Every Day Is an Excuse
I’m wearing things that make me feel comfortable.
My prom t-shirt from Senior Year is black, and it says “Welcome to Candyland”
on the front.
I’m wearing a pair of threadbare, ratty, baggy, leopard-print lounge pants
that I’ve had since the 8th grade, when my mom bought them for me (out of a catalog, I think: Cuddledown? I wonder: did it come from the same place as my down comforter? I also have a silk pillow, and many pillows.
I take beds very seriously.)
my bracelets, of course: the black Skagen watch my grandma gave me
with a piece of black fabric that i took off the nightstand of a boy I loved
a black ponytail holder
that wrap-around bracelet from TJ Maxx with the chain links that are getting browner,
the leather band I was given by a girl who made fun of me because my lips were chapped,
and later became my one of the closest friends I’ve ever had.
a pink plastic bangle i picked off the ground,
a spiked bracelet I was given by a man I very much admired,
who never graduated.
the top of a white tight, wrapped twice, filthy with dead skin
a buckle-type fake hermes bracelet that I had to bargain for in China
I know I lost.
I get too anxious when I have to haggle, and I lose all my confidence.
a pair of amber earrings my grandmother gave me
because when all my jewelry was stolen,
she felt bad that I had lost everything, everything that I had.
she had given me an amber necklace that was now gone, and to make me feel better,
she gave me a pair of amber earrings that I love to wear.
no bra, haha
a pair of panties I’ve had since I was 12:
white, lacy, expensive.
around my neck, a silver chain and a cross
made out of railroad spikes
sharp, but all chewed up;
noticeable, but deceptive,
since it’s just another thing I’m wearing.
is that bush/obama shit a little heavy-handed? perhaps. is this band fucking amazing? unquestionably. incredible female-fronted anarcho/post/goth/peace punk. it’s music that I can’t adequately categorize or talk about fluently because all I can really think is it’s too fucking good! FALSE CONSCIOUSNESS. UNCANNY VALLEY. DOOM TOWN. it’s just doing it for me right now, they are hitting all of my “buttons” (darkness, and wailing, but also sick, fast drums and alternately propulsive and skittery guitar) and they remind me a lot of one of my favorite bands from Richmond (and in general), Lost Tribe. I can’t get enough.
Fernand Khnopff, Une Ville Abandonnée, 1904 [top].
Lucien Lévy-Dhurmer, Le Silence, 1895 [left].
Pierre Puvis de Chavennes, La Jeune Fille et la Mort, 1872 [right].
“The moon was grieving. Seraphim in tears,
Musing in the calm of vaporous flowers,
Were drawing, bow in hand, from sad violas
Sobbing glissandos over blue corollas.”
Stéphane Mallarmé, Apparition, 1862.
In the midst of the noisy Belle Époque, there existed a strain of Symbolism that sought to cover its ears to the thunderous din of Wagner and shield its eyes from the gleam of Moreau’s fiery gems and Mucha’s radiant beauties. It longed to drink from the river Lethe and sleep the silent sleep of Ophelia deep beneath cool, placid waters. It was this Symbolism that fled Flaubert’s Carthage to find solemn refuge in Georges Rodenbach’s Bruges. In his Bruges-la-Morte, Hugues Viane retreats to the Medieval Flemish city to perpetually mourn his departed wife: “Let the world elsewhere bustle, hum, get excited over holidays, braid its thousand yarns. He needed unbroken silence, an existence so monotonous as barely allowing him to feel still alive…This was Bruges-la-Morte, the dead city, entombed in its stone quays, the arteries of its canals chilled to death at the cessation of the great heartbeat of the sea.” The simplicity and cool colors of Lévy-Dhurmer’s unsettling figure give the impression of absolute, oppressive stillness and silence, while Puvis’s entire body of watery work seems marked by this muted, near-dead life of the Soul. But it is the vast empty space, bleak soporific tones, and the ambiguous body of water encroaching on the cold old stone of Khnopff’s abandoned town that best correspond to Rodenbach’s elegiac emotional atmosphere.
knockin’ it outta da park
life is short and death is certain. fuck work
Crash Street Kids, “Into You” Little Girls, 1982
taken completely out of context, this exactly sums up how I feel about blacking out from drinking: like I died, Emily is dead, but my reanimated corpse (that would be Blackout Emily—Blemily) is still capable of shambling around and acting out. but talking to her is like talking to a dead person.
"For if the power of the mind is changed to so great an extent
that all recollection of things done before is lost,
that, I think, does not stray very far from death.”
-Lucretius, De Rerum Natura
One of my pages from Unnatural Comics, the comics anthology I co-edited and contributed to, which Carl Thompson and Scotty Gillmer recently sold at Autoptic. It’s a book of autobio, historical fiction, detournement, surrealism, biology, parody and insanity playing with the boundaries of the comics medium, with contributions from eleven talented writers, artists and poets from around the country. Check it out, reblog, buy it - it will be for sale online soon.
check out my friend’s comic it’s the absolute best. if you’re following me and not her you’re making a huge mistake