Ode to Broken Things
Things get broken
at home
like they were pushed
by an invisible, deliberate smasher.
It's not my hands
or yours
It wasn't the girls
with their hard fingernails
or the motion of the planet.
It wasn't anything or anybody
It wasn't the wind
It wasn't the orange-colored noontime
Or night over the earth
It wasn't even the nose or the elbow
Or the hips getting bigger
or the ankle
or the air.
The plate broke, the lamp fell
All the flower pots tumbled over
one by one. That pot
which overflowed with scarlet
in the middle of October,
it got tired from all the violets
and another empty one
rolled round and round and round
all through winter
until it was only the powder
of a flowerpot,
a broken memory, shining dust.
And that clock
whose sound
was
the voice of our lives,
the secret
thread of our weeks,
which released
one by one, so many hours
for honey and silence
for so many births and jobs,
that clock also
fell
and its delicate blue guts
vibrated
among the broken glass
its wide heart
unsprung.
Life goes on grinding up
glass, wearing out clothes
making fragments
breaking down
forms
and what lasts through time
is like an island on a ship in the sea,
perishable
surrounded by dangerous fragility
by merciless waters and threats.
Let's put all our treasures together
-- the clocks, plates, cups cracked by the cold --
into a sack and carry them
to the sea
and let our possessions sink
into one alarming breaker
that sounds like a river.
May whatever breaks
be reconstructed by the sea
with the long labor of its tides.
So many useless things
which nobody broke
but which got broken anyway.
Meet my roommate the P.I. Why he owns a prop pistol, I do not know, but I love it.
Danger! Danger! Enter the dame...
Classic emulation of Bacall/Bogart: "Got a match?"
"Who's that at the door?"
"Who cares...look at those pins!"
Enter the young contender
Trouble ahead
Interrupting the cat fight
The tables turn...
Trying to escape
The P.I. won't let them get away this time
Where did they go?
Perhaps the boiler room?
She's after me! Down this sketchy shaft
Done away with the girl. Now to sneak free...
Curses! The jewels and/or secrets are locked away and unobtainable
Caught! The shakedown
...and back to normality
Here's a preview of the noir shoot I did with a few of my friends. One of these days when I have mental energy and time again, I'll post a fuller set.
The weather started off lovely and we got some charming views of Virginia in the fall.
In case there was any doubt that I was an autumn baby.
Instant camouflage.
We saw a deer. I decided I was going to be a cougar and eat it. Gendered jokes welcome.
I was either channeling an elf here or searching out the Satanic cult in the woods.
Waiting for my man.
Character in a Faulkner novel. Probably going to get knocked up and try to seek out an illegal abortion.
End of the world 1.
End of the world 2. In a worst case scenario I would seek shelter, find food and make fire all while looking this good.
I would surprise attack from the rocks like so.
Definitely a lipstick I'd want to plan an outfit around. Also great with some coordinated, intense eye color. It's grey undertones make me very much want Airborne Uniorn as well.
Definitely has a 60s vibe. Makes me want to put on a ton of turquoise eye shadow and thick black eyeliner and tease up my hair. Also works for just a demure color with more of a "pop" than a straight up nude. Doe Deere, the brand's creator, made a great suggestion on her blog. When working with orange lipstick, take a small amount and blend it into your cheeks as rouge. This really helps to make the color work with your skin. This is what I did for he above picture and it definitely makes a difference.
After visiting a representation of the New Topographics exhibit from the 70s at the SFMOMA a couple months ago, I've become obsessed with Lewis Baltz. Baltz ask the questions about modern space that I like to examine in terms of modern bodies. His work is part of an "anti-aesthetic," re-envisioning what a valid artisitic subject is, reevaluating the idea of landscape, scrutinizing the role of the artist, as well as that of man shaping his surroundings. He's often quite concerned with the privatization of space. This is what I love most about his collection, The New Industrial Parks near Irvine, California.
Similar to other photographers of this movement, Baltz plays with the 19th century concept of the landscape painting. Instead of viewing an open expanse of sky across and above the rolling country, this is only implied. This provincial aesthetic is blocked out by products of human innovation. Building blocks of human enterprise and expansion.
Baltz tends to be more aggressive than some of his contemporaries though, in many cases allowing nothing natural to enter the frame. No point of reference exists for scale or local. Man both in front of and behind the camera completely controls the landscape. There is literally no escape. It's asphyxiating.
