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[16 Feb 2010|02:09pm] |
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"Life is not a journey to the grave with the intention of arriving safely in a pretty and well preserved body, but rather to skid in broadside, thoroughly used up, totally worn out, and loudly proclaiming - "WOW - What a Ride!"
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| breakfast junkie |
[23 Mar 2009|12:08pm] |
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luv addict: family force 5 |
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this morning we woke up at six o'clock, ready to start the day fresh and new and welcoming of the healthy spring air and chirping birds. we rolled around in bed, flipping back and forth between channels- the today show, good morning america and the like..
nothing on these banal shows interests me anymore- too much devastation, destruction, violence. no one is crying.
i got cozy in a loose fitting honey-cream sweater and black hard-tails, tan moccasins. jeff in a brown sweater and jeans and the new brown racing shoes i picked out for him. we got in jojo (his new car) and rolled up to the new birmingham toast- which has become our "usual" place to go. our favourite manager/waitress/hostess extraordinare Allison is there greeting us with kisses and cups of coffee in mugs that say "get well soon" with 70's style psychedelic flowers on them or mugs with tiny bears on them or big glass mugs with "Soccer Mom" written in green writing or beautiful mexican looking ones with black flowers printed on dark sienna. toast is so electic and chic and fabulous, i swear i could live right inside the restaurant. jeff had the divine heuvos rancheros and i had granola with vanilla soy milk, berries and toasted almonds as well as baby redskins with grilled onion, red peppers and cheddar cheese. today, allison brought me my skim milk for my coffee in a tiny glass boot and my tato's on a square-ish-round-ish plate with a drawing of a city on it. I had taken the fresh daisy's (they put fresh flowers out everyday tulips, dasiy's, daffodils, snap dragons...) out of the small white vase and placed them in my hair, she saw my the amour in my eyes over the tiny glass boot and plate and told me to stash them in my purse. my odd habit of taking strange utensils and things from restaurants has gotten me a lot of VERY slinkster things lately- but these two treasures are my fave. jeff and i played the price is right on his phone and then i came back home to clean and disinfect and sanitize and laundrize...
i must work out today- the wii fit is calling my name..
and then later, who knows?
the day is young and afterall, it is officially printemps!!
also- after much debate, i've decided to let my hair grow like lady godiva for the summer. i want long flowing golden curls all summer long.
ciao mon cheries!
and i am obsessed with adam lambert from american idol. W O W.
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[30 Jul 2007|06:42am] |
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home from mexico!
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[25 Jun 2007|11:47pm] |
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Everything is beyond incredible. Will write soon. Mish you all and love you from the bottom of my heart and soul.
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[17 Jun 2007|07:53pm] |
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"My heart is like a teacup coverd with hairline cracks. I feel like I have to walk real carefully so it wont get shaken and just all shatter and break... As the cab drives along the highway from the airport into manhatten I shake my wrist so that the skeletons on my charm bracelet do their bone jig. Looking up at all the big buildings and seeing the crowd scurrying along, I know what Weetzie meant about her nerves and the skeletons. New York is not a Weetzie city. Weetzie is a kid of the city where movies are made and it's always sunny, where Marilyns ghost rides up out of her spiky birdy footprints to dance on beams of light with red lacquer dragons in front of the chinese theatre, and james deans head star watches you at the observatory like a fallen star somebody found and put on a pedestal; a city where you can only tell the seasons by the peonies or pumpkins or poinsettias at the florists."
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[03 Jun 2007|08:54pm] |
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What time are we upon and where do I belong?
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[30 May 2007|10:08am] |
The Starfish Story
A young man is walking along the ocean and sees a beach on which thousands and thousands of starfish have washed ashore. Further along he sees an old man, walking slowly and stooping often, picking up one starfish after another and tossing each one gently into the ocean.
"Why are you throwing starfish into the ocean?," he asks.
"Because the sun is up and the tide is going out and if I don't throw them further in they will die."
"But, old man, don't you realize there are miles and miles of beach and starfish all along it! You can't possibly save them all, you can't even save one-tenth of them. In fact, even if you work all day, your efforts won't make any difference at all."
The old man listened calmly and then bent down to pick up another starfish and throw it into the sea. "It made a difference to that one."
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[30 May 2007|08:46am] |
Where did I come from?
I am all bones and light and flowers preparing themselves for flight.
I am the sweetest kisses and illuminating the city and glowing heart beats.
I am dreams and sleeping on horses bellies and eating croissants in the french countryside.
I am pink glitter and heart shaped things and soft knit tee shirts.
I am girl love, raspberries on my fingers girl, cupcake-smell girl.
I am girl with the mermaid hair, with the fairy wings, with the siren's song sitting on the edge of the ocean.
