Feb 19
A thing I ate that I loved.
The sinus pressure in my face was so intense Wednesday, that my teeth hurt. Luckily, I had the day off, and was poised to dedicate my entire being to sprawling, Season 3 of Mad Men, and Mucinex (despite the fact that this would mean not dedicating my entire being to yoga class, laundry, and saying goodbye to my friend who’s on her way to India for three weeks).
Instead, the universe decided I needed to be called into work for nine hours, during which time I would design, print, cut, and bind 1400 booklets for Narcotics Anonymous, only to be screamed at by their media rep (who desperately needed a toke of ANYTHING) that it wasn’t “cheery enough.” For lunch I brought some organic tomato soup I bought from Costco, which wasn’t nearly as good as I remember it being the first time, so I threw it away after a few bites. Insult to injury.
By the time I left work I thought my face was going to explode. However, I couldn’t live with myself if I didn’t say goodbye to my friend, who was just across the street at the Indian restaurant her family owns. Raj is one of those people who is so brimming with wisdom beyond her years, I wonder how she functions day-to-day in the midst of all her revelations. I wouldn’t be at all surprised if she suddenly sprouted a mandorla and flowers blossomed in her footprints á la Ferngully.
I probably looked as shitty as I felt, because Raj immediately brought me a cup of ginger tea, which I cooled with cream, downed in three gulps, and asked for another. Her mother, who I have only seen come out of the kitchen a handful of times, emerged to say hello and give her blessing, as is her custom for family friends. She took my head in her hands, felt my forehead, mumbled something in Punjabi, and retreated back to the kitchen. She emerged ten or fifteen minutes later, and presented me with a bowl of the best lentil soup I have ever eaten in my life. It was dense and golden-green with turmeric, perfectly spiced, and not at all fussy — just a few stray peas and a chunk or two of carrot — exactly what I needed.
Raj’s mother lingered a bit, and after a while told me (in Punjabi, with Raj translating) that she had curly hair like mine. I responded that I would love to see her at home, when she wore it down. Then, she (very boldly) asked if she might touch mine…
I let her. That might be my customary old person blessing someday.
» I try to be a less hateful person, but then my hand is forced.
I’m so sick of all these motherfucking hippy backpackers in India.
With their stupid fucking lack of any personal hygiene and their stupid fucking broken English and their stupid fucking hippy life philosophies. (Direct overheard quote: ‘It is change—the only one that is always!’)
I am being hypocritical, of course: I thought I had new birthmarks until I exfoliated and they went away, English is the only language in which I can adeptly use any tense other than the present, and I’m here at this internet cafe to print out my February horoscope from Susan Miller and also the lyrics to ‘Boots of Spanish Leather’ and also to Gchat one of my friends about his ‘energy’.
So there’s that.
Often when someone goes on a trip and asks what I’d like him or her (but let’s be honest him) to bring back to me, I say “Spanish boots of Spanish leather,” and no one ever gets it.
This (and let’s be honest Kate Chopin) are my life right now.
Pitchfork: Animal Collective to Take Over Guggenheim Museum
There was only one way I could ever be convinced to get a guggenheim membership…
One of the things that you notice almost immediately in the jungle are the birds; so many different sounds coming from so many different directions. Are they communicating to each other? What are they saying? Does each variation serve a purpose? Why are there repetitions? Is there a pattern or is that just your imagination? If you don’t know the first thing about bird songs, these questions can rack a brain for days. The jungle seems louder than most New York apartments but its symbiosis makes it subtler if not more pleasing to foreign ears. The longer you sit awake in bed listening at night, the more you hear. It brings to mind Jane Goodall hanging out with chimpanzees in Tanzania and how she noticed them reacting to distant or inaudible sounds that at first she couldn’t hear, but as her ears adapted to the environment after months she began to hear them too.
