Mr. Sandman

There comes a time within the hourglass, when the sands lose their porcelain appeal and appear not to exist at all. It is on the darkest hour that the beach’s flooring slips between the fingers of the sea and disappears from its wake altogether. In this stretch of time, one looses his grip on time and can measure only space: that which expands within the landscape of vision and elevates the senses.

When the eye meets space, space is dressed in black. The eye immediately experiences the initial nerves that surface from fear—an honest reaction to the unknown. Terrified, the eye tries to shut himself and erase the confronted image. But it is already closed. Tense, the eye signals the body to lock itself and let in no more. But always warned a moment too late, the body has already become submerged into a state of lightness.

Space sleeps upon the folded eyelids and its weight pushes impressions through the bedding of the skin. The body feels no pressure, as its back rests upon the lining of his coffin. For sleep is a state of death—the determinate dying of the day.

Staring up, the eye is pierced by a sight that shines through, contrasting the dark paint that coats the sky at night. The image seems to drop from the ceiling, as if it had been hanging above the mind and behind the clouds of day. Breaking through the wall of the night, the vivid image permeates the landscape I exist in. But before I can call out in response, it sinks beneath the evening and dissolves inside my interior sea of sense, swimming through the blood of my veins and releasing itself into the sewer of my internalized city of dreams that operates beneath my active conscious.

Nothing materializes within the space of this world. Not anything definite describes the sights seen across those sands of time. No face shows itself for long; just like Love, its duration is short and I must spend the next hours forgetting how it came and left.

Aware of my rising wakefulness, the hot temperament of the sun pressing its cheek against my blinds, the curtains rise from my eyes. SHOW OVER but darkness in mind, still. I spring forward in the coffin of my bed, the season of my former self dead and imprinted upon the sheets. Like a wax doll, the impressions have remolded the soft shell of my skin.

In the time of day, I see the hourglass lightly rain sand and know I have been born anew. Different from dream, a more developed self has woken within me and has transitioned through my internal I, evaluating the external reality with more wake and clarity. My subconscious conceals the pressure that weighed upon my eyes but today, my speech is driven by rebellion. Pressure bubbles behind my mouth and poetry explodes: “If dreams don’t make matter, I will keep woken by writing and live myself deeper inside my waking lives.”

keren ann

So far today I've created a course description and guide to a second Independent Study. Which brought me, again, to a state of ecstasy. I go to school, find a professor and devise a course on what I want to study and pursue, get it approved and spend hours discussing compelling material and the material that manifests in my life. This was my highschool dream. And it is the most rewarding process. School enriches my life, and my days are better because of it. I have a flight on hold for LA. Would be going to be on set at Universal for my "boss" film he is producing that is in production. Working on set = Dreeeeam. Tomorrow I begin working the art direction for a film. I'm walking in the Parson's fashion show. Have an upcoming photo shoot. Thanks to the marvels of Google, possible screenings of my [silly] experimental films. Got casted again for Tyra's Show, then within touching distance got the "we want to use you for something else" for the 2nd time. Long story. I talk too much psychology and analyze humanities too much when they interview me. Tyra just wants to help someone, make them aware. I keep saying, I want to help her help. Some day, this just hasn't been the right way yet. The good thing is it has been a long time since I've judged things as rejection or defeat.

May 12, 2005 and Sept 30, 2005

i have just found so many articles from the past (photos and journaling galore). and it is almost 5am and i don't think i'll ever make it to sleep. a week back in nyc and i have a plate full of treats. mind races. life feels sensational--i mean it, it really feels.

keytype

I punch keys and receive letters. It sounds angry, even physical, but it is not. Something delicate dances across my fingers—jumping from index to pinky, thumb to ring. As if something, someone is more responsible for the way in which the alphabet has rearranged itself, than even I. But why do I sit here, my legs entwined like a twizzler, feeding paper words instead of the space I currently exist around? I admit: my throat has lost the cords to make music through my mouth. I try to hear aloud these appearing words that hang effortlessly in the white air of the page, but the only product that takes form is the spittle that bubbles at the shore of my lip. I collect them like shells and string them together. But the necklace soon falls from my neck and locks itself around the belly of my heart. Too tight, a struggle to breathe for I am taken by these words and held inside the sentence of their meaning. Bounded by intent and caged in confinement by the periods that dress up the text like ornaments. Whether I may only see them and never hear them spoken, I will still try. Try and press my ear against the materiality of the text. Deny that the medium acts as a wall, dividing me from others, and what I need them to know. What is the purpose to this devastating mechanic of art? You!, beneath my text, behind that wall—can’t hear me, won’t speak. Art is supposed to help us pass through. But the wall has already been built, and you won’t say a word so I’m persistently trying hard to talk for you. Just listen, wait for the wall to fall, and hear my wind of words, the storm that stirs the silence.

