V.

Another one, pure inspiration. Little else.

V

It's been a weird life lately.

Nighttime dreams of setting sail on ships doomed to perish.

Dark skies and fiery ovals hanging from cliff side tree houses,

letting go of the children who fall to their demise.

Standing by the wayside with a group of students,

with a former journalistic mentor,

on the sandy beach at night while the black waves tipped their white caps at us

and the village burned with small fires to our left,

then to our right.

Climbing up into the vessel that would surely go under water,

we were in Thailand or Korea

and I just knew taking another puddle jumper back home

would crash just as this boat would sink.

Damned if I do, Damned if I don't.

With a yet-to-be-built inspiration wall to save me from sinking I will be devoting this space for just that:

a collection of intent.

...

Inspired Livin':

Kitties, tepees, joy in life.

Fanny and Bill on The Selby and their City Hall Wedding.

Looking

Just for Fun

And for Sanity

VB and Keri Smith

for the books

"It is “simultaneously stable and unstable,” “loud and soft,” “a single tension that carries countless tensions within it.” *

circles

spheres

rounded lines

unending

spiraling

mine

French Confetti

*Kandinsky

These warm days in Seattle, this waking of a city

These warm days in Seattle, they always roll in slowly by the morning hours in a heavy haze. There are always sounds of grounds maintenance. There are always sounds of car wheels gripping warm pavement, punctuated by an accelerating motorcycle. The hum of the waking city like the drone of a heater, readying the vast room for a peoples bright-eyed presence, directed undirected wandering and lax lounging on needled grass, studded with last night’s spirited dalliances in drink.

 Move the can and see who notices. See if they forget, those who moved it to begin with.

 Another dip into worded wells. Another magazine to “catch up” with. Another way to feel in the world without being of it. Though as I read one G.C.’s letter of welcome, I began to think about personality, about business, about lives on the stage and behind the scenes. Most of the articles attempting to make sense of the economic plight—in and out of the U.S.—explore this backstage world that so many people seem to think is unrelated or completely divided from the scripted, spotlighted performance. The choices we make behind the curtain are the foundation for the ensuing performance. They are critically connected, indistinguishable. If not at first, than during times of perceived eminent rise and downfall. Because she is like this, because he is like that—with friends, lover, mother, children, home, loisir, partner. 

Even where you choose to sit on a warm day, in the city. 

Which leads me to a genius of a man who made a genius of a film about this very subject: sitting.

He pulled me from my tired lethargy with nothing more than the honesty of his voice and the images of people sitting alone and together, standing at corners, moving to a beat viewers can’t hear. Image quality circa 1980 New York City, the year it was released and the place—with style and manner and social behavior to follow.

 

“People sit where there are places to sit” –William H Whyte

 

As a sociologist, Whyte studied New York’s public plazas and so produced a book and a short film about his findings. I’ve tried in vain to find a screen shot of his aforequoted finding. Applied to public places, the sentence might seem obvious—one of those simple statements met with no more than a nod or a shrug. Yet the moment the white letters appeared upon the scratchy black pull-down screen of that heavy-aired classroom, staring so many pairs of eyes head on with a subdued and unchallenging force, I thought not of the physical space represented by benches, chairs, trees and stairs. I thought of people. Of the spaces we leave in our selves and in our lives for others to occupy; of the spaces between our ideas; of the spaces in which lovers, friends, family and strangers might feel on levels both conscious and subconscious; on the times we allow for our own chairs to be moved, for our trees to provide the sought after shade on a stifling day, or the longed for protection from a windy concrete passage.

People sit where there are places to sit. Someday, little by little, I’ll amass a cacophony of voices—silent and strong— at home in the space I have to offer, refined over years of the prevailing sociological study, that is, life.

show some love.

What were you doing at twelve? I was putting on shows out of my basement, writing stories, watching films, reading... But I definitely wasn’t doing this!

