stolen from knight cat.

labeled as "noisnemidhtnevele". dunno what it means but i like it. a lot.

dear diary...

i am in venice beach. with kel & matt. first i house/cat-sat for them. which was fun. even when the cat (mazzy) woke me up at oh-dark-thirty-butt-crack-of-dawn as only he can. but today was a good day. kel & matt came back. from you know, the x-mas stuff on the east side. & then kelly & i rode on bikes. it was SO cool. kelly is sitting next to me making sounds like ze. she says hi. (hi).

"so cool" (that's supposed to be said with a portuguese accent like jose ricardo and stuff).

anyway. we made really bitchin mac & cheese & stuck it in the oven. it got crunchy & delish. then we watched this FUCKING movie. i am giggling with kelly as i write this but i don't know why we are laughing because we are very !@#$%^&* upset. note: UP set. please make a note. hence, i wrote "note". don't watch this movie if you want to maintain your sanity or not cry for a year. & not even knowing why you cry. WHY YOU CRY is a mystery.

kelly wants to understand how i do this but shit. try to live in my head for a sec & it'll all make sense. also. i do writing practice. ...hm, this got lame. so maybe it's time to stop.

thank you for reading. all of 1 reader, probably. hey reader. listen. don't watch UP. thanks.

xoxo me.

ps, we have been drinking. plenty.

ok, & michel gondry.

yep.

and then there's dylan thomas.

i mean.

jonathan glazer on the brain.

dude slays me.

voices that melt me.

pj harvey

mark sandman

chris cornell*

hope sandoval

elisabeth fraser

billie holiday

ella fitzgerald

bill withers

nina simone

maynard james keenan*

seu jorge

prince

thom yorke

brian ferry

stevie wonder

matt johnson

perry farrell (though it could be the lyrics...)

lou rhodes

mick jagger

robert plant.

* most glorious screamers

pre-holiday cheer & people i adore.

slideshow from a unique & slightly debauched night out of new & old friends coming together. these people are incredible. creative & full of life. they inspire me & make me pretty damn happy. i'm blessed.

fyi, there is this totally random, super-corny music that iphoto drops in automatically. i want to punch the music in the face but kiss the pictures on the mouth. whatever. turn the sound off.

BlakRoc.

good things are happening in music:

http://www.blakroc.com/index_artists.html

yoda.

RE.

do over.

how does one...

do the un-natural

or what has been.

for an eternity.

not like it hasn't been done.

often. a lot. regularly. a lot.

over. before.

i mean.

ugh, i mean.

how does one...

even...?

life just gets stranger

& stranger.

thank you effing stupid x-mas.

thank HEAVEN.

stupid ex-mas = savior.

let's all just go away.

regroup.

get re-pretty.

re-focused.

re-...

well. you know. RE.

what the fuck?

feeling morphine.

all damn day.

to understand, here are some lyrics to feed the jonesing blood:

your mind and your experience call to me
you have lived and your intelligence is sexy
i want to know what you got to say (x3)
i can tell you taste like the sky cause you look like rain
you look like rain (x8)
you think like a whip on a horse's back
stretched out to the limit you make it crack
send that horse round and round the track
i want to know what you got to say (x3)
i can tell you taste like the sky cause you look like rain
you look like rain (x16)
yeah you look like rain
you look like rain

WHAT!? of course, w/ the instrumental attached, amazing. i'm high.

dear alexander wang,

i know you just showed up about a minute ago. i know you're super-popular, total phenom & whatnot. & i know you are a mere 25 years old & a wee gay lad... ok, & that marriage is illegal for gays, but will you marry me?

i love you (SO SO SO much).

xoxo,

deb*

(pre-fall 2010)

rag & bone pre-fall.

oh, hi there, everything i want to wear...

the painted fish.

