the oval portrait

so i just finished watching vivre sa vie properly for the first time, and this scene and the finale it precedes is by far some of the most beautiful cinema i have ever seen.

"and in sooth some who beheld the portrait spoke of its resemblence as of a mighty marvel and a proof not less of the power of the painter than of his deep love for her whom he depicted so surpassingly well. but at length, as the labor drew nearer to its conclusion, there were admitted none into the turret, for the painter had grown wild with the ardor of his work and turned his eyes from the canvas rarely, even to regard his wife. and he would not see that the tints which he spread upon the canvas were drawn from the cheeks of her who sat beside him. and when many weeks had passed and but little remained to do save one brush upon the mouth and one tint upon the eye, the spirit of the lady again flickered up as the flame of the lamp, and then the brush was given and then the tint was placed. and for one moment, the painter stood entranced, before the work he had wrought. but in the next, while he yet gazed, he grew tremulous and aghast and crying with a loud voice: "this is indeed life itself!" turned suddenly to regard his beloved: she was dead."

time

the only song lyrics that genuinely terrify me:

"ticking away the moments that make up a dull day
fritter and waste the hours in an offhand way
kicking around on a piece of ground in your home town
waiting for someone or something to show you the way

tired of lying in the sunshine
staying home to watch the rain
but you are young and life is long
and there is time to kill today

and then one day you find
ten years have got behind you
no one told you when to run
you missed the starting gun

and you run, and you run to catch up with the sun, but it's sinking
racing around to come up behind you again
the sun is the same in a relative way, but you're older
shorter of breath and one day closer to death

every year is getting shorter
never seem to find the time
plans that either come to nought
or half a page of scribbled lines

hanging on in quiet desparation is the english way
the time is gone

the song is over
thought i'd something more to say"

death and disaster

it ain't gonna save me

it's almost eerie to listen to this song now. R.I.P.

"to descend into hell is easy. but to return - what work, what labour it is!" - virgil

lipstick killer

william heirens is the "lipstick killer", incarcerated in illinois since 1946. charged with the murders of two women and a six-year old girl, he earned his moniker by allegedly scrawling in lipstick on the bedroom wall of one of his victims:

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figment

i did not realise until more than a month had gone by, but on october 2nd nat finkelstein, a photojournalist who took some of the warhol factory period's most iconic photos, passed away. below is an essay he wrote on his time in the factory interpersed with some of his most famous photos.

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the satellites.

they thought they were special; that was their delusion. they thought they were unique; that was their conceit. they thought they were indispensable; that was their downfall. lie creatures from a horror flick they emerged from the swamps of middle america crying the infectious cry of the mutant, 'i need more creatures who resemble me.' and when he had gathered his spearhead of flittering monster, ann dee ANN dee ANN DEE WHORHOL, of pittsburgh, pennsylvanis, embarked on his revolution of perversion, toys and titillation. his objectives were simple: turn the outside inside and the inside outside and after all, why not?

outside the glass was shattering, the shit was approaching the fan. inside was cherries jubilee and unlimited dollops of cream. outside was watts, hanoi, birmingham, dallas, and hairy truck drivers leaning out of their cabs and yelling 'FAGGOT…..WHORE!' inside was panna grady's. doctor feelgood's, stanley's, la mama, the village and the holy of holies, the golden ark, the temple, home plate…: the FACTORY, their home, their world, their womb. outside, JFK …golden knight with miniskirted wife…was dead: business and bombs were booming, inside the children played strange games like see me, touch me, hurt me….'ah'.

children of the rich they became sevants to the privileged and so carried servants' arrogance on their platters. they served the talented so they thought they had talent. they served the licentious so they thougth they had licence… in their playrooms they migth tie a playmate up, under a glass topped table. squat on the glass and shit…giggle giggle kakka doodgy… look look! if their hamburger was medium instead of rare they would reduce the waitress to tears. they were the children of the jet set but their world could be circumnavigated by a ten dollar taxi ride: from seven bleecker street to stanley's, by the firehouse, from doctor bishop's to panna grady's; breakfastlunchdinner at the canal street luncheonette, 6 am fresh baked danish and an egg cream or maybe a hot dog at the seventy second street dabrette's, all night service and then sleep and then seven bleecker to score again.