I stumbled across this blog yesterday via a post from NY Mag's blog. Before I say anything -- this love is TWELVE!!! -- check her out... then give her some love, for it seems a certain blog post from a certain magazine (that I certainly find entertaining... most of the time) discouraged her.



Too bad, because she has effectively acknowledged her age and gone with it, seemingly not trying to be an older or younger version of herself... she's having fun with her twelve-year-old identity! Plus, she is ridiculously hilarious. We should all have fun with our ___-year-old identities.



So I revisit past conversations about not giving intellectual and/or creative credit to the younger set... She already has an amazing voice.



All photos from the blog Style Rookie.

Lives!

Crafting a life, a world is a wonderful and exciting affair... Blogs are like looking through the keyhole into a persons inner brain, inner life, inner artist, inner manic... So when the chance arises to not only spy through the keyhole, but actually step through the door, I often feel like Alice in her Wonderland as opposed to Harriet the Spy (although each are equally adored).



This new blog cracks me entirely up--it's a home tour blog of various artists lairs (for the main course) followed by a charming and hilarious exchange between photographer Todd Selby and his chosen creative charmers.





First photo, me.
Logo and last two photos from Todd Selby.
Via Joanna Goddard.

Upon Vogue, Janvier 2008

I am searching for something called inspiration. Sometimes I get confused and think inspiration is the means to that which I am searching for. It is not so. There have been times when my inspiration’s catalyst has undergone great adjustment, veering its path this way or that. There have been times when it has fallen back and found solace in already-taken footsteps. Today, inspiration has chosen the latter.

Speaking of inspiration as its own entity is quite intentional. The search extends beyond ones own body, therefore making it separate from ourselves. It’s spirit dwells in a photograph, a sentence, an idea. It is sometimes embodied in another character, their habits or their home. A crack in the sidewalk, a strip of pale pink light above a tree-lined horizon: inspiration is not choosy when it comes to address. It’s windows and doors are constantly unlocked. One only needs to harness the exact force to apply on the point of access to enter the lavish simplicity of inspirations interior. Perhaps, once inside, one will find others who have penetrated its walls. Et voilà. Ça commence.

This morning, I find inspiration upon inspiration. I apply the force of a previous muse to go deeper into today’s inspirations’ chambers. And once inside, I recognize its interior. The shadows of my previous visits persist even though the dust has settled. But amid the ghosts and whips of memory that linger, small rays of light pierce through the gloom and illuminate the muted area. It’s this extra perspective that gives meaning and intent to something that before was so inaccessible. My fumbling hands find balance, my wandering mind, solidity. And I look with bright eyes, and I do with brilliant resolution.

*********************************

And so, fingers still glistening from the glorious sheen that buttermilk biscuits do impart, I begin again.

It was a simple decision to finally bake those buttermilk biscuits that I have been lusting over on the cover of January’s Gourmet. So while my roommate dashed off to class, I settled in to craft some goodness. Two hours ago I had no idea that this goodness would take two forms: the culinary kind and the inspirational kind. Culinary-wise, I couldn’t go wrong (have you seen the January cover??), and if my previous field-experience tells me anything, I wouldn’t be disappointed in the inspiration realm, either. For inspiration often arises out of the most peculiar circumstances: extreme depression, rapturous exultation, vile cruelty or blissful splendor... Sometimes, inspiration even arises out of an unused carton of buttermilk, waiting patiently on the refrigerator shelf.



In any case, as I sat down to a breakfast of biscuits right out of the oven and a fried egg in all its purity, I began to do some research for an interview I would be conducting with a particularly well-known food blogger. And then I found a similar soul. As I read her words, her thoughts and her experiences, I felt oddly consoled. Suddenly, all that had been restlessly swimming around in my mind for the past few months came together and I decided right then and there: I am going to keep this blog going.

Forever, I have wanted to carve out a small corner of the world in which to live and create and grow. In all my discrepancies with the journalistic method and practice, I have always held on to my own definition of the activity: find and create, then share. So here I am and here I go. Hello to you all and welcome to my petit coin du monde.