i have been reading 'a tree grows in brooklyn' by betty smith as recommended and am astonished at the similiarities in our writing styles! i almost feel ashamed to continue my own work knowing the uncanny likeness to her already published work. there's even an Eliza, although a short mention. but still. and her sentence construction is poignant and to the point and her story-telling is concise and moving. brief but beautiful! oh!
francie is a girl. i am a girl. francie delights. as do i. she has grown up with her parents but all by herself in williamsburg, brooklyn. that's in new york state. it may as well be my back door. such is it's charm. johnny is her papa, katie is her mama. johnny left hildy and went katie's way. i'd hate that to happen to me with my 'feller' but they are good together.
Sonnet XLIII, from the Portuguese. Elizabeth Barrett Browning - 1806-1861
How do I love thee? Let me count the ways. I love thee to the depth and breadth and height My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight For the ends of Being and ideal Grace. I love thee to the level of everyday's Most quiet need, by sun and candle-light. I love thee freely, as men strive for Right; I love thee purely, as they turn from Praise. I love thee with the passion put to use In my old griefs, and with my childhood's faith. I love thee with a love I seemed to lose With my lost saints, -I love thee with the breath, Smiles, tears, of all my life! - and, if God choose, I shall but love thee better after death.
when my heart begins to stretch and the room is never too small and everything feels like the movies. and love songs are caresses to music. and i don't understand. then, i'll sit down and write my own rendition.
there's a sly little line between love and infatuation.
love is a pick among poets and philosophers. there are many takes on the true definition of the word.
my personal take is in biblical form, from 1 corinthians 13.4.
Love is patient, love is kind and is not jealous; love does not brag and is not arrogant, does not act unbecomingly; it does not seek its own, is not provoked, does not take into account a wrong suffered, does not rejoice in unrighteousness, but rejoices with the truth; bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things. Love never fails; but if there are gifts of prophecy, they will be done away; if there are tongues, they will cease; if there is knowledge, it will be done away. For we know in part and we prophesy in part; but when the perfect comes, the partial will be done away. When I was a child, I used to speak like a child, think like a child, reason like a child; when I became a man, I did away with childish things. For now we see in a mirror dimly, but then face to face; now I know in part, but then I will know fully just as I also have been fully known. But now faith, hope, love, abide these three; but the greatest of these is love
if you can swear by all of these and remain true in every respect, then you can say you have loved.
boom! i've got your boyfriend discotheque friday revivals new world order in the form of synthpop, wonky pop and dancefloor nu wave. a safety dance by men without hats. a technotrash's take on love i love the bloody beetroots. talk boxes boogie boogie cupcake parties electro ambition wah wah pedeal distortion promiscuity in manhattan polyrhythms the warehouse 54 encounters trammps disco inferno saint-germain-des-pres cafe and nu jazz numbers animated cocaine spoons stairwell hedonism backlash and decline
in unencumbered passion, tainted vows and hardly a breath between his kisses i have found myself breathless and unyielding and woken up with a stone in my chest. a yoke hung cumbersome around my neck. i walk without a spring in my step. i have a heaviness within me. i don't want to speak about it because i feel i've spoken too much. i don't want to look at you because you're no sight to my eyes. instead i cry tears of stone. my body becomes a marble statue at the very thought of you. believe me, i have wept.
it's always sexier when you say it in french, but everything also is 'worse in french'. art movements and existentials were born in paris cafes. they all smoke filter cigs and make it look good. they can wear anything at all and pull it. they talk and talk and eat and talk. the men are old and rich and buy fancy things for younger women. they're all talk and promises too. they take you back to their third storey apartments. their wives will know but turn away in blindness.
love in the afternoon - billy wilder les enfants de paradis - marcel carne chacun cherche son chat, cédric klapisch the last time i saw paris - the valet - last tango in paris - private fears in public places (cœurs)- forget paris - under the Rooftops of Paris les triplettes de belleville funny face casablanca
that he'll find his way please watch him as he goes i pray he'll trust in you show him the truth give him the grace to find his own and his stride let it be a prayer, for the man who lost his way for the boy who said he'd stay lead him to a place guide him with your grace keep him safe in your counsel so that he may please you in all his trials do not forsake him although he has forsook watch over him God in all places he goes. just like every child. just like every child.
i've been told to stay away from you. you told me so yourself. i should have listened and just WALKED AWAY.
like a fool, i believed in you. once again, i've been stolen, dismayed, told a lie.
