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ImageTo say there was tension in my relationship would be an understatement. Every time I took a sip of alcohol, the night ended in some belligerent rant full of all the things I had bottled up deep inside. I couldn’t find the way to express myself and where I was at honestly or soberly. One night I turned into such an animal, I fled the scene (or was police escorted to flee the scene ;)) and pounded on the door of my girlfriend’s house at 2 am. After sleeping off and disgorging of my 10 too many whiskeys, my intuition reappeared, and it screamed, get out, NOW, before you hurt yourself and this person more. Breaking up is hard to do. Besides feeling injured and disillusioned by your partner, sometimes the more devastating part is scanning through all the moments of your relationship where you could have done a better job; been more understanding, more honest, and just, given more. Defeated, sometimes all your left with is some wild woman instinct screaming inside you to make a fucking move. If you’re going to lose your shit, lose it at your own expense. You may be paralyzed in practicalities such as boxes and movers, borrowing some elusive friends truck and compartmentalizing your things while bumping your shoulder against something that has become “ours.” But trust me, though it can be painful, it can be done. I downloaded the MakeSpace app, which, for a person in a life-altering jam, is the most excellent storage solution known to man. The beauty of MakeSpace is they provide you with heavy-duty boxes, built out wardrobe boxes, and do all the heavy lifting. I needed to act quickly, so I got them to deliver the approximate amount of boxes I would need to get my things OUT. I organized all my belongings, a testament to God working through me, and the very next day the boxes were delivered. I gave myself two days (a Saturday and Sunday that my boyfriend was out of town) to organize the boxes, and on the coming Monday, the muscular men in green T- Shirts took pictures of everything inside them and uploaded them to my MAKESPACE app. They wrapped the few chairs I had and lugged everything out of there in approximately 45 minutes. Done. Sorta. Okay, so what was I going to do about the car that was mine, but was ours, but let’s face it is his because he paid the lease and insurance. I needed this “vehicle as storage” for all my couch surfing days ahead. After several days of being a nomad, I spoke with a friend and soon realized we were both in a period of non-comital transition and needed to unite. We turned to AIRBNB and found a place we could split online. We negotiated fees, and soon enough I was as far away (in LA COUNTY terms) from where I used to live, the great migration from East to Venice because I was too frail to be dealing with unexpected run-ins with him who we do not speak of. I parked the car back in his garage and gratefully relied on Uber and Lyft for a couple of weeks. Then pilot season picked up, and it became necessary to take more of a hands-on approach to my travels due to my disgusting propensity towards motion sickness. I signed up with FAIR, a car service that lets you pay a flat down payment rate, search through cars in your budget, and take over someone’s lease with no obligations. If you decide you only need the car a month, you can give it right back. Perfect for the non-commital transitioner like me, because at this point, who know’s? Maybe I’ll take up woodworking in Kyushu.
ImageI’m headed back home at dawn after work. Some people were going to LIV after the club closed. Tamie and I are starting a thing called the ‘anti after-party movement’. We just need to slow down the rhythm. Why go to bed at ten am when you could be in at five and pretend to be a normal human. It was now daylight and I hadn’t slept a wink. Dreary and depressed I hopped in a cab. I’ve been renting a room for a few months now from an old Polish lady. I pay $660 a month, which is the best deal ever. Her name is Mrs Rabinowisk. She smells of what I believe to be Polish cabbage. It’s weird because she mostly eats KFC but this vestigial odor jus seems to follow her everywhere. She might not even have ever been to Poland, I wouldn’t really know. She is always playing a card game alone. She displays them in order and turns them around one by one. There’s never any expression on her face. Winning or loosing doesn’t seem to give her either satisfaction or surprise. About once a day her friends or relatives come over to just sit around and chat in their native language. They all look incredibly similar. As if you had taken a chunky woman mold and carved in different versions of the same face. They seem to have a ton to talk about. None of them look like they have either husbands or jobs. They always show me pictures of their grand children and grin. I don’t really mind. I’ve been all over the place this week. I think the last time I was at the apt was last Thursday. Yeah, today is Tuesday, hard to keep track. I kind of like the place. I can close my door shut and I have my own bathroom. For two or three nights a week I come back here and collapse. I take long showers and pass out for ten hours at a time. I’m out every other night. Right now I feel numb, anesthetized by exhaustion. I hope no one is around. I know that tomorrow I’ll wake up and aim to do something healthy. I’ll probably fail. I think of those who live in countries steeped in poverty, who are continually victims of crime and injustice, but who nevertheless party like their lives depend on it. They must feel like one youth infected by the thick of the beat. They rave and they rage because it is their only means of escape. Guided by the centrifugal energy that emanates from their bodies. Tired of obsolete rules and regulations. Empowered explorers of modernity. I shut my eyes to blur this crude image of humanity.