memory

It is difficult experiencing in extremes. Going from all to nothing. It is a strain losing that which you knew, experienced and shared so intimately. It pulls at you, as it strays further into the distance. The only way to breathe again quickest is to break, cut, snap loose that which you are tied to. It is the only way to carry on, on your own. It is no surprise that we fail to turn around and look back for we suffer the fear of reattaching. Last night or early in the morning, however you decide to consider time—regardless in a state of delirium—I bordered the fine line between crying with and without tears. It lasted for about thirty-five seconds and then, I don’t remember what happened next, other than I got over it or just fell into a deep sleep. Music was permeating my bedroom and it just took me back. I thought about how one looses the past and eventually will loose someone that was such a figure of the present in that past. One may even know someone who loses the self that constituted the past. That’s what got to me. I just feel like he has been lost—that he lost himself and now I can’t locate him in the present, I can only find him in our past… in the memory of our past, which is and was so crowded with sensations to begin with. It was all so much, too much, that in retrospect I have no feelings to feel, just a confusion of the facts, the truth, the genuine emotion that drove all my actions. For those thirty-five seconds I saw a mental trailer of scenes that spanned two years. And in that trailer of my life, I recognized an actor who had the most delicious smile. A smile so honest—a smile so soft that it stole the presence of an entire room and my entire world that existed during that time. He chose the most ideal music, as if each song were a particular message to the composite of a larger and more extraordinary secret. Each note was at its most romantic that you can only wonder how much he must have felt, how much he needed to share and all that he wanted to know of you and from you. The romance of discovery. These are all impressions that lasted—that a single person is responsible for. And now, I know nothing of this person: where he went, if he is only hiding—and the person I do know (as he is today) emits no presence and leaves no impression. I had this image, this waking dream, of approaching him as he is now. He wouldn’t know I was coming up behind him, it would be a surprise for the both of us, and I would pinch his cheeks and turn on his smile. And then everything would be okay, and I would laugh happily feeling as though things had been corrected. Sometimes I feel like my heart is too big, and that it gets in the way?

Right now a candle is dripping wax across my furniture, and because it has already begun and left its mess, I’m just going to let it continue. I’m in a course called The Art of Writing the Personal Essay—the first day I discussed my logic for enrolling; it is where journalism is going (fingers crossed). Though, I wouldn’t say writing typically structured essays overly excites me, I will say I was pleased and motivated by what I learned about the medium. Personal essayists take mundane, over-looked, repetitious experiences and breathes life into them in attempt to re-expose the experience under a more intimate, provocative and evocative light. This is what I do—perhaps it is exhausting for the reader, my over rationalizing and over reasoning meditations on what may be regarded as simple, or not regarded at all. But oh well, I like to unweave the intricate fashions of behavior and restitch the material so the design models a more complex formulation. I don’t think my mind will ever over simplify any manner or matter at hand, for better or for worse. I pick and choose that which is important to me and that which I give my attention to—some find this selfish, I just believe in quality over quantity. Ideas for personal essays I want to consider writing: the disappearance and reappearance of memory and the idealization of another (is what the person stands for nothing other than a concept? Does one inflate this dummy figure with glorifying praises, subconsciously motivated by the desire to glamorize the other and thus, romanticize the shared relation? Why is this an innate necessity by so many?).

restaurant week is di(vi)ning

I swear, there is a painter that crouches over our world (as we understand it). He adds to and changes the landscape that cloaks the parameters our vision is capable of reaching out to. We are models inside of his painting, this masterpiece that continues on until perfection is reached—which is impossible. And so, the masterpiece is an ever-existing work in progress. Be confident that his canvas is never washed away or discarded; it is only the painter’s subjects that fall off his surface and are replaced by other figures he is subjecting his temperamental attention to. When we see the sunset, it is his paints that are bleeding—stay awake, stay awake, for even you are on his way to becoming scene less, lifeless in fact.

