///HEAVEN PLEASE WAIT///

& Hell please stay too far to go.

She's hiding/
She's hiding on a battleship of baggage & bones/

///NO MORE///

I'm afraid my moods have become so unpredictable that even I myself cannot foretell what I will do next. I'm afraid I'll be one of those of whom it is said, "She is a harm to herself & others." I don't believe I've been as lost about my own self as I am right now. I need to find my way back. I do.

Gotta get lost to find your way/

I need to escape my habits of self-destructive escapism to find something of worth to live for. I'm fucked up & I've fucked up, I know this. There is a war within me that I can no longer keep..

[BREATHE ME]

///JUST KIDS///

Yet another book request.. How could I resist this?

In [JUST KIDS], Patti Smith’s first book of prose, the legendary American artist offers a never-before-seen glimpse of her remarkable relationship with photographer Robert Mapplethorpe in the epochal days of New York City and the Chelsea Hotel in the late sixties and seventies. An honest story of youth and friendship, Smith brings the same unique, lyrical quality to Just Kids as she has to the rest of her formidable body of work—from her influential 1975 album Horses to her visual art and poetry.

I certainly could not could not could not.

It was the summer Coltrane died, the summer of love and riots, and the summer when a chance encounter in Brooklyn led two young people on a path of art, devotion, and initiation.

...

Just Kids begins as a love story and ends as an elegy.

///BEEEYES///

[BEEEYES]: B.I.'s. Bad Influences.

Even if you don't know them, this shit's still funny. & if you do know them, it's motherfucking hilarious.

///TEKKON KINKREET///

I bought the comic book for the homie a while back. It demonstrated so well the ups & downs of life. Sadly we believe it to have been lost to the Manila floods of September 2009; a perfect example of one of life's downs. I forgot that there also existed the art books of [TEKKON KINKREEET]; showcasing the ever-detailed background sketches behind the film. Mindblowing shit really. I want them so bad. Yes father, book request #5,892,468. Seeing as I'm rather ill right now, I can think of no activity more fit than lying back staring at the intricacy of infinite lines connecting to create a gargantuan imaginary yet fully relatable world of Black & White.

///HOLD UP///

[HOLD UP ART] x [GAS'D] x [NO. A] present to you..
:: FASHION IS ART ::
Refreshments, art, fashion, food, music,
good peoples, & good times to be had <3
[though I am sick as a motherfucker I shall still be in attendance, yes]



TONIGHT :: 042410 :: 7-11PM
Hold Up Art
358 E 2nd St
Los Angeles CA 90012

Hold up: to rob at gunpoint or by means of some other threat.

///CONTRASTS///

Bruno:
Loose girly tops.
Strong yet feminine shorts.
Baggy wool thigh-highs/tights.
[in love with the burgundy ones]
All topped off with oversized coats.
Boots with the fur actually to be coveted.
& hair just as I like it - it just doesn't give a fuck.

///TRIGGER///

So I'll write like they told me to. Or encouraged me to rather. Because we all know the shrinks never worked & it's too much of a tedious chore to shop around for the perfect match. If only the shrink & I could solve our problems between one another like one does in a romantic relationship, then perhaps we could solve the problems between me, myself, & I. I will self-diagnose & self-medicate as I see fit.. as I've always done. Fourteen was the age I will never forget & never forgive. Everything that happened that year created a domino effect, or worse yet, a snowball effect of all things negative. That was the trigger.

She pulled my trigger & I blame her gun.

///FANTASIA///

At least we could say I was your fantasy for one surreal phase in your life. In which we made plans from far far away to go far far away. Plans all unconventionally illegal but illegal nonetheless. Our morals were noneplace. Our lusts & desires ubiquitous. Our minds entwined. &, just as my legs, we remained.. apart.

///DIDION///

Quite preceisely [MY EXACT THOUGHTS]. I think I love her.

Excerpts from Why I Write

From The New York Times Magazine, December 5, 1976.

Copyright 1976 by Joan Didion and The New York Times Company. Used without permission.