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Read

HUNGOVER

, September 10th
#FINITE Lola scrolled up and down the long list of employers. “There has got to be something right for me amongst this immense sea of bullshit”. Every job description projected her to an evermore constricting and suffocating reality. She saw herself walking into an imposing office hall, with braided hair and a grey pants suit muttering stuff like: “I know my background is quite atypical but you’ll find that I’m a very fast learner… It is clear that management solutions is a stretch from my curriculum but there are definitely links to be made… I never really saw myself as a communications strategist but there’s an interdisciplinary component to my resume that could really benefit your company,” and the cherry on the cake, broadening a bright fake smile: “yes, I am very active on social media”. The banality and platitude of these sentences made her nauseous. She had spent the last year of her life following women in public bathrooms for her thesis. She had jotted down behavior patterns, personal quirks and individual habits. A short version of the resulting paper had been published in the New Yorker under the title : “Extraordinary Women in Ordinary Places”. Through this she had accumulated 6.6K twitter followers and 4.4K on instagram. But this wasn’t enough, it was time to start making real money. Nobody was going to support her lifestyle. Now, she had to do so herself. “What the fuck am I going to do?”. Her phone buzzes, enough torture for one day. Some friends are working a private party at the bowery. As long as she stays behind the bar or the dj booth she can drink and party for free. Lola walks out ready to grasp every opportunity the city has to offer.
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CAPRICORN

I understand you’re a workaholic, Capricorn, but I’m sure even you’ll agree these past few years have been intense. This year Saturn enters your twelfth house, so its time to get zen. If the thought of working less and sleeping more makes you anxious, find comfort in the fact that your north node of fate is at the top of your chart – meaning that even in relaxation mode, your career is propelled to new heights. The lunar eclipse in April will make you increasingly popular and sought-after, and Jupiter’s position in your chart promises lots of help from colleagues, friends (and everyone you’ve slept with) so just trust the ascent and remember to say “thank you.” And while I know nothing blows your socks off like a good career/social climb, your happiness may border on mania; so I reiterate, the theme of 2015 for you, Capricorn, is to learn to chill.

AQUARIUS

You know that feeling you’ve been having lately- that your work is going to get the recognition it deserves; that you’ll find love and have time to enjoy it; that your network is strong, vast and supportive – basically that everything’s coming together? It’s real. With mercury in retrograde ’till Feb. 11th you start the year reviewing and reevaluating your current relationships. This retrograde is important because since 2012 your relationships have been through a series of tests. Your resilience has earned you respect amongst your peers, and your life is about to become a lot more public, which is why it’s important to have all your ducks in a row. Even sociopaths deserve love and admiration, and with Leo in your partnership zone until August, you’re about to get loads of it. In fact, all your luck comes from partnerships this year. Over the summer you’ll slow your pace and plan all your work projects carefully; in mid-September you’ll execute them flawlessly. After that, nothing will be the same. You’re welcome; enjoy your year!
ImageFlowers Husband and wife, married, happily ever after. After dinner, she cleans up the table. Goodnight, honey. Goodnight. The lights are off but her head wanders. Beyond the pillow, across the bedroom, into the imaginary fields that distance her from the city. This suburban house, this suburban mattress. There is something nauseating about the everyday smell of her husband, there is something that precludes her from dreaming. It’s her. She doesn’t want to, she refuses to dream. She has a body. She doesn’t need to dream: she can feel her own pulse. The sheets are too soft and the house feels too close to nature. The lilacs she planted a month ago flowered last week: they look beautiful, they say, they are beautiful, they repeat. The neighbors love them, her husband loves them. She feels their smell now coming though the summery breeze into the room. But she knows: she doesn’t trust nature anymore. Her pulse travels away from the flowers, away from the suburbs and into the city her husband knows too well, where he works every day. She opens her eyes into the darkness of the room. Boundless, she dives into the blackness that night offers her every day. But even darkness has limits. Her gaze progressively accommodates and she can pierce through it. The solid gloom gives way to lines that are silhouettes and outlines that curve into a heaving body. A restful body, the body of her sleeping husband inhales and exhales. She wanders and he inhales. She travels and he exhales. That’s all. But out there, there is language in her veins and tongues that drip saliva like rain. She is a woman that waits and she knows that. She is a woman that waits and that is a thing in itself.
ImageA faint glimmer of light catches my eye. Like a flash I can’t locate. I sit down to catch my breath. I take a small inhale and a long exhale. I’ve been told that is the right way to slow down your nervous system. Apparently I’ve been breathing wrong my whole life. When you inhale you are taking the world in and that excites your brain. When you exhale you are blowing it out trying to keep it all at a distance. Unfortunately the world has always been too much for me to take in, vast and abrasive. After a few exhales I don’t really feel more calm, maybe a little numb. I wait till the last possible second for my lungs to take up their a rhythm again. The truth is I’ve been having this constricting feeling in my chest. Like the air all around keeps collapsing into me. Today I’m wearing a bra. It consists of two metallic wires, niched in fabric, holding up my breasts, and pushing stubbornly against my diaphragm. This morning I chose to get dressed in regular clothes, in the hopes of feeling some semblance of normalcy. I work from home you see, and usually can’t be bothered. Turns out I’m incredibly uncomfortable wearing this thing. The metal rims of my bra are compressing my ribs, tightening around my solar plexus. I think of how women used to wear corsets that chocked them from the bottom of their hips to their armpits. The rigid strands of wire would constrain their lungs so they could parade their narrow waists. They had to pair up, two at a time, to get corseted. One would pull on the strings with a strong grip, while the other one held her breath and vice versa. They couldn’t get dressed alone. They were interdependant, reproducing the pain they had just experienced onto each other. Absolutely savage.