6:02, 01 25 08

Night sets across the landscape of my eyes. A blank sheet of deep blue that imprisons the subject that stands ahead. Rain breaks, as my eyes try to seal themselves, but there's no such thing as watertight eyes--regardless of how mystifying I may appear, I am just as you, and have no magic in me. Seeping out in determination, I let you hold out your palm to catch them from their suicide plunge. I let you collect them till Day rises from Night's grave, so you can give yourself a sun-shower in the heat of the birthed morning--as I sleep calming depleted of the substance that you use to clothe the pink shell of your skin.

what to use

I look into or, rather, towards the future. See the faint stirrings of activity that will actualize itself within the months. Prospects of potential projects—projects that are guaranteed to materialize, I just wonder how and anticipate their strength, the temperature they will exude. I’ve mentioned before, and again I will say, as a writer you take your memory’s truth and the expanse of your imagination—then in remembrance of your collected past and imaginings, you re-cognize the story you wish to tell, share, poeticize, immortalize and breathe life back into (and thus, showcase its importance and illumination). This is what excites me for my future works and what conceptualizes the process that ignites me to work. Right now, I feel a bit skiddish—ready to plunge into the art of authorship, but not sure what I will decide to use, who I will decide to use. What will inspire the scenes in which I create? Who will I let be the inspiration behind the language I use? Tonight as I walked home, I thought about how sometimes I have wanted to go on certain ventures, agreed to be involved in certain plans or grown excited about the prospect of certain social gathers (if you will) because I have wanted to document certain people in the environment, capture their mannerisms. I’ve felt bad about this—as if it were somehow superficial of me or even, bad intentioned. But tonight I realized my inaccuracy. I like to document people. I want to do more of it. I’ve always been intrigued by showing the rawness of humanity and thus preserving it. There is nothing superficial or ill-hearted about that. I suppose I have just been owning my intentions more than before. Sure this comes with age, you may say—and it does, but also awareness and acceptance. As another example, I use to internally flinch (if possible) or, rather, shy away from the chance of particular people reading my writing, seeing my art. It was ironic, since I openly publicized or unveiled it—but still I worried that someone could try and claim I was speaking directly to them or a passage had been a recount of a shared experience (this use to happen), but after having more relationships and stronger relationships I recognize how important it is to be upfront with the dimensions of your persona. Basically, if you don’t know it now, you’ll find out later. And also, maybe I just never looked at writing as an art form till more recently. The way in which I write, the topics on which I write are expressions—words are paint, and I’m trying to paint an image. I want my stories to be inspired by flashes of images I dream while awake—I want them to read like experimental films. No one shys away from a painter after one views the way they craft a portrait or depict a landscape. Writers should be given the same respect.

I haven’t even been back in New York a week and a swarm of things have happened and are likely to happen. Surprises springing up. Records on that later. Today I had to describe my “relationship” to my city of choice. Naturally, New York and it began with stating that that is exactly what I feel with Manhattan—that I am in a relationship with it (and it went on from there). Honestly, the more I see of this city the more I know of it, the more that I learn, the more I am committed to it and the more I grow to love it with each passing day.

see or seem

all that we see or seem is but a dream within a dream -edgar allan poe.

french new wave

agnes varda - "the mother of the french new wave"
verrry pleased with the new york times recent film articles (last week, last year at marienbad by alain resnais & today my favourite french new wave film, cleo from 5 to 7 by agnes varda). read the article, look into her and watch both the above films (they are composed of some of the most breathtaking images).

the mind and the world / imagination and reality.

I was really attracted to David Johnson's thoughts so I extracted pieces from his article Reality and Depth in the Independent Film and Video Magazine Vertigo.