Of course I stole the title from this talk, from George Orwell. One reason I stole it was that I like the sound of the words: Why I Write. There you have three short unambiguous words that share a sound, and the sound they share is this:

I

I

I

In many ways writing is the act of saying I, of imposing oneself upon other people, of saying listen to me, see it my way, change your mind. Its an aggressive, even a hostile act. You can disguise its aggressiveness all you want with veils of subordinate clauses and qualifiers and tentative subjunctives, with ellipses and evasionswith the whole manner of intimating rather than claiming, of alluding rather than statingbut theres no getting around the fact that setting words on paper is the tactic of a secret bully, an invasion, an imposition of the writers sensibility on the readers most private space.

I stole the title not only because the words sounded right but because they seemed to sum up, in a no-nonsense way, all I have to tell you. Like many writers I have only this one "subject," this one "area": the act of writing. I can bring you no reports from any other front. I may have other interests: I am "interested," for example, in marine biology, but I don’t flatter myself that you would come out to hear me talk about it. I am not a scholar. I am not in the least an intellectual, which is not to say that when I hear the word "intellectual" I reach for my gun, but only to say that I do not think in abstracts. During the years when I was an undergraduate at Berkeley, I tried, with a kind of hopeless late-adolescent energy, to buy some temporary visa into the world of ideas, to forge for myself a mind that could deal with abstract.

In short I tried to think. I failed. My attention veered inexorably back to the specific, to the tangible, to what was generally considered, by everyone I knew then and for that matter have known since, the peripheral. I would try to contemplate the Hegelian dialectic and would find myself concentrating instead on a flowering pear tree outside my window and the particular way the petals fell on my floor. I would try to read linguistic theory and would find myself wondering instead if the lights were on in the bevatron up the hill. When I say that I was wondering if the lights were on in the bevatron you might immediately suspect, if you deal in ideas at all, that I was registering the bevatron as a political symbol, thinking in shorthand about the military-industrial complex and its role in the university community, but you would be wrong. I was only wondering if the lights were on in the bevatron, and how they looked. A physical fact.

I had trouble graduating from Berkeley, not because of this inability to deal with ideas--I was majoring in English, and I could locate the house-and-garden imagery in "The Portrait of a Lady" as well as the next person, "imagery" being by definition the kind of specific that got my attention--but simply because I had neglected to take a course in Milton. For reasons which now sound baroque I needed a degree by the end of that summer, and the English department finally agreed, if I would come down from Sacramento every Friday and talk about the cosmology of "Paradise Lost," to certify me proficient in Milton. I did this. Some Fridays I took the Greyhound bus, other Fridays I caught the Southern Pacific’s City of San Francisco on the last leg of its transcontinental trip. I can no longer tell you whether Milton put the sun or the earth at the center of his universe in "Paradise Lost," the central question of at least one century and a topic about which I wrote 10,000 words that summer, but I can still recall the exact rancidity of the butter in the City of San Francisco’s dining car, and the way the tinted windows on the Greyhound bus cast the oil refineries around Carquinez Straits into a grayed and obscurely sinister light. In short my attention was always on the periphery, on what I could see and taste and touch, on the butter, and the Greyhound bus. During those years I was traveling on what I knew to be a very shaky passport, forged papers: I knew that I was no legitimate resident in any world of ideas. I knew I couldn’t think. All I knew then was what I couldn’t do. All I knew was what I wasn’t, and it took me some years to discover what I was.

Which was a writer.

By which I mean not a "good" writer or a "bad" writer but simply a writer, a person whose most absorbed and passionate hourse are spent arranging words on pieces of paper. Had my credentials been in order I would never have become a writer. Had I been blessed with even limited access to my own mind there would have been no reason to write. I write entirely to find out what I’m thinking, what I’m looking at, what I see and what it means. What I want and what I fear. Why did the oil refineries around Carquinez Straits seem sinister to me in the summer of 1956? Why have the night lights in the bevatron burned in my mind for twenty years? What is going on in these pictures in my mind?

///MIA///

So I just now realize
that my hair doesn't look anything like [HOW I WANTED]
but rather like M.I.A.'s.

Comedy.
But I actually do like it
even though other people think I fucked up.
I thought M.I.A. had gone nutso too
when I first set eyes on her chop.