Danila Vanilla

Danila Polyakov is the single-most gorgeous man in the entire world.

Sacred Cow

I may or may not be delusional, but I've been thinking lately: in a perfect world -- or mine at least -- everything would be exactly as it is.

Blogspot, to me, is inexplicably anti-LJ (that's LiveJournal for all you Internet plebeians). Everything about the Blogspot blogosphere (gag) is critically base. On purpose. Blogspot stands to be the hub of the individual rather than a place for community. Blogspot is like a summer home or cabin timeshare you can use whenever the need should present itself because it's an escape where any reputation you've built for yourself -- willfully or otherwise -- can be eluded. No one reads this! God. I just fucking watched "Juno", and I constantly catch myself wanting to say, "honest to Blog" to convey the utmost honesty I possibly can.

Anyway. I know nobody and some people will read and/or view this. It just needed an update.

Having a crush is always the most uncomfortable state of being. All that bullshit of, "It's not real unless there are butterflies" is such... well, bullshit. Every time I feel myself crushing, I pray that my skin constricts so the essence of my being can pour out of every orifice of my physical body. I just don't feel like myself when I like somebody so I've been looking into spiritual paths of enlightenment that require celibacy.

I downloaded the leak of Madonna's Hard Candy and I need to shampoo my hair in the morning.

I've started a project to fold 999 paper cranes. Origami paper is so expensive it should be illegal. Expensive paper that isn't resume paper makes me feel bougie. Resume paper makes me feel bougie too because I've never had a job. My life is sickeningly upper-crust. Admitting as much is all too embarrassing.

Old Love

His rockcandy ribcage,
And collarbones an alien terrain.
Hips that could splinter diamonds --
Cosmically estranged.

His eyes: sunken meteorites.
Neck strangled in lovebites
My skin. And his skin:
Rock with intoxicating blight.

April showers

Pizza and Michel Gondry with Peter and Julie.
A lazy Sunday evening well spent.

Bad: nature versus nurture

If I could shuck my jack of all trades attitude and no longer be stifled from ever truly being great at something, I would be a vindictive asshole. I would be more than just good at it. My resentments would not stale. They would rot and congeal in the pit of my stomach like loaded ammunition with my vocal chords as the trigger.

I hate when people self diagnose, yet I can't help but attribute my disregard for other peoples' feelings as some kind of sadistic personality disorder instead of acknowledging the reality that I might just be an asshole. I don't think I am an asshole at the core of my being, but I wonder if maybe some people are just born not good or if bad people are made because I am starting to get the impression that I am just a really shitty person.

I need to watch The Bad Seed.

No. I need to stop procrastinating on homework.

"Because you're ugly."

Dubai aka Atlantis v2.0

It's settled! I'm moving to the future as soon as I can possibly gather the funds to book my flight. Dubai reminds me of the dramatic cityscapes of the cyberpunk genre: supercities graphically rendered with shoddy 1980's architecture software. Then again, until it is fully realized, that's exactly what it will continue to be. I predict that Dubai will be the backdrop of neo-cyberpunk works both literary and cinematic. It's the perfect dystopian wonderland. Lets just cross our fingers and hope this city isn't sunk into the Arabian Sea by its builders' hubris.

Gregory Colbert

Ashes and Snow

"The photographic artworks of Gregory Colbert explore the poetic sensibilities of animals in their natural habitat as they interact with human beings. No longer shown as merely a member of the family of man, humans are seen as a member of the family of animals."

Compartmentalization

This past Saturday, I decided to buy the large, squared Moleskine journal -- 240 luxurious acid-free 13 x 21cm pages of row after row and column after column of boxes. While it's beautiful, I'm not sure how many paper journals I've owned. A lot. I've lost count. That is to say: I've never been able to spill enough of my head to fill a single journal past the fourth or fifth page without suffering severe discomfort. I'm prone to self editing just in case my secrets should fall under the inspection of an older, wiser version of myself, who would deem his past pitiful or unremarkable.

"Goddamn fool. Egoist. Moron."

I bought this journal because I like grids. I like to box my ideas. Everything requires a label. Isn't that the fundamental purpose of language? I wish I could box people, but I'm a mostly a pacifist. Put me in a Rubik's Cube.

---

Here. Enjoy these songs dead links. I'll re-upload later.

Artist: The Mae Shi
Album: Terrorbird
Song: Hieronymus Bosch Is A Dead Man

Artist: Poe
Album: Haunted
Song: Spanish Doll

Artist: Cat Power
Album: The Greatest
Song: Hate

A poem by a boy named James

I was at camp
With strangers
In a room full of pianos
Oskar Eustis was teaching us how to play piano
By instinct
Without learning the notes

I was pretty good at it

Then I had a class called
Imagining Water
And I floated in the air for awhile

I was pretty good at that too

Then you showed up
With your French backpack
And your gold hair
And the hills around us blushed so green

I had not noticed them before

You let me lift your shirt a little
And kiss your stomach
And it was warm and soft like perfect bread
And it made me hungry

And even in the dream
I felt that quiet buzz of rightness
That happens when you're around