Beautiful People

Saturn Devouring One of His Children

I much prefer this one to Goya's version. I saw it hanging in a stairwell in the Prado and it took my breath away.

Observation #26

I'm almost sure that musicals are created especially for the enjoyment of gay people.

Great Scott! The Nike Mag

The Nike Air MAG (aka the Marty McFly) has captured every eye in the sneaker community within the past few days. Michael J. Fox appeared on David Letterman recently with some details regarding this highly anticipated release, and 1,500 pairs were just auctioned on eBay. All of the proceeds went to the Michael J. Fox Foundation.

[courtesy of www.nicekicks.com]

These are super dope but I would never wear them in public. Neither would I consider the ridiculous price tag to wear them in private. Still, super dope.

Dr. Bronner's Magic Soaps

So I don't normally advertise products in this forum or in general, but this is a great one. If you don't use it, you've probably seen or walked past it in Whole Foods, Fairway, or some other organics-centric market. I've used the almond (which sort of smells like marzipan) and lavender, but just bought the citrus orange this weekend which is delightful! The soap is totally biodegradable and vegetable-based, meaning it doesn't contain any animal fat/tallow. It's also certified fair trade and made with organic oils. It smells nice and clean and apparently has 18 basic uses, diluted and undiluted. They include body wash, mouthwash, laundry detergent, light house cleaning, a fruit and vegetable rinse, and deodorant. Simply put, it's good shit. Now my point, contrary to what it probably seems like so far, is not to encourage you to buy this soap. Here's my point: I bought a new variation of the soap ("flavor," as I like to incorrectly call it), over the weekend. For some reason, this was the first time I looked at the label. The website describes the labels as "Dr. Bronner's philosophy," and describes that philosophy as an "urgent message to realize our transcendent unity across religious and ethnic divides." But actually looking at the labels makes me think this dude was a complete nut, and then makes me question my decision to buy this soap. I'll still buy it, but shit these labels are weird.

The Old Guitarist

This is one of my favorite paintings. I like hanging it horizontally, so the old man's head is on the right side of the canvas. Picasso is one of many proofs to my theory about the unmistakable relationship between supreme creativity and our concept of insanity, framed by social and cultural definitions. I'll expound on that when I'm in a more motivated state of mind.

South Asian Massive

I just discovered this segment on MTV called Roots, which features music that has some sort of South Asian influence. I checked out the website and it seems like a good mix of traditional Hindustani music, Indian fusion, straight up rock/blues/alternative made by brown people, and some lame Desi-wanna-be-American stuff. In any case, I think it's pretty sick that 1) South Asian music has become culturally pervasive to the point where it's played on a mainstream, worldwide music channel, and 2) that MTV has a show that actually plays music. Fuck you, Jersey Shore!

Check out Shankar Tucker on this week's episode [Friday @ 8:30pm]. He's dope!

The Felt Shape of a Human Life

“Whenever someone who knows you disappears, you lose one version of yourself. Yourself as you were seen, as you were judged to be. Lover or enemy, mother or friend, those who know us construct us, and their several knowings slant the different facets of our characters like a diamond-cutter's tools. Our lives disconnect and reconnect, we move on, and later we may again touch one another, again bounce away. This is the felt shape of a human life, neither simply linear nor wholly disjunctive nor endlessly bifurcating, but rather this bouncey-castle sequence of bumpings-into and tumblings-apart.”

     -Salman Rushdie [The Ground Beneath Her Feet]

Who Hates Best

"If I was bound for hell, let it be hell. No more false heavens. No more damned magic. You hate me and I hate you. We’ll see who hates best. But first, first I will destroy your hatred. Now. My hate is colder, stronger, and you’ll have no hate to warm yourself. You will have nothing."   -Jean Rhys

Wildness, Uncontained (Observation #25)

