The Rise of the Douche

     Since when did you have to be a total douchebag to be cool? What happened here? Skimming over the Internets, I've noticed several trends, but most of them can be considered a subset of the ultimate trend: being a douchebag. The Oakland Art Museum recently had an exhibit on the birth of "cool"; that is, the concept of "cool" and how it was first defined, how it began to spread, and finally how it came to be commercially packaged. I think I've hit upon a similar notion. In mathematical terms:

American Apparel

+

some form of irony

+

alcohol

+

affected androgyny

+

douchebag behavior

=

cool

     How did we let this happen? I use "we" in a very loose sense, seeing as how I would like to think that I've done nothing contribute to the creation of this soul-sucking scene. I guess you can say that there's always been an attempt by every burgeoning generation to define itself, to set itself apart from the loins that birthed it, but this is just getting out of hand. The namechecks, the gratuitous drunkenness, the LA-manufactured uniform, the refusal to acknowledge the 80s as the vortex of tacky costume that it was — it's just too much.

     Some folks would like to say that I'm talking about "hipsters" (Adbusters has gone to great lengths discussing the word), but I don't know what exactly I'm talking about. There are some folks that I see, that I sense, that I can practically smell who would fall very much into this categorization, but it's more than just what people have been wearing. Flipping through any catalog, any channel, or any product geared towards youth and you don't see anything of any real value, in either social, intellectual, or aesthetic terms. To borrow a phrase, they all "rook arike".

     Am I part of the problem? Maybe. The problem with discussing the problem is that to engage in any dialogue about the subject requires you to employ the vernacular involved. So even if I were to use the word "hipster", and I don't necessarily always do, but if I were, I would have to talk about it in terms of my own role within the greater orbit of hipsterdom. This doesn't change the fact, however, that the majority of people who are being tagged "cool", for better or for worse, behave in a way that unequivocally demands the label "douchebag".

     This certainly isn't the most articulate polemic issued about the topic. In fact, I'm not very sure what my topic really is. But I do know that there's something going wrong here. When you need to guzzle as much alcohol as possible, make out with as many members of the same sex (despite your oft-repeated love of the opposite one), restrict your wardrobe to a narrow set of ideas, and simultaneously befriend and alienate everyone you see in order to prove your "cool" factor, then there's something wrong with "cool", you douchebag, you.

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What's it Worth To You?

     You know, I don't often make "rules". It's too easy to be proven wrong. It's less stressful to set vague boundaries for yourself. I am referring mostly to dress, but you can apply it to pretty much anything.

     But after recent developments, I think I've come up with something that I can comfortably adopt as a rule in life. Be clear about value. Don't treat a t-shirt like it's a mink. Likewise, don't act like fur coats grow on trees. Acknowledge and respect the value of a given thing and say nothing more or less than it deserves. Do I love my April 77 coat? Fuck yeah. That thing is my most worn piece of outerwear. It's cut great, the color is deep, and the details are fantastic. And as much as I love it, I don't feel like it's necessary to parade it about, to act like French vegetarian labels are the most common thing in the world.

     Similarly, when I buy cheap shit, I say "I am going to buy cheap shit." I feel no need to defend or praise my ability to find and/or buy cheap shit, as my ability is completely immaterial when gauging the value of the item. Is it of lesser value? If so, then I treat it as such. I'm avoiding really delving into this "value" thing, because I know (from experience) that it's the forays into specifics that get you. You know what? The bigger the hole, the less likely you are to find a peg that won't fit.

     Ambiguous? Sure. But something I can actually call a "rule for living"? I think that's some kind of existential headway, no?

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"What Should A Writer Do?" He Asked

     If you were to ask me, I would say that the moment that every writer should strive for is the moment where he recognizes how sheer the cliffs are that he must scale. I mean, when you come across the bulk of existence, of literature, of art, you are a tiny, infinitely small speck. And I believe that the greatest truth about the self is found only through the unconscious recognition of these differences in size. And as the moment approaches and you slowly get closer and closer to the surface of this great monolith that Man has made, your neck cranes further and further back in some silly attempt to comprehend the size of it. And the first step up this bulwark is when the writer first writes in acknowledgment of how unknowingly high he must climb. I can't say if and where the cliff ends, I have no idea how many blind gropes up the craggy mountainside it will take. But that on the top of that cliff, one may see out until forever.

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MDBB: London Fashion Week F/W '08

     Mind dump brainblog. noun. The result of my extreme bored with school (e.g. journalism mid-term and the massive readings that I'm supposed to do) coupled with my skill in wasting time. A chance for you to ride along in my head as I flip through Style.com's coverage on London without illustrations, which will be added when I am less pre-occupied with not failing.