but seven bleecker was street and street dealers are practical folks…. 'money talks shit walks…fuck the poetry gimme cash.' and cash was the rub, cameras, radios, pretty bodies, nubile tongues and soft mouths were in abundant supply but cash was short; so it was friendly doctors and visitors from tangiers and ibiza who became their afternoon audience. amphetamines were legally available in spain and morocco and these were white middle class kids, expert at whine and wiggle…speed and delirium, reflected light of aluminium foilstars, the great new york artsy, fartsy incest crowd… 'poppa on the bottom, momma on the top, sister in the middle, yellin gimme speed, pop'

monnapoppashisterbrother fornicating in the same womb…desolation road…lost in the rain everybody talking love but nobody getting their fingers wer… sex hour in the zoo…pernutations and combinations…. and in the created chaos of this inside-out world stood bleached blond, blue contact lensed albino barnum… great genius of the twentieth century… ANDY!... ANN DEE ANN DEE! War (sigh) hol ready to lead his speedfreaks, dragqueens, dominatries, hustlers and junkies out of their new york cave and into mainstream america. DOCTOR WARHOLAS travelling medicine show ready to appear at campuses, gallery opening, museums, shopping mall inaugurals, weddings and bar mitzvahs all over the country. selling his phantasies about art, money, decadence and instant celebrity to america's children of all ages. and at the center was the factory, cavern on 46th street, the nexusplexus sucking in the rebels, dreamers, gullibles, hopefuls, manipulators, minnow and sharks: the perfect peaches praying for a bruise. ginger bread house… come in hansel, welcome gretel, oh how pretty you look, welcome welcome.

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forgive us our trespasses

we have a dog now. it was going to be my grandmother's, to be given to her by my aunt after my grandfather's funeral. my grandmother had a massive stroke at the wake, so obviously the dog-gift kind of fell through. my uncle, a farmer, is irresponsible with his animals so after it was left out in the rain and partially mauled by their bull terrier, my dad took the dog back to us. her name is millie and she is a corgi. i don't like dogs very much, but millie is okay. she is 10 years old though so she will probably not last very long

i had fairy bread for breakfast, continuing my holiday tradition of at least one meal each day being absolute crap

sometimes i wish i could believe in god so that i would feel assured about where i would go after death
then again, sometimes i think i fear immortality even more than i fear death
it all has to end somewhere, sometime, doesn't it.

"every guy i fall for becomes jesus christ within the first twenty-four hours of our relationship. i know that this happens, i see it happening, i even feel myself, sometimes, standing at some temporal crossroads, some distinct moment at which i can walk away - just say no - and keep it from happening, but i never do. i grab at everything, i end up with nothing, and then i feel bereft. i mourn for the loss of something i never even had. i am a sick, sick girl."

elizabeth wurtzel, prozac nation

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the state line felt like the berlin wall

i've spent all of this month's allowance last month. meaning i have zero dollars to get me through various outings, and it's the fucking holidays. lovely

went to an op-shop and saw these fabulous ankle boots, it occured to me that i didn't have the $7 to pay for them so i just walked out wearing them. felt a bit bad until the sole fell off after 10 minutes of walking, looked at them more closely and they were really very flimsy. they probably should have been thrown out in the first place instead of put on sale. i was probably helping the op-shop then, in a sense. well that's what i'm telling myself anyway.

watched sixteen candles. it was kind of awful but in the best way possible and it really holds up quite well these days (apart from the racism), all things considering. john hughes was a god

i realised that depending on the day, like a rolling stone can sound a little or a lot like my life

last night i almost had a panic attack. i think about death quite a lot, i have a morbid fascination of sorts, but when i was lying in my bed trying to sleep, all of a sudden the full force of my mortality hit me all at once and i totally freaked. i felt nauseous with worry and i had to open my facebook and immerse myself in the mundanity of everybody else's lives in order to calm down. it was awful. i hope this isn't going to plague my life now that i can't seperate it from an impending sense of dread

night comes on

i'm so tired of my moods being so up and down.

i'm so sick of feeling worthless.

more than anything, i wish tomorrow morning i could wake up and be someone else.

)))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))))

i'm going for the bigtime

excerpts from warhol star andrea feldman's obituary, written by geraldine smith and published in the village voice on august 17, 1972:


"i met andrea nine years ago in washington square park and we were friends ever since. we frequently visited max's kansas city, where she performed for recognition, which she immediately received, by singing "everything's coming up roses" in her unique style. eventually this lead to her role in the movie "imitation of christ", after which she made "groupie" and after this "trash". by the time she did "trash" she was a recognized superstar, an established personality.

andy identified with marilyn monroe. she had many friends and yet never believed anyone really loved her. she gave of herself so much and she will never know how much we all will miss her. she said of herself, 'this time i'm going to the top, to explode like dynamite.' she also said, 'noone takes me seriously because they think of me as a joke.' andrea was tormented constantly by her fear of not being loved, of unrecognition, of ridicule and not being understood."

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andrea summoned several ex-boyfriends to the home of her parents so that they would be witness to her 'final starring role': her suicide. feldman was holding a can of coke in one hand and a rosary in the other when she jumped from the fourteenth floor of 51 fifth avenue & 12th st, new york city. according to geraldine smith, andrea left a note addressed to everyone she knew, saying she loved them all, but 'i'm going for the bigtime, i hit the jackpot!'

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it's strange, people with problems captivate me more than anyone else ever could.