOMENT

".. to be continued .."
(dramatic, like in a movie or an old-timey newspaper serial is where i imagine that phrase to fit, ha)


Monday, October 28, 2013

to fear and waver

Shroud for living room

I have not touched this blog nor written anything in a long time, and I am afraid of what that means. I am afraid because I know that I was once excited and inspired and anxious to write write write write write; to put pen to paper (or finger to key, now), to narrow down thousands of stories and thoughts into things that make sense, mean things, have power.

Love and turmoil. Perhaps a lack of the two (not individually, but coupled together – a fatal mix) has been the catalyst for such languor and laze. 

It’s not like I don’t still want to write. It’s not like I don’t still have ideas. (God knows my brain seems to be functioning on some level or another, though it might not be immediately apparent to the casual onlooker.) For some reason I just cannot bring myself to devote the time, the energy, the stasis that is to think, whilst still, about something that I care so much as writing.

Help help help help help me. I plead to no one but myself, ears plugged and eyes shut to the reality that I am letting myself slip.

almost here #20

All this conceptual talk needs something tangible, to ground it. I understand that. I will clarify:

what I mean is that I have always felt like I have been pretending, always felt like I have not been good enough – like I’ve had to scrape and scramble just to qualify as OK and now that I haven’t,

I’ve forgotten how to write the way I once did. Like school, the letting-go means that the fa├žade I’ve worked to maintain for so long is suddenly erased. The letting-go means that  that phase is over, that time is done. Never will I have the same frame of mind, that same want and power. All because

I’ve forgotten how to write the way I once did. Just as I’ve forgotten what it was like to care so much about every single infinitesimal moment and detail – to pore over each one in my memory like a jewel, needing to be handled calmly, and carefully. The cataloguing of my personal history as a way to narrow down exactly what I thought and how I felt at each and every moment of the day has ceased-

This decision was a conscious one. It was in part motivated by last half of this past summer’s emptiness, but also because of the “broader” factor that I can only (and most clearly) describe as a kind of fatigue. It is tiring, you know, to be obsessed with things that are essentially false – to be responsible for making stories out of truths only fragments and to then have to write them down, live by them, turn them real. All of that – couching nostalgia for the things that never and will never exist in terms of your average life – all of that is very taxing. And so it is natural that I became tired of it. 


It is winter in Massachusetts. Hibernation and disorientation begins to settle in, like it does, every winter. I’m not sure what things will be like for me now, if I will write again. I think I will, but, like I say, I’m not sure. It takes time and effort – this is alright, these are two things I am willing to part with because God knows I throw them both without much thought away all the time – but it also takes will, which I am not sure that I have or that I know how to procure (this is at the very center of my paralyzing fear surrounding this issue).


Once I was told that “to be a good writer, you have to do it every day.” These words did not scare me; for then I was writing every day. But now, with my frail fingers and pale words I’m not so sure any more what that means. How do I live with it? What if I never amount to my hopes?