i can't say you didn't warn me. i just chose not to believe that you were no good. on the contrary i saw only what i wanted to see. i thought you were my saviour. i was pretty stupid in thinking that. i could not resist the prospect of my true love finally found. this is a mistake as human and as old as time. every day i live i see more and more of the treachery of humanity. i become more and more weary.
from now on i shall calculate my steps. from now on you will listen to everything i say, so that nobody gets hurt. just don't move, and i won't pull the trigger.
looks like a silent movie star when she applies red lipstick is equally as striking in black and white chain-smoker (malboro) plucks eyebrows religiously. eyebrows are quite thin and unassuming hair like katharine hepburn, swept back at the crown, tousled in jest but so that she still maintains a certain composure. she has terrible cuticles she spends a good deal of time leaning over bars she has a habit of reading the last page of every book she is no good for boys cheekbones with definition she finds humour in the everyday she likes old things and old people she cannot say goodbye she misspells words on purpose her eyes are gleeful with soul. she is her own continent. her mirthful laugh is admired by everyone who hears it she's a hazard. she likes to be photographed. she finds her inspiration under window, with a good view. her scalp bleeds easily, especially when she has too many thoughts. she enjoys mustache parties. her smile is never presumptious. it always makes you want to kiss her and laugh along with her. she likes to think she's an intellectual she prefers to take the train she owns a pair of magic opera glasses that allow her to see things that weren't there before she writes and enjoys unsweetened black coffee she has a best friend called hannah
it is amazing how coincidence can be found in situations that did not even relate to each other in the first place. i am reading e.m. forster's a room with a view, slowly. i watched the movie yesterday, a delicate helena bonham carter before her more villainous roles. it's amazing how mr. forster's themes are so like my own writing, even though i hadn't read a word of his book when i started my own. i could well call my own novel a room with a view and the title would fit absurdly. maybe writers who think alike are equally as mad. still, he's brilliant and i wish i could write like him.
the following is a preview to the novel i've been trying to write my whole life, with a state of permanent writer's block. this condition has been known to be fatal, by the way, abolishing entire careers in course of abandonment, or a terminal disability to write a single thing for years on end.
In the winter months of June through to August the weather is temperate. From time to time the sea begins to churn just beyond the Bay and waves begin to chop-chop as far out as I can see. Briny sea weather in the Cape can sometimes surge into turbulent storms, in which great swells break violently onto the concrete pier. During such rainstorms I stay indoors watching gutters become rivers and praying that harbour walls do not buckle beneath the furious breaks. On rainy days we discover the places in the ceiling that need work. Water drips persistently from leaks and we have to salvage every bucket and bowl to catch it. In winter our rains come down fast and true, and there is ample opportunity to step over puddles and then jump into them. I have a collection of gumboots which I have accumulated over many years of annual rainy winters. My current pair is bright red with white daisies. On especially wet afternoons I have a tendency to tramp mud into the hotel lobby, a bad habit of mine since I was little. I always forget to wipe my feet on the welcome mat.
In the winter Daddy spends quite some time with his head in the ceiling, fixing up those pesky leaks. Business is slow when it rains, but the fireplace is always aglow and warm beverage is served. The house becomes drafty, because it’s old and creaky, and sometimes groans as if respiring. Gusts of wind blow down the chimney on wintry nights, shaking the rafters and chilling us in the beds upstairs. The house stands quite boastfully on the corner of Main and Colyn, a vision in cobalt-blue paint, layers of which have been redone over the years but the original colour remains - without a doubt the local eye-catcher on the block. Little Library stands two storeys above street level, with a flight of steps leading up to the front door. We still have the old knocker, but have since put in a doorbell as well. The house inside is home, well-polished and wallpapered. When my parents bought it over it was in disrepair, splintered by the south-easter and eaten away by salt-winds and drunkards. In a love affair of mortar, pride and embellishment my parents got to work with a small baby on hand to restore the grand house to its former dignity. Recently married and having spent the last of their newlywed savings on the purchase of Little Library, my parents used their own hands and sweat in the founding of the place. Daddy put in new windows all by himself and mixed cement all day. He gathered stones from the beach every day about ten of them. By this laborious task of carrying and dropping and going back for more, Daddy eventually built a dry stone wall out of those stones to show that this place was ours and nobody else’s; but a wall small enough for passersby to look over and see what it was we had built. Walls have fortified cities and castles, keeping kings and dividing citizens. Ours was built in earnest, an encompassing wall over which neighbourly greetings could be exchanged. By spring the house was complete and I was already learning to walk. My parents stood back and admired what they had done. “It’s quite a sight,” said Daddy. “I think the colour is quite striking.” “Quite,” said his wife. “It feels like we’ve already lived here a decade. I can’t see why. I suppose a fresh coat of paint does wonders.” They stood for a moment without a word with their arms around each other and I, holding tightly onto my mother’s hand, gazed up at them.
