Tuesday, March 30, 2010

I was digging around in some old scans and found this photo of the flag in my prior post, at a much younger age.

That's my great-grandmother and two of her boys. She only lost one son, not pictured. He was shot down somewhere over the Pacific. When I was in middle school, I would raid my grandmother's closets and pore through all of the boxed-up items and artifacts...one of which was a military-issue datebook that belonged to the boy who died. He was 19. It was full of girls' phone numbers.

Sunday, March 28, 2010

nineteen hundred and eighty-one is over

An irish flu day spent watching comfort videos on youtube.

About, oh, twelve years ago, I bought a documentary called Girls Bite Back online (I'm like Al Gore) which contained a bunch of random live footage of Siouxsie Sioux, Nina Hagen, the Slits, and I can't remember who else. The video below was on the tape.

Nina Hagen was my favorite at this time. Outrageous German interplanetary disco queen with a command of I don't remember how many octaves - many - yet who seemed to enjoy singing in a growl much of the time. I joined a CC list that translated and serialized her autobiography, contemplated her crazy handwritten liner notes, and listened to her constantly. The reaction of the people around me was always the same: "WHAT THE HELL IS THIS?!"

Nina is not for everyone, I guess.

The first time I watched this, I felt like 1:40 changed my life.

Friday, March 26, 2010

speaking of,

A day off. Hating work as much as I do does have one benefit: the simple act of not being there makes me nearly giddy. Last Monday I picked fruit, cooked, wandered around outside at midmorning - a time that I had forgotten existed (weekends don't count) due to being shackled to a desk at all times, freezing from artificial air-conditioning and being forced to listen to goddamn fucking Lady Gaga all day - and later visted my dad. I enjoy taking surreptitious photos in the house and of his things. I think the way he keeps house is amusing, weird. And I feel some need to document items and pictures that seem to be part of the makeup of my brain.

Those photos didn't turn out, though.

This flag hung in my great-grandmother's front room window all through WWII. It is supposed to be red, but the sun bleached it to pink. She had 6 children overseas at once and this as well as the fact that they had German POW's working their farm got her into Ripley's Believe it or Not. I have yet to take the time to track the article down.

It was kept for a lot of years in a ziploc freezer bag, shoved in a box in my grandma's spare room. I framed it a few years ago, carefully sewing it to the velveteen matboard & placing it under ~uv glass~ ... I miss this job. Sort of.

Can't be that tough with a name like Pinky.

Here he is showing off his police-issue bulletproof vest. I think it is probably illegal for him to have it. Unfortunately, he had actual use for it in recent years.

& this was my present for the day.

The weather is incredible. I walked to the store for supplies for non-dairy chocolate chip cookies, threw open all the windows in the house, made said cookies (awful) painted my nails (awful) and am watching Carrington & wishing I was an old gay writer too.

Thursday, March 25, 2010

News like this scares the hell out of me. I just heard about this and am now waiting impatiently for my dad to call me back.

Right in his neighborhood and he rides all the time now. He has way too many dead friends and heinous stories involving bike wrecks. Some of the stories seem too grisly to be real, but they are.

Tuesday, March 23, 2010

i love this photo of rita hayworth playing the toreador and orson welles playing the bull. taken during their 5 year marriage. there is something very compelling about (the young) orson welles.

the first time i really noticed him was at the end of the third man. the scene so late towards the end of the movie when you finally see his character again after thinking he is dead (sry, spoilerz) - then his face in the shadowy street and a swelling of the strangely cool zither theme. it's been a while since i watched.

i read something about their divorce in which rita was asked why the split, and she said nearly verbatim, i couldn't take any more genius. demasiado genius.

in other news, there are fruit flies all over my house, and that's what i cannot take any more of. insufferable little flies.

i finished a stitchery which i am going to frame and send east to one of my bros. pictures to come, but i will probably wait until she has it to avoid further spoilage. later i made a little necklace out of natural turquoise chunks bleached and dyed coral pink, red glass beads, and gold chain. i'm doing anything i can to focus on pro-me creative things and forget i have a job, forget summer is coming, forget car payments, friend-fights, fruit flies, laundry, tired eyes and any other antagonist i can come up with. replacing it all with beads, stones, pink embroidery floss, avocados, re-watchings of gilda, and, of course, photos of orson welles 1950 and prior. oh and grapefruit juice. CHALLAH

all of this instead of xanax.

Sunday, March 21, 2010

all photos by freakovsky on flickr.

Randomly found on flickr. The beauty of mid-century modern in abstract sexy detail.

Checking in.

9 months ago I posted the following to-do list. I will add my results in bold. Conclusion: I either suck at follow-through, or my goals are...unusual. Answer: both.

visit a state park, something especially woodsy with water - didn't do this.

learn to tat, crotchet and knit. and do a french knot - i can do a french knot now.

visit anita in san diego, go to beach, beforehand buy precious vintage suit with matching skirt or shorts to shield fat ass from onlookers - i didn't do this and now i bitterly regret it because she doesn't live there anymore!!! like, fuck!

roll that old 401k into a roth - i cashed it. close enough.

get a new camera - done: canon powershot sx110is. i like it.

find a great big box to make a ring box out of - done.

get ahold of jamie - done.

casual sex? - done.

figure out when mad men, true blood and flipping out seasons begin again - nah, forgot about tv. i do miss my jeff though.

become this woman or at least incorporate her as my spirit animal:

not yet. definitely getting closer.

time to make a new list.

