Wednesday, January 8, 2014
Tuesday, January 7, 2014
Monday, January 6, 2014
Film picks 2014
The Grand Budapest Hotel
Inside Llewyn Davis
Her
Neighbors
American Hustle
Interior. Leather Bar.
Blue is the Warmest Colour
Anchorman 2
Lovelace
And the ones that don't have posters yet...
Horrible Bosses 2
The Interview
Your Voice in My Head (Emma Forrest's memoir)
Welcome to Me
Maps to the Stars (dir. David Cronenberg)
The Labyrinth
Friday, January 3, 2014
Thinking about the past, present and future.
(This is a temporary tattoo that one of my best friends gave me in 2009
when we decided to stay up all night on speed and alcohol.
I think I got the best one).
Name: My proper name is Louise, but not everyone calls me that.
When I was 16, my best friend started calling me Isabelle because I told him that I liked my middle names so much better than my real name. He still calls me Isabelle. Some people call me Stella, which is my other middle name.
My other best friend has called me Corey since I was 16 on account of a weird obsession with Corey Feldman and Corey Haim that we developed. I call him Corey too.
Where I live: In a big beautiful house with five other friends in a place called Eden. We are like a family. We love each other and together we have redecorated the house the way we want it. We are very lucky that we were allowed to do this, but then everything about this house is a blessing.
Age: Too old for a lot of the things that I do, but too young for a lot of the things that I think.
What I like:
Place: My house and my room in particular. It is very big, so big that I thought I wouldn't be able to fill it up, but it holds my entire life quite perfectly. I feel good and safe and at home here.
Weather: I like all weather except overcast. It's too middling. I like extremes. I hate it when the sky is nothing but glaring whiteness that hurts to look at. I feel like it is looking back at me hatefully and oppressively. I also don't like that is it very hard to predict what will happen next.
Sometimes the sun is so hot that it feels like I am slowly dying but I love it anyway. There is something so good about just sitting still in the sun, feeling like you are absorbing something rare.
Rain and dark weather during the day sometimes make me feel very depressed and like I can't go outside, which makes me anxious too, but sometimes it makes me feel comforted.
The weather does strange things to my mind.
Colours: Blue, black, red. I like most colours, really. I used to pick favourites but now I just know what I don't like: orange and yellow.
Sounds: My favourite music, rain on tin, bells, Isaac Hayes' voice.
Smells: Rain on hot asphalt, new books.
Taste: Garlic and chilli. Salty popcorn (no butter).
Other stuff: I like staring at maps and old photos of my city. I can do this for hours.
I like watching my cat sleep.
I like finding new art and looking at old favourites in equal measure.
I like re-reading my favourite books; it feels like re-living favourite memories and times. My favourite books to re-read are Cat's Eye by Margaret Atwood, Middlesex by Jeffrey Eugenides, and The God of Small Things by Arundhati Roy.
What I don't like:
Animal cruelty. People who don't care about animal cruelty. Sunburn on my ears. Bananas.
The world as I see it:
An imperfection that we continually have the opportunity to improve. And we must try endlessly until we die.
Tuesday, December 31, 2013
I just found an eyegasm goldmine.
Click for a better quality image.
Botafogo Bay and Rio de Janeiro at night, September 1920.
Taken by Carlos Bippus, National Geographic
To see even more incredible photos like this, click here for a curated selection of National Geographic's amazing unpublished archive of photos.
I'm potentially going to be up all night looking at these again and again, much to the boyfriend's chagrin.
Thursday, December 26, 2013
"My living legend is probably someone like Lydia Lunch, same age as me, but who ran away to NYC years prior (1974/5) and walked directly up to Wayne County and introduced herself. Also certainly John Lydon for reasons completely apparent by watching his confrontations with ding dong culture and media twerps."
- Thurston Moore
Wednesday, December 18, 2013
Sunday, December 15, 2013
Saturday, December 7, 2013
"Literary influence is like genetics, too. Rushdie got some of his fireworks from Günter Grass and Gabriel GarcÃa Márquez. GarcÃa Márquez got things from Kafka and Faulkner. So, with Middlesex, you could say I inherited traits from all these ancestors, not to mention good old Homer. But some of my stuff bears no relation to these writers. Different gene pool entirely.
Influence isn’t just a matter of copying someone or learning his or her tricks. You get influenced by writers whose work gives you hints about your own abilities and inclinations. Being influenced is largely a process of self-discovery. What you have to do is put all your influences into the blender and arrive at your own style and vision."
- Jeffrey Eugenides
Monday, December 2, 2013
Tuesday, November 26, 2013
Oh comely, I will be with you when you lose your breath,
Chasing the only meaningful memory you thought you had left.
With some pretty, bright and bubbly terrible scene
That was doing her thing on your chest.
But oh comely,
It isn't as pretty as you'd like to guess
In your memory, you're drunk on your awe to me
It doesn't mean anything at all.
Oh comely,
All of your friends are all letting you blow,
Bristling and ugly, bursting with fruits falling out from the holes
Of some pretty, bright, and bubbly friend
You could need to say comforting things in your ear
But oh comely,
There isn't such one friend that you could find here.
Standing next to me,
He's only my enemy
I'll crush him with everything I own.
Say what you want to say
Hang for your hollow ways
Moving your mouth to pull out
All your miracles aimed for me.
Your father made foetuses with flesh licking ladies,
While you and your mother were asleep in the trailer park.
Thunderous sparks from the dark of the stadiums,
The music and medicine you needed for comforting.
So make all your fat fleshy fingers to moving,
And pluck all your silly strings, bend all your notes for me.
Soft silly music is meaningful magical,
The movements were beautiful, all in your ovaries.
All of them milking with green fleshy flowers,
While powerful pistons were sugary sweet machines.
Smelling of semen all under the garden
Was all you were needing when you still believed in me.
Say what your want to say.
Hang for your hollow ways.
Moving your mouth to pull out
All your miracles aimed for me.
I know they buried her body with others,
Her sister and mother and five-hundred families.
And will she remember me fifty years later?
I wished I could save her in some sort of time machine.
Know all your enemies.
We know who our enemies are.
Goldaline, my dear,
We will fold and freeze together
Far away from here.
There is sun and spring and green forever.
But now we move to feel for ourselves inside some stranger's stomach.
Place your body here,
Let your skin begin to blend itself with mine.
Tuesday, November 12, 2013
My week in articles.
Music:
Nature:
Art:
Culture:
Now for the more serious stuff...
Kudos to you, internet. Kudos.
Saturday, November 9, 2013
Monday, November 4, 2013
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