Image8:42am any day/month, 2020: Anxiety…How do I use my time to balance myself today?Remember we are taking this a day at a time.Breathe, just breathe. Having barely lived under the same roof as my parents from the age of 11 my personal understanding of what my pigmentation infers across the world began at a very early stage in life. Making friends and living with children of similar ages from many different races and cultures away from our parents was my very privileged introduction to diversity as a global community. I’m a third culture kid who has spent 10 years of her life living in America, Boston for College and then moving to NYC. Before that I was educated in Switzerland and my family home is in the Grenadines. My heritage is mixed and I am registered by American birth as Black. Aligning PurposeGrowing up in a diverse community teaches to appreciate that which makes us unique, giving us a broad knowledge of culture and a sense of global responsibility. I write this out of passion for repair that isn’t solely founded upon the melanin that graces my body. An injustice anywhere is injustice everywhere. I’m prompting a conversation with you my international brethren as I too am still digesting how to deal with my own hurt and bias on the matter and I’m becoming more aware of the importance of creating a safe place to discuss our realities. We each have a unique role to play in creating a better, more conscious global community. Same skin – different borders.The difference in perspective based upon my skin varies in every corner of the world and when I moved to Boston for college I began to witness first hand the effects of the inherited hurt and hate specific to the American society. It was a whole new layer of disparity that I hadn’t known before. A kind of shadow my melanin casted first hand for the first time.
ImageUnemployed
Who are you?
Noot Seear
My name is Noot Seear, I’ve been a working model for 20 years and have shot campaigns for YSL, Calvin Klein, Ralph Lauren etc. My most recent job was with Estee Lauder, right before quarantine hit. I’m an avid surfer and outdoor enthusiast. I love cooking for my friends and setting a vibe. I’m originally from Canada but I spend my time between New York and California.
Unemployed
What made you want to cook?
Noot Seear
Like many women, in the past I’ve had a terrible relationship with food and my body. I had no idea how to achieve the ideal look set by the fashion industry, so I tried such classic diet routines as starvation, uppers, puking and chocolate laxatives. I felt terrible, and even these unhealthy efforts never gave me the body I wanted. With a lot of time and effort, I ditched those awful habits and started studying exercise and nutrition. I felt better, I looked better and it was consistent. I want to help people through cooking, with the mistakes I’ve made and how I’ve learned to be happy and healthy.
Unemployed
How did you end up here?
Noot Seear
I was very scared to go healthy and vegetarian, I was concerned I wasn’t going to have enough energy and the food would be bland. I originally taught myself how to cook with YouTube. I was constantly frustrated with how long, complex and boring so many of the videos were. And so it inspired me to make quick, delicious videos to share my findings so that everyone can enjoy the mental and physical benefits that comes with healthy eating and exercising, all in a New York minute.
Unemployed
Tell us about your cooking.
Noot Seear
I’m a plant-conscience chef. I eat vegetarian the majority of the time. But I want to be honest, when I do cook meat and eggs, I shop at farmers markets so I can easily research the farms and trust I’m getting humanely raised, organic produce. It’s not about what you eat, it’s about what your food eats. My cooking is for people like me: small apartments, tiny kitchens, and very busy schedules; quick, clean, healthy meals that are delicious.
ImageOne hosted their guests in an ‘opera house,’ the other in a basement of a Church. One brought together Hollywood superstars, the other low key crew of art enthusiasts. One was glamorous and cool, the other unpretentious and inclusive. One welcomed Bianca Jagger on a white horse; the other threw a “Bongo Voodoo” party which ended with dead chickens being flung around and a raging bonfire in the middle of the club’s floor” as the New York Times describes it. You’ve undoubtedly heard of Studio 54, not necessarily of Club 57. Both of them captured a valid Zeitgeist of Reagan’s America. It’s after watching a series of “New Wave Vaudeville” set at Irving Plaza that Stanley Zbigniew Strychacki, invited Ann Magnuson to program the unhinge art calendar of the basement bar of the Polish Church on 57 st. Marks Place, in the then understanded East village. The rest became history. “At any given time, the club was a dance hall, a screening room, a watering hole, a theater lab, an art gallery, or a self-styled ‘let it all hang out’ encounter group,” Ann Magnuson says in MoMA’s “Club 57” exhibition catalog. “Sometimes it was all those things at once.” As we were strolling down the Titus galleries, in the bowel of the Moma, It seems like the club is still playing on the edge of the official art scene. There are pictures of Keith Haring’s Live performances, Richard Hamnleton famous ghostly ink blot figure, Mr. Scharf’s neon room as well as an endearing cacophony of videos and mix-and-match of hand designed and photocopied flyer. “Punk do-it Yourself aesthetic” as Magnuson puts it.
ImageWhen I think American Apparel, I think camel toes in spandex – and as I learnt from being very up close in the crowd underneath Madonna’s crotch on stage one Summer – possibly wearing their senior citizens leotard range that hugged “a part” of her so tightly, I thought someone in the audience would run up to perform the Heimlich on it – nothing good comes of wearing the stretch material. No fashion retailer has single-handedly managed to make spandex so unappealing unless you’re under 10 years-old or you’re professional tiny wigged dancer Maddie Ziegler – because when Maddie rolls around in that high on the good shit interpretive dance style she does, it brings out the competitive talent show kid who wants to wear a leotard in all of us. Unfortunately, the reality is the average-sized person who squeezes into anything stretchy by AA, (even if the t-shirts were only made in one size to fit all, regardless of gender), many average-sized people also looked like they had squeezed a farm animal under their top. Not content with assaulting our eyes from bulging stretch cotton, then there is the notorious back-catalogue of controversial advertising which helped boost AA’s notoriety from famous to infamous: with their sex-sells to promote the objectifying male gaze, NSFW-laden images, branded “soft porn” and “exploitive of young women”, because you know what… call me old-fashioned, but I always assumed if you were trying to sell clothes, then sell some damn clothes. Not the bare rear end of some 20-year-old in just a pair of socks. But let’s count the positives to AA, such as their sweatshop-free production; and as the biggest clothing manufacturer in North America, their garment workers received higher wages and “comprehensive healthcare and benefits”. AA also championed immigration reform and campaigned for LGBT issues, having creating the now iconic “Legalize Gay” t-shirts.
