what's costume?

emulation of a dresden doll

i have accidentally been aroused by the likes of lynn yaeger for quite some time. i first caught eye of her this summer around 14th street briskly passing the jamba juice, and was mesmerized, first by her snow-white complexion, gothic maroon pursed lips, symmetrically-even pink doll cheeks, and her orange-drenched short 1920s bob perfectly defined her face. then my eyes moved down and go caught sight of her layers of blacks and grey snuggled around her round russian doll-like figure, my heart got to beating a bit faster and a roar of mystery inside of me. WHO IS SHE?

i asked myself this question for days on, occasionally catching myself day dreaming about this real life dresden doll enigma, and the colorful tales she could tell me. after about a month my obsession slowly passed, and i still knew nothing about her. what was i suppose to do, put her traits in a google search and find her name? one sunday i was wondering about the chelsea indoor flea market but who do i see outside, but this character dressed as if she could have been adapted straight out of a tim burton/wes anderson collaboration. i am taken at the sight, and drift to a parallel doll land where me and here are downing glasses of wine and smoking stokes upon emerald fluffy clouds. i sharply return to reality, disgruntled months go by, the public pools close their doors and people are flung to buy fall coats and prepare for the cold; i briefly move to england. while in london, i attempt to keep abreadth of the new york fashion goings for new york and who else do i spot but her in the bankground of a show sitting in the front row. no title, at least none revealing a thing about her existence. though, i gain a clue: she works in fashion.

months and months pass and finally thanks to a check on the paper mag website i determine her name, oh hi dear lynn yeager. how long i yearned to know your name. now i do and have learned that you are the main fashion writer for the village voice as well as a freelancer to the times and vogue. yeehaww finally a mesmerizing fashion journalist. i think i have found my newest icon.

and now i even have actual images--what joy!

ghosts from the past

berlin: bliss or blaogney?

those twinkling, fuzzy lights as you are descending down into a city always gets me. i can't help but dangle my head towards the window focusing the blurs into a semi-comprehensive, semi-imagined picture. this time it was berlin, a place complicated by it's past and praised for its down-to-earth air. once the plane landed two nights, and one full day to truly discover berlin. after a moment to gather my bearings from the ryanair flight, a noisy combination of a ghoulish burgundy and yellow interior, techno trash, and smooth stella beers, i was greeted with a stamp in my passport and the word 'push' in english and german, directing me on how to handle the door. i quickly forgot my first german world, and swooshed my way into deutschland.

after the normal hassle of buying train tickets in a foreign country, which we later learned hardly meant a thing because you could easily just ride all of berlin's public transportation for free, we were on again on the move. this time to relieve our hands (and backs) of our baggage. after some time on the train, we are greeted by some want-to-be thug germans, who decided that the bus also wanted to hear their music, and proceeded to whip out their boom-box speakers, playing Tupac's "changes". not quite the pollination of flowers to my ears, but hey, i do like me some 'pac. kids, teenagers, adults, we are all the same no matter the country.


to be continued...

the poison seeps in

it makes the writing cease, and the serious thoughts come to an immediate hault. imagery, however, is always welcome. even when negative.

a sunset

This is what skimmed by me as I briskly passed the countryside:

A hobble of gray tainted sheep spread across the sky and as if on a mushroom trip the prettiest pinks and oranges, you ever saw, foamed out of their mouths, leaking into the monotonous blue of the sky.

One by one, the kaleidoscope puffs dispersed into the mouth of the newly reincarnated Tyrannosaurus with every intention to repeat the cycle in just a day’s time. The sheet turns a deep periwinkle. A navy. A black. The tantalizing fades and the curtain never reopens.

da surrealist manifesto

So strong is the belief in life, in what is most fragile in life ? real life, I mean ? that in the end this belief is lost. Man, that inveterate dreamer, daily more discontent with his destiny, has trouble assessing the objects he has been led to use, objects that his nonchalance has brought his way, or that he has earned through his own efforts, almost always through his own efforts, for he has agreed to work, at least he has not refused to try his luck (or what he calls his luck!). At this point he feels extremely modest: he knows what women he has had, what silly affairs he has been involved in; he is unimpressed by his wealth or his poverty, in this respect he is still a newborn babe and, as for the approval of his conscience, I confess that he does very nicely without it. If he still retains a certain lucidity, all he can do is turn back toward his childhood which, however his guides and mentors may have botched it, still strikes him as somehow charming. There, the absence of any known restrictions allows him the perspective of several lives lived at once; this illusion becomes firmly rooted within him; now he is only interested in the fleeting, the extreme facility of everything. Children set off each day without a worry in the world. Everything is near at hand, the worst material conditions are fine. The woods are white or black, one will never sleep. -- Andre Breton