May 23rd
7:24 PM
7:24 PM
Bunny.
May 21st
9:02 PM
9:02 PM
Kit Drake
3:10 AM
Me: it’s 3 am.
Mum: at least we aren’t in Montreal having concussion grenades or flash bombs thrown at us. (she’s been texting support to an occupy group there all night).
Me: true.
Mum: I don’t even know what a flash bomb is.
Me: I assume it’s a bomb that flashes when it goes off?
Mum: (laughing) how astute of you.
(ps. I’m very glad I’m not in Montreal right now, and I’m outraged at the thought of protesters being beaten or having things thrown at them or being herded onto buses to await detention. In some cases tonight, some of these people were innocently sitting on outdoor patios… but regardless, people should not be treated in such ways.)
May 20th
10:54 PM
10:54 PM
Here’s a duck for you.
Formen der Farbe (1967), by Josef Albers.
Love both the Josef and Anni.
Ps. Lack of posts, away from home.
May 8th
11:29 PM
11:29 PM
So, the 60s loved the 20s and now, so do we.(Thx to Melanie for the video link).
The Forty Year Itch. (great article from The New Yorker).
May 7th
6:01 PM
6:01 PM
This is going to be a big part of my life for the next few months. I spent a few hours weeding today and now I smell like lavender and dirt.
Can’t wait to start doing the workshops with the kiddies at this after school daycare!
Dr. Teeth and the Electric Mayhem
illustrations by Nick Westcott :: via retroartprint
This was my favourite band when I was a kid. Along with the Rolling Stones and Little Feat.
May 4th
12:07 AM
12:07 AM
Ouija
It is a chilly god, a god of shades,
Rises to the glass from his black fathoms.
At the window, those unborn, those undone
Assemble with the frail paleness of moths,
An envious phosphorescence in their wings.
Vermillions, bronzes, colors of the sun
In the coal fire will not wholly console them.
Imagine their deep hunger, deep as the dark
For the blood-heat that would ruddlr or reclaim.
The glass mouth sucks blood-heat from my forefinger.
The old god dribbles, in return, his words.
The old god, too, write aureate poetry
In tarnished modes, maundering among the wastes,
Fair chronicler of every foul declension.
Age, and ages of prose, have uncoiled
His talking whirlwind, abated his excessive temper
When words, like locusts, drummed the darkening air
And left the cobs to rattle, bitten clean.
Skies once wearing a blue, divine hauteur
Ravel above us, mistily descend,
Thickening with motes, to a marriage with the mire.
He hymns the rotten queen with saffron hair
Who has saltier aphrodisiacs
Than virgins’ tears. That bawdy queen of death,
Her wormy couriers aer at his bones.
Still he hymns juice of her, hot nectarine.
I see him, horny-skinned and tough, construe
What flinty pebbles and ploughable upturns
As ponderable tokens of her love.
He, godly, doddering, spells
No succinct Gabriel from the letters here
But floridly, his amorous nostalgias.
- Sylvia Plath
I wanna go.
