reading at the moment:
The Elegance of the Hedgehog - Muriel Barbery, (re-reading) The Last Lecture - Randy Pausch, How to be Good - Nick Hornby
also recently purchased: Atonment - Ian McEwan, Death in Venice - Tristan Tonio Kroger
>
i saved an absurd figure of $1500 or so on this jacket, if i recall correctly. after having seen it showcased (in a manner exceedingly more beautifully than in these photos) for a little while now, i was intrigued, though the more i wear it the more satisfied i become. i have never had a staple jacket that i really enjoy and feel is appropriate for a slew of different occasions, but this Rick Owens number seems to be ticking a lot of boxes for me right now.:
'and i would get u from the floor while you looked on, your face deliberately twitching in imitation of my tic nerveux. but never mind, never mind, i am only a brute, never mind, let us go on with my miserable story.'
- p218
'but who would upset such a lucid dear? did i ever mention that her bare arm bore the 8 of vaccination? that i loved her hopelessly? an inquisitive butterfly passed, dipping, between us.
here is something i composed in my retreat:
wanted, wanted: Dolores Haze. / hair: brown. lips: scarlet. / age: five thousand three hundred days. / profession: none, or "starlet".
where are you hiding, Dolores Haze? / where are you hiding, darling? / (i talk in a daze, i walk in a maze, i cannot get out, said the starling).
where are you riding, Dolores Haze? / what make is the magic carpet? / is a Cream Cougar the present craze? / and where are you arked, my car pet?
who is your hero, Dolores Haze? / still one of those blue-caped star-men? / oh the balmy days and the palmy bays / and the cars, and the bars, my Carmen!
oh Dolores, that juke-box hurts! / are you still dancin', darlin'? / (both in worn Levis, both in torn t-shirts / and i, in my corner snarlin').
happy, happy is gnarled McFate / touring the States with a child wife / plowing his Molly in every State / among the protected wild life.
my Dolly, my folly! her eyes were vair, / and never closed when i kissed her. / know an old perfume called Soleil Vert? / are you from Paris, mister?
dying, dying, Lolita Haze, / of hate and remorse, i'm dying. / and again my hair fist i raise, / and again i hear you crying.
wanted, wanted: Dolores Haze. / her dreamy-gray gaze never flinches. / ninety pounds is all she weighs / with a height of sixty inches.
my car is limping, Dolores Haze, / and the last long lap is the hardest / and i shall be dumped where the weed decays, / and the rest ir rust and stardust.
by psychoanalysing this poem, i notice it is really a maniac's masterpiece. the stark, stiff, lurid rhymes correspond very exactly to certain perspectiveless and terrible landscapes and figures, and magnified parts of landscaped and figures, as drawn by psychopaths in tests devised by their astute trainers. i wrote many more poems. i immersed myself in the poetry of others. but not for a second did i forget the load of revenge.
i would be a knave to say, and the reader a fool to believe, that the shock of losing Lolita cured me of pederosis.
my heart was a hysterical unreliable organ.'
- p293, Lolita - Vladimir Nabokov
i've been particularly inspired by Taylor Tomasi-Hill recently.
The Elegance of the Hedgehog - Muriel Barbery, (re-reading) The Last Lecture - Randy Pausch, How to be Good - Nick Hornby
also recently purchased: Atonment - Ian McEwan, Death in Venice - Tristan Tonio Kroger
>i saved an absurd figure of $1500 or so on this jacket, if i recall correctly. after having seen it showcased (in a manner exceedingly more beautifully than in these photos) for a little while now, i was intrigued, though the more i wear it the more satisfied i become. i have never had a staple jacket that i really enjoy and feel is appropriate for a slew of different occasions, but this Rick Owens number seems to be ticking a lot of boxes for me right now.:
'and i would get u from the floor while you looked on, your face deliberately twitching in imitation of my tic nerveux. but never mind, never mind, i am only a brute, never mind, let us go on with my miserable story.'
- p218
'but who would upset such a lucid dear? did i ever mention that her bare arm bore the 8 of vaccination? that i loved her hopelessly? an inquisitive butterfly passed, dipping, between us.
here is something i composed in my retreat:
wanted, wanted: Dolores Haze. / hair: brown. lips: scarlet. / age: five thousand three hundred days. / profession: none, or "starlet".
where are you hiding, Dolores Haze? / where are you hiding, darling? / (i talk in a daze, i walk in a maze, i cannot get out, said the starling).
where are you riding, Dolores Haze? / what make is the magic carpet? / is a Cream Cougar the present craze? / and where are you arked, my car pet?
who is your hero, Dolores Haze? / still one of those blue-caped star-men? / oh the balmy days and the palmy bays / and the cars, and the bars, my Carmen!
oh Dolores, that juke-box hurts! / are you still dancin', darlin'? / (both in worn Levis, both in torn t-shirts / and i, in my corner snarlin').
happy, happy is gnarled McFate / touring the States with a child wife / plowing his Molly in every State / among the protected wild life.
my Dolly, my folly! her eyes were vair, / and never closed when i kissed her. / know an old perfume called Soleil Vert? / are you from Paris, mister?
dying, dying, Lolita Haze, / of hate and remorse, i'm dying. / and again my hair fist i raise, / and again i hear you crying.
wanted, wanted: Dolores Haze. / her dreamy-gray gaze never flinches. / ninety pounds is all she weighs / with a height of sixty inches.
my car is limping, Dolores Haze, / and the last long lap is the hardest / and i shall be dumped where the weed decays, / and the rest ir rust and stardust.
by psychoanalysing this poem, i notice it is really a maniac's masterpiece. the stark, stiff, lurid rhymes correspond very exactly to certain perspectiveless and terrible landscapes and figures, and magnified parts of landscaped and figures, as drawn by psychopaths in tests devised by their astute trainers. i wrote many more poems. i immersed myself in the poetry of others. but not for a second did i forget the load of revenge.
i would be a knave to say, and the reader a fool to believe, that the shock of losing Lolita cured me of pederosis.
my heart was a hysterical unreliable organ.'
- p293, Lolita - Vladimir Nabokov
i've been particularly inspired by Taylor Tomasi-Hill recently.
No comments:
Post a Comment
your thoughts will be read and appreciated, thanks for taking the time x