It was as if wet plaster, some good lighting and a bit of my mother’s grace restored the house long before the dining tables and shutters were put in.
that infamous bastard cevron of 8-bit-city may have disappeared off the face of the blogging portal, having allegedly 'out-blogged' himself, but the question of his (or her?) identity still nags at those imsointerestings (you know who you are) until they choke on their skinny vida lattes. cevron's blog earlier this year caused much 'wailing and gnashing of teeth' on cape town's internet-propelled/musically sidelined hipster scene. like many social/art/musical movements in the 20th century this particular scene has resulted in a response ( rather reaction) that comments, exposes and plain takes the piss out of the currently assumed state of coolness, shooting it as 'a state of idiocracy.'
i still take pleasure in reading cevron's anonymous and gratifyingly funny blogs, unshamedly ripping off the likes of we-are-awesome and hipster run-off. sure he's an asshole, but he knows it. i am using 'he' here just as a subject, as cevron (it/he/she) could well be female, and good on her if she is.
cevron has really shook up this pretentious scene while engaging a good deal of attention and publicity. oh the joy of infamy.
good morning and welcome to my weekly report on how not to blow your money on capitalist tempations and retail snubs.
go out for two-for-one pizzas. get to places early to avoid cover charges and bad-mannered doormen (those loutish brutes). ask for student discounts. keep receipts and account for everything you spend. be your own accountant. stick your salary straight into your bank account on pay day. depositing cash elimates the tempation to spend it if its available. shop second handedly open a trust fund don't always buy lunch. go out with a gentleman who will buy it for you. comparison shopping, to ensure you get the best deal. drink water. debt is vice. vice is expensive. jump into a car pool buy stuff on sale only borrow books from the library DIY. sleep in the terminal please call me's buy a sheep and have it trim your lawn so you don't have to pay a gardener to do it.
everyone wants a piece of it. it's freshly prepared with layers of corporate shares, indulged with lashings of hefty profits, savoured in supply and demand and baked at a very high temperature. the pie is not always served hot. some get a large share, while others barely bite the crust. however, it tastes so good that we all just want more. we'll insist upon a large portion if we can get, our appetites unquenched and pleasure-seeking. we'll eat our fill until we're stomached and sickened, distasted and desiring but still wanting more of that rub-a-dub-grub.
in excess, an appetite of progressive lust. my pie is my dinner, my share, rationed in unequal portions. i'm happy as long as i have my piece of that pie.
if you'd just secure me tonight. you're leading me up hills and mountains and across oceans. the delusion of you is giving me deniable hope. perhaps it is time i let go before i get myself in it too deep. perhaps i'd have you sing me to sleep.
i've been insensible. pride and belief has viced. i'm afraid i've been locked down, unbecoming, tenacious. i read many books but never finish them. i go to bed with savoury thoughts, believing like a child, like a FOOL.
Like a fool, I'm afraid to say. He cannot be your everything, and neither you his. Worlds apart, the both of you. Ocean over, between you. How could you have thought -
That's what went wrong. Darling, we all want to believe.
retail is a whole different level of psychology. sometimes i feel like telling them to wrap their own gifts! especially when i'm working sunday and i'm moody about it.
i like to play music quite loud. i am a learner driver. i have a penchant for the eurodisco genre. i paint my nails with cheap nailpolish which rubs off and looks terrible and i couldn't be bothered to clean it off. i steal beverage glasses from bars and take them home. i am self absorbed i have a temper. both of these make me a pretty difficult person to get along with i haven't done anything constructive for about ten months and couple of days. i seem to get myself into trouble in crowded places, even if i'm just on water. i hate HATE HATE bouncers. i spend too much time thinking inwardly. i detest small talk and people who don't care what your name is anyway or what you're doing with yourself. i get distracted very easily. some stuff is so overrated. i don't know which diretcion in which to exert myself. i won't ever try and smoke pipe tobacco again. i have a liking for hipster boys, but i am NOT! a hipster mind you! oh no i am not i want i want i want EVERYTHING. i know kung fu ...(not really) mcdonald's is my second favourite thing at one in the morning. my first is public toilets and drum and bass. i write and write and write but never show anyone my work. i write and write more but i never seem to write anything worth reading. i want a car. i owe somebody money. i fight a lot with my parents. i hate confrontation but at times i'll blow your boat out of the water. i read children's books. fabric softener. i am an idiot. somebody loves me. i dislike cold water. i'm pure euro trash. ibiza here i come!
