in a heartful of dust lives a creature called lust
lunchtime tour after housemate’s dental appointment. lunchbox laboratory for the best burgers in the milky way. bbq beanie weanie and a butterfinger shake. shhhhh, i don’t really like ground beef.
their lunchbox collection.
their bacon press.
postcards. secret cache. diet pepsi. sneakers. hypercolor shirts inspired the puma argentina with heat-sensitive uppers?!?
removable hat. metal gun that can be pulled out from holster. flip-open eyes. piercing gaze.
SAD DOLLS!
political action.
and a handmade sign. my favorite kind.
tell me at least six things you may or may not consider personal
beach ride. witnesses to a photo shoot of a faked sandcastle. plastic frame with sand patched on like stucco. the “cube” a rectangular glass box that first went over the castle then the procession of animals he lined up on the beach. overheard at the shoot: “you can’t poop in the water”. “come over here and take your shirt off”.
en route, some big phones
how big?
thinking of handpainted signs. saw some behind a fence.
then on to the most remarkable handpainted find of the day.
a bus. we looked for them on the beach. my guess was that they would be in pants and longsleeves. but we couldn’t find them for sure.
my favorite section of text.
handpainted mural. can you believe this unmassaged theme?
this place sells snoqualmie gourmet ice cream. peanut butter fudge had like no fudge at all though.
the nice workers at ballard camera also helped me figure out the sticky shooting button on my brand new way old mamiya.
please read the letter i pinned it to your door
its crazy how it all turned out
we needed so much more
***
this matches the mug i found when i was out doll shopping the other day. quick trip for lighter fluid. sex pots. homemade rootbeer. tacos and guacamole. tecate. postcard notebook was born inspired by tiait.
you dream of seasons that never die
And you were dreaming of Los Angeles
While I was singing songs you wrote
You quietly gave away the winter clothes I made for you
While I made angels in the snow
ballard circut. cotton batting. dolls to donate some lmbs. pale blue pillar of wax. royal blue and magenta tablecloth. blue beeswax. lime chicken. yellow pepper. olives and hummus. pineapple juice.
let’s just say i had a blast.
from an article by Adam Sachs. In: GQ, April 2008 p.150-154.
‘M. and I asked little of each other. One night, though, she said “Are you happy?” It was an innocent question, but alarm bells sounded. Happiness was a dangerous sounding thing, emotional hazmat that required expert handling. What business did I have messing around with happy? Hadn’t my marriage imploded only a few months ago? Lost, away from home, wandering as through the still smoldering wreckage of life-as-it-was, I was comfortable with the image of myself as distant, distraught. But lying around M.’s appartment, my guest toothbrush hanging in the bathroom, I realized that the answer was, weirdly, unseemly, honestly: Yes.
This was the happiness of reduced expectations, of boiled noodles and the comfort of strangers. Transient, directionless, very possibly self-deluding. But whatever kind of happiness it was, I’d take it and take some more, please.’
are you calling me darling
From After Dark [2004] by Haruki Murakami. Translated from the Japanese by Jay Rubin. Knopf: 2007.
p.161
Korogi speaking “‘Memory is so crazy! It’s like we’ve got these drawers crammed with tons of useless stuff. Meanwhile, all the really important things we just keep forgetting, one after the other.’
Korogi stands there holding the remote control.
‘You know what I think?’ She says. ‘That people’s memories are maybe the fuel they burn to stay alive. Whether those memories have any actual importance or not, it doesn’t matter as far as the maintenance of life is concerned. They’re all just fuel. Advertising fillers in the newspaper, philosophy books, dirty pictures in a magazine, a bundle of then-thousand-yet bills: when you feed ‘em to the fire, they’re all just paper. The fire isn’t thinking, ‘Oh, this is Kant,’ or ‘Oh, this is the Yomiuri evening edition,’ or ‘Nice tits,’ while it burns. To the fire, they’re nothing but scraps of paper. It’s the exact same thing. Important memories, not-so-important memories, totally useless memories: there’s no distinction-they’re all just fuel.”
there’s a ghost in me who wants to say i’m sorry
from The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao
by Junot Díaz
New York : Riverhead Books, 2007
p.72
“But that’s not what I wanted to tell you. It’s about that crazy feeling that started this whole mess, the bruja feeling that comes singing out of my bones, that takes hold of me the way blood seizes cotton. The feeling that tells me that everything in my life is about to change. It’s come back. Just the other day I woke up from all these dreams and it was there, pulsing inside of me. I imagine this is what it feels like to have a child in you. At first I was scared because I thought it was telling me to run away again, but every time I looked around our house, every time I saw my abuela, the feeling got stronger so I knew this was something different.”
can you stay up to see the dawn
in the colors of bennetton
***
the bowsprit of a moto
and an anchor. just for you. because it made me think of your other two.
no one can compete with a ghost
historical society sad doll.
i think she might have lived here:
From Darkmans by Nicola Barker. 2007. Harper Collins.
p.646
“This bizarre secret language it’s amazingly weird. Very beautiful, too. Most of it’s probably fallacious- just a wild fabrication. But that hardly even matters, really. I mean where do words come from anyway? What is it that gives a word its longevity, its staying power? Who legitimizes it? Why? And how?”
