let the wolves howl at the moon

I like fishless sushi, and rugs that remind me of New Mexico. The shelves in my bedroom are packed with precious things. Sugar cubes from tea with my mother, favourite books, carved wooden boxes, pictures in frames of old friends and me when I was small, a Japanese soda bottle, and an abalone shell full of jewelery. I have one night to write a fairy tale. 

how did we make it this far?

Our house is always cold, and my room has become a minefield of undeveloped thoughts. Last night, before I fell into restless sleep I had an idea that human beings were like topographical maps. It was a good thought, but the problem is that I can't remember how they were like topographic maps. I will always be mistaken for being younger than I actually am. 

nothing can stop us now.

patti smith & robert mapplethorpe

Robert and I were always ourselves, 'til the day he died. We were just exactly as we were when we met. And we loved each other. Everybody wants to define each everything. Is it necessary to define love? 

that feeling I think we all get, sometimes.

Not Perfect, by Tim Minchin. Such madness & such beauty.
I love it.

favourite editorials

I like the kind of fashion editorial that takes a chance and mixes the marvelously ethereal with the bizarre. It's better if it looks like a circus. These photographs are strange and fantastic (all of my favourite words!) and they tell stories. I like that. 

hot fun in the summertime.

While creating a mixtape of music for driving, there should always be music with harmonies (the Roches), classic rock (the Rolling Stones), songs that make you wriggle-dance in your seat (M.I.A), songs you used to listen to all the time and identify with emotionally (The Beatles), eighties hair metal (Guns 'N Roses).... It should be feel-good, feel-bad, heartbroken, and ecstatic. So that the drive is literally and figuratively a journey (don't forget Don't Stop Believin'). And it makes the final destination all the more beautiful. 

so above, so below.

Richard Mayhew: Don't do it! We don't matter!

Marquis de Carabas: Actually, I matter quite a lot, but I'm going to have to agree. 

Neil Gaiman's Neverwhere

i love how you always use british spelling.

I keep snacking like a bird today, and I'm still hungry. Cheese and crackers. Cold macaroni from the wooden spoon stuck in the pan. Iced coffee. Logically, I guess it's because I didn't eat lunch. Watering the plants on the deck, and my feet and ankles to cool myself down. Finishing Preludes & Nocturnes with new knowledge of nightmares & good dreams. Listening to an old acquaintance's angel-voice and avoiding ancient flirtations. I may have missed you for so long I don't remember how to not. 

and in that moment we were.

I put on Brian Eno and turn it up so loud that you can hear my iPod whispering with the car speakers. The air smells like gunpowder. The smoke from the fireworks is still drifting through the trees. I never quite remember how to get where I'm going, but I always make it home. The right hand turn signal adds a snare beat to the music. Tick-tick-tick-tick-tick. Smooth turns through the July air, the car cutting a wake on the road before the road that gets me home. I turn on the brights and they spray the trees arching above the road with light. One last smooth turn. I roll up the window to trap the music and the heat in the car, between my ears. And in that moment we were.

a significant lack of epilogues.

Read a book in three hours, alone in bed. From midnight to three in the morning, and I need time to let the story go. I can't fall asleep after reading three hundred pages worth of characters. Like a soul drifting from between dead ribs, or a memory floating silken smooth into a basin, the story needs time to let me go. And I need time to descend to a reality where bears do not talk, and three in the morning is past my bedtime. 

as soft as a mouse.

Brought a softly spinning fan into my room to move the air around. Watching Amelie and listening to The Roches. Rearranging my parts to fit into shoe boxes. I love boxes. If I had enough, I would pack my entire life into boxes and seal the lid and live there happily like the girl who lived in the beautiful castle inside of the museum. An hour and a half into independence day early morning. Yoghurt with honey and books to fall asleep by. If you go down to Hammond, you'll never come back. 

philosophy that you can dance to.

back in the eighties
she wanted to be in a hair band

and then in the nineties
she only wore corduroy pants

and then there was emo,
 but that was just a phase

'cause it's all been downhill
since sunny day real estate's 

first record

she plays pop music of the future

and no one will ever get to her

she's a shaker, but not a mover

she plays pop music of the future

(pop music of the future, say hi to your mom)

all the wicked little children

I always loved the idea of the girl with mangled fishnets who dumped the entire contents of her purse onto the pavement at two in the morning, and pawed through it beneath the late-night lamplight to fix her streaking makeup. This summer I like Brigitte Bardot hair, and rough & tumble Americana. 

[Coco De Coeur Wasted Youth]

cotton lycra two way stretch

Spent a lot of time with my mom, poring over the pictures in Vogue Nippon. She says that the editorials are like modern art. More fabric shopping, pulling at the knits to test their stretch. Came away with a print that would have been acceptable in the seventies as a poncho. It's marvelous and I can't wait to sew it into something.