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Maybe, what we all (the young, us, ‘young adults’ especially it seems) have to remember (constantly, everyday, around every corner and conversation and expectation) is that no body really knows what they’re doing.
Maybe we are all anxious, and OCD, and self conscious.
Maybe we’re all floundering for some kind of sensibility in the chaos that is our perception of the world and each other and everything. Each of us and our thoughts and the words that come out right and wrong and sideways and poetically, they all get tangled like a fly in the web of a very tricky spider called life. And we’re trapped here, stuck somewhere between can’t escape the hold and loving this sweet venum.
Maybe we both wish for happiness, and pretend we know how to find it (or keep it, or stay happy in one place for very long).
Maybe we want to be travellers, lovers, artists and bohemians because to us that means we’re finding our own way with a little bit more joie de vie than the average american teen and,
and and and, we want to beleive that something somewhere, well anything actually, will ever really make us happy at all.
And in the search of this idea, this utopia far away behind (what we’re told will be) a stable income and true (ever lasting, in Christ our lord amen) love, our lives are filled with so much beauty, so much laughter, and care, and chaos, and coincedences that we will never be able to hold it all. Never tell, or write, or take enough photographs to capture the true (cheesy quote worthy) happiness that comes in the everyday crazy; somewhere between sneezing with your mouthfull and that snarky glisten in your best friends eye.
And they, the opressers and the pessimists and the scientists, they say, that our brains aren’t done developing, and that our horemones drive our actions and that one day, when we’re 32, our motabolizims will have stabalized and then we can go on to live our “real” lives. And maybe they’re right, (or just for some; the boring, sensible, lazy, brainwashed, scared and ‘faux’ depressed) or maybe there’s a movement towards appreciating the unstable, unpredicatble nature of our brains and trusting what all those funny biological chemicals are telling us in the form of libidos and emotions and personal tastes.
Maybe there’s a movement towards appreciating the messy, and the scary (taking chances on people and places and dreams) and the not so simple complexities and intimacies in a whole spectrum of relationships.
Maybe there’s a movement towards realizing that we can cultivate lives worth sustaining. Making homes into recording studios and hosting the parties we’d like to go to in our own backyards.
Maybe, there’s a movement towards appreciating community;
to appreciate living in a world filled with people just as fucked up and depressed and confused as you are (probably, and if you’re not, get out of my house) and to realizing that often, people with the biggest hearts, with the most incredible minds and coolest portfolios have been around the self doubting, depressed for days, haunt at least a few times and that some are probably on it right now.
Maybe there’s a movement towards realizing that there’s no happily ever finish line decorated with suburban home floor plans and wedding bands dripping in white white (pure) white and comfortable retirement funds.
Maybe we’re on a parasol in a web of uncertainty and maybe there’s a movement towards accepting that that’s okay (and that ‘true happiness’ makes a better post it note quote than a life goal) (and that happiness is best homemade, self made, and probably different for everybody, and found in as many different ways as there are people).
Maybe there’s a movement. Or maybe we should start one.
He seemed lovely and we had a lot of fun dancing and he’s a photo-journalist who’ll be interning at Vice. So these are all excellent qualities, and we smoked cigarettes outside and he was friends with everybody and… continued here.
Coachella road trip continued…
Las Vegas is a strange and smoggy place with more LED lights, advertisements and professional drug dealers than anywhere else I’ve ever been. Highlights include:
Everything Circus Everything Circus Everything.
Walking all the way down the strip. More slot machines than there were people and public burlesk-pirate themed theater productions.
Reflections of lights and various other shiny things. All of the flashing and bright and neon is actually kind of underwhelming in person, but the effect of so many glass surfaces near to each other, and the reflections that ensure, are spectacular.
Bow tie boy, aka my major soul mate sighting on an over pass walk-way above the strip. No one in Vegas looks like anyone I would ever love except him, definitely. Cue a classic double glance back with extra yearning, and Courtney saying, “Oh, he likes you!” even though we never spoke. Attention: this is a Craigslist ad: I was wearing a floor length grey dress with all of my hair pulled back and if you are bow tie boy, or know him personally, please contact me immediately. How moments like that happen I will never know, but I’m intent on having many of them, and will insist on cherishing even my 30 second romances.
