Monday, March 26, 2012
what inspires me in latin airports
i want a little two year old son with light brown skin and a paperboy hat.
Why I wish the Internet could be more like the very conversational tropical birds outside my window as I snooze
They have a far better relevancy algorithm for search results. They are amazing little machines-utterly mobile, feed off of their own infrastructure and even help it thrive and reproduce (passing seeds). They are effortlessly social. They are full of delightful surprises with their complex song, which is subtle, expressive, and at once minimalist and graceful, while attention capturing and detailed.
Thursday, March 1, 2012
I think i am high on water
I hate drinking water! I never get thirsty. What is happening.... this expressive, nervous, thoughtful energy, in my headphones, bottle after bottle after bottle.
when lace falls apart
it becomes so sexy, so decrepid, and so cool
like baby coral pressed in a book, or like skin
that has been stretched until the cells make patterns, and the individual molecules separate
revealing flowers you may not have noticed, tiny stitches
you have no idea how came to be
and demented, weak, delicate shapes
that had been withstanding the skin and force, twist, and bloat of your body for years!
oh no, I don't want to throw this away, though god forbid the naked bare skin be exposed in large soft patches where the lace broke, tempting to reach in
it's too cool! I'd rather stretch it until it breaks, and glue it on a board with rubber cement, to eternalize its stretch, and strange cellular structure, mutated, glued, full of skin and weak.
Imagine an entire wall of old lace, stretched and broken and flat, glued behind glass, disintegrating, faded and unraveling at the seams. Imagine it kept taut for eternity! beautiful pinks, taupes, golden with age, gray with dust, rose with washes- the synthetic fibers as stretchy and parasitic as neurons, the the stiff cotton ladies' lace as stale as cornbread snowflakes, crumbling like dandruff.
up there it would sit on the wall like a brain of secret paralysis, modesty, sex, and delicacy.
like baby coral pressed in a book, or like skin
that has been stretched until the cells make patterns, and the individual molecules separate
revealing flowers you may not have noticed, tiny stitches
you have no idea how came to be
and demented, weak, delicate shapes
that had been withstanding the skin and force, twist, and bloat of your body for years!
oh no, I don't want to throw this away, though god forbid the naked bare skin be exposed in large soft patches where the lace broke, tempting to reach in
it's too cool! I'd rather stretch it until it breaks, and glue it on a board with rubber cement, to eternalize its stretch, and strange cellular structure, mutated, glued, full of skin and weak.
Imagine an entire wall of old lace, stretched and broken and flat, glued behind glass, disintegrating, faded and unraveling at the seams. Imagine it kept taut for eternity! beautiful pinks, taupes, golden with age, gray with dust, rose with washes- the synthetic fibers as stretchy and parasitic as neurons, the the stiff cotton ladies' lace as stale as cornbread snowflakes, crumbling like dandruff.
up there it would sit on the wall like a brain of secret paralysis, modesty, sex, and delicacy.
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