But as the environments around us change quickly, as people encroach more and more on land where only select symbioses occur, we wonder how this will change the sounds around us and how this alters the way we hear things and react to them. As New Yorkers we are all familiar with the everyday noise around us—the car alarms, the subway trains braking, the music in bars—so familiar that sometimes we drown them out. But then do we not realize how these sounds are affecting us? How they make us feel or act? With this in mind we wanted to create an environment where people could take some time to listen to other kinds of sounds and get away from those familiar sounds of the city. Keeping in mind the birds of the jungle, we’ve created an array of sounds with Animal Collective’s music that is seemingly random…or is it? We invite you to come take some time out and sit with us. As time passes it is our hope that you will wonder if you are hearing songs or patterns or maybe simply hearing more. The visual work of Danny Perez has been incorporated to turn the environment of an empty museum into a more mysterious hideaway. The core elements and colors are worked into the piece in order to unite this room of sound with the inside of your brain. We hope you enjoy.
Thanks for joining us.
—Animal Collective, February 8, 2010
Feb 17
e.e. cummings, 1923
i will wade out
till my thighs are steeped in burning flowers
I will take the sun in my mouth
and leap into the ripe air
Alive
with closed eyes
to dash against darkness
in the sleeping curves of my body
Shall enter fingers of smooth mastery
with chasteness of sea-girls
Will i complete the mystery
of my flesh
I will rise
After a thousand years
lipping
flowers
And set my teeth in the silver of the moon
Feb 16
Julie fucking Powell. Pig liver from The Meat Hook. Cleaving.
… no big deal!!
If I could choose my last meal on earth it would absolutely have to be my mom’s liver and onions. Not, like, her liver, but… you get the idea. I prefer the onions charred and fried with the liver, not caramelized, but to each their own. This is best eaten with rice and a thick gravy made of the liver drippings.
Feb 11
» RIP Alexander McQueen.
Fashion genius Alexander McQueen commits suicide…This is devastating.
This exhibition at the Met is the closest I’ve ever come to one of Alexander McQueen’s pieces, but I’ve admired his work and followed his career since the Homogenic cover he styled. I always considered him more of an artist than a fashion designer, and to quote that movie I won’t name, his work was better than art, because you live your life in it.
Feb 09
“Which one do you wanna eat?”
Revolution cupcake style now!!!!!!!!!!
I will buy this book for my housemate who is not at all a feminist, but soooo this book’s target demo. Then we will eat $5 cupcakes because I would rather cook than bake.
Feb 04
My mom just celebrated (but not really celebrated) her 65th birthday. I feel like no one really tells you about or prepares you for that devastating moment when you look at your parents and realize how old they are.
Since living on my own, my relationship with her has advanced to this refreshing new stratum where we actually communicate as equals. I’m totally and completely against that whole ‘my-mom/dad-is-my-best-friend’ level of openness, but something about the way she speaks to me now seems so much less didactic than it did before. And when I don’t feel like I’m being preached at by her, I gradually let down the fail-safe barriers I erected as a child, and am as chatty and divulgy as ever.
For as long as I can remember I’ve made a conscious effort to be nothing like her — but if I’m being honest, I have to admit that every bit of strength I have comes from her, and her steadfast refusal to allow anyone to deny me the right to be me.
The fact that she isn’t going to live forever is endlessly heartbreaking.
Feb 02
“ Things change. People change. Relevancies change. Who you are this moment isn’t who you will be ten moments from now, if not two. It feels like the bottom because it is in the the essence of the moment. But only you are able to change that. And if it’s not okay, then you need to change hoodies and go on. Because you have to live with yourself for a lifetime. You only have to live with [this] for a moment.
— Amanda Finelli
Aug 31
“A poster the recipient completes by revealing spot-varnished type with hands made dirty by handling the poster. This is the first of a series of posters.”
Dirt Po(or)ster by Roland Tiangco. If viewing through your dashboard, click on the image to view the process.
Aug 26
I saw this in the basement of the Whitney in May. The entire series is incredibly clever, and Mr. Nauman was ridiculously cute in his day.
One of my most favorite photos ever;
Bruce Nauman, Self Portrait as a Fountain
(Eleven Color Photographs)
(via » Go See – New York: “Photoconceptualism 1966-1973″ featuring works by Bruce Nauman, Dan Graham, Robert Smithson, Mel Bochner, Gordon Matta-Clark, Edward Ruscha Whitney Museum of American Art, through September 20, 2009 - AO Art Observed™)
Jul 29
Jul 14
Self-portrait, Brooklyn, phonecam