MISSONI

(11:10 PM - 17/02/08)

• Why does it feel like Missoni is meant for some old, rich lady now?
• Where did all the knit go? Did all the sheep die in Italy? I don't understand this.
• Some of these shoes are damn fine and sophisticated. Classy stuff.
• Cute red dress with twisted bubble hem. I never thought I'd live to see the day.
• Very anti-body-con (how bad are these buzzwords going to last?) dress in color blocks. Typical sophisticated palette. But nice tweak.
• The jury's still out on the mushroom-puff-collar-bumble-hem sheath.

SINHA-STANIC

(11:33 PM - 17/02/08)

• I don't think I can really handle this shiny dress in no established context. Too much, too early for me.
• I feel like the schizo-color block thing is a little more effective in muted colors, not bright, saturated ones.
• I like the silhouette of the pouf skirts to the fitted tops with the slightly shell-like short jackets. It's an interesting look.
• The stacked/wrinkled tight knit dresses are really doing it for me.
• Some of these proportions seem a little funny.
• Interesting cobweb knits. The color choices are definitely striking and the overall effect really makes you think about what knits can do.
• I just don't buy these shoes. Sorry. Next.
• But Fiona is as cute as ever. Thank the heavens.

CHRISTOPHER KANE

(11:48 - 17/02/08)

• Okay...this is...different.
• The severity and the piallettes make for a super subversive combination. Very tongue in chic.
• There are definitely better and worse examples of transparency.
• None of these are even really standing out to me.
• If I bought those shoes, I'd rip off every single thing dangling off of it and throw it at people in ugly jeans.

JUST CAVALLI

(11:55 - 17/02/08)

• I just feel obliged to do this because Cavalli wasn't a half-bad judge on Project Runway, so I have to give him some props.
• This hat is a good start.
• Why haven't I seen more Biba stuff around?
• I do love these shoes.
• For the age group/price point to which it belongs, some of these shorter dresses are pretty cute.
• Some of the florals are pretty restrained, considering what Cavalli typically goes for.
• Puffy sleeve blouse under tweed (?) dress with subtle floral tights, metallic shoes, and drawstring bag that reminds me of a bag of magic? Sign me up, yes.

ERDEM

(12:08 - 18/02/08)

• Already liking this a lot. It's got drama, it's got style.
• The blur print is absolutely magnificently executed.
• This duchesse looks like it probably costs a million bucks, and it probably does, too.
• The jackets kind of came out of nowhere.
• But the second yellow one is really hitting the spot for me.
• Some of these coats are less successful than others, but still a very good effort.
• The darker hues definitely work better, but I'm totally falling in love with all the purple everywhere this season.

     Good work team. We'll figure out how to class this up later.

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I Swam Laps Today

     Looking over things I've written in the past, I realize now how uncomfortable I am whenever I write. Not that I don't like it. I just realized that the process of creation has always unsettled me. It carries a sense of responsibility. Whenever I set pen to paper or sit down to my computer, I pledge my time and energy towards the pursuit of some interesting thing, some representation of subject. Accuracy has never been a goal, simply because I don't have that streak in me. It'd be much safer to say that my habits have tended towards the reflective, towards the simultaneous goals of division and unity; the former for analysis and the latter for appreciation.

     In the past, I thought that art of any kind was meant to explore possibility, to dissect the ratios of thought and life and weigh them, without judgment, against one another. But now I feel that the purpose of art is to make life livable. I want to delve into that, but now isn't a good time for it. Right now, I'm trying to think about what I want to do. But I really feel limited by what I can do. I don't really know what I can make out of all this, but I know that it should lead somewhere. It might not be a direct line. Maybe the course will be mapped out by little explanations, jotted down one at a time when the moment strikes.

     Still uncomfortable, though. I'm always worried about how quickly a set of thoughts lose relevance. I'm comforted by my momentary attempts to "look at the bigger picture", but I've been constructing my life bit by bit and I've found it nearly impossible to write with any foresight whatsoever, other than blind foresight, eagerly reaching out into the void. A fancy game of craps. I think I'm uncomfortable with writing because I'm uncomfortable with being permanent. It's hard to write something and say to yourself, "Well, there it is. I wanted to do it and now I've done it." Then you have to leave it alone. You can always re-visit it, but it's done.

     I'd like to find something I feel enough passion about that I can write about endlessly in a directed manner. Something that I can focus my attention on long enough so that I don't have to worry about the questions of permanence. Maybe I need feel some permanence before I can expect any measure of it to show up in my work.

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Unequivocal Equanimity

     I got started talking about art with someone. The who, when, and where makes little difference. But he had showed some of his graphic design off. And I had made comments. Honest comments. I said that I felt one wasn't very aware of proportion and scale. I said the techniques in a photograph looked forced and unnecessary. And he was a little upset at this. Then I asked him,

     "Isn't the expectation of showing your work to get honest opinions?"