Thursday, March 18, 2010


"I'd feel real trapped in my life if I didn't know I could commit suicide at any time." HST

This gives me comfort, too, but figuratively. I'm not going to kill myself, but I am going to murder the current incarnation of my life, set it on fire and walk out of it.

Ready to assume my newold life as the black baby bitch witch of the west. August 2010: it's all happening.

The citrus trees are blooming. My favorite smell ever, it gives me a few final moments of happiness in the land of the Five C's before the fireball descends and burns everything away.

From my little tree out back. Having a personal lemon tree is basically the highest form of luxury that I can possibly imagine. All the low hanging fruit is gone and I can't get at the higher stuff, which means I end up spending lots of time with the handle of an old swiffer sweeper, pathetically beating at the tree like a pinata, cursing and panting like the pissed-off geriatric that I am. But I enjoy it, of course. Including the cursing and panting.

This is my favorite time of year, and it only lasts about a week to 10 days. Micro-spring.

Also in the yard is a 50 year old grapefruit tree. I carry them inside in my shirt and juice them, glass bottles all in a row in the fridge. I am so impressed with this tree because it's never seen a day of pesticide and don't even mention genetic modification. Sad that this is a novelty? I've always been fascinated with growing, fruiting things, blooming and producing the way nature and Teddy Roosevelt intended. Maybe I can advertise those seeds on the internet to amateur citrus farmers who want to party like it's 1949.

Fuck yeah! Trees!


Do you bank with any of "The Big Six"? If so,


Bank of America, Chase, Wells Fargo, Citibank and of course, Goddamn-Goldman Sachs and Morgan Stanley.

Ruin my economy once, shame on you. Ruin it twice, shame on me. Right? The power and ability of these banks to invest the money of all of we little people into these dangerous games and dirty political panderings has not been tempered by any of the actions the government has taken so far. Why aren't people angry? American Idol's on, you'll deal with it later? Fine; don't be angry. But don't continue to reward the criminals who fucked you simply out of apathy or ignorance. This is not just "the way it is."

Read this article - Arianna H. is the queen of everything. Listen to her.

Thursday, March 11, 2010

Summer 10

I think we'll be checking this out this summer. About this time, I'll be begging for any excuse to leave the Arizona lowlands. I'd like to visit a very good friend in Orange while I'm out, but it may have to wait for another time if I can only make a weekend of it. Since middle school I have referred to her as my favorite person in the world. One of my dad's many exes from the 90s, she made a lasting impression on me that almost no one else has other than my grandmother. How much of a drive is it from Long Beach to Santa Ana anyway? Looks close.

I met Pam when I was just starting the 7th grade. I was so shy and unsocialized. Over the next few years, I began fighting constantly with my mother about how unhappy she was with my "new persona" which essentially meant I started listening to punk and goth and dressing as you do when you're in that position. While my mother was trying tactics like chipping away at my confidence with insults or threatening to send me away to a school for bad girls (although I didn't drink, smoke or date, do they admit kids just for wearing black?), Pam and I would sit up at night when I was at my dad's on the weekend and talk about everything, from her own hard times in school and life, to the many things we had in common, a love for certain music, classic movies, creaking old houses, ghost stories, tales of the unusual, general hijinks. She blew my mind because she was a functioning adult, a responsible mother of two boys much more well adjusted than I, yet she was completely cool and fun and happy to come right down to my level as an equal, never acting like her wisdom was greater than my common sense even though it obviously was. She let you find a point by yourself but she shared her experiences first.

Anyway I didn't immediately realize it but knowing her and how difficult her life was, yet observing her constantly wizened yet fun-loving nature steeled me against my own problems. I realized that it was right that I could be whomever the hell I wanted and that the observations of the morons at my school and in my family meant nothing because I was the one who had to live my life and face all of my own consequences. I can't even pinpoint exactly how much she helped me at this time, but I hope I've made a dent in it since we started emailing again last year. We fell out of touch after she and my dad broke up.

Some people just have something about them that everyone wants. Pam is a concentrated example of this. Everyone who meets her seems magnetized by her depth & hilarious personality. I wouldn't be surprised if she secretly found her many friends and admirers to be somewhat draining, always wanting her and to be around her, sucking up her charm and vitality, and still more since she's found herself beset with illness in the last year. That's why I want to give her as much of what I have to give, some small token of exchange for everything she did to improve my life when I most needed it. There's no measure or repayment for that.

Sunday, March 7, 2010

Brittany to ze (M) show details 9:28 PM (2 minutes ago)

holy shit. i just listened to ted hughes reciting the hawk in the rain - heavy! & good. even with a cadence similar to burns. i have, obviously, always paid attention only to plath, but i have a feeling that once i focus on him, i'm going to fall in love all over again with a dead guy. and he fine, too.