i keep myself busy by writing in this undeserving shitty blog and trying to make my own clothes. i have new and crazy ideas everyday, usually ideas involving starting my own publishing business or something and then i realise i have no ground to stand on and i shrug and think, whatever, maybe later. you see, i get all keen for something and then i don't finish what i start. that's one of my biggest charcter flaws. i cannot sift information. instead i throw myself into something head and shoulders and all and then i cannot sustain that same level of enthusiasm for much longer. i can't tell you how many books i've started writing and then sent to the recyle bin. it's terrible. i just can't deal with my life's constant information overload. i wish i could just sit down and get something done. right now my thoughts are in pieces. everything i do is in pieces. i need to plan out my life in smooth operation, without interruption. focus focus focus
aesthetic: fluorescence, neon colours, celebrity, trash anarchy, sonicism, electronic instruments. haunt: a club all you can eat managed by Jim Warboy and K-Tron became the nesting ground of the new rave movement. the genre condensed, corrupted and developed within these walls. media: brit mag NME publicized this genre, emergence from the underground between 2006 and 2007. bands accepted into genre: trash fashion, new young pony club, late of the pier, hadouken!, shitdisco. response and criticism: BBC's the mighty boosh parodied the nu-rave scene in the song 'eels'. klaxon cited that the movement began as a joke that got out of hand, slapping around those 'lazy journalists that won't shut up about the scene that doesn't even exist.'
I have spent this morning on wikipedia under the new wave and synthpop genres 'discovering' nouveau and terribly obscure bands, in true hipster fashion. i am not entirely sure if electronic music genres are true examples of 'deck' taste, but, in tribute to hipsterdom what is to be defined? we hipsters define ourselves, because we-are-awesome like that.]
intrestingly i found a fusion style called electroclash (elektroklash) that takes on New Wave and electrifies it. Term was coined by Larry Tee, but the movement is widely said to be headed by a 'DJ Hell from Gigolo Records.' Pioneering 1982 film Liquid Sky also associated with the genre, for aesthetic contribution.
bands that fall under the genre: peaches chicks on speed miss kittin and the hacker felix da housecat fischerspooner ladytron robots in disguise
When I grow up, I wanna be a hipster. In saying that, I aspire to the very zenith of coolness that can only be achieved by rejecting the very word cool, because that was the word we used the last century and a half. Instead, we break the norms that we, in our mayhemic years of teen angst and declination of the self, were affronted with. Unsurprisingly we rebelled against the current trends of the day to form our own niche. Role-play, perhaps.
I know you’re a hipster when I see you. You go in twos, because three’s a crowd. Or larger groups on a street trawl. You dress like fools. You put me off my lunch. I feel I’m losing my appetite. Regardless of my confessional love for vintage clothing and trend-seeking, the very idea of conforming to hipsterism makes me want to go back and sell all my checked flannel shirts, skinnies and thrift pencil skirts just to be rid of such a label. You hipsters reject the oh-unspeakable mainstream, but at the same time created a blissfully ironic phenomenon known as hipstream, and a feeding ground for an unquenchable analyst like me.
Having a particular liking for certain hipster traits does not make me one persay. if you wanted to judge you could say i was going halvies in my hipsterdom, but remaining well aware of the danger of actually conforming to non-conformism and ironically contradicting myself. While I do enjoy a good night out i do not smoke serially nor have ever appeared on a social-scouting blog to date. i do not have a singular group of friends of a specific hip/deck genre but rather socialize with people from many different social circles, each of their own style preferences. so you see, the basic principle of hipsterdom, that is ELITISM, is not something I condone or maintain in my attitudes in life.
hipsters, if you are reading this, you probably would never out-loudly admit your state of hip, but believe me, you'll know by the end of this. kindly take your elitism and cork it with the rest of that vodka and coke you're boozing on, or preferably shove it up your two percent body fat bums.
can i have a show of hands who thinks they're original? great, that's the entire floor. some originality we have going on here. And thus, a new era is born out of the very traditions that grew on us. Those which we vowed to reject in place of our ownership of self. the invariable hunt for cool has been a generation quest for decades over, manifesting in forms of revival, current and post movements. Subcultures evolved from the previous, each with a new manifesto and philosophy, essentially proclaiming why we’re cooler than the ones before.
