hasta el ombligo

of the blogs i browse through infrequently i hate one more than the others. to be fair, it houses adequate and "fitting" photos, some are technicolor dreams, some have the sun on LOCK, some have a look, some are abstract like...when things are darker at night, etc...i guess my insecurities flare because the blog espouses expression, love, sincerity, but is utterly unaware. the blogger/photographer seems to be less an introspective, well-read, well-traveled flaneur, than an active participant and champion of art's modern day aristocracy, propagating "the same" with a mantra of "i'm different." a "carefree" aesthetic with no guilt about what being carefree means TODAY, right now, where it is almost an insult to be carefree - - - "style" is "the message" - right. but the shit is so light and fluffy, marshmallow sweet, airy, like i don't feel it in my system, like, i never dwell there, and so i take her about as seriously as that.

but, she is in the majority. luxury is a cab ride to JFK, she's a lap-dog, in first-class, reincarnated. i think it's always been like that. i'm being harsh. i have logorrhea. my reaction is: reactionary. perhaps i'll take less offense, in my lap-dog years...my collar burns bright from its own blue flame, and that is MY (tasty, golden, tortilla, etc.) chip, on my very own sun-damaged shoulder.

here are 10 perfect little fingers approaching a deep olive ombligo...of gold lamé necklaces from 30,000 feet above the bermuda triangle, i know nothing. of gold lamé necklaces from 3 feet above the bermuda triangle, i know this. these are the sights i see, and i call these sights with these words, as such, from this plane, that i pilot.