The Stratosphere aka the gigantic penis landmark only a block from our motel,
and Matt drinking the tallest vodka.
Staying at the Fun City motel.
Fully equipped with trashy fashion photo shoots and elaborate Tarzan impersonations.
(but no weddings)
Discovering the gigantic brunch buffet at the Stratosphere, and the adorable man who made our omelets, and when Matt and I pretended to break into a (mock of a) vigorously passionate make out session at our table (I may have even wrapped a leg around him and stomped it up on the table) and all three tables nearby were staring in shock.
Hailing my own cab on the strip, and feeling at home because either cab drivers are universally kind no matter where you are or I have good luck. (maybe both?)
“Hi, I’m going to a motel on the same block as the penis building.”
to be continued…
Last Saturday afternoon I spent a few hours in a hotel room with a lovely couple who wishes to remain anonymous. How’s that for a sentence?
After seeing my nude line drawings they commissioned me to do some of them together. I was admittedly pretty scared/nervous about this at first, but it was actually, so great, honestly. They’re wonderful and hilarious and the whole thing was really romantic (for them, more of an adventure for me). Here are our favorites, which I’ll be replicating as finished pieces:
and my personal fave:
Definitely on my list of top favorite days to never forget.
Earlier tonight I clicked a link posted by a FB friend leading to this fantastic post by my new favorite blogger: Am I A Hypocrite For Professing Radical Self Love While Wearing 5 Inch Heels? The Intersection Between Fashion, Personal Expression & Loving Who You Are www.galadarling.com.
Her blog is endless in itself and filled with links to other incredible sites, so I’ve been stuck in the internet since, reading/looking at things like:
- This Rad DIY blog – bow ties, photo transfer, floral headbands. Basically my crafting to do list with pictures.
- Super gorgeous fashion and nudie photography project – A year without clothes.
- Who gets to be sexy? is it me?
Add that to checking up on all of the other lovely lady bliggers I’ve been following lately like Model Burn Book, Rachel Rabbit, Slutever, Jane-in-bed, Headspace (n.) and the whole universe of Thought Catalog, and I may never leave my bedroom again.
Except yes I will.
But seriously, it’s dangerous, there’s so much to see and read and feel inspired by. I’m so easily distracted by wanting to absorb it all, while also trying to write and create my own work (and do things like clean or whatever).
The internet feels like an endless buffet of every kind of food you can imagine,
and I love food. Talk about over stimulation.
Poets write poetry.
But why shouldn’t a computer also.
Or at least, help to inspire and cultivate more poetry within poets.
If I’m a poet and I give said computer/program the tools that it needs to create spontaneous, beautiful and interesting poetry, what makes it any less valid than the words themselves I first wrote. Where is the line drawn between words jumbled until they just happen to arrange in a way which is beautiful and the way jumbled words spill from my own brain?
If our minds are the worlds most engenious computers than how can my mac book be any less than a kick-ass side-kick?
If the paintings I make by creating the proper conditions, choosing colours, canvas, tape, water and pressure, and then leaving the result up to chance, be considered art; then why not/would my words wrung through a melting pot, re-served to me in new forms and then re-aranged again by me, be themselves foolish, or laugh worthy?
How can you distribute worth to one series of words and not the other?
Especially if they’re equal or greater than, in substance.
When do words become poems and images become art?
Sound become music?
Moving become dancing?
Clothing become style?
If you stick a film camera on your cats collar,
and then let it roam freely, can you still call it art?
**Written in response to friends disregarding (and laughing at) a poetry project which is ironically still in the works.
A couple of weeks ago, after the Vintage Darlings sale at the Creative City Center, Marian let Neil, Colby, Katherine and I up onto the roof. The only way up is by a step ladder, and through the ceilings trap door, which is terrifying if you’re me and scared of anything higher than your kitchen counter. But once you’re up, it’s so worth it.
Colby was also taking pictures and snapped these ones of me, I love our contrast in styles.
You can see the rest of his gorgeous dreamy focus photos here.