cookbook & memoirs of life along the yucatan peninsula, by my madrina, sonja lillvik:

http://www.thepaintedfish.com/index.shtml

why

of all things, do we have to be pitching avastin? i do not have the emotional space to think about last year. & i can't stop thinking about it now.  the product that works for nearly everyone. except my dad. the product that made him worse, literally the final nail in his coffin. & i just miss my dad so fucking much i can hardly stand it. i am crawling out of my skin. i have to concentrate on a completely different pitch & i am possessed. unable to focus. spinning. it still boggles my mind that i'll never be able to lay my head on his shoulder again while we watch amelie, seeing his eyes light up with delight. if i ever bring my life story to the worth of the one he told, i pray that wherever his spirit is, i can send him my embrace of light & change, that he will know. i have to hold that dream so close in my heart that the hurt running through me right now will dissipate...

must. pull. myself. together. 

before i fall apart. 

donna karan pre-fall.

luscious.

too beautiful not to share.

stealing from my friends on twitter again.

Fast Fourier Transform from peter menich on Vimeo.

street art from my walks of late.

mix. no name.

(weird energy today. i feel the mean reds coming on...)

l.e.s. artistes santogold

i'm good, i'm gone lykke li

a forest the cure

rusted wheel silversun pickups

you said something  pj harvey

mesmerizing  liz phair

bohemian like you the dandy warhols

sunrise yeasayer

i wanna be adored stone roses

mind riot soundgarden 

fade into you mazzy star

surf cowboy throwing muses

i'm on fire bruce springsteen

diamonds on the inside  ben harper

he war cat power

3 libras a perfect circle

lost cause beck

never woulda thunk it.

but i'm digging versace pre-fall.

that's all.

writing exercise again.

from yesterday @ saturdays in soho. fyi, the practice entails starting w/ writing about what you are looking at & let thoughts free-flow from there. this gets pretty cuckoo & hopelessly out of chronological order, veering in & out of correct time ref. oh well, that's not really the point. so here it is:

"i am looking at an old, vintage-blue motorcane. a guy just walked outside, needing his presence known, uttering a quick, staten-island-clad word or 5 about the chill. but i like it. the chill. i am at saturdays. looking at that old motorcane makes me think of uc santa barbara, the honda passport i hijacked from my dorm-mate, my favorite form of transpo. i think i pseudo-crashed on that thing 1 time, shifted the wrong way at a stoplight into town & tanked. not so cool as i'd wished i was. seems a long time ago, probably because it was. nearly 23 years ago, in fact. so many reflections of late, reminders of all the lives i've lived. & oh, how i've lived. high school years, delinquent, driving around in that little brown turd-ball of a '76 honda civic, always speeding, always cutting class, calling in as my mom, saying i was sick... trouble. and the ducky boys parties, the hangouts in crusty theatre seats behind the empire cinema parking lot in west portal, or sitting on the benches by the station, "not graffiti-ing" but mugging for the camera or each other. asymmetrical haircut and badly-matched clothes. then the clubbing. gotham city, do not sit on the furniture, 5-foot tongue, das klub (barker!?!), dna lounge, paradise lounge, the kennel club. i guess the kennel club came a little later? or the i-beam in the haight, going to shows, rocking out, the chi-chi club... on the scrounge, out late, hitting the underground until the sun came up, breakfast at sparky's & start all over again. north beach living, snob hill/chinatown loving, north beach living again, soma barely-living -- showering at friend's places... dave. wow. i need a minute for a stogey. all that writing i was doing. writing and painting, day & night, the trips for cappuccino & the bottles of red flip-flopping their time-share. the motorcycle rides to walnut creek (walnut bleak), down the coast, big sur, the henry miller memorial museum and nepenthe. laundry & fighting & parties & drinking & school & drugs. dennis & roth, our crime spree with loretta... when was that? what was the name of that cafe? the north end. loretta always lighting a new cigarette every 5 minutes because she couldn't remember where she set hers down. the bar really wasn't that big. sangria, the ministry, stealing vicodin from my parents' closet - a pharmacy - and giving it away to friends. i had everyone doped up. waiting at the bottom of grant & green for a taxi to take me to the top of the hill: "it's exactly $2.30 to go 2 blocks up, i'll give you $3, let's call it a night." square one with frank & hitting tosca after - we'll have a booth, please. specs for homework and sketching and writing, safe from harassment, i lived there. then nathalie and the war between me & dave.

