kellista: (Default)
We never knew quite what to make of our mother, though the ultimate goal, it turned out, to solve her and align the rubix cube rubric of who we were supposed to be was tantalizingly unattainable. When the illness struck all us kids thrived, our pavlovian anxiety at all things left unsaid everywhere around us gave way as people's needs concretized, became more basic. "My leg it - the bone is sticking out," my sister dropped to one knee, forehead furrowing in empathy. She knew pain and had become a one woman swiss army of soothing techniques and first aids. Before my eyes, a slight of the hand with some thoughtfully nonstick gauze and tape and saline in a water bottle she pulled from her leather fanny pack. I kissed her on the lips, tightness I didn't know I had in my sinews and cracks rising like highway heat waves, dissipating in the grey morning.
kellista: (Default)
1) don't look too good
2) nor talk too wise


i used to cross-stitch when i was a little kid. it's easy to draft your own patterns on graph paper. enamored by pixels, always.

(it's a still from the security tape from the columbine school shootings - putting the 'domestic' back in domestic terrorism)


one drafter-of-patterns that i'm partial to manages

(yeah, it's ballard)


and, like, once you have an idea graphed, it's multiply realizable!


impending winter is inspiring stencil/screenprinting/sewing/baking project-oriented thinking. also forcing encouraging self-effacing, broke, talented friends onto etsy. let's get merry and chubby and inkstained, i say, isolation be damned. there's something to producing things you don't have to think too semantically/analytically about....must functionally replace a few of the million hours of video games that were so fulfilling last winter. know?
kellista: (Default)

(from silhouette masterpiece theatre)


yes, i'm leaving the high-concept or zeitgeist-capturing to others without shame in favour of greater subtlety than even last year's last minute french maid. a new confidence for my waning twenties, these years of interpretive blindness to mutual exclusivity - still claiming the refusal to suspend disbelief is a failure of imagination


ooh, but maybe my fascination with science in thrall solely to teh awesome (fig 1; fig 2) would be better expressed in some sort of moth-to-the-flame halloween haberdashery?


another day, another dilemma! fiddle dee dee!
kellista: (Default)
i know about horatio alger and am prepared to leave it to the machines. i remember the way you looked at my unctuous lunches. now, in the mirror, i see sinew and it reminds me of you, far from the mandatory minimum. the ultimate question is how and why does a person give a shit? social anxiety is merely the psychiatrizing of a biological deficiency of brain alcohol. it is a wonderful thing to flagrantly abuse the one corporeal thing over which we have agency.

i, for example, have partnered the ultimate curator and there is love. he is intimate with the arbiters of your aesthetic, flippant in the knowing. i want it, badly and now. there exists a giddy mentos-style freedom in that no one cares about things not horded or doled out, commodity-style. i see constant and measurable decay, punching new holes in the habitable belt of this planet. when can i stop shaving my legs for the winter? i am not trying to communicate so fuck your style guide. obviously not trying to communicate, the new vernacular is video based and text is our latin.

creativity is merely romanticizing minutia to embarrassing or spectacular effect. how distasteful, i lie. i see the hilarious dictates of profit; there's no need to argue. i prefer to state. i am, after all, primarily a somber and tedious foil. a sort of narcoleptic who requires constant waking up by her own imagination, she is closer to sleep and dream and her memory is more haunted; the computer has generated an excellent template for a suicide note, beautifully feather-lite and pillow-propped.
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-fiercely listening to weezer. identifying strongly with 'in the garage'; must be the harmonies.

-it is a poor day to have internet dependent on the performance of a knockoff modem from china that 'runs hot'. argh.

-whoever constructed the laws that prevent smoking in bars and therefore encourage smoking outside of bars should really have taken the drunken ogling that mars my dog walk into consideration. just because it is 40 degrees celsius with the humidex does not mean that my tattoos are on display for your benefit. i almost feel a vague empathy for those who choose to get pinup girl tattoos, as i imagine ogling is a near-constant fact of life.

-powerless over nutella.

-should i admit my schadenfreude, america?
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Well, partner's been away for a month and a half and my stream of summer houseguests have meandered back to their respective towns, leaving poor l'il me to do things like finish two video games and engage in a war of attrition with the fruitflies and binge eat pancakes and maple syrup for all of a weeknight evening! On the subject of the latter, no, I am not ashamed to admit fishing the cherry red mixing bowl out of the sink in order to make just one more tiiiny batch (for me)(and the enthusiastic muppet-pup). Yes, child, you may indeed have some more!

I am continually amazed by my own lack of impulse control. I think there's a part of me that is, like, "fuck it, I'm a radical empirically minded critical thinker. I'll just have to see for myself the veracity of commonly held assumptions re: the human tendency to justify doing (more) cocaine mo matter how unjustifiable this course of action /taking on four jobs simultaneously /eating one's largest and-or only meal of the day at 2 am before passing out /heading to bed just as the construction workers are starting to dirty their denim outside my window /continually carrying four books and two crossword puzzles on one's overtaxed back justincase (you know, sciency nonfiction; politicalish nonfiction, narratively-driven fiction i can zoom through, losing track of time; challenging 'crafted' fiction that inspires self-doubt and awestuckness; notebook; a periodical or two - it adds up fast!)". Everybody knows, I start to think, that routine is a soul-crushing not-thinking for the purpose of railroading oneself into doing things one would really rather not do, right?! Oh, I vacillate so. It complicates things slightly to realize that one's thinking tends towards bored and flawed at times, neurodiversity and square pegs and all that.

