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 / toa.st

xoxoxo

lately

lately, I’ve remembered what it’s like to put on some jams & get lost in thought thinking of nothing, daydreaming a blank.
psych-punk, pop-punk, dreamy garage riffs, the stuff that feels nostalgic and new at once. the stuff that you don’t think too much about, you just dream or dance.

lately I’ve been into winter greens, or, rather, winter rainbows. made a salad of rainbow chard, red kale, chickpeas, feta, smoked chicken and prom-queen-pink watermelon radish.

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and rosy-gold aperitifs with cocchi rosa americano, sweet vermouth, soda & an orange twist recalling italy–the land of premixed, bittersweet campari & soda in a little glass bottle, available for purchase at espresso bars.

there’s something whimsical about apertifs; they’re elegantly understated & reserved, yet, cheeky, light. they wink.
they’re an exercise in balance, and a splash of fiery orange or vibrant pink–or even the dusky yellow of lillet–mediates the mid-winter blues.

lately, I’ve been into negative & positive space, the interplay between light and dark, bright and pale. finding the intersections, parallels and divisions between mood, emotion and sensibility versus intellect, the analytical, the measured, the staid.

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film still: the final scene in antonioni’s the passenger