holy crap there is a total loss of chronology, here.

fuck it.

the war. their games, that foul, abrasive lezlee and her subterfuge. shitty college of sf. laurence rca. 2 pg's on pine street. 21 & 22... fuck fuck fuck."  (this section has been altered, necessarily.)

"transferring to cal, my salvation in art history, jasmine & belles. belles' wild nights, events for the books, champagne fountains and grapes in abandoned churches. bacchanal. her photo projects, adjusting the light @ four walls. breaking up with nathalie, the first time i'd ever been able to tell someone that the way she was hurting me was ending. that i was ending it. i ended it.  and the rumors and bad-talk that ensued. not the best streak of luck, usually, my love life.

retreating to the mission, nearly 8 years on valencia street, we be sushi and boogaloo's. the latin american club, babar, the lone palm. wait. where did brainwash fit in there? kim & mickey? before the mission. oh, that was a dave period, as well. somewhere back before there was the summer of love. time. rolling around in the grass, serenading friends, driving in dennis' van like maniacs. pj & the boys & me, fighting in the streets. pool games at gino and carlo & the international. 

damn i've lived. this one life full of so many lives.

woops, i'm stuck.

i need a minute.

perhaps it's the presence of a new person outside @ saturdays. on his bberry. shiny shaved choco-caramel head. they need heat lamps out here.

maybe this is all out of order because i, essentially, am out of order. always have been. this new foray into "my forties" gets me thinking way too much & my thoughts run wild through the reeds of my memory. tracking swamp & refuse behind me, a trail too hard to follow, too hard to make sense of."

(am leaving a section out, here. some things are better left unsaid).

"ok, that was more than 10 minutes of writing. this time w/ a pen. not bad. almost zero editor. maybe 5-10% but mostly lover. and all from looking at that old, vintage-blue motorcane.

back to the office."

eff you, insomnia.

that's all i've got. 

1 last fix. 1 more mix.

dj lekeli holiday party.
courtesy of leslie mah. amazing. love it. get it.

new moon rising (yacht remix) wolfmother
bullet the blue sky vieux farka toure
santo mia (immunizikation holier than thou) santogold + m.i.a. + immuzikation
leaving you behind amanda bank feat lykke li
ma hine concore (3rd bass remix) vieux farka toure
dance dance dance (bukara som) lykke li
inna de ghetto (remix) diplo & buraka som sistema
new moon rising (riton vocal rub) wolfmother
everybody but me (diskjokke remix) lykke li
i want you back discovery
must be a devil diplo
bang rye rye & m.i.a.
so human lady sovereign
feeling good muse
straight to hell (feat. mick jones) lily allen
make it, take it amanda blank
heads will roll (james iha remix) yeah yeah yeahs

happy holidays.

writing practice, c/o natalie goldberg.