I read The Bell Jar in high school and found a large book filled with black and white photos of Sylvia in a leotard, contorting amidst printed lines of poetry, I don't remember what poems exactly. I have been sort of transfixed with her ever since as a tragic yet incredibly real figure, and how she became the brightest star in 20th century poetry due in part to Ted's careful editing and promotion of all of the raw work she left behind.

I almost don't want to go there. It's a strange feeling. Sometimes I avoid things that I feel will become intense for me because it's so traumatic. People, books, etc. Inevitably I am rarely able to actually avoid something, which just sort of stains it all from the beginning with anticipatory dread, "I think this is going to hurt..." Haven't we all had relationships that we knew we should not, but could not resist? And they turn out exactly as predicted. I've sensed this potentiality physically, asked myself why I was holding back from something I wanted, only to realize afterward that it was probably some sort of evolutionary self-preservation attempt! Maybe in another several thousand years, that'll kick in.


I drown in the drumming ploughland, I drag up
Heel after heel from the swallowing of the earth's mouth,
From clay that clutches my each step to the ankle
With the habit of the dogged grave, but the hawk

Effortlessly at height hangs his still eye.
His wings hold all creation in a weightless quiet,
Steady as a hallucination in the streaming air.
While banging wind kills these stubborn hedges,

Thumbs my eyes, throws my breath, tackles my heart,
And rain hacks my head to the bone, the hawk hangs,
The diamond point of will that polestars
The sea drowner's endurance: And I,

Bloodily grabbed dazed last-moment-counting
Morsel in the earth's mouth, strain to the master-
Fulcrum of violence where the hawk hangs still.
That maybe in his own time meets the weather

Coming the wrong way, suffers the air, hurled upside-down,
Falls from his eye, the ponderous shires crash on him,
The horizon trap him; the round angelic eye
Smashed, mix his heart's blood with the mire of the land.

Ted Hughes, 1957

Tuesday, March 2, 2010

Brittany to ze (M) show details Feb 27 (4 days ago)

elsa lanchester, wife of charles laughton. i like her. you may recognize her as the bride of frankenstein.

great lip shape. anyway, here i am watching her on dick cavett in 1974 or something, and she is making my day. she talks shit in that matter of fact, "sorry to disappoint, but this is how we did it in the day, bitch" way - have we talked about isadora duncan? that famous dancer who died even
more famously in nice in the 20s. she was very showy and wore a very long and flowing scarf as was the fashion...so she seats herself in her boyfriend's little sportscar with her long scarf and they take off down the road and the scarf is fluttering away, all the way down to the wheel axle (ok, first i spelled that axl because it looked right - too much GNR) where it becomes wrapped and pulls tight! breaking her neck. i need to think of a clever name for deaths resulting from pure vanity, as with "slipping away" during lipo and such, but hers is an incredible example.

ANYWAY, duncan evidently ran some performance school for girls at the time and elsa lanchester attended as a young child. when dick made some remark about "omgs it's so weird to know someone who knew isadora duncan, she's so like famous," elsa says, "
that untalented bag of beans?" thank god for keepin it ril.

--- --- ---

i think in future i'll just copy emails between myself and my biff of ages, m, to this blog in place of writing anything new. letter-writing is (unfortunately) over and electronic communication makes one so PROLIFIC and is so easy to lose. how absurd will it be to buy books of letters as you would now by truman capote or fitzgerald, sylvia plath, but for this generation's relevant writers, if there are any. i wouldn't know. they'll be printed copies of emails! it's so weak. why does modernity make life more lame? and it lets you live longer too, to absorb more reality tv and more novels written by mormons about vampires. too unpleasant. time to google old photos of axl rose!

The 90s: what a bad time for jeans! I do love a hilarious mismatched couple like this, though. And is that a swatch?! Damn, I hope so.

Best yet: fake Axl! Awesome costume idea.

You might notice the absence of images of short shorts or oversized white Nikes - you're welcome.

Monday, March 1, 2010

historically-minded webcomixx: the only kind

i love kate beaton's comic, "hark! a vagrant" so goddamn much that i don't even know what to DO! every time i read it, i feel a rush of admiration (she's so smart/funny and we like the same stuff!), then jealousy (why didn't I think of this!!) then back to admiration & more jealousy. one thing i just noticed while browsing the archives: no civil war comics! can it be? an historian or whatever she is, and no boner for the american civil war. that's not even possible. she is canadian, though.

visit here: hark! a vagrant.

this paper that has plagued me is due on thursday. i received the assignment two weeks ago, or something. tonight i changed my topic. making my own life so hard like this. but the new topic is so much easier for me, i instantly wrote the paper and now all i need to do is find more sources and remove all the "fuck"s and "shit"s from the rough draft. i take it quite seriously when someone asks me to write in my own words. but lord, what i have learned about the mexican war. someone, ask me. please. i love to talk about things no one else cares about.