I am fairy lights and pink cars and tulle skirts.
I am waking up in the morning, golden-honey light kissing the tips of my toes, slowly pouring over my legs like warm champagne. I think of mimosas and bowls full of melon- pink and orange and pale green. I am waking up and I am imagining what waking up in New Mexico will be like. Jim Morrison lived in New Mexico, it's the first place he moved when he made it big- Albuquerque as a matter of fact. I am imagining waking up with all of the windows in the house open- the smell of my jacaranda blossoms filling the air with a purple haze and fragrance that seeps into all of our shirts and my dresses and my hair, our bedding will always smell like sweet-cakes. I am waking up and I need to hear my lover's voice so I dial his number without looking and wait for my favourite thing; his morning voice. His voice, that liquour-over-ice voice with it's deep smokiness and sultry coo. I could listen to him all day, his stories, his songs, his wild imagination, his ideas. He makes soft noises and I can tell that he is yawning, stretching all of his muscles out, flexing his beautiful bronzed body, and I wish I was next to him. I always tell him he has the body of a greek god- all muscle and strong legs, perfect shoulders, hands sculpted from marble. He tells me the goddesses are jealous of me and my beauty- but I hush him, if they hear, they get angry. And I would never want the goddesses angry at me. I want to make breakfast, chocolate chip pancakes, raspberry crepes, waffles with ice cream, homefries and scrambled eggs with cheese, nutella and banana on toast.
I am thinking that I will eat my breakfast outside, drink my coffee and watch the baby rabbits and small birds. I saw the first butterfly of the year yesterday, all blue wings with white and yellow edges. It reminded me of a dress my Aunt made for me when I was little. I will go and play music and dance throughout the house in my baby-pink bathrobe, wishing I had those house-stilettos with the pretty pink pouf on the toes. I will make myself breakfast and maybe go for a run, though the blood roses are weighing me down. We'll see. Work at one until eight. I don't want to go. I want to write poetry and listen to the Doors and Janis Joplin and warm-weather music and go hiking at Stony Creek and kayak and swim in Adela's salt-water pool. I miss that summertime freedom I used to have. I need to get away from retail as soon as possible.
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[23 May 2007|09:41pm] |
Lately everything has been blown glass and seashells, luminescent pearls and glittering stars. I feel like I'm inside of a raindrop, a diamond, a sparkle, something seen and something magical-beautiful. I have been dancing until my calves ache and until my body exudes driplets of sweat like crystalline beads. I have been drinking guava smoothies and eating apricot bars until I think my skin will start glowing pink-gold-orange. Everything has been hard-pressed kisses on my lovers skin, words full of beautiful songs and dreamy poetry filling my heart. I have met a woman who knows a mermaid, a little boy who thinks that stars are blue and told me that I am beautiful in three-year-old chinese. I have dreamt of the pollen from butterfly wings, baskets full of fresh fruit and vegetables, glass slippers, trees made of rhinestones, cinnamon flavoured kisses, goddesses with eyelashes like wings and eyes like teal, like turquoise. Everything is blooming in and around me. Internal Primavera. I am a wish. I am so lost in lust, so wrapped up in love.
Tomorrow is Rose White's birthday!
I am very sleepy tonight.
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[23 May 2007|09:01am] |
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It would be nice if we could just paint a while. Sitting on an old front porch somewhere, the smell of fresh baked bread wafting out the squeaking blue screen door, children with dirty feet and scabbed knees chasing one another down the street, their laughter ringing like opium poppies, peacock cries, like Mexican church bells. It would be nice to feel the weight of the paint brush in my head, visions in my head of girls with hummingbird eyes, girls with the tiniest strands of pearly white teeth and tiny ivory-green bodies, boys with arrows and long dark legs, boys with hair like snakes and songs in throat that burst out of their fingertips like wildfire, like love too strong. I would like to paint the faces of the people I love, their stories hiding in the curl of their lips, in the strands of their hair, secrets hiding behind the ears and on the tip of their noses, love gained and love lost flickering in their eyes. I would like to paint and feel the wet paint on my hands, how the top layer becomes like a skin to the paint if you leave it sitting too long, that gummy silky way that paint glides and makes everything everything everything beautiful. I would like to paint a while, I would like to create something beautiful- a child made of canvas and paint and love.
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[18 May 2007|08:25pm] |
Deetzie, I am the girl on the left and you are the girl on the right!