i'm so awesome that i can puff three marlboro lights at once whilst simultaneously denying that i am a hipster, as i take a swig of my black label and attempt to dance to some pseudo-obscure electro band at the assembly. ♥ i am awesome.
i am so awesome that i can sniff out a trend from five hipsters down the line. i'm a local creative, a freelancer in some young profession such as skateboard graphic deisgn, social photography or graduate school design. i'm so awesome that my dad chips in for almost everything. besides my elite group of designer friends (who complement me good) my daddy's credit card is my best buddy and my phat phucking trust fund is growing by the year. i am a biscuit-milling, trend-spotting, dime-chewing fool.
oh i love being a hipster. (god i fucking hate new york).
hipster substitutes in cape town's hipster playground versus the united states plague.
williamsburg, new york come the old biscuit mill pabst blue ribbon come black label huckleberry bar come discotheque fridays hotel delmano come THE assembly american apparel come astore markthecobrasnake come we-are-awesome
clandestine, posh sips indeed. rated 'under the radar' which should suit the apparent population of originality-seeking dumb douches.
i am in the midst of a crisis. while surplussed by bands that get more and more obscure by the minute, until they are hardly in relative existence, i am frustrated and at a loss for written words.
of course, i am still surrounded by the advent of hipsterism, with hiptards and black label suiping fools duly out-poseuring themselves from one to the next. a constant competition to achieve the most epic status of coolness. stop. we don't even use the word cool anymore. i am more awesome than you.
the nature of it is this: all hipsters hate one another. that's just the fact. it's a tacky show of who can outdo the next, while each and every true hipster in every sense of the word will hotheadedly deny that he or she is indeed a hipster. i am not a fucking hipster okay? i just like stumbling into the assembly making trendy hand gestures for the we-are-awesome photogs in my two seconds of pictoral soliloquoy, to be shown on the blog the next day. this means that the readers (or those wishing they were YOU, God willing) can revel at your awesomeness and the awesome time you had last night. Indeed, the hipster has taken over the post-modern world. the hipster shall inherit the earth: may your black label runneth over. and don't dare use a glass. bottle to lips only. thank you. rant over.
items of interest scattered in her personal space, in this case her very hip loft apartment somewhere in cape town. globe trotter suitcase bought at a thrift shop. she grows her own aloe for her face, rosemary for her lamb stews and vark-oor medicinally. roland fantom X 6, paul bothners and her bitch. notable inheritances include an antique picture frame (grandfather beckmann), african drum and a nokia phone from her mother when she got an upgrade. dressing table is littered with paraphanelia, such as a baby harmonica, a home emboridered petticoat lamp, virgin mary and a marching drum. batwing brollie and retro cupboard a lucky find. silver guns hang like coats on a coat hanger. my favourite probably the opera glasses (if you have interesting neighbours) and the john lennon sunglasses.
I entered a competition on luca vincenzo's blog to win VIP tickets to Cape Rocks II, as I feel the R75 cover charge is a bit much for my pocket right now. I'm thinking that I didn't actually win anyway, because it's already Saturday...
what, like, what bands do you like to go see? none of them. they all suck.
do you mind if i ask your mustache some questions?
do you guys like charles barkley? gnarls barkley or charles barkley?
do you guys like scotty pippin? what happened to him? no no the band scotty pippin.
what music are you listening to now? synth-pop, local stuff from providence. you wouldntna heard of any of that though? what? oh i thought you meant the band! cause my friend's band is called local stuff from providence.
i don't really care about other people. i don't care about other people either. do you care about other people?
rheingold is bad beer and this band is bad.
don't you hate it when a band you like gets successful?
i'm gonna throw some obscure bands at you and we'll see if you've heard of em the shit blossoms, manginika, the fucking idiots, executive fingerblasts, chipmunk skullcrush. ever heard of the band i got beat at my cousin's bar mitzvah by my cousin whose bar mitzvah it was?
whatchadoo to get such an awesome quirky japanese girlfriend?
drafty here, showdown now. cobwebs instead of neurons. braindead, but cannot sleep.