ImageCheck out MusicforEggplant’s YouTube Channel at 3pmEST for a special live broadcast. Band Members: Regina Demina and Paul Barret MusicforEggplant, a quintet based in Paris and Lausanne, consisting of Jaz Ayling, Robert Ricca, Emile Barret, Tristan Savoy and Chai Ayling. Their visual art background, incredibly imaginative and creative, is noticeable in the numerous (and highly recommended) albums they have put out on Bandcamp since 2013. As they themselves state, their compositional approach is built upon a transition “from layers to rhizomes, from deconstruction to global movement, from nonsense to pop, from density to vortex, where Chaos and Curiosity are masters and improvisation nothing but a lie to follow”. What they offer here is a mix based on the concept proposed in Dante’s Inferno. In their own words: “The doors of Hell are a frontier of what we accept as “normal life” and some aspects that dive deeper into the human mind: an effort to challenge and explore the darkest and most obsessive sides of the human condition”. In trying to depict the tragicomedy of humankind’s existence, they manage to skillfully transport listeners to an ever-changing realm, to a reality founded, ironically, on a cruel and chronically rotten society. From the compositional perspective, and although difficult to label, this mix has undeniable influences from the most forward-looking post-punk acts, Dadaism, industrial pioneers, Burroughs’ cut-up or Fluxus.
ImageYep I know it’s crazy, but I’ve been dumped. It has happened before which is evencrazier/scarier. I do wonder why… I buy expensive perfumes to smell nice, I’m an avid internet shopper so I look allright, I don’t fart in public and I even take supplements so my skin glows. Is this really not enough? Let’s look a little bit more into why a man would dump a girl like me. I heard I was too touchy, certainly I get bad menstrual symptoms, but to go as far as calling me emotional. Yes I like my ‘’things’’ (anything from toothpaste to knickers, food, papers, ropes, blindfolds, etc.) being a certain way so don’t touch it, I mean seriously just don’t touch it. Then you call me emotional because I go into hysterics when you have touched my stuff which I have told you not to touch? ARGH. No I am not emotional, I may be a bit manic but I am french and that is a totally valid excuse! Anyway, as all friends that matter, do, I was called up to go on all these amazing trips which were meant to mend my heart. Ok fine I WAS heartbroken, but the trips worked wonders! Or was it the booze? Or boys? Maybe the girls? I mean god knows what did it but it worked! Obviously the few come downs (especially after Ibiza) meant I thought of myself as a worthless little shit and wanted to die, but I am alive, kicking and pretty happy about it at this very moment. I am now on my way to Mykonos which will probably make me feel like dying again but that’s all part of the fun. Yes I also went on a safari. Do you hate me yet? As for the boys, not really getting there… So if anyone is interested into finding a fun, blonde, not too tall, a bit chubby if drinking too much, completely insane, I am your girl!!!
ImageI am hot. Did the AC stop working? What time is it? I hear the AC making noises in the background, as if in objection to the fact that it’s 1 pm and I am still asleep. I don’t care. I turn it back on and I go back to sleep. It hasn’t always been like this though… It was last July when I was back home in Egypt that it all hit me. I woke up one day with a sad realization that I was about to turn 28. I started thinking about all the things I thought I would have done by now and I looked around and I found nothing. Even though I had a job “a million girls would kill for” at one of the biggest magazines and I was making very good money, I was miserable. I lost it. I had no idea what I was doing, what I wanted, I had no reason to wake up and go to work. I hated everything, I hated life for disappointing me and I hated myself for letting it get away with it. There’s a lot people don’t tell you about growing up. The fact that, at some point in your life, you have to stop thinking you can change the world. That at some point, you need to realize you are not that special. That life is not necessarily as happy and glamorous as you thought it would be. That maybe this is it and there won’t be any more to it. When I took one good look around and saw my ‘it’ – I hated it. I hated talking to older people and hearing “you’ll figure it out, you’re still too young”. It’s not true. Someone needs to start saying “you are just not meant to be who you thought you’d be” because then you’d stop trying. You will no longer keep seeking that promise of happiness, of fulfillment and just be satisfied. Happiness is a funny thing. Once you think you have it, you realize you want more. I once thought I was the happiest person on earth. I thought I had it all. I had my dream job, and I was good at it. I felt young and undefeated. Until I woke up one day realizing that I have been doing the same thing for seven years and if I don’t do anything about it I’ll probably be doing it for the rest of my life. I couldn’t breathe.
ImagePaige Silveria
Tell me about your pandemic. You were stuck in Peru for a bit?
Lotte Anderson
My partner is Peruvian and we travelled over for a show he was working on at the end of February 2020, just before the pandemic hit. They shut the airport for most of that year for international travel and by November, after eight months there was a military coup in the country. It felt quite unsafe and we considered how artists have worked or ensured their practices survived political instability. At the time I read the Peggy Guggehien biography, where the biographer shared an anecdote about Juan Miro dressing as a cheese farmer with his work rolled up in a bag. We had a chat about what to do and decided to travel for a while until we could decide on a base. The first place we visited was Mexico.
