New Orleans, early june

an old man in suspenders and dickies, off work, beating the rain to the next bus, said to me in a quiet, crinkled, speculative voice: it’s god’s weather; and he knows what he’s doing.

a young man with an ecstatic smile asked me, at a bus stop in the rain, how my day had been. when I said the day had been beautiful (damp breeze, full sun): every day is beautiful.

I laughed. that’s true. when I asked him how his day had been, he beamed: can’t complain. I laughed. that’s true. that’s the truth.

and comparisons between new orleans and venice–the sinking cities, those romantically doomed shanty-towns with mildewed cobblestones and processions of ghosts; the ephemeral islands intent, with all their resident romantics, on going down dancing. all this with talk of real estate and climate change.

and how much of that densely-packed, winsome rhetoric unravels when we try to distinguish between an act of god, our own failures and our fables; when we try to make sense of the rain and the floods and the sea level and sinking cities and real estate prices and why the bus is always late when it rains?

someone, surely, knows what they’re doing?

I turn 29 in two weeks.
I’m trying to restore order visually, conceptually, by writing in my planner and making collages and measuring how much cereal I put in my yogurt.
the rain and the real estate, however, I will leave to their own devices.

universo (the loveliest ceramics & illustration!) / anthony cudahy & nicole reber / lisa says gah / opaqueglitter /




lately I’ve been working at a pseudo-european (spanish by way of spooky, soulful old new orleans, to be exact; untouched by time since about 1985) place. tiny, with tiny tables. unpretentious and unplugged. warm, with big cast-irons full of paella and small plates adorned with lettuce & shaved carrot garnishes–the latter just a swipe up the side of a hearty specimen with a mandolin, impassive, impressive, unassuming. sangria made with cheap jugs of wine steeped with honey and diluted with sparkling lemonade. sassy not classy.

so, hey, let’s all raise a glass of sangria–or, hell, whatever cheap wine you have handy–bust out the cocktail peanuts, and cheers to keeping it real, shall we?

furthermore: trying to “insinuate some resonance onto the plate with nothing but marrow and toast, butter and sugar”. Or, “Neon-orange Delicious over sweet-potato Righteous”.

@heavyslime / bon appetit

minois chiffonné

literally, a “crumpled little face”.

a Jane Eyre reference and an old French idiom, it means attractive in an unusual, quirky way, or, having physical ‘imperfections’ that only add to one’s charm or beauty. I love that. I love Jane Eyre, and I love that.

I love the little things–or the unnoticed big things; the odd and funny, the bold and strange; the rebellious, the cute, the so-ugly-it’s-cute, the scarred, the complex. freckles and attitude problems.

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sylvie vartan, saskia pomeroy, ohara hale; the velvet underground, sandwiches; frank stella is flanked by his work.