     He seemed a little baffled and it did little to console him. It really discouraged me that someone cannot reconcile the concept of honesty with the concept of possibility. That is, the possible of a good reception and the separate and equally distinct possibility of a bad reception. I can't possible tell you good things without telling you bad things. That would be—and let's say it together—dishonest. The act of displaying your own work, things that you have spent your time and energy fucking creating, means that you want someone to objectively view your accomplishments and to critically analyze it. But to go around and act outraged at a constructive criticism is absolute bullshit.

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Excuse Me For a Second

     Now, I don't do this a lot, because I think I come through gay enough, as is. There's an obvious attempt to talk about some politics and art and music because I find that stuff interesting, too. But if fashion's available as a choice, 99% of the time I'm probably going to wind up talking about fashion. I don't know if that's a short-coming or a show of passion, but that's exactly what is it.

     And I specifically try to avoid talking about Project Runway. Those in the know (apologies to Tavi and Alison) know how much I yak yak yak about it. It's endless, needling, and completely inappropriate. It comes out of my supreme and deep-seated love for the show.

     But ladies, please pay attention. What we have here is the only denim dress I have ever endorsed. Please write this down on your calendars. It's absolutely fucking historic. Sweet P on the latest episode of Project Runway, "Even Designers Get the Blues", created the cutest, most elegant, and most strikingly modern denim dress I could have imagined. The color-blocking is just as striking as anything Vince or Missoni could make. I even have proof, bitches:

     Granted, these are very Fall-oriented looks, but the color block works just as well in Sweet P's dress. The lines are softer and the colors brighter, a perfect complement to the feeling and warmth that spring naturally implies. Also, the monochromatic choice of blues brings a level of sophistication that you wouldn't expect of a denim dress, which is why I love it. Then imagine seeing it close up? Think of the texture play there! It's darling and I can't get over it.

     Why do I say all this? Well, two reasons, really. I feel that I'm sometimes a bit less receptive to certain things (i.e. denim dresses) specifically because I don't have a wide enough perspective. But seeing this has really forced me to think outside my typical aesthetic box to embrace something that I had previously always disdained.

     But I'm more in it for the chance to bitch about how she got shafted while Ricky's well-made, but slutted-up tube dress got the win. Because you know it's true.

(Images sourced by Bravo and Neiman Marcus)

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Said Calmly, While the Light is Tinged Amber

     I am preparing to e-mail my resumé to Diablo and 7x7 magazine in an attempt to secure an internship. I am so fucking scared of not getting anything and winding up a crazy ass failure.

     The best way I can think to cope with this is to be objective. Listing worst and best-case scenarios allows for proper perspective. It's a matter of recognizing scale.

     Best case scenario? I get an internship. And then I also get a job. Then I work at BARE in my spare time. I would be happy with this.

     Worst case scenario? I don't get an internship. Yet. Or maybe not for a whole. But I can still get a job and work at BARE and have some qualified work on my resumé. I would also be happy with this.

     So it's not like this is going to end my universe. It's just the general type of panic that the application process creates. The fundamental nature of the undertaking is a submission of the self to another for judgment and, ultimately, validation. And that is unpleasant, yes, but not something that will crush me and my endless possible permutations forever. It is an event, another odd-shaped happening hurtling through space.

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But for the Grace of God

     Honestly, religion has never played an important part of my life, other than its presence in other people's lives and said people's association with me. It's always been by proxy, through the lens of an non-believer. Or perhaps a yet-to-believer. Christians have always been nice, but the evangelizing streak that I've encountered has always made me wonder whether folks are trying to rack up "scores" with Jesus. I do not know whether Jesus keeps count. I would like to think that Jesus has better things to do.

     But Buddhism has never scared me. Not that I'm terrified of religious ideas and not because I'm Chinese. I appreciate the duality of sin/grace, Krishna/Shiva, Ahura/Angra. It's a beautiful balancing act that gives people a huge amount of moral and spiritual choice. But as nice as that is, nothing has ever seemed as honest, as wholesome as the search for truth that Buddhism preaches.

     I suppose a large part of this comes from how peaceful Buddhist temples are. And I have visited my fair share, from Thailand to China to ones here in the good old U.S. of A. The wildly divergent styles of architecture have done little to dispel the general sense of calm that permeates these places. And I've never quite been able to pinpoint where that calm comes from. It's just like the air is lighter, more still, and I've never breathed or seen clearer than whenever I'm on temple grounds.

     But I think that I'm not ready for religion yet. Maybe I'll never be. But it's pretty comforting to know that whenever I'm ready, there are places to go, questions to ask.

