House, coffeehouses, neighborhood: setting
that I see and where I walk; year after year.
I crafted you amid joy and amid sorrows:
out of so much that happened, out of so many things.
And you’ve been wholly remade into feeling; for me.
— C.P. Cavafy
I was so excited to find this documentary from 1996, shot in an American high school. It’s about two sisters who identified as riot grrrls, but who were known around school as the “dirty girls.” It is an incredible portrait of the ’90s, of high school in general, and of what it is like to be a teenage outcast. It runs twenty minutes and was made by Michael Lucid, who was a senior in high school at the time (the girls were a bit younger). I was so happy to learn today that Christian Storm at Vice magazine tracked down the subjects, Amber and Harper, and spoke to them about their lives now and then. Turns out they are still just as independent and great. - Sheila Heti
by JJ Hudson, photographed by Axel Hoedt.
a woman may collect cats read thrillers
her insomnia may seep through the great walls of history
a lizard may paralyse her
a sewing machine may bend her
moonlight may intercept the bangle
circling her wrist
a woman may name her cats
the circulating library
may lend her new thrillers
a spiked man may impale her
a woman may add
a new recipe to her scrapbook
judiciously distilling her whimper the city lights
may declare it null and void
in a prodigious weather
above a darkling woman
surgeons may shoot up and explode
in a weather wrought with forceps
a woman may damn
a woman may shave her legs regularly
a woman may take up landscape painting
a woman may poison
twenty three cockroaches
— Arun Kolatkar, 1967.
I found these beautiful images by Benoit.P a while back - simply entitled LSD - here is what he say’s about creating the images - ‘After taking LSD, I light up a candle in the middle of the wood take a 4 minute exposure’ simple.
My native city rose from sea,
Its littered frontiers wet and dark.
Time came too soon to disembark
And rain like buckshot sprayed my head.
My dreams, I thought, lacked dignity.
So I got drunk and went to bed.
But dreamt of you all night, and felt
More lonely at the break of day
And trod, to brush the dream away,
The misted pavements where rain fell.
There the consumptive beggars knelt,
Each with the thin voice of a shell.
The records that those pavements keep,
Bronze relics from the beggar’s lung,
Oppress me, fastening my tongue.
Seawhisper in the rocky bay
Derides me, and when I find sleep,
The parakeets shriek that away.
Except in you I have no rest,
For always with you I am safe:
Who now am far, and mime the deaf
Though you call gently as a dove.
Yet each day turns to wander west:
And every journey ends in love.
— Gone Away, Dom Moraes, 1960.