There's an energy in me that I'm not sure how to describe, or contain. It's a wildness that I try to unleash at a pace and to a degree that I think is acceptable to people, because I realize that not everyone has this in them. Or maybe they do, but it looks different. But I don't think so. I think it's something that a very small percentage of people can tap into, and then begin to understand how to wield and tackle, and sometimes tame. It's a kind of unhinged passion, a trace of madness. It comes out in little ways -- laughter that borders on maniacal when I don't make an effort to mitigate it; needing to take time to catch my breath when I listen to certain kinds of music because I feel filled to the brim with something I can't explain; I smirk or shake my head or pop my eyes open when I read on the train because I'm flagrantly blown away by the skillful manipulation of language; the way I consume life-giving things like water and fruit is voracious -- I gulp and devour and ravage; the sounds I generate to express satisfaction and pleasure are shameless, tumultuous. Sometimes it's quiet and calm, thrashing under the surface. Sometimes it blazes from my eyes and pours out in a hot fury -- startling, frantic, vicious. If you haven't seen this thing in me, you're safe. But then you're probably missing out on the best part.

Genius Child

This is a song for the genius child.
Sing it softly, for the song is wild.
Sing it softly as ever you can -
Lest the song get out of hand.
Nobody loves a genius child.
Can you love an eagle,
Tame or wild?
Can you love an eagle,
Wild or tame?
Can you love a monster
Of frightening name?
Nobody loves a genius child.
Kill him - and let his soul run wild.

-Langston Hughes

Dhun in Raag Mishra Pilu

This is a northern Indian khayal with clarinet, sitar, and tablas in raaga mishra pilu (one of few raagas that can be played any time of day). Classical Indian music generally starts slow and builds up throughout the piece (which is the beauty of it), but start around 4:24 if you just want to get a feel for the raaga without the alaap, etc.

Shiva in Lotus

[Marble statue of Lord Shiva at dawn, meditating on the banks of the Ganga River - Rishikesh, India]

Yusef Komunyakaa

Not enough people know who this man is. In the '80s, he developed this brand of poetry that combined jazz rhythm/syncopation with modern, colloquial language and some ridiculous imagery. I'm going to resist the urge to bold and underline the lines that make my eyes pop open. Getcha mind blown:

Safe Subjects 

How can love heal

the mouth shut this way?

Say something worth breath.

Let is surface, recapitulate

how fat leeches press down gently

on the sex goddesses eyelids.

Let truth have its way with us

like a fishhook holds

to life, holds dearly to nothing

worth saying -- pull it out,

bringing with it hard facts,

knowledge that the fine underbone

of hope is also attached

to inner self, underneath it all.

Undress. No, don't be afraid

even to get Satan mixed up in this

acknowledgment of thorns:

meaning there's madness

in the sperm, in the egg,

fear breathing in its blood sac,

true accounts not so easily

written off the sad book.

Say something about pomegranates.

Say something about real love.

Yes, true love - more than

parted lips, than parted legs

in sorrow's darkroom of potash

& blues. Let the brain stumble

from its hiding place, from its cell block,

to the edge of oblivion

to come to itself, sharp-tongued

as a boar's grin in summer moss

where a vision rides the back

of God, at this masquerade.

Redemptive as a straight razor

against a jugular vein -

unacknowledged & unforgiven.

It's truth we're after here,

hurting for, out in the streets

where my brothers kill each other,

each other's daughters & guardian angels

in the opera of dead on arrival.

Say something that resuscitates

us, behind the masks, 

as we stumble off into neon lights

to loveless beds & a second skin

of loneliness. Something political as dust

& earthworms at work in the temple

of greed & mildew, where bowed lamps

cast down shadows like blueprints of graves.

Say something for us who can't believe

in the creed of nightshade.

Yes, say something to us dreamers

who decode the message of dirt

between ancient floor boards

as black widow spiders

lay translucent eggs

in the skull of a dead mole

under a dogwood in full bloom.

Praying Rebels: Libya

The Laughing Heart

your life is your life
don’t let it be clubbed into dank submission.
be on the watch.
there are ways out.
there is a light somewhere.
it may not be much light but
it beats the darkness.
be on the watch.
the gods will offer you chances.
know them.
take them.
you can’t beat death but
you can beat death in life, sometimes.
and the more often you learn to do it,
the more light there will be.
your life is your life.
know it while you have it.
you are marvelous
the gods wait to delight
in you.