PS
You’re in Mexico at the moment, how has it been?
LA
Spending time in Mexico has been invaluable but I am back in Lima at the moment. I love Mexico and the art scene in the capital, I find the pace and mood of the city incredibly accelerated and radical. I find it extremely exciting to meet artists like Leonel Salguero, Débora Delmar and Nico Colon, and working in the same city as designers like Sofia Elias. You hit up against a lot of different energy in a short space of time. I work mainly in my studio day to day with Juan and Alonso.
PS
What have you been working on since arriving?
LA
When we first arrived, we travelled around the coast of Oaxaca and I started making the Esprit family collage series. I worked in local printing and copy shops using an archive of images I gathered from my Dominican grandmother in 2017. Some are Carnival scenes and others are Sunday church services or family portraits. I was interested in the collective memories which are held in photographs of group scenes or domestic spaces, particularly those handed down from families who have emigrated. I feel the collages serve to reflect a more fragmented experience, through cuts or by recontextualizing them with other shapes. I am interested in the flattening which occurs when trying to historicize events. In this way, the camera can also flatten emotional dimensionality, and how the object can hold a weight that is psychophysical. Working on the photos I would recognize facial features and ritualistic activities linked to my experience of my close family who emigrated to Wales. It became a confusing thing, personally, I found myself confronted with my difference. You go through so many transmutations as people of dual ethnicity. I was interested in applying these thoughts and feelings to the collages and then into a video work. I extracted a group of screenshots from family footage, of an ordinary Sunday. The collages feature elements from relatives who remained in Dominica.
PS
It’s interesting, the sliding scale of integration and all of the layers within that. Your family’s heritage and then with the next generation, of you bringing your British values to Peru and Mexico as well.
LA
Yes. I began working on the video after the collages were completed. By that point I had been away from the UK for some time, and particularly my mother’s family. I’m interested in the politics of the room the video is filmed within. The dialogue veers in this mundane way, into a conversation about scaling class boundaries. I find the casualness and understanding that occurs between the characters quite interesting. The scene occurs in my grandparent’s house with my mum looking at ‘Loot’, in the real estate section, for a house for her pregnant sister. Now living in London, my uncle asks if my mother would ever move back to Cardiff. Her response is slightly defeated, “No, we’re Londoners now.” I find the tension in the dialogue quite poignant, the idea of constant forward motion, which to me is a very Black experience. There is this sense of the need to accelerate handing over lessons or experiences to her sibling. Growing up in the UK I found that conversations about class politics had dominated political rhetoric, without including intersections of race and no mention of colourism. In the work, I am trying to frame certain nuances about social mobility. I am interested in framing and sharing these nuances, speculating on collective ambition. I wonder about poc bodies moving around the global south and how receptive those countries are to the stories of diaspora blackness inhabiting their spaces. I think it is still too early to draw any conclusions as Covid has brought many new concerns to how we can exist.
ImageToday i decided to say no, maybe ill say yes tomorrow! Today I was supposed to leave the check for my dress, my wedding dress, but here I am, on a terrace, in a brasserie in Saint Germain, having white wine, I’m drinking, it’s my third glass, it’s only 6:30 pm, I didn’t go to the showroom of the “amazing” Parisian designer, I called her, I said I can’t, “I wish”, I said. I can’t handle the fact that I’m acting like the girls that I hate, planning everything for a perfect day that I will forget the year after when my future husband will be annoying, when the love will die, because it has to die, that’s the meaning of love, if it stays, you call it friendship. So I said that I can’t come, I lied, I said “I need to figure out the place where the party for my wedding will happen”. I lied very well, I know how to lie, it’s my job, I’m a writer, I create stories, but my emotions were real. I felt the anxiety coming up, taking my feet then my legs then my belly then my breasts then my neck then my head, it was like a disease, like a cancer, taking control of my body without letting me know. Today I felt like I didn’t want to get married, like I didn’t want to have chemo, not that I don’t love my fiancé, this is for sure, it will happen! I fell in love with him and I’m still as in love as the first day! But, I am fucking afraid, I am mother fucking afraid, first I’m afraid of the very small things like the food for the guests, alcohol or no alcohol since I’m muslim and so is my family, the color of my shoes, then I’m afraid for big things, like how can I want to get married with everything that is happening in this world, how can I want to raise children when they can get killed when going to a concert, having fun, listening to music they love, how can my children not blame me for creating life in an extreme violent humanity, how can I handle a fucking wedding organization without hating my future husband’s family or mine? Do I really give a shit about a dress made with very rare organza?? Do I really give a shit about Manolo Blanik violet shoes?? Do I really care about the dessert?? Today I decided to say no. Yeah of course I only said no to the dress, but this fucking dress means the hole wedding, I thought about it so much, I dreamed about it so many long nights, and now that I am about to have it, I turned my head, I said no like I spoke to her, “you are not getting me!” It’s like I wanted to find the right dress to tell her face to face what I had to say, that I don’t have to do things because I’m told I have to, because that’s life, because that’s the rule, I fucking hate rules, my mom was like me, Islamists asked her to wear the hijab in Algeria, she laughed, she said “I’d better die free than live trapped with your hijab”, so I said the same to my dress, “I’d better die free than getting married in a dress that doesn’t have any meaning left to me, to the society!” I’m tired of these people telling me “It’s good, you are building a life, a family.” Yes i am guys, but do you really think its good? Why do we have to say it’s okay when it’s not, what the fuck with the optimism, being optimistic doesn’t mean we have to lie to ourselves! I am fucking lost and I admit it, what’s wrong with that? Why do we have to continue our lives like nothing happened?? I have a friend who lost his life 3 weeks ago in the Bataclan shootings, another one still alive but received 3 bullets in the legs, you think the world is okay? You think when people say it’s the one billion muslims who are guilty? You think it’s okay when children are killed in Syria, Palestine, Nigeria, 4 days after they were born?? No it’s not okay, at all! Today I thought about my dress and i felt like bad old tea dancing in my mouth, like a very old idea of happiness that I have to remove from my thoughts. I felt like I have to think more before throwing 150 bottles of champagne at my wedding while 150 children have stopped breathing at that very same time somewhere in the world, today I decided to think, not to get married, for me, for them, for a better life, to build something better!!