Anyhow, it is five eleven in the morning and I am, natch, at my solitary overnight workplace, making dulce de leche in a four hour process of simmering, savouring Granta like so much foie gras (creative writing, appetite, the nature of suffering), reading blogs and wondering why my own personal narrative is so self-defeating and constantly at the surface, trying to discern the life variables resulting in 'okay' and 'not-okay' respectively, mulling over joining the 24-hour gym that's a short block from our place or perhaps instead 'investing' in 'therapy', doing more work than I really need to, listening for bumps in the night. I have been patronizing the 7-11 much more than I am comfortable with or feel okay about. I have neither been shitting nor getting off the pot.
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Wikipedia editing courses launched by Zionist groups should go over well.
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somehow i spent the last week providing palliative care to a much beloved woman; she left the world an hour and a half after i left her bedside. i am stunned and honoured to have been witness to this journey, which was normal and beautiful in many ways.
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It had been an interesting experience, from which I developed a much greater practical knowledge than I had ever had before of those who had drawn a short straw from the system. And it's quiet down here with the devils and the darkness and the mushroom wine. Peaceful.


....did you hear something?

"I think it's two-pronged, really: I want to clear the air face to face with you (more a formality at this point, i feel, but a necessary one) and, uhm, I've been kinda thinking ahem, fuck it. You're sexy and I miss you. Full stop. Whatever, I'll be back soon."

Also, blind photographers.
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This journal is my multipurpose confidante, like Oprah Winfrey, brief, anonymous, selective. I'm endlessly available but we can't be together. Don't you think what we all really need are more representations of easily achieved togetherness? Look at that product move!

Maybe absences are easier to describe than it would appear. Another night shift; the waves roll in and the waves roll out, o ostensible audience. Sophistry and illusion, we all try to fit ourselves and others somewhere and interpret behaviours accordingly. I admit that my allegiance is to mammals, the admission of guilt being the first step in working through anything, I understand. Mustn't allow taxonomy to become the prism through which I explain the stranger and more florid aspects of myself and you. Yeah, I basically try to be a fierce bitch in that way. Ever inwards.

But what I reeallly mean to say is.
heaven above and the sea below
and a little white whale on the go;
you're just a little white whale on the go.
kellista: (Default)
Okay, so what's the difference between being afraid and being anxious? Of being sad and hopeless and being depressed? Of having well-defined preferences and having "selective eating disorder"? Seriously, though, if we really are going to frame everything in terms of the subjective distress of ourselves and the people around us, that's just me well fucked, innit? Well, maybe I want to surround myself with the distressed as I defiantly and determinedly age. I guess there'll be time to acknowledge some laughable meaninglessnesses together.
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He liked fish and chips. She took me to the woods. We looked at the whole life of this thing including the suffering and named the highlights, trying not to idealize. Frankly, though, the world of bereavement is a world of intuition, symbolism, and ritual.

We were living the stages with depth.

In this place to gently cope we were mutuality embodied, seriously, for realz. "I love and respect you immensely, always," "Thank you for being my friend." It was all right to be vulnerable. We could cry together. The mutuality was us forcing to admit that neither of us had any control over the reality that something we love has died.

What i really mean to say is.


1. a pet name.
2. the practice of using a pet name.
3. the use of forms of speech imitative of baby talk, esp. by an adult.

Complicated grief responses almost always are a function of intensity and timing. There is a clinical problem of becoming "identified" with the grief. In this situation, mourners are reluctant to release the grief because grieving has been integrated as part of their identity. Reporting in the journal NeuroImage (May 10, 2008), scientists suggest that complicated grief activates neurons in the reward centers of the brain, possibly giving these memories addiction-like properties. The authors found activity in the nucleus accumbens, a region of the brain most commonly associated with reward. It is one that has also been shown to play a role in social attachment, such as sibling and maternal affiliation.
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She felt sorry for herself for a variety of reasons that centred on how cliched and alone she felt until the feeling rendered her the world's critical observer judging faults. The anxiety was deep, uric, calcifying in most major muscle groups, and there did come a point where she thought, "is this what I doing to him?"

More salient a fact remained: to her, the range of emotional experience was pretty cool.

Her sexual fling for her feelings existed precisely because they had the power to overwhelm her. Her conversational self, who he thought she was, disappeared in the heat of passion or excitement or jealousy or sorrow. Does this remind him what a tenuous hold he has on himself in the first place? "Baby, baby, baby, you know I am 99.999 per cent On Guard and can wield my intellect and critical judgment with the best of them, right? Analysis? Philosophy degree? Am I Making Sense?"

The Thing You Know Is.

She Thinks It Can (Must) Be Both. "Rather than letting disappointment turn into anxiety or self-pity," the Witch says, "learn to see the disappointment clearly while restraining the (mental) action. Stay with the original feeling longer."