A lot of Baltz's work also centers around construction. Despite the solidity of the concrete backdrops, this is still a transitory endeavor. Man keeps tearing up, keeps building. This also points to what lies beneath the surface. Man has not just built on top of, but within and throughout, furthering the influence of this artificial, Euclidian order. Construction is one of Baltz's continued interests, as seen in his work in Nevada and around Candlestick Park in San Francisco in the 80s.
It's important to note as well that this is an exhibit of industrial parks. The privatization of space is a central theme. Nondescript boxes disrupt his landscapes. Nothing is revealed about these spaces, what their purpose is, why they exist. All we know is we're not allowed to know. He uses reflections a lot in his work to reinforce this opacity. The above photo is my favorite from the collection. The viewer is finally given access to a black box space (in print form, this space is so highly illuminated, my dad said it resembled trompe l'oeil. opacity persists), but what do we find inside? A ladder and some shit on the ground. Privatization for the sake of privatization. The closing off of public and open space.
“you’re too pretty for me”
he says this without a hint of irony. I don’t understand what he means. I raise an eyebrow.
“it’s true. you’re too pretty for me.”
pretty hits my skin but stays outside. it does not permeate through my layers so my mind draws a blank.
he puts on that dismissive smirk, but I still pick up on a hint of resentment in his voice. pretty does that to people. I flick my eyes up to his momentarily, shake my head then focus back on my tea.
beauty is something worn, an adornment. this I understand. pretty is more oblique, more insidious, seen as an inherent quality. I believe he takes this to mean I will be confident (i.e. vicious), operate from a position of privilege. He thinks by calling me out he will somehow weaken that capacity.
“did you hear? they think they’ve found a cure for the bats. no more dying in the trees. hopefully at least,” I say softly.
he nods but has nothing to add. I think about bringing up painleve’s le vampire, but I feel that’s just another dead end, not enough to fill the space. esoteric references got us to spitting distance but will take us no further.
instead I sit quietly and think of my friend’s father, three years ago, his eyes unfocused and bloodshot standing on his overgrown farm. he says the bats have been gone all summer and the mosquitoes have gotten bad. he misses them and he worries.
“baaaaaaats!” he rasps, his voice worn and strained. “baaaaats!” we stand there, waiting, purple.
as if awaiting the signal, a dark blip shoots across the dusky expanse. this excites the man and his face changes shape. “baaaaaats!” he calls again, “baaaaats!” no more appear and eventually the man’s hope wanes. his countenance resumes its weariness and he ambles inside.
“what are you thinking?” pretty boy asks.
I shrug and glance at him sideways. I see that his eyes are too close together but disregard this as forgivable since they are also the color of a lake I remember fondly. in others we seek these souvenirs of cherished memories, reminders of things external and unchanging. this is called attraction.
I notice he fidgets with the same apprehension that I do. we’re mirrors of inaction. my throat has closed up. I notice a run in my stockings, a nick in my shoe.
mating between bats plays out like a game of marco polo. the male shoots out his voice, flying back and forth across a central route. the female then seeks him out, following his vocalizations.
for this purpose, the anatomy of the male hammer head fruit bat has twisted over time to increase its ability to produce sound. its elongated head filled with air and its larynx distended to almost half the length of its backbone. this now fills so much of its chest cavity that the heart and lungs are pushed to the periphery, deemed of secondary importance by evolution.
I realize we have been sitting in silence for some time. I am unable to speak, my larynx is shrunken, my lungs and heart unencumbered, so I just look down and let out a breath.
with some sudden, awkwardly enacted aggression he grabs at my hand across the table.
“I like you,” he says, though his voice wavers. “I don’t normally like pretty girls, but these things happen sometimes. sometimes we have no control.”
his words make no sense. sound here is unnecessary and distasteful. but my desperation, my desire to play out this game is clear despite my silence.
he lunges across the table and kisses me hard, as if overwhelmed by some insuppressible need to subdue. I respond mechanically in an attempt to reassure him. he does not stop. this is performance.
he touches me and I think of the bat fungus, of the dying bats, of my ex, of the cold. I think of bodies, but only as abstractions. with so few bats left, how will they survive?
as he pushes through, permeates, I think about how far away I am from pretty.
