Thursday, August 27, 2009

dear diary V.

june 20 1977
dear t,
I thought about your book idea and I'm trying not to intertwine my constant blushing in our story. I guess a kind thank you will have to suffice, but might I add that yes, yes I want to write a collaborative with you.

This is what I have so far:
"Clark called Sally, Sal.

Sally hated when anyone called her "Sal" except for Clark. Sally loved Clark.
Clark neither had anything bad to say about Sal, nor anything good to say about Sal. Sal was just this colleague of his who he frankly found quite homely and quite average.

Sally constantly thought of Clark in scenarios. Clark getting punched in the face. Clark being ignored. Clark hugging her for too long. Clark licking an ice cream cone on a bench. Clark playing basketball, and playing pretty poorly. Clark shaving. Clark planting. Clark listening to The Velvet Underground with his windows down. Clark playing the drums. Clark picking his nose. Clark stubbing his toe. Clark kissing the nape of her neck. Clark in her kitchen eating her Grandmother's apple pie."

Okay now your turn.

Hope to hear from you soon.


june 22, 1977
dear m,
The weather's been pretty crap the past few days, but things always seem to brighten up when I open my mailbox and there's you. I won't make this letter soggy with all of my aimless remarks so I'll just jump right into adding to our story:

"The thought of Sal never encompassed his mind. The only time he ever thought of Sal was when he was too lazy at work to get up and pour himself some coffee. Sal's cubicle was practically in the kitchen so he'd think of ways to ask her to pour him a cup and bring it to him without seeming like a complete jerk. He never would ask.

Sally woke up at 6am every morning, brushed her teeth with special whitening toothpaste thinking possibly they'd glisten when she'd talk. She coordinated her outfits with colors he wore frequently, grey's, blue's, green's, and orange's. She parked three cars in front of his so that when he arrived he'd see her just a few steps ahead of him in his favorite shade of emarld green draped around her.

Clark woke up at 8am every morning. Sometimes he'd brush his teeth, sometimes he wouldn't. He often thought the point of taking time to getting ready was a bit of a loss considering he was unnoticed and unattractive. He wore the same outfits every week, just simply rotating them according to his mood. Like clockwork he'd arrive to work right behind that homely Sal and it always made him feel kind of sure of himself-- prompt and punctual even."

Hopefully poor Sal catches her break, but I suppose that's up to you.


dear diary IV.

march 11, 2008
dear diary,

it's not easy being green.
i set up two pictures in a corner in the warehouse that eerily resemble us in my mind today. maybe it'll counteract how, ya know, delusional i am when staring at you, being around you, etc. well a figurative you. not you-- you're paper.

why do people do that? why do we use our belongings in this specific way to figure out what's going on in our own heads? it seems kinda like this adverse way of being invasive with things that can't, like, get all offended or something. our tangible items that don't display any type of brain power. these things that can only sit where we place them until we're ready to pick them up again, to then place them down again for them to just sit and collect dust for us to continue the cycle. ughhh why am i discussing my inhabitable craving for your eyes to just maybe hit my glance instead of only swimming in my train of thought, with sheets of bound paper? i couldn't tell you (the figurative you), but i guess i could tell me (which i suppose is you too, diary) but only if it's written in here because it's only possible for me to, ya know, get a better understanding of myself if i discuss my ideals on paper.
so pathetic.

anyway you're over there completely entranced by everything else but moi and it's all, like, getting to me and stufffffffff.
gosh, i must only make sense to myself and sixteen year old girls.


Tuesday, August 25, 2009

catch 22ish

Taking a step back in the right direction. If it were possible to melt the possibilities instead of weighing them I think my head would feel a lot lighter, but here's to filling in the blanks.
With all of those echoes you can't possibly get anything done.

Wednesday, August 19, 2009

Thursday, August 13, 2009


Brooklyn bound.