10 to 9 house party saturday afternoon. an afternoon party? venue still secret. loerie awards weekend 2009 this weekend. 4 3 2 1, ready to ignite.
in the streets and lofts of cape town where your name won't be known but your face will. paint eyes on your cheeks and people will look at you twice. smoke in chains. contribute to publications. you're nothing until they get your name.
ladiesd and gentleman your eyes on the road and enjoy the ride.
i have come to question this frivolent morality, where kisses are not contractable but HIV is and drunkeness is a permanent state of mind. black label sells for a pennypiece and you swig it until you're swagging.
ah but the tempations of london town, where the girls are as loose as your skinnies are tight. Gay pride is a national day, ecstasy is easier and party pills are your guarantees. Freedom of speech flows like milk and honey. You suddenly find yourself without a curfew, without supervision. lsd induced fevers take you by the wrists. a kiss is free game which leads to a one-night engagement that terminates at sunrise. we'll have make out sessions on the dancefloor, where no one remembers your name or even cares. sex becomes before love and courtship, didn'tchaknow? the order is askew especially when your visa is unexpiring.
would you take the coke with the others as easily as if you lived without? i dont think.
and then you're on your very first date and he's got a car and you feel like flying.
such is the first heartbreak. such are your teenage years, when the lights are on and without warning they're snuffed out.
back then i swore i was gonna marry him someday but i realized some bigger dreams of mine. abigail gave everything she had to a boy who changed his mind.
i thank God i did not give him all of me. i pray now for the grace to forgive him for all that has happened, to grant me serenity to accept what is and to hold my head high with all the dignity i can muster. i pray for courage. how can i do this god, when every minute reminds me of the last and there's always somebody who reminds me and my hear breaks all over again and twice over. i've been angry and bitter. if only i could turn my fury and betrayal into poetry, or if i could juts sing about it. girl don't give the boy more than a sweet kiss. the sweetest, yes, but no more. date the boy on the football team, but have the wisdom to know when to walk away. i don't want to be the last pleasure. i will not be his once-off, his fleeting use and discardment. i will not give all i have because he's a boy who spoke nice words. and i'm just a girl, fifteen at heart but not naive enough to believe so easily. i have learnt my lesson, but thank you, it did not leave me completely bare. i am still precious and dear, waiting for the one i love and trust enough to deserve it.
when you're fifteen and someone tells you he loves you you're gonna believe him.
the weather today is doing a rendition of 'angel's tears from heaven' in other words PISSING. tears begin to fall, says frank zappa. didn't feel like waking up. the water was cold again. damn that stupid geyser anyway.
an alarming number of (insecure) teenaged girls are suffering from a breach of self-assurity and have developed very apt camera hands. this means that their shooting aim when taking a self-exposed photo of themselves posing with a bunch of equally as dafted-out friends is becoming more and more accurate. observe: teenaged girl at a party/social gathering who carries her camera wherever she goes (see camera whore) whips out the device and holds it at a 60degree angle above her (and comrade's) faces and snaps a picture. not just any regular smiling picture, but one that involves some indecent displays of posing, sometimes mock kissing of both sexes, biting, displaying drinks or shooters, pouting of lips or a combination of these. if the aim is bad the photo may consist of some other stranger macking with another stranger about 2inches out of the frame, or somebody's feet or torso, which, by the way, is done purposely by hipster photographers at night clubs. a camera whore is typically a teenaged girl who takes numerous pictures of herself, sometimes in a mirror with the flash reflecting in the photo, or at parties. she receives the sole thrill of internet commentary on these displays by seemingly 'less' popular girls. its ironic because she spends more time documenting her 'awesome time out' than actually socialising with so-called friends.
*camera flashes persistantly in the corner of the room* ME: I guess that's Dee doing her paparazzi shoot. she has to be in every picture at a high angle pose. Bet you those will be up on facebook first thing tomorrow! PERSON2: Yeah, camera whore.
Rick Blaine, played by Humphrey Bogart in the classic 1942 romantic drama Casablanca, is the owner of a swanky yet equally as sleazy cafe, attracting all manner of clientele from Nazi officials and Vichy French to refugees and pickpocketers.
A den of gambling, owned by the ostensibly neutral Rick, who is impartially determined to sell his liqueur and not participate in the heated chinwags of Spanish Republicans vs. Francisco Franco’s nationalists, Rick’s Café American is reminiscent of the Usual Suspects’ Moroccan gem in Casablanca itself. A piano bar slash café where you can request numbers of the restaurant’s very own in-house pianist. This grand mansion, brass lighted, carved marble fireplaces and door that opens right onto the street is brought to life in both oriental Morocco and our very own Mother City. ‘Of all the gin joints in the world’ Rick’s Café is worth a reservation.