"You can wait."

"It's a fucking birthright," she says, angry, tired, and twirling her hair. "Relax your judgments of feelings - why so serious? Why is everyone so serious?"


"It makes me feel weird because she's gone. And it also makes me feel unspecial." "That's the last thing that this Witch would want. You know you're the most special thing to me, don't you?" "I guess so." "the most."

She petted my head for a while and her fingers went behind my ear to that place that's almost never touched.
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The pointless juxtaposition witch awoke at my bedside, she said:

"Look, I wouldn't deny that by all accounts I'm a difficult witch, one who has oft distanced herself from the most respectable of colleagues, but, even so, even they know that if I am rarely convincing I am often correct. You take that for as much as you think it is worth."

I try not to be afraid to admit that there are normative conventions around 'writing' that I pretty much respect. If fifteen years of Der Interveben has taught me anything it is probably the virtue of restraint - it's an obvious truism that there are a lot of precious snowflakes out there with enough important things to express, why add? I have a hard time focussing on what's relevant or interesting, you know, and I vacillate between valuing such unstructured spewing and clamming up completely. There's a part of me that cannot discern between crafting reports of events and crafting stories, rendering information or rendering experience and emotion. I think this is different from the distinction between form and content, which I am perfectly happy to cautiously exploit. So it is this, in the end, "I want to be more like you."

Would you rather have written Alice in Wonderland or the entire Encyclopaedia Britannica?

I tend to be much less austere than I would like, clinging tight to the well-worn alloy of the ladder of
abstraction even the buliders tiny undocumented dots in the seats of their cranes

acts of active procrastination, that's all,
lazy but frenetic dress rehearsals for the remote ignition of fires
the sort of soft data collection i fantasize about is thought records and activity schedules, you know, i
we but exchange, as our years increase, the romance of fiction for the more thrilling romance of fact; then again, sometimes i feel like it was just the furniture that was poorly arranged.


A boring speculation, like analog communication, neither recent nor abstract - how to translate this into syntax and semantics and form without losing the most important of the information.

How little the best things were about language. I was mesmerized by the person in front of me and the social norms regulating our interaction. It muted me more than once. There was, I was soon sad to learn, no such thing as non-behaviour and my stunned silence was signed, sealed, delivered. most importantly delivered.

Even rapture was reported to be of five grades - minor, momentary, showering, uplifting, and pervading. It's of course not that there doesn't exist continuity uniqueness integrity heredity mutation evolution...enhancing the most important of the information?

Give up, come away from your problems and into this unknown, with me?


The witch smiled, but in a way that wasn't only happy, and said, "You sound just like Mom."
"What do you mean I sound just like my mother?"
"She used to say things like that."
"Like what?"
"Oh, like, 'nothing is so-and-so'. Or 'everything is so-and-so'. Or 'obviously'." She laughed. "She was always very black-or-white."
"What's 'black-or-white'? What's wrong with definitivity?"
She had a faraway look in her eyes. "Mom sometimes missed the forest for the trees."
"What forest?"
kellista: (Default)
Does anyone know if there's a definitive source for the image of "the film director", with monocle, jodhpurs, riding crop? I believe they're also depicted carrying a megaphone and wearing a beret sometimes. I've heard names like Otto Preminger, Fritz Lang, and Erich von Stroheim, but none of their Wikipedia articles mention their manner of dress more than in passing. There has to be some place that this stereotype got its start, but I can't find it. Maybe it's a creation of a cartoonist/caricaturist, but I'm not even sure how to start researching down that path.
kellista: (Default)
At some Concerts a group of people sing.

Social Notworking somehow
Thanks, Alysha, you picnic of vanilla frosting.

Please be advised that nothing found here has attracted peer review or people with the expertise required to provide you with complete, accurate or reliable information.

kellista: (Default)
Paint it grey, oh, humourless left.


Heliocentrism is so passé, "This is the vision that is implicit in feminism - a society that is organized around human needs: a society in which healing is not a commodity distributed according to the dictates of profit but is integral to the network of community which wisdom about daily life is not hoarded by 'experts' but is drawn from the experience of all people and freely shared among them,"

-Barbara Ehrenreich ♥


i carry your heart with me
by e.e. cummings

i carry your heart with me(i carry it in
my heart)i am never without it(anywhere
i go you go,my dear; and whatever is done
by only me is your doing,my darling)
i fear
no fate(for you are my fate,my sweet)i want
no world(for beautiful you are my world,my true)
and it's you are whatever a moon has always meant
and whatever a sun will always sing is you

here is the deepest secret nobody knows
(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud
and the sky of the sky of a tree called life;which grows
higher than the soul can hope or mind can hide)
and this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart

i carry your heart(i carry it in my heart)
kellista: (Default)
Explore no-identity politics! Collaborate alone! "You really think there's any y such that y is your metaphor and y is fit to print?" he stammered. I nodded understandingly, not having the heart to introduce him to the assertions made by Edmund Gettier in 1963.

Curiously enough, the only thing that went through the mind of the bowl of petunias as it fell was Oh no, not again .
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