Wednesday, August 12, 2009


mood - lackadaisically relieved. best thing about this weekend - animal collective in brooklyn/roadtrippin' with chums. what i’m reading - slaughter house-five what i’m watching - my so called life re-runs. make-up lust - the day i can wear no make-up at all lust listening to - lou reed. favourite recent purchase - vintage 60's mod dress i found in paris. what i’m looking forward to this week - a needed break in nyc, finding a coveted staple!, avey's sceams, open ceremony, hugs

meteor shower take II.

Chloe Sevigny's Reds.Her alternative to a lookbook for her upcoming new line for Open Cermony, "opening" this fall. Not to mention completley brilliant, but showcases her line on exclusively ginger-heads. All of the jacquard fuzzy leopard's and grey's and mute pink's and navy's embellished over these crimson heads needs to be on my imaginary coffee table and every piece in my hearty closet.


Seriously, I want SOMETHING from this collection. I'd wear that fuzzy leopard cardigan till it disintegrated and then I'd make a motif of all the pieces and pass it down as an heirloom.

meteor shower.

The meteor shower reminded me of Chloe Sevigny's 2008 collection for Open Ceremony. It was just completely ahead of it's time.

The embedding privileges have been taken away but you can watch the line and commentary from Chloe herself

Tuesday, August 11, 2009

Monday, August 10, 2009

bigger > smaller

CLICK on the images to make them BIGGER.


expensive tastebuds.

Could there be a more adorable drape around your neck?
She ain't bad either.

animal rights.

Saimon Chow

Wednesday, August 5, 2009

Monday, August 3, 2009

dear diary III.

january 12, 2006
dear diary,

thursday was a trip. transportation by shuttle to be lifted up for once! me! helping hands! lifted! and helped! helped to find my humility.

do you see the happiness in my penmanship? do you feel the moisture in the paper? i'm sweating my excitement diary! i'm absolutley vulnerable! the act of helping is a life of an admirable specimen, correct? but oh my suffice it to say that i'll take the title of coward, lowly, ungrateful, and selfish pair! i'll take it! with a slice of pie and a swift smash to the knuckles.

for once i was lifted diary! taken by this... this shuttle of sorts. this dreary, bleak, and emotionless mute of a shuttle. it just appeared in the night as i was on my way to grab a fallen cane, and simply swept me off of my fingertips. i was flying diary! i was flying.

i know the warmth of help. i feel needed and appreciated.
i am helping hands. i am proud.

an unknown anonymous in pleads of humility

dear diary II.

september 9, 1967
dear diary,

it was a bit hard waking up today. the sun seems to have put me on his hit list. it isn't fair to mention, but in strengths to not leave you hanging i'll give you just an inch. an inch for your mile. see, my name is harold and i'm a plant. not your ordinary weed or seed you'd place in your courtyard community garden. no, see, i am nothing but a measly houseplant. i am neglected. i am malnourished. i am what i am, and that is harold and a plant.

there comes a time in every plant's life when the sun puts he or she on his hit list. you see, the sun has a great envy toward us. as we sag and droop in this seemingly sad manner, he knows the truth.

now as a human being, you look at me through your eyeballs and see that it appears that i am in bad shape, death being right around the corner. this sort of thing depresses you. however, your being alarmed is quite okay! you see, with your neglect i prosper. i get to see all of those little things you mistakenly continue to look over (like searching underneath every cushion for the remote control, which causes you to haphazardly forget about me, for example). the sun sees this too, but he has to stay put for, well, obvious reasons. i can watch and see and smile with a drop of a leaf. this death that appears to be developing isn't the kind homo sapiens experience.

you see, when the AC blows heavily across me, as you sneeze on, run past, pick at, talk to, and trip over me, harold the plant, i am thriving! when your t.v. begins to snow and the thunder is causing the sky to perspire around the time i need sustenance. when your record player crackles and the dust flurries shrink my roots and make them cringe faulty words. when you have company over and i am left observing in the corner. when i am listening and you think you're all alone. in all of this, i am sinking.
see, you mistake my drooping for fatality. you poor souls. you lonely sun.

what did you want to see, what did you want to be when you grew up?

harold the plant