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Noteworthy

     Honestly, I'd be willing to engage in some form of meaninglessness if it meant that you would buy shit for me. And I'm not talking about any cheap shit. My moral righteousness and my material needs can be interchanged at your leisure.

     Hong Kong made me who I am, in multiple senses. But I guess the sense that is most fitting is that Hong Kong is, as Anthony Bourdain puts it, a giant pinball of consumption. Mad for food and cash and style and substance, I can't wait to visit Hong Kong again. My sense of "home" has evolved over time. There's the suburban sense of "home", a place deserving Steve McQueen-type escape attempts. There's the university sense, where the alternate self holds court. Then there's the overseas sense, and it's calling me, I swear to God. There's this alternate me that rides the Metro, that uses his Octopus card, that shops at Lane Crawford, that stuff his face full of ji dan zai at every available opportunity.

     But we're talking about separate selves, spanned across time and space in very inconvenient fashions. I'd like to think that my current preoccupation with money has more to do with temporality than materiality. I think it's just the future manifesting today, but these little plans don't belong (obviously) and get a bit twisted as they're breaking the rules that govern the time-space continuum. That's the most rational and least honest explanation I'm able to conjure. It'd be a lot easier—but less creative—to just say that I've become addicted or obsessed.

     But obsession is glamorous. Obsession, when taken seriously, turns one into a delirious caricature of the self, a blow-up doll granted some measure of autonomy. But the blow-up doll has been blessed with a brain, albeit it a plastic one. God, what a stupid transformation this has been.

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The Fuck Did You Just Say?

(Image courtesy of Questionable Content)

     Something must be said about this, if for no other reason than I haven't heard anyone say anything about this. For those in the know, "teh" began as a simply typo of the most beloved of English articles on the Internet, but has since come to have its own meaning, whose grammatical usage, though fluid, has its own rules and regulations.

     I mean, this is nothing new. All media and all technology eventually generates its own slang and jargon, a unique coded language that only those within certain circles can comprehend and properly utilize. But "teh" seems special. Born out of our post-modern and highly paradoxical relationship with the Internet, "teh" is not merely slang. What it represents is the transfiguration of Modern English through the contemporary filters of language. When someone uses "teh" there is an implication that their language has evolved, has passed through certain cultural and social institutions (formal or otherwise) that have transformed their ability to speak and perceive language.

     Part of me wants to be impressed and part of me wants to be depressed, both stemming from the same inability to believe how thoroughly brilliant/idiotic this is. Has anyone else noticed the phrase "post-modern" thrown around a bit too liberally? I'm guilty of it, too. But if you can't help it, how can I?

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I Got Greed For...

(Matte black bullet pen, $20 @ Fisher)

     Rather than sleeping, I (in a fit of delirious consumer lucidity) stayed up and shopped for no good reason other than the fact that I love toying with my own desires.

     I've always been of the opinion that any man worth his salt needs an empty book and a full pen with at him at all times, as it indicates both readiness and receptiveness for all matters earthly, spiritual, and literary. Fisher designed the original Space Pen, a writing instrument invented solely for NASA. Faced with the challenges of weakened gravity, blistering heat, and intense cold, Paul C. Fisher created a pen that writes using 35 pounds per square inch of pressure capable of writing at temperature extremes from -30 to 250 degrees Fahrenheit, underwater, and at any angle imaginable.

     Their bullet pen, in the above shown matte black, is a miniaturized version of their original space pen and has been screaming my name for two years. One of these days, I'm just going to plunk down the Jackson and make it my own. Armed with this and my Moleskine, I might very well be unstoppable.

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The Internet Allows for Gross Stupidity

Right now I'm totally lucid and unnecessarily honest.

I found you through Facebook, followed you through Google, and have been silently doing research. You fascinate me, although you obviously are unaware. Angela has told me to be precise and make the necessary accidents happen, but I'm very wary of her advice, mostly because it sounds like something I would say. I definitely find you attractive (why else would I say so?), but I'm completely terrified of engaging you in any way (either directly or obliquely).

Truth be told, I am feeling really powerless and insecure and stupid and obsessive, even though I've spent the last year or two trying to be the exact opposite. And I don't even have anything of substance, which is the most hilarious part. We're connected mostly through willful happenstance (i.e. me poring over Facebook in a random, bored haze) and the circumstances of the Information Age have facilitated this one-sided relationship that I have with the possibility of knowing you.

Really, would you respond if I asked? Would you answer if I called? Would I ever call in the first place? Unlikely, but I feel motivated.

Why can't I be more impressive? Why can't I just sail through the social world and catch your eye? I mean, honestly, I think it would be worth both of our time if we tried to get to know one another. From all signs available, you are smart, well-mannered, eloquent, rationally profound, and just a