Lubricant

"Your eyes are as dry as the Sahara!" exclaimed the bird-like optometrist (who coincidentally happens to love and own many pet birds).

"Argh, really?" Surprised at my sounding surprised. This I already knew because there's rarely a moment where it doesn't feel like tiny kitten tongues are bathing my eyeballs.

Blink. Blink. Blink.

"Yes, your tear breakup time is three seconds, while it normally should be around ten," Doc advised. "It's unavoidable we're going to have to put you on a daily prescription that will help you produce your own tears."

"Oh, okay. So, ummmm, will it cause all of my mucus membranes to produce more moisture?" as I shifted my eyes down into my lap.

"Uh," Doc following my gaze, "No, it shouldn't..."

"Oh, okay. Is it an oral medication?" I inquired further.

He passed me a sample of prescription eye drops.

Blink. Blink. Blink.

Young Moon // Kane

"Fell in love with a girl

fell in love once 

and almost completely..."

-The White Stripes

photos via jak&jil and nasa pic of the day

Freitag!

More or Less

the more time passes





the less real 
















most things become

collage by jesse draxler

Kori // LL Ori and the Orion Nebula

"The secret of joy is 

the mastery of pain." 

-Anaïs Nin

photos via jak&jil and nasa pic of the day

T'is.

jesse draxler

Gird your loins

I'm ovulating.

It's really rather cartoonish and absurd the way I feel/act before packing up and departing for my ladies holiday. Like a bad caricature of myself, I fumble through the days foggy, primitive, ravenous in each and every way. Leaving a trail of tears (other people's, usually), wrappers, and slime in my wake.

Sigourney Weaver eating a hotdog in Los Angeles, 1983

Photo sent to me everso thoughtfully by ESB

This is pretty nice.

Don't let's be sensible

A love letter from Henry Miller to Anaïs Nin. c.1932
Straight up lifted from Letters of Note.

August 14, 1932

Anais:

Don't expect me to be sane anymore. Don't let's be sensible. It was a marriage at Louveciennes—you can't dispute it. I came away with pieces of you sticking to me; I am walking about, swimming, in an ocean of blood, your Andalusian blood, distilled and poisonous. Everything I do and say and think relates back to the marriage. I saw you as the mistress of your home, a Moor with a heavy face, a negress with a white body, eyes all over your skin, woman, woman, woman. I can't see how I can go on living away from you—these intermissions are death. How did it seem to you when Hugo came back? Was I still there? I can't picture you moving about with him as you did with me. Legs closed. Frailty. Sweet, treacherous acquiescence. Bird docility. You became a woman with me. I was almost terrified by it. You are not just thirty years old—you are a thousand years old.

Here I am back and still smouldering with passion, like wine smoking. Not a passion any longer for flesh, but a complete hunger for you, a devouring hunger. I read the paper about suicides and murders and I understand it all thoroughly. I feel murderous, suicidal. I feel somehow that it is a disgrace to do nothing, to just bide one's time, to take it philosophically, to be sensible. Where has gone the time when men fought, killed, died for a glove, a glance, etc? (A victrola is playing that terrible aria from Madama Butterfly—"Some day he'll come!")

I still hear you singing in the kitchen—a sort of inharmonic, monotonous Cuban wail. I know you're happy in the kitchen and the meal you're cooking is the best meal we ever ate together. I know you would scald yourself and not complain. I feel the greatest peace and joy sitting in the dining room listening to you rustling about, your dress like the goddess Indra studded with a thousand eyes.

Anais, I only thought I loved you before; it was nothing like this certainty that's in me now. Was all this so wonderful only because it was brief and stolen? Were we acting for each other, to each other? Was I less I, or more I, and you less or more you? Is it madness to believe that this could go on? When and where would the drab moments begin? I study you so much to discover the possible flaws, the weak points, the danger zones. I don't find them—not any. That means I am in love, blind, blind. To be blind forever! (Now they're singing "Heaven and Ocean" from La Gioconda.)

I picture you playing the records over and over—Hugo's records. "Parlez moi d amour." The double life, double taste, double joy and misery. How you must be furrowed and ploughed by it. I know all that, but I can't do anything to prevent it. I wish indeed it were me who had to endure it. I know now your eyes are wide open. Certain things you will never believe anymore, certain gestures you will never repeat, certain sorrows, misgivings, you will never again experience. A kind of white criminal fervor in your tenderness and cruelty. Neither remorse nor vengeance, neither sorrow nor guilt. A living it out, with nothing to save you from the abysm but a high hope, a faith, a joy that you tasted, that you can repeat when you will.