last night was pretty sick. got it on tape, too. dunno where i woke up? trainspotting. thrill seekers street walkers. whornados "fuck me i'm drunk" cold hands, hot bodies slick and superficial. that guy dry humping the speaker was quite a hoot. do what i say, step out the way. i'm dancing with you. pushed my way to the middle of the floor and began grinding with a stranger. plucked a lucky strike from this one guy's hand and blew it in his face. kissed somebody with tongue. didn't think of lethal germ exchange or anything of that sort. wondered what the meaning of a 'shoegazing muscian' might be. chain smoking. tease you. less than 2% body fat. if you're born between 1985 and 1993. buddy holly glasses. say no to date rape. being in denial. distinct lack of societal participation. manorexic? wearing sunglasses indoors, scarves in summer and other inappropriate wearing of accessories. conspicuously snobbish about political affliations and musical leanings. you're one too, you know. local R20 acoustic shows hey, you poser, that beer is perhaps the most watered down on the market! grow a pair. oh... putting bubbly in my hookah. choked on it, it was fizzy. hitchhiking at night, some italian picked me up in his SUV and said we go party. i said no thanks, i just need a ride. mouth to mouthing (passing of smoke). surpassing the awkward stage. drunk dialling EPIIIC FAAAAIIIL. sniffing coca cola through a straw.(rendition of coke snorting, yes indeed) party on 2nd turn off oxford and lyle street - bring booze and a bird skeletal blonds the after hours getting a harsh taste of the floor your pants my couch apocalypse meow street rats kelvin declined birth control. coming home smelling like second hand smoke. 'bet you he'll buy me a drink' 'where's your drink' or 'what you drinking?' as topics of initial conversation. people getting in your personal space. two guys and a gal. cursory meetings (brief, perhaps unprotected) euphemistic party in my pants. post-operative words. dingy bars (such their appeal, as they are dog caverns after dark, unpainted walls and a floor plastered in grime, with smoking stumps pushed down the sofa grooves and loud radio music.) driving fast.
was reading vice (the hipster's bible), particularly an article accompanied by some japanese porn magazine called we yum yum cum in which the writer was complaining bitterly about the idiocracy of parents who speak to their children in baby language. he suggested selling the infant to some junkies in the bushes (for $20, a hundred with change) and having these needle pushers teach him the importance of the 'correct vein', to snort your pills and never pay for sex twice, because on the second occasion it means you're dating and we wouldn't want that now would we? in lighter terms, he feels it would be more constructive to have some crack dogs raise a child than some daft parents who 'goody goo' them into future mental retardation in later years. also, a feature on penis shaped mushrooms with hallucenigenic properties and a motherboard of some marvellously obscure albums by artists such as iggy pop, thee oh sees, god help the girl, sir richard bishop and cass mccombs.
Yesterday afternoon we walked down to the bus stop and waited there, hoping to catch the next Golden Arrow (expecting it to be running at least twenty minutes late, of course). I have never taken public transport before, as it's rowdy, tempermental, unsanitary and always late. It so happened that, having asked a black man sitting in the bustop talking to himself in earnest and drawing strange figures, the buses were not operating that day because of some strike with the taxis. it's africa, get used to it.
we took the car to town, parked in long street - lucky, as parking spaces here are hard to come by. long street is a difference sight by day than by night. I saw a man standing outside a cafe wearing an anti-germ mask. I supposed he had swine flu or was afraid of contracting it. I wisely kept my distance. being in the centre of town is a jolty waking from what i'm used to here in small town ville. people are weirder. there is noise. you get offered 'quality weed/shrooms' in passing. you can sit on cushions in the nook window an extremely dingy joint by the name of baghdad cafe smoking a hookah. you can wave at the guy dancing behind the counter at lola's. that's the place where the unemployed actors and lipstick lesbians hang out, by the way. a real treat. anyway, so i picked up some cute dungarees at nylon, where the hipsters shop. ( i am not a hipster. wink.wink ) thats where i got this insane idea that i wanted to be a designer myself. ME. I want to design my OWN clothes, on paper, give it to a seamstress and have it made. it's functional art, just like you'd purchase at an art gallery for aesthetic purposes. only you can wear it. i like the idea of art you can integrate into your own personal image. wearable art.