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[17 May 2007|08:54pm] |
the small girl with the watermelon coloured lips, fluffy purple tutu, baby pink tee shirt that says princess in sparkling cursive letters and a huge old leather jacket with squared off shoulders is twirling circles on the front lawn, her eyes staring up at the sky that is turning silver blue. her baby brother with chickadee blonde hair and train print overalls is fumbling around trying to hold onto the brown football that looks gigantic in his hands. their father is wearing tiger print pants that remind me of the eighties, and MC Hammer and all things velveeta. he is playing basketball on their wide driveway, keeping an eye on the little ones and on the small squeaking dog that is chasing imaginary rabbits. i remember being a teensy, the way the grass felt so long, plush like emerald green carpeting, every rock a bedazzling jewel, every bug a special creature needing to be fed and given small sticks to tightrope on. i remember waking each morning to my mothers cooing voice singing beautiful songs- songs that remind me to this day of lily of the valley and doves and cinnamon. i remember the smell of fresh french toast, sweet almond milk and slices of colourful cantaloupe, honeydew and strawberries. i remember her watching me take eat bite off of my special mini golden silverware and asking me about my dreams, about the songs stuck inside of my head, about the tastes in my mouth, about the things i wanted to do that day- have a picnic at the park, read books in the garden, dance in the living room with the la bamba soundtrack, ride my pretty pink and black bike, make bracelets and necklaces with glass beads, paint? i wish those days were still here. and even though people pretend they are something and somewhere they are not, i don't mind- i like it- because i'm always in a post-modern fairy-tale anyways.
these are my dreams now....
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[17 May 2007|01:27pm] |
for my own sake, the meanings of some flowers:
Baby's breath = Everlasting love
Bachelor's button = Celibacy, delicacy
Calla lily = Magnificent beauty
Carnation (pink) = Woman's love
Carnation = Pure love
Cornflower = Delicacy
Crocus = Cheerfulness
Daisy = Innocence
Dogwood = Duration
Fern = Magic
Forget-me-not = Remember me
Freesia = Innocence
Fuchsia = Confiding love
Geranium = True friendship
Hellebore = Calming
Hyacinth = Sport and play
Iris = I have a message for you
Ivy = Friendship
Jasmine (pink) = I attach myself to you
Jasmine (white) = Amiability
Lady's mantle = Comfort
Lilac = First emotions of love
Lily-of-the-valley = Return of happiness
Mint = Virtue
Myrtle = Love
Oak leaf = Bravery
Orchid = You're in my thoughts
Peony = Bashful
Peppermint = Warmth of feeling
Primrose = Youth
Ranunculus = Radiant with charms
Rose (white) = I am worthy of you
Rose = Love
Rosemary = Remembrance
Snowdrop = Hope
Sweet pea = Delicate pleasures
Sweet violet = Modesty
Sweet William = Sensitivity
Tulip (pink) = Caring
Tulip (variegated) = Beautiful eyes
Tulip = Declaration of love
Violet (blue) = Faithfulness
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[17 May 2007|01:20pm] |
Francesca Lia Block's top ten punk songs of all time:
x by los angeles
wild in the streets by the circle jerks
sheena is a punk rocker by the ramones
creatures by the adolescents
goo goo much by the cramps
we got the beat by the go-go's (original superfast version --not on cd)
new york new york by nina hagen
secret agent man by agent orange
dancing barefoot by patti smith
lust for life by iggy pop
This will quickly be made into a playlist on Sophia for me.
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| Some beauty and inspiration |
[17 May 2007|12:34pm] |
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| Excerpts I adore from the Mistress of Spices |
[15 May 2007|10:23pm] |
Sometimes I wonder if there is such a thing as reality, an objective and untouched nature of being. Or if all that we encounter has already been changed by what we had imagined it to be. If we have dreamed it into being.
The dry chili, lanka, is the most potent of spices. In its blister-red skin, the most beautiful. Its other name is danger. The chili sings in the voice of a hawk circling sun-bleached hills where nothing grows: I lanka was born of Agni, god of fire, I dripped from his fingertips to bring taste to this bland earth. Lanka, I think I am most in love with you. The chili grows in the very center of the island, in the core of a sleeping volcano. Until we reach the third level of apprenticeship, we are not allowed to approach it. Chili, spice of red Thursday, which is the day of reckoning. Day which invites us to pick up the sack of our existence and shake it inside out. Day of suicide. Day of murder. Lanka, lanka. Sometimes I roll your name over my tongue. Taste the enticing sting of it. So many times the Old One has warned us against your powers. "Daughters, use it only as the last remedy. It is easy to start a flame. But to put it out?" That is why I hold on, lanka, whose name the ten-headed Ravana took for his enchanted kingdom. City of a million jewels turned at the last to ash. Though more than once I have been tempted. In the inner room of the store, on the topmost shelf, sits a sealed jar filled with red fingers of light. One day I will open it and the chilies will flicker to the ground. And blaze. Lanka, fire-child, cleanser of evil. For when there is no other way.
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