ImageThe generation that did.. We have been blessed with a generation that seem to be trying the evermore harder to learn more then any other? I’m unsure and cannot back this theory but do have a huge glimpse on experiencing it first hand I spent years traveling on the road amongst all different age groups and all walks of life to the poor now famous and the rich more opened from the dark drug filled alleys passing out in the gutter to the champagne yachts in the summer…. This generation in my opinion have started to block the social rich poor, Color or creed, sexually choice more then ever before.. Everyone is trying to outdo each other on things that seem more important then the old days. I’m not saying everyone is a saint it just seems like people of all ages are trying there best to deal with things less shallow … But a the same time what choice do we have as humans that are seemingly being pushing into further extinction issues.. There is a feeling i feel of more and more unity amongst the ones that do care.. EVER ONE HAS TO AS IT FEEL LIKE THIS IS OUR LAST CHANCE TO FIX WHAT ALL OF OUR PAST FAMILY’S HAVE STARTED…EVERYONE IS TO BLAME.. You would think that since everyone of these younger kids have gotten dumber because every thing has gotten more accesable.. however these kids when you give them information go home and research everything .. We should be upset if the poetic things like buy a record or going to a library are gonna because these things will be relearned and brought back into a vintage lifestyle where everyone will eventually respect what we’ve lost.. I mean why to thing vinyl sales are up 30% because people have access to more stuff they like and dont want to be brainwashed by either there friends or media into what and when they should buy stuff.. These are the smartest and most talented kids right now..as they have access to everything.. Sure its harder to make a poetic leader out of this group but at the same time it was easyier back then to stick out as most original contents have been copyied and rewashed so many times that evryone is bitter.. GIVE THESE KIDS A FUCKING CHANCE..DONT GIVE UP XXDD (This poem was written in a van full of beer and men.)
ImageI’ve never had a one night stand because I am convinced, with every fiber of my being, that had I done so, my choice of coup d’un soir would, undoubtedly, have been a serial killer at the peak of his career. I shall explain, dear reader, that my consuming fear stems from a non-Catholic yet equally guilt bearing upbringing. What I’m saying is, I blame my mother. Naturally. “We should talk about the birds and the bees”, my mother shyly muttered to me one day as I watched Tom chase Jerry, his head bouncing violently off a sallow colored wall in his blind pursuit. I was eleven years old and had already developed an insatiable appetite for self pleasure. There wasn’t a couch cushion or a teddy bear safe from my lecherous advances. Having no idea what she meant, I nodded, noncommittally, my eyes still glued to the television. “Sex”, she began, not knowing where to lead, “should only be done between two people who are in love…and married”, she added the last bit with a flurry of concern. She waited to see if her speech had made an impression on me. I, being of sound mind, refused to make eye contact with her, lest she see my crimson colored cheeks. I merely nodded again. Unfortunately, this was not the last cringe worthy encounter I were to have with her. My mother, apparently raised by monks, had developed a diehard belief that sex, pre-marriage, was the cause of all things dire in the world. She would point to her friends unable to find husbands and mumble, nonsensically, about “giving the milk away for free”. She was the type of hovering mother, who would eavesdrop on conversations, read diaries and exclaim tirades of disapproval whenever teenagers kissed in public. I was expected to cover my eyes, mid-movie, if the actors engaged in anything more salacious than hand-holding. Needless to say, my developing mind was saturated with ill-founded notions of sexual paranoia. High school health class further agitated this paranoid state by showing us high resolution photographs of genitalia dripping with chlamydia and pockmarked with ghonorreah. I swore my right hand would remain my only lover for as long as I lived. Society has comfortably labeled teenage boys as ‘sex crazed’, but fails to include the lascivious predilections of teenage girls, addled by their surge of new found hormones. Remaining chaste throughout high school and college is a feat deserving banners, parades and medals. I would’ve received none of the aforementioned. However, my foray into sexuality was quite virginal compared to my friends and peers. Not that my mind wasn’t exploding with curiosity or that my hormones didn’t demand that I sully practically everyone I met. I refrained. I was cautious. Mostly because I knew, down to the molecular structure of my cells, that I would, assuredly, go home with a serial killer the ONE time I decided to throw caution to the wind.