i am looking at this screen, listening to my fingers tapping. i can't type for shite. i'm in my kitchen. my kitchen/foyer/office/pie-central. i've gratefully cleaned up from yesterday's foray into a new pie for b-day peeps. baking always forces me to clean. not be lazy. get focused. 9 times out of 10 when i bake, i bop around the kitchen, what room there is in here. & for the cleaning that always follows, i bop around the rest of the apt, aka what i lovingly call the salon. over 7 years i've lived in this place & i still can't seem to put something on the walls. mismatched picture frames of people i love clutter what surface there is but still the walls are blank. as if reminding me that i once painted non-stop, daily. but i look at those paintings now & i wonder what the hell i was thinking... even though i know exactly what i was thinking. that girl is still in me, she's always there. i look to the left & see the tv on, the lord of the rings: the 2 towers playing without sound, captions on. i fell asleep with the tv on. surprise. the only way i can fall asleep. sleep the thing i miss, save for the one night i took a fraction of that hard, blue pill tena gave me. slept for 11 hours that night. i look at the rest of the room & want more of it. room, that is (sleep, too). yet i've almost always lived in small spaces, oddly comforted by the size, perhaps because it's cozy, perhaps because it's that one spot carved out just for me to occupy, with no one else. except that fraction of friends who are welcome here. the ones that post up on the kitchen floor waiting until a steaming pie comes out of the oven. rarely can they manage the hour or so it takes before they should dig in, they hate the time it takes for a pie to set.

crap. i paused. stupid editor.

part of natalie goldberg's practice is to keep the hand moving, still works when you type unless you're me & out of practice & have a pretty adamant editor. also a good practice for sex, that elusive other practice of which i get none. uuuuggghh. i've become borderline intrusive on my friend's sex lives, vicarious living a poor pathetic substitute but it'll have to do. it's hard to bring someone into this tiny home of mine, my life with my friends always comes first & after putting myself through 2.5 years with that sociopathic monster of an ex, it's quite frankly terrifying to be remotely intimate with anyone. those friends who i hold dear, their trust paramount, they are encouraging me to be more open, take off the blinders, don't worry about losing membership in the exclusive club, it's not going anywhere, blinders off doesn't change who i am. but doesn't it?

hm. the fingers stopped moving at that one. the free-flow of one thought to the next, it's coughing & spitting a bit, now. i'll try again.

now i am looking at the cigarette i just lit, too early to be awake, too early to smoke, dammit, not cool, botkin. but it's almost a fuel to keep this going. a bit hungover, my perpetually feverish yet foggy brain cinematic, running through the images from last night. it's always the images, the smells, a tone. rarely the words. i can tell you what you wore, what you smelled like, what you sounded like, where you were when you spoke, the way you gestured, the sincerity in your eyes (or lack thereof) but not precisely what you said... story of my life. maybe that's why i need to write. so much to take in. must make it come out somehow. i'm thinking this week it's time to get the old sketch pad out again & get those juices flowing. i'm out of excuses.

this is enough for now. the brain barf, that is. the practice helped somewhat. more soon, it has to be. i am grateful i found that goldberg book again, however corny it sometimes is, it's releasing something & that is always a good thing. am grateful for the experiences & the people i am continually blessed with, that inspire me to keep my hands moving & my thoughts flowing.

must get brain into work mode, hating that for today, knowing the work is going to be longer than necessary, i am longing to be outside, 20 layers on with camera in hand, or dancing with anthony, sweating & stripping, music so deep, the bass so strong, i feel it in my gut & the hairs on my arms fly. that other kind of movement so necessary to free up the spirit. oh well. at least i have this.

off to the chariot races.

holy sh*t.

Black Bones from Rhett Dashwood on Vimeo.

damn, beautiful & horrible.

gaywatch on john stewart.

The Daily Show With Jon Stewart	Mon - Thurs 11p / 10c
Gaywatch - Peter Vadala & William Phillips
www.thedailyshow.com
Daily Show Full Episodes Political Humor Health Care Crisis

vegetable stand macro.

don't ask. just felt like it.

she asked for it.

thus i shall comply.

this post is dedicated to today's b-day star, megan mair. a lady who, very quickly, is my new fave karaoke & spontaneous drinkie buddy. for those not acquainted with her fabness, suffice it to say, she kicks serious booty & looks (is) fierce doing it. 

so, per her request, i've uncovered video #2 from our infamous day-into-night of boozing & "singing" at oh-dark-thirsty/thirty, culminating in the east vill @ sing sing. 

you asked for it, meggles. it's a cruel, cruel... winter. glory. 

the house that built deb.