Reality is something we experience in the gut rather than the intellect, though what exactly we experience will slowly be modified by what we believe. "Things merely are" as Stevens wrote. But perhaps it is within our relation to this "being" (and our eventual ceasing to be) that a difficult, open-eyed return to depth might be negotiated. Possibility of making an art that allowed depth, through the fact that reality is not transparent, that we experience what Wallace Stevens called a mundo: reality perceived, and thus formed and embellished, through a temperament, a mind. Our reality is full of histories, meanings, mechanisms, rhymes and rhythms, fears and hopes: all the attendants of time expanded outside the present of sensation. The recognition of reality as the product of an interplay between the world, in itself, and the mind which must imagine it, brought me back, through the frame of my work, to an idea of the spirit. It has been said that all that we have is surfaces, and on one level that is true. However it is equally true that all that we have is interiors - which are our own interior exteriorised. After all, we can only experience experiences. It is a kind of breathing, between the universe and the imagination, between things and their image in us - like the infinite recession between facing mirrors. A breathing also between now and not now - between being and not being: inspiration and expiration, light and darkness. The world in itself is unknowable - but at the core of the reality of experience we feel the heft and hardness of a world of things: and it is this which we seize with our hands and with metaphor (e=mc2 for example), and this from which we must fashion a real love. Without fictions we cannot conceive of the world. However, again like Stevens, I want an art (and a reality) that is not just a gratifying fantasy. A work of art deals with our experience of reality through another experience of reality. Art has always existed within more than one idea of reality: immediate and mediated. Words and matter impinge on reality in quite different ways. We can stand, in a sense, outside ourselves to think about ourselves. But we cannot stand outside our sense of reality. Light is such an old metaphor that we are hardly aware when it is one: enlightenment, awareness, life - and against that: darkness, the night of the soul, the nothingness behind appearance. We look out (and in) at the darkness when we dare, from the small circle lit by our own imagination and hope that the light is not ours only. That it exists without us. Light, inner light, which, in the words of Charles Taylor, "illuminates that space where I am present for myself." The world is ambiguous: why should I insist that my work be otherwise, so long as it contains a little of my truth and my longings. Though I hope that, ultimately, the work escapes everything I might say about it. Surfaces are not all we have - we have both more, and not even that. What we have, briefly, is a life. And within it, close up against it, so that its breath is our breath, we know that the world is real; really real.

Also why is the art world so reluctant to acknowledge the core role of metaphor, especially when the work is trying to escape all allusiveness? How often I read art criticism which tries to fill out something thin, something deliberately flat, rather than trying to find and render down, and say simply, something large and basic and felt. How seldom one hears the word profound. It embarrasses people. But I am not alone in wanting depth from art again. Ordinary, thoughtful people are grateful when they find it attempted seriously, and this should not be a reason to despise it. The deliberate blankness of Warhol and his successors needed to happen. But now we must find ways, without returning to the past or forgetting the reasons for our disillusionment, of making that difficult place where we can be truthful and yet make a place to stand and sometimes sing.

Andrei Tarkovsky: A poet of the cinema.

need the collection of his work, nowish.

airport writing.

Lets be real. What I really was meaning to say was, one can never entirely prepare themselves for what can ensue after a shared hello—the meeting of eyes—nor can one ever prepare themselves enough for the last hello and the first goodbye. One thinks they can “pull it off successively” but I am closer to being convinced that preparation is nothing far off from a degree of avoidance of reality. Maybe nothing is locked tight, maybe a state of security is really just a state of mind. But I suppose we all need to feel the chance of “danger” and so we continue to be caught by surprise at Hello and surprise ourselves by our reaction after the Goodbye, but then there is all the action that lays between Hello and Goodbye—all the material, all the substance that one can’t and shouldn’t want to be prepared for. Goodness, we all want to be in control of our reactions, but as inside of us as reactions are they move outside of us to make their appearance. It is silly to say “one” or “we” when this is really about me assuming that mankind in general has the same plagues and fortunes. I thought maybe I was harder, but I will never know until after the fact. And after the fact, when my reactions have surprised me, do I see that I loose parts of myself after Hello and inside of the Goodbye—and between the start and finish I am just a silly little girl who likes time spent with men because for whatever reason, it helps me take myself a whole lot less seriously. But really, I’m always just prone to seeing as a result of feeling and feeling by memory of a collection of sights.

ConTROL

I can’t be sure that one is ever prepared for all of life’s tangles. Sure we may be more educated, thicker skinned or more aware than prior to the time but ultimately, we don’t know what will be given and/or taken from us and therefore, we will always be in for a surprise. We will always feel a bit unbalanced. We will always feel an unexpected rush at least once during the stretch of a given time. I could write twenty pages, easily, on the past month. And I am positive that even I would be surprised by the meditation, the reflection, the final realization. When I write I always lack complete control of myself. I am changing—the words, the compilation of the words are altering my immediate “I”—I don’t know where I am going, what I am getting to nor what I will discover. But I do know that I am uninhibited, which perhaps is an even more intimidating process and outcome. The initial thoughts, the chosen words, the produced meaning are ultimately mine and therefore, I must take credit for them, I must stand behind and before them and all the inadequacies I am sure readers read into. Nothing is perfect, nothing can’t be challenged, everything should be a work in progress.