ImageWith the recent release of Kate Bush’s new live album and single, I’ve been spending far too much time lately (aka work avoidance), listening to her music, and also howling with laughter at her old YouTube videos. I mean seriously, you haven’t lived until you’ve watched her lying in a huge water tank at Pinewood Studios with a lifejacket around her neck pretending to be lost at sea while contracting mild hypothermia after the first day of filming. Or explaining the theme behind the “Sat in Your Lap” video on a kids TV show in 1981 which involved crowning one poor kid in the audience a dumbass by sticking a ‘D’ for dunce hat on his head; or having an in-depth chat about how not to eat animals for dinner with the UK’s cuisine Queen Delia Smith, who also makes delicious cakes, without any animals in them. The fact is, since she burst onto the scene in 1978, Kate Bush has become one of the rarest and most innovative performers and creators of the past 40 years – her ambitious, constantly evolving eccentricity and wide-eyed theatrics delivered with a touch of the surreal, like a mystic sorceress inside her own impermeable bubble, has cast a spell over all of us – yes, nobody can imitate The Bush. There is only one bush. We All love The Bush. Bush Rules. Is that enough bushes for you? With creative ambiguous intent, always with paradoxical effect, her songs and videos are delivered with an unintentional or accidentally retarded hilarity, the dancing alone appearing unhinged alongside a dramatic wide-eyed abandon – her antics are to gifs what catnip is to cats, completely addictive and heavily parodied over the years – but those videos and dance moves were actually clearly thought-out and rooted in technique. Unlike you or I on a Saturday night when you’re seven kinds of plastered and think you’re dancing, but actually if there was such a thing as the Drunk Mess Olympics, you would win every gold medal in floor diving because nothing will ever be able to top that stunning performance.
ImageSo Alexa Chung, whose career peaked when someone handed her a glass of ‘fizz’ in the back of a limousine, has revealed in W Magazine that she can hold on to her pee longer than other passengers during flights she takes – the things you learn every day huh? In the interview she admitted she chooses window seats on flights because, ‘I’m better at holding pee in than other passengers so I don’t want to be the one who has to be constantly letting people out.’ I choose window seats deliberately so I can control the window blind and prevent other passengers blowing their rancid warm chicken and pesto panini breath at me, while they stretch across seats to see the view as we land. Aww I’m sorry, have you not seen clouds and sea / land before? *slams down blind* But enough of my polite flight etiquette, that slow news day item about Alexa got me thinking about the importance of bladder control, hence the title of this here piece. On an average day, I can probably go for hours without visiting the toilet, because a) there’s better things to do like watch an entire series back to back of Vanderpump Rules. And b) and c). So I’m proud to have a bladder of steel, because let’s face it, there comes a time (to all of us), when holding in pee is basically not a choice anymore. When you reach a certain age and your hooha develops a mind of its own, usually when you laugh, cough or sneeze, and guaranteed it will happen when you’re in public and you realise that ‘discreet’ thong-sized panty pad you bought should’ve had considerably larger wings, preferably to fly you the hell out of wherever you’ve just pissed yourself.
ImageWhen you have a full time job, you develop a jaded sense of time. Days pass and you often have no idea what month or even year it is. You just wake up and go to work- stay there till you are too tired to function. Go home and sleep. Or go out, and pretend you are having fun. My first week in LA was weird as fuck. In fact, even my first 24 hours felt like a lot. I had no idea what to do with myself. I spent a substantial amount of time working out. I spent a few hours a day at Target and Trader Joe’s trying to get familiar with all the new products and to understand what the fuck is gluten and why it is so bad for me. I walked a lot. I watched people going to work in the morning and I envied them. They were so grumpy and annoyed and I wanted to stop them and say if only you knew… In LA I realized how small I was. In Cairo I am considered such a dreamer. But in LA I am a nobody. It was refreshing. Everyone had better dreams, and what’s more important is they believe they could achieve them… They believe in their dreams and themselves so much that eventually they would become it. They act the part. Everyone already behaves like the celebrity, chairman, famous artist, they think they will be years from now. These people weren’t sad, they weren’t depressed. I saw lines of actors waiting for auditions they know there’s only a one percent chance of getting, and they were happy. I saw street performers who begged people to stand and listen for a second, and they were happy. I saw bartenders studying their lines for auditions while serving drinks, waiters practicing their acting skills in pretending to like asshole customers. Everyone believes they will make it one day. Everyone is happy.
ImageI’m writing this too early. There’s too much unknown, not enough learnt. But if I don’t write now, more of the story will slip away. This is a snapshot of my ongoing attempt to discover the life and work of a world-renowned, sought after, visionary designer who eclectically married East, West, old, and new, but who died too early and has had no legacy whatsoever. About a month ago, I began looking into the Lebanese artist and interior designer Sami el Khazen after an email I received in the midst of some other research mentioned a bar in Beirut that was “decorated by Sami el Khazen, a very talented decorator, who died young of Aids.” It was enough to pique an interest. The emailer gave me the email address of his sister, Fayza el Khazen, “the only surviving member of their family,” but Fayza did not reply to my interest, she would never reply. This story I’m telling is little more than a conglomerate of information you can find online if you search Sami’s name into appropriate engines with enough vigour. Since it hasn’t been told before, it seems worth it anyway. Sami was (most likely) born in 1943, a dubious figure as I have reverse engineered a line from a 1974 Architectural Digest article stating that he was 31 years old, his date of birth remains murky to me, even now. He attended first Broumana High School and then the American University in Beirut, before studying at l’Ensad, Beaux-Arts de Paris, and MIT. He was clearly gifted from the very beginning.