-Charles Bukowski

Watch the Throne

Here's a full stream of the new Kanye/Jay-Z album. So far, I like "No Church in the Wild" and "Gotta Have It." It seems just kind of okay overall, but I need to spend some more time with it.

UPDATE: This shit is wack.

Breaking Boundaries

"I can't think in terms of boundaries. Those imaginary lines are as unreal to me as elves and pixies. I can't believe that they mark the end or the beginning of anything of real concern to the human soul. Virtues and vices, pleasures and pains cross boundaries at will."  -Kurt Vonnegut

Four Letter Words

Also, here's a fantastic clip from which I get a wonderful sense of schadenfreude.

An Open Letter From Comic Sans

Listen up. I know the shit you’ve been saying behind my back. You think I’m stupid. You think I’m immature. You think I’m a malformed, pathetic excuse for a font. Well think again, nerdhole, because I’m Comic Sans, and I’m the best thing to happen to typography since Johannes fucking Gutenberg.

You don’t like that your coworker used me on that note about stealing her yogurt from the break room fridge? You don’t like that I’m all over your sister-in-law’s blog? You don’t like that I’m on the sign for that new Thai place? You think I’m pedestrian and tacky? Guess the fuck what, Picasso. We don’t all have seventy-three weights of stick-up-my-ass Helvetica sitting on our seventeen-inch MacBook Pros. Sorry the entire world can’t all be done in stark Eurotrash Swiss type. Sorry some people like to have fun. Sorry I’m standing in the way of your minimalist Bauhaus-esque fascist snoozefest. Maybe sometime you should take off your black turtleneck, stop compulsively adjusting your Tumblr theme, and lighten the fuck up for once.

People love me. Why? Because I’m fun. I’m the life of the party. I bring levity to any situation. Need to soften the blow of a harsh message about restroom etiquette? SLAM. There I am. Need to spice up the directions to your graduation party? WHAM. There again. Need to convey your fun-loving, approachable nature on your business’ website? SMACK. Like daffodils in motherfucking spring.

When people need to kick back, have fun, and party, I will be there, unlike your pathetic fonts. While Gotham is at the science fair, I’m banging the prom queen behind the woodshop. While Avenir is practicing the clarinet, I’m shredding “Reign In Blood” on my double-necked Stratocaster. While Univers is refilling his allergy prescriptions, I’m racing my tricked-out, nitrous-laden Honda Civic against Tokyo gangsters who’ll kill me if I don’t cross the finish line first. I am a sans serif Superman and my only kryptonite is pretentious buzzkills like you.

It doesn’t even matter what you think. You know why, jagoff? Cause I’m famous. I am on every major operating system since Microsoft fucking Bob. I’m in your signs. I’m in your browsers. I’m in your instant messengers. I’m not just a font. I am a force of motherfucking nature and I will not rest until every uptight armchair typographer cock-hat like you is surrounded by my lovable, comic-book inspired, sans-serif badassery.

Enough of this bullshit. I’m gonna go get hammered with Papyrus.

[courtesy of McSweeney's]

untitled

They say that I'm a poet
I wonder what they would say
if they saw me
from the inside.
I bottle emotions and place them
into the sea
for others to uncork on distant shores --
I am unsure
as to whether they ever reach and
for that matter
as to whether I ever get my point across
             or my love.

In the desert

In the desert
I saw a creature, naked, bestial,
Who, squatting upon the ground,
Held his heart in his hands,
And ate of it.
I said, "Is it good, friend?"
"It is bitter – bitter", he answered,
"But I like it
Because it is bitter,
And because it is my heart."

-Stephen Crane

Summer Rapture

Look At Me Now

Oh by the way, it's been a year since I've written on my blog. I have a little black notebook that I write ideas in, and I mentally rediscovered NYC Masala in thinking about the appropriate medium through which to flesh 'em out. Lots of stuff going on this month, but hopefully I'll be able to throw something on here every once in a while. More for myself than anyone else, but thanks for reading.

Eternally yours,

VPL