I digress, but of course that rambling was specific to the fleshing out of some other idea. I guess what I mean to say, in some backwards way, is that this break revolved around being out of control—wanting, needing to have things out of my control. For example, at a more surface level, I needed to come home, indulge, not be concerned with racing to a gym and enjoy that—not panic, not despise the changes that could ultimately occur, but just be rational, be youthful, live in and by the moment. And alas, I finally did. I am the healthiest feeling (mentally) and looking (physically) than I have been in seven years. And I’m proud, proud that I finally believe the world won’t stop or change if you just let go a bit.

During the countdown to 2008, I couldn’t stop myself from repeating “oh no” “I can’t believe it” over and over. I was struck and stuck on the realization that I was in the final seconds of 2007. Anyone that is close to me knows just what a whirlwind 2007 was for me—the year of extremes, the year of the superstitious number 7 and how it followed me everywhere. When the year changed numbers it was an easy way of trying to force myself out of that year’s mentality—it was time to let go of the time. And by letting go I was able to fall into other things that I didn’t and shouldn’t have complete control over. Things that I didn’t look to judge and by not doing so, was surprised by. Tomorrow morning I leave Miami and head back to Manhattan with a mind full of memories of experiences I all wanted to be a part of. And most importantly, looking back and looking forward are all aspects I have to genuinely smile about.

m. craft - sweets

I could not tell you, the ways my mind sees to think.

Their stems shudder in exaggeration, as the breaths of air dance in tune to the musical notes of weeping. Lilacs fold their faces as purple tears slide out from underneath the moon of their eyes, like letters fleeing from envelopes in quick anticipated sighs of divulgence. I, too, want to know their symphony of secrets—the melody of meaning. So I lay, lowered, beneath the towering figures of flowers. One ear to the soiled ground and another to the open window where I hear them calling to their other. My heart pounds against the earth and I feel pressure to keep my body still and my soul from moving. But I hear them weep, feel their bodies move—breaking the air that captured my self and held it to form like solid ice. I fall loose and dampen the earth that traces my depleted body. Tears, all my own, stream forward and replenish the desiccated roots. The Lilacs fling their faces back in one elaborate exhale of radiance, as the fireflies swarm to kiss their fragrant faces. I keep there still, collecting dew in the warm afterglow.

Sometimes I do like him.

Sorolla's women in their picture hats stretched upon his canvas beaches beguiled the Spanish Impressionists And were they fraudulent pictures of the world the way the light played on them creating illusions of love? I cannot help but think that their 'reality' was almost as real as my memory of today when the last sun hung on the hills and I heard the day falling like the gulls that fell almost to land while the last picnickers lay and loved in the blowing yellow broom resisted and resisting tearing themselves apart again again until the last hot hung climax which could at last no longer be resisted made them moan And night's trees stood up -Ferlinghetti.

morale

recap: my luggage on the cruise was taken by another passenger and put on to a private driver's bus. they got to the airport and realized it had been a mistake. that evening i got a call from the bus driver telling me had my bag filled with dresses and money, but how was he going to get it back to me? how was he going to pay? he never called me back and it seemed like all was long gone. persisting, threatening/anxious calls were made to multiple costa ricans and some how the man was tracked down and the luggage was brought to an office. today it arrived, filled but entirely empty in one department. $500 gone. of course, it was my mistake. though i never expected to send the luggage off in the plane with my wallet. truthfully, had there been no cash, i may never have gotten the bag back. but what kills me is not necessarily the money being gone, but just the morale of others. to convince oneself of deserving a reward (and maybe they do) and they easily take from you and never look back. actions are so much easier to make if you never have to confront the other's face.

but hey, at least the polaroids are safe:)

Seasky

Waves turn their bodies and fall against the skirts of the sand Shells crumble and break like glass Clouds hang like ornaments In a blue stretch of time. And I, I resemble a future self—a body that melts in the shoreline, a fabricated figure woven into hanging arms and a torso trunk. My strangling legs wrap around this mounting form and at a distance a difference of selves cannot be figured. I do not mind this tangle, how I have been caught, submerged into temperatures that shock more than physicality. Landscape imagery grows around me, as the water breaks inside my hand Scraping my palm and leaving another scarred wrinkle (I have been effected). The sun drips on to my lids. Eyes poke open to avoid the burning sensation of sight, as a lash falls uselessly. I see blue marble eyes (my fixation is unbreakable) that match the cloth of the sky that has been designed behind him, for him. I feel pacified and can no longer tell whether his eyes stand before the sky or the sea For I am high above both, yet inside of them too.