ImageA Helping Hand, The Fluffer There are a reported 33 million Americans who are currently unemployed, the highest rate in almost 100 years. With this in mind — and also because I’m one of them and have at this point nothing else to do with the solo time in my small Lower Manhattan apartment that I can no longer afford — here’s the first installation of a new ongoing series where Unemployed looks into a variety of potential jobs for when we’re allowed to congregate and touch each other again. The hope is to offer a thorough examination of each occupation so that readers can make a thoughtful and informed decision. First up, the Fluffer. Anyone who’s been a PA (production or personal assistant) knows there’s really no limit to what your employer isn’t uncomfortable with asking you to do. Perhaps the most ethically loose industry within which to offer these services is porno-film production. And one of the least/most appealing tasks for a smut-set PA is to “fluff” male actors’ erections for an upcoming scene. Since the prevalence of Viagra in ’98, those designated to solely fluffing are much less common — though gangbangs and bukkake scenes often require more hands-on attention than others — and this role is thrown into the kitchen-sink of those that a PA will be expected to handle. Read on to glean some important insight from the experience of one anonymous porn-set PA that I found on Reddit.
ImageWell, we went to Paris for fashion week to experience chic in its birth hole. We forgot to film the show we went to, and effectively used the whole trip as an excuse to get free drinks with good looking people. Actually that’s not entirely true, we did do some culture, and tried to make the french like us (they didn’t, the english are ‘gauche’). Apparently its quite difficult to get cultured during Paris fashion week anyway, because the queues for the catacombs were hours long, we got rejected from a marionette show in the park, and the only the place that would take us was the Pompidou Centre. Worked out for us anyway, because the stormy weather view over Paris at the top of the escalator gave us a certain je ne sais quoi for the video. Jean Cocteau eat your heart out, and screw you catacombs we didn’t want to see you anyway. There was also this party in a church where an actual tree with roots was elevated over the dj, and you could only drink sake. You could say God’s house party kicked off, and luckily we’re Kosher so we knew we could behave badly without the worry of the next mornings hail mary’s. We were meant to go to a fashion party after that but again, we got distracted. Ended up at a vast parisian house party surrounded by girls singing and bleeding Cher. Who knew she had such a French following. The next day we photobombed our way through montmatre and face planted into crepes, before joining forces with the rest of the unemployed contingent and finding the eiffel towers’ dwarf cousin. It then started raining, so obviously that meant we were incapable of making any of the rest of our appointments, and instead ate soggy croissants before heading to another party. They were still delicious for the record. Ended up in a sex club with 52 rooms. I don’t recommend touching anything anywhere in that club ever/ take hand sanitiser. Thank you to our friends at Marfa for providing the swings and whips though.
WHEN THE SELFIE MOMENT BECOMES THE MOMENT OF SELFIE INDULGENCE The present day advent of modernization has transformed itself from one pole to another. This is not just in the figurative sense of sexuality and self indulgence having traveled from one dimension unto another, but also very literally. Manifested plainly, indulging in pole dancing as a means to exude sex-appeal is now demode. Today’s technological holders of the smart phone have embraced a new pole in the quest for indulgence : behold, the selfie pole. There are many ways to further divest the ramifications of such a shift in selfitude but first… let me take.. a step back. The origins of self-indulgence began when the mirror gave people the opportunity to meet face-to-face a representation of themselves (albeit an inversed one).In this historical scenario the self viewer would apprehend a vision of how they existed in that one moment. Having made perhaps a few adjustments in appearance, the mirror would be stepped away from and left at home. The viewer would proceed into a world relatively void of opportunities for self appearance re-evaluation. Given the relatively inconvenient efforts that one would have to make to locate a mirror, it suffices to suggest that people were less aware and less obsessed with their image. However, now the holder of the smartphone pockets more than just the power to check emails, news or the weather. They can check on themselves; their image, that is. While our predecessors looked into mirrors and procceded with their day, the selfie phenomena propels a sudden interrupion in the flow of reflected image. We do not walk away. Rather we behold this device accountable for enabling us to strive towards not merely the perfect representation of ourselves but moreover, the perfectly incapsulated moment. The moment frozen essentially into the shutter speed of a split second. And to attain this perfect representation of this one split second we have become obssessed. Perhaps twenty shots later, after having captured this moment, the question becomes — for what all this trouble ? While it may seem that a self captured portrait is empowering there is a lot to be said about how much power is detracted from ourselves when we take a selfie. The options to add a filter diminish a blemish, or augment a skin tone gives us freedom that exists only in seemingness. Not reality. This need, this almost desperation, to always transform ourselves is dizzying. Powerful is he or she who stops at one click. Or who feels not the magnetic pull to better today’s selfie in report to that of yesterdays. And thus this alleged freedom of selfie expression is essentially emprisoning. Once again, while we might be able to turn away from the mirror before us, we struggle to overcome the pull of that small camera on the corner of our screen. We fail to be satisfied with our self-image unless it is the exact one we are in love with. This failure is one for which our historic counterparts had no such strife. No such metaphoric filter existed between the glance in the mirror and the glance of the prospective and looming lover. Today we have an added filter. We feel that before we are even worthy of having somebody fall in love with our beauty we must add yet another stamp: our obssessive selfie approval. My challenge is not to diminish the concept of the selfie but rather for you to take out your phone, and take that shot. Tuck your phone into your pocket and know that in this fractal of a second and in this shutter this is your selfie. And while you might feel the temptation to retake it a thousand times or to employ the endless opportunitues of editing it, I challenge you to embrace selfie acceptance and faith in the organic and natural capturing of yourself. Here lies the new conception of what is presented to you as the selfie which no longer emprisoned you but reflects you… Albeit in albeit inversed but true moment. I dare you to press send Videos by Juliette Seydoux
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