All morning I was at my notes, ferreting through my life records, wondering where to begin, how to make a start, seeing not just another book before me but a life of books. But I don't begin. The walls are completely bare—I had taken everything down before going to meet you. It is as though I had made ready to leave for good. The spots on the walls stand out—where our heads rested. While it thunders and lightnings I lie on the bed and go through wild dreams. We're in Seville and then in Fez and then in Capri and then in Havana. We're journeying constantly, but there is always a machine and books, and your body is always close to me and the look in your eyes never changes. People are saying we will be miserable, we will regret, but we are happy, we are laughing always, we are singing. We are talking Spanish and French and Arabic and Turkish. We are admitted everywhere and they strew our path with flowers.

I say this is a wild dream—but it is this dream I want to realize. Life and literature combined, love the dynamo, you with your chameleon's soul giving me a thousand loves, being anchored always in no matter what storm, home wherever we are. In the mornings, continuing where we left off. Resurrection after resurrection. You asserting yourself, getting the rich varied life you desire; and the more you assert yourself the more you want me, need me. Your voice getting hoarser, deeper, your eyes blacker, your blood thicker, your body fuller. A voluptuous servility and tyrannical necessity. More cruel now than before—consciously, wilfully cruel. The insatiable delight of experience.

HVM

Be Real

“Those who mind don't matter, 

and those who matter don't mind.”

-Bernard Baruch

image Barbara Kruger

Something you said that was so incredibly beautiful, so profound, that it shook me to the core of my being. Stood there... speechless, stupefied; while my heart erupted into a trillion little pieces of confetti that rained down on the party that is and always has been, us.

Ring ring

"Yes, hi. I was in for dinner earlier and I think I left my phone behind."

"It's a black iPhone 4S without a case. The lock screen is a photo of a dog doing down dog."

Jayne // NGC 2623

"Some pursue happiness,

others create it."

My friend Jayne repped it so hard at New York Fashion Week that all the other bitches went home and cried.

photos via jak&jil and nasa pic of the day

True story

Things we saw today:

1. A straight-up trenchcoat mafia goth motherfucker riding a hot pink cruiser;
2. A Navajo Nancy proposition a man in the car in front of us at a stop light and jump in;
3. A guy punch a horse in the face.

Spring 2013 Couture: Jean Paul Garfield

JANUARY 23, 2013

PARIS

By Tim Blanks

"...Gaultier definitely scored the award for Couture's Aw-Shucks Moment when his bride hiked up her skirts to reveal four adorable Garfields who cascaded down the catwalk to the unmitigated delight of broody fashion folk of all genders. You could only be enchanted by the crowd-pleasing gall of such a gesture."

via Style.com

Advice from a Tree

Stand tall and proud

Go out on a limb

Remember your roots

Drink plenty of water

Be content with your natural beauty

Enjoy the view

-Ilan Shamir

image

NGC 6888: The Crescent Nebula // Miu Miu

Our friend described my behavior at his wife's birthday party as "abhorrent and captivating."

While I know I shouldn't be proud of being so inebriated to remember behaving badly; but that is one excellent review.

photos via jak&jil and nasa pic of the day

Celia According to Grace

Here's an ode to my friend and blogging accountabilibuddy, Celia. 

Why I love her and why you should too 

(if you don't already --- in no particular order):

• She's hilarious and makes great meatloaf
• She has the cutest family ever. I met Cheech once, and I don't even like kids, but I loved this little girl.
• She's ambitious, entrepreneurial, and brave as hell
• She has an awesome rack and a buttery voice
• She runs an sweet vintage shop, Monday's Child and dreams big dreams

On that tip, here's a twisted recap of a convo we had recently:

G: I love your shop. Sorry I don't support it more, but I look stupid in vintage.
C: I'm the same way with boots.
G: R calls my style "future slut/dominatrix."
C: I bet you're good at boots.
G: Hell yeah. I think you're either a vintage girl or a future slut.
C: Hahahaha, only those two?
G: YES! Pick a side!!!

2013

Happy new year, friends!

I will make a couple resolutions this year:

1. to be more punctual
2. to be more positive (the infectious kind)* 

Be prosperous. Be happy. Be safe.

Love you!

*not HIV

by  Melodie Mousset

Cygnus-X // X-MAS

 Merry, merry.

photos via jak&jil and nasa pic of the day