Gurrr

How come I can not go a few weeks without losing the entirety of a piece of writing? I just wrote two pages on my trip and Word went crashing down, leaving me with nothing. I become so emersed in writing, that when I do, I become another me; a me that can not remember what I had written or how. Writing is a tricky task, it takes a miracle to create it (and be proud) and it takes yet another miracle to remember what and how you had said it. It's like forgotten material--hence why it kills the writer who remembers having the work and has to deal with losing it and forgetting all of which he had known at the time of writing. Today I bought Borges' collection of selected poems, Harold Bloom's Romanticism and Consciousness, exchanged an iPhone without paying a penny and convinced the cruise to ship me my luggage at their expense, got a 4.0 GPA and now the plan is Columbia Graduate School... life is really swinging my way. More material soon....

From Sept 9 to Today.

I left on a trip, leaving behind a binding of collected works I have written in the past months. I had let my mom read the beginning pages of work—not realizing that she was interested in reading the entirety of what lay between the covers. Of course I do not mind, perhaps that is the melding of my openness and rawness. I never think to edit, to hide, to not permit certain eyes to run across my words and provide no explanation immediately after. I want the reader to situate themselves—to dismiss rationale, facts as they know them. I want the reader to enter a reality that I have designed; a reality that is as true as it is not—a reality that is undecided, yet determined.

Story short, I came home and she approached me about the writing and in particular a certain piece. A piece I had not thought much about from September 9, 2007. She said she could not get the writing, the story, out of her head. That she couldn’t talk to my dad about it, but that she tried to with someone else. She was concerned that it had all been true, that I had lived a life between the walls I talked about that she had not known. She felt responsible.

As a writer, this is what I yearn for. Once you are recognized for your craft, you have the ability to offer off your truth, your reality—you can say anything is so, if you sense it to be. You call the shots, you design the history, you reconstruct the world. Sure, the piece in its entirety is raw—it exposes flesh, it tells of where it bleeds. But I write of those days to immortalize them, to frame them, to capture them in a different time, a time where light can change their appearance and make them shine. I thank my lucky stars for every default that made me slump, made me cry, made me overanalyze and fear the future. One needs to have the colors of the world thrown on to them—you become a new piece, and you decide to become your own master. Have this not happen, and one will remain a sketch. One needs to see colors because once one does they use them to paint their character.

Here are a few lines from the piece that I enjoy:

“Desires that pollinated as the paint was spread against the canvas of adolescence or after the paint had dried? I do not ask.”

“Bursting opiates dull the rationale of common sense, drowsiness inflicted upon my partners! Sleep slides down our lashes, blame it on the walls—dark, dark. I was sleeping then; know not what I did, remember who I think I was.”

“Centipedes become my new neighbors; sneaking beneath the door when the lights hung low—too active to notice their entrance, they peer up at me as I am placed in lewd positions. Even they roll into a ball; hiding their face, a ploy to become an(other).”

“Maybe it was an attempt to document the banality of romance; the give and take, the pervasion of I and the explosion of Him in its purest colors of darks and lights.”

“I spent hours in the bathtub fictionalizing my current existence for a novel I was writing at the time. Everyone thought it was autobiographical; I just thought I existed somewhere in all I created, you just had to find me.”

“Did you know that if you submerge your whole body beneath a steady bath, as if you were drowning, you can hear your heartbeat inside of you? I have never felt so close to myself.”

“Time took forever between those walls.”

“My bunny ran loose, disappearing and then reappearing, suffering from starvation and then obesity; I couldn’t keep track, but then again no one and nothing was really itself between those walls.”

“A friend and I made films where I would crawl on the floor and if anyone were to uncover the footage now they would be impressed by the humanity that had been documented.”

“I took rolls of self portraits—eyes gazing into a lens that I interpreted to be [a] (my)self I was performing for, a self that I was hoping would eventually validate the exposed beauty.

“Eventually I moved out and on. Painted a new room to match the other flower I found myself to be. And the room of violets decayed; hungry and thirsty for a morality only I offered up.”

“Now the walls remind me of waste and if I were to stay long enough, I might just conform, so I close the door and go.”

Lips kissed, kissing kissed. -J.Joyce, Ulysses.

Lips are in motion
Ocean to ocean to ocean,
ocean to ocean to ocean
Paris is calling
Falling, we're falling, we're
falling...
-Blondie, French Kissin' in the USA.