charity shopping, fast forwarded a decade or two, has now become chic! yes, thrift is trendy, and cost-effective, if you know where to look. picked up a pure wool Austrian overcoat at the biscuit mill today, sourced overseas and resold under a vintage brand. the Mill an be a bit of a crowd on a saturday morning for the neighbourgoods organic market, where all the trendies of the city flock for a piece of the atmosphere. i was all about to fit in. seeing the design talent thats brimming over this city's very bowels i am a little daunted. I want to do exactly the same - start my own range of clothing, go in search of vintage darlings in foreign countries, start my own personal label! i don't knwo where to start, hence i'm come straight to my blog for advice, hoping i'll find the answers. i am distressd, as i do not feel i am talented, motivated or creative enough to take on such a project. i've already sent off my university application, yet when I think of the degree I'm planning to do I wonder if i'll be able to use it for the likes of fashion buying, designing or merchandising, even styling or editing. I have a couple of ideas I'd like to pitch. I am in a precarious place. Don't change your mind now, for God's sakes. how many more changes of mind can you out yourself through, i ask myself. do i dream too much for my own good? do my dreams far too heavily outweigh my actual potential?i don't want to get ahead of myself, but I really want to do this.
The trouble is, one day I want to be a writer and I am content. Then I twiddle my thumbs and hum and ah, and I decide it looks glamourous to be a fashion designer. I know it's not all that it's made out to be, so I'd like to perhaps take a sewing or pattern making course so I can take it up as a hobby instead. I think writing will always be my harness in life. whatever I decide to do, I think it will involve writing. how am i do all of this in one life?
if only I wasn't such a fool, jumping three steps before my last.
cleaning out my bedroom today I realised I have enough to last me a lifetime and beyond, and that, preferably, there would be absolutely no reason to ever buy anything ever again. ah, if only... but in this consumerist society there is just so much, such excess and want of what we in fact do not need, that purchases seem unavoidable! to a girl like me, bombarded with newsprint and television advertising daily, it is virtually a fool's paradise to promise yourself not to spend money on unnecessary delights. after all, there is bounty if one could just look in the right places. there is enough, though dispersed unevenly. there is bounty, excess, such that, as Penny Siopis depicted (more on this artist later), there is unrivalled gluttony in the heavily laden feasting spreads, groaning under the weight of luscious extremities. food is beginning to rot and decay, mere mouthfuls of past-primed feasting, as at first glance this food may seem inviting anfd delicious, only to look closer and see that it is heaving, swollen, excessive, disproportionate and past its sell-by date.
Being pretty new to the alternative music news stand, I decided to cover a Cape Town band that’s in the process of its own initiation into the gigging scene. That’s when I found the clean-cut alternative-rock slash pop-punk fusion quartet called White Collar Kiss. Actually, the band was recommended by a friend of mine who thinks Bethany’s absolutely fantastic (and he’d like to meet her, I’m sure!). This female fronted assemblage definitely gives us girls something to sing along to. Strong guitar progressions coupled with Bethany’s voice of an angel are sure to captivate any audience and stands out as a fresh edition to the local music scene. I am especially inclined to female-fronted bands as I enjoy the confident yet vulnerable female voice mixed with the ‘rocking out’ accompaniment provided by the guys on instruments. White Collar Kiss was formed in early 2008, with about a year of work going into developing the band’s sound with writing sessions and practices. The band made its performance debut between February and March of 2009. Guitarist Nathan Dickson and music promoters Dual Entertainment co-founded White Collar Kiss with international potential in mind. It wasn’t long before the positions for vocals, drums and bass were filled by Bethany Dickson, Michael Bakker and Trevor Edwards respectively. White Collar Kiss was complete.
Since the formation of the band Cape Town’s music scene has been very receptive, with an eager following of fans and support of industry professionals. The band describes their influences as varied between each member, but the main inspirations being Paramore, AC/DC, Nickleback, Queen and Def Leppard. As with all bands, their sound has developed in writing style and technique, making White Collar Kiss a versatile and appealing act. The band’s current project is the inside of a recording studio, where they are in the process of recording their album Fantasy Haze, due to be released in early 2010 under Dual Records. The recording is going well so far and is nearly complete; according to the band the process has been very rewarding and it’s sounding good. Once the album has made its public debut the band plans to play at more shows, particularly overseas, and performing tours. Now for a much anticipated release!
I am impressed by White Collar Kiss’s confident sound, from catchy choruses to ballads. Whether grooving or taking it slow, this charismatic band prides itself on making music that connects with its audience scope. It starts with the raw energy, honest lyrics and those addictive reverberations that get us all jamming. Keep a look out for live performances by White Collar Kiss at upcoming shows. They have played at shows across the city but have singled out Mercury Live as first choice! Their obvious mass appeal is sure to make them a firm favourite among Cape Town’s music regulars, and perhaps, in the future, an international following. Next step, see them live.