Woke up to the shit news that I’m 27 tomorrow
“And how about all the hatred and death and wrong and hurting in this world?”
There’s always going to be hatred and death and wrong and hurting. Stuff like that are impossible to change because it’s at the core of the being of the people of this world. And you can’t revolutionize a person the way you can fix up the streets. People have their own minds and they can think of whatever they like. You can’t take away their minds and deny the world a voice. So you can`t change the way someone feels. If that kid wants to poke that cat with a stick. That kid will. Because he feels it. And there aren`t any laws that can change that. If he wants to, real bad, then he will. Because in the end there is only him and if we change this world, everything will change.
Circa 1950`s film music always makes me feel ill. Like pins and needles in my brain.
Everything that exists here for me
exists because your eyes and ears nose mouth skin lets it exist
and when you aren’t here there is a little part of me not here too
do you know what I mean?
this isn’t about love or someone or anyone
this is about everyone
I`m here because you are and together we are everything
(or maybe nothing)
Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck Fuck
I can`t be arsed with my brain today
Soho is one of those places that always excites/repulses me. I love to watch the posh business men in their suits and ugly leather briefcases as they climb the stairs of a doorway flashing
“sexy hot young girls”. I love the awkwardness of it and it’s dark cobbled streets with glowing neon signs reminding us that we can be repressed, lonely, desperate, depraved. Right in the middle of London beside your middle class wine bars and yuppie patisseries. This pathetic little truth.
It was in a Soho español restaurant that I started to think about fate. I sat staring at my friend’s bowl of papas and the remains of my coke, and I wondered that surely there is more? Something so simple, this life of ours, it can’t be, I mean really, am I living? Is this life? Looked at my hands, pale, long, my hands all working and well, living. Looked him in the eye - beautiful soft gold all bright and shining, living and breathing eyes.
Look at us, we’re in the world, but surely there is more? I thought of all the people I’ve met. Paths I’ve crossed like a stitch. Threading something together. But what am I sewing? What if, after everything, all these stitches,
what if it doesn’t fit?
I feel like I am going through life with hands pressed over my eyes
and little knife stabs poking at my throat .
Love will self
Really enjoy throwing up.
It’s not even the point where you feel so so amazing after. I just really like sitting there with my hands pulling the hair back away from my face and hot,
I like the feeling of it, the muscles in my stomach contracting, and owh.
I really do like it.
Everything isn’t very fun right now for anyone, is it?
(Maybe it’s pathetic fallacy, or maybe it’s just that contentness is unobtainable)
Reasons to be cheerful: I bought some lipstick
So as to avoid getting into another heated argument tonight, here are my two cents for you and whoever else would like to share what they think about these two.
Most of the time I really do not love Muntean / Rosenblum. I think what they make are these little time capsuals of the present western culture - our obsessions, our fears, our insecurities and our priorities.
But then the whole thing just saddens me.
All these things are so shallow…they may be true, but it leaves me with two things:
A small realisation that we are content living like this
and an annoyance that their work (for me, at least) glorifies our obsessions, fears and insecurities.
And perhaps they do force us to realise how we live in a culture riddled with image, fashion, and appearence,
but at the same time, they do nothing to suggest that there is more to our culture, more to life.
I’ve always found it very hard to talk about my veiws on art. So I in no way believe that I am right to say this of their work, especially knowing how much you love them but it’s just what I’ve personally taken from it… <3
so after days of rigorous cutting, poking,folding and stiching I have finished one of my LEAST favorite projects so far in my sewing life…The bloody 8 metre gypsy skirt! A year and a bit ago I had to make 3 of these damn skirts and some gypsyish manly shirts for a band. After being seen on a dancer at a festival this year I was asked to reproduce this replica. It was a really nice chance for me to recreate it with the minor improvements I had thought up for it in my head after completing the first 3.
To make this skirt it basically requires for one to cut long rectangular strips (width depending on how many layers you want to include and length depending on how big a circumference you wish to have)
The material I used is indian viscose sari material which is really transparent so it needed a lining(I used cheese cloth sort of fabric). After cutting both strips(sari and lining), I sewed them together and stitched one of the lengths with the loosest stitch on machine, as after the thread of the stiches would have to be pulled and the material gathered together like when one opens a curtain. The following layer followed the exact same process but with the circumference of the previous layer which had just gone through the process of being gathered together. All layers must fit into eachother like puzzle pieces and make as many needed until desired length is reached. For the waist I just made it elastic.
I suppose this is hard to explain in words and I just wasted my time, haha.
this night won’t eeeeeeeend
Larry Clark is in-fucking-sane. I`ve been for the past 3 days looking through all his stuff again and he is just a GOD. I can’t even do him justice. Boy took me to go and have a look at one of his books in the library in London once and they kept it in a room in the back incase it offended people and we weren’t allowed to take it out of the library, but it was sooo worth it.
go watch kids NOW.
then ken park.
then wassup rockers.
and then bully
don’t even bother sleeping.