i have a crush on a bartender at this bar schu and i went to. frankel wasn't impressed but he has high standards. schu's ponytail was honey. the lesbian bartender earlier, on vanderbilt, read aloud to us from a piece of paper she hadn't memorized yet. i asked the girl in front of me in line outside the bathroom if the girl inside the stall was her sister. "she's my sister. and my girlfriend," she said. really though, i could have sworn they shared the same code. it's hot outside.
fucking hipsters. this is antonio with our bodega cat! he was putting stickers on her head when i arrived. antonio works 6 days per week from about 730 to 730.
it was 102 in the city yesterday. this means that you sleep on the floor because your sheets are hot or you purchase an air conditioner. i choose the former, if only because i remember this past christmas's snow fall. the 'white stuff,' he said. so i choose the hardwood floor. it also means that you only eat watermelon all day and also coconut water. chloe had 2 liters. i had one liter, each glass over 5-6 ice cubs. at 8 you can finally eat, and maybe you do so with a beer. that beer in a heat like yesterday's is equivalent to 4 pints in the winter; and so it produces the following faces...this week chloe moved into a 1-bedroom, our friend recovered from surgery, i saw dearest schupak, i had an altercation with a close friend that has not yet resolved itself, and i thought about what ERB has been saying to me during our visits. it's about the shape of things, an ingenious way of asking a stubborn person like myself what an alternative looks like...what does "it look like" to be ___ ? what would "it look like" to ___? it's ingenious. and on my bike riding around in 100 degree weather this week, i have felt massive shifts, to the day, to the minute (*WE TAKE NOTES*), the kind of shifts you imagine happening when you hear of mercury finally entering your 5th house (the door has been unlocked all this time, i thought), etc. etc. etc., i envision the shape of things, i sketch it in my mind and with my body and with my presence and in my interactions...and i color it in, and begin to fill out its shape. it looks not like an object, but like something more mercurial, decisively. positively mercurial.photo by ms. brazil 2011
my intern on whom i focus before i execute what i hope to be this thing called 'miss quintero.' sarita and i are checking over my fotos and both acknowledge focusing is not easy with the razor sharp piece of equipment i have been using. my intern and i don't look UNalike, is what i'm thinking. anyway, i know the korean family at enla is enjoying scanning my photos. christ.
i had this idea in those 2 hours riding to rockaway beach in bright neon yellow...the fields/groves (?) on the way out to rockaway along the highway underneath the planes are the definition of hunter green. no variety, just solid green turtlenecks in hunter green (LLBean)...i thought that i would bike back and paint leaves to go along with my remixed flowers. when i was a child orange and green was my least favorite color combination.
© p. marlow
chlover crimson, chlover washington, baby bird, mama bear, cole chapman, whateeeeeever: SBW.
this motherfucker was looking ATME. like AT me. this is like taking a photo of pablito's brush, or charlie's horn, monks' keys? no? i feel that way.
tudie. le sigh, le phew, le why, le meow. i have a photo of tater's wedding dress and i'm dying. she is a perfect hourglass (I AM RIGHT). elegance. made even KB cry, and that's no easy feet. pheate. pheat. feat: being my bosom buddy. it's like i need a shot to the spinal column, brain jolt, or to the heart, with those chest zappers like in films and TV where the actors go "CLEAR!!!" and then the patient jumps in the air with shock, like a cow on the fence after sticking her wet nose through the metal just tryna get to that sweet patch of berries...CLEAR!!!!! she has the combination to all of my padlocks; there seems to be a few.
he went to norway. and then zimbabwe. i have similar questions. his photos are subtle but substantial.S. Mostyn.
in other news, one of my favorite choreographers from BDC, sheryl murakami, has a whole piece to "peacock," a retarded song (retarded), floating around the web, featuring some of my favorite dancers from bdc. above dexter carr - only kid who could wear turquoise doc martens in summer time. he is a beautiful gumby, and rarely smiles when performing. thank you... they're young, OUT, talented, charmed, and allowed to dance to whatever fucking katy perry song they want to. this piece of hers is so exemplary of her choreography in its thrashy, slutty, overt nature...its bigness! of elbows and hips and walks. she owns everything about herself, from how she dresses to what she says to how she moves. at bdc she has hoards of followers hanging on her every affect, her every attitude, every word slightly left of normal. i know they repeat what she says at school. there is a "way" about this population of young dancers that i've been meaning to write about. it spans from sf to nyc. later. the first class i took with her at bdc she paused, and while walking from right stage to left she said to the class, "now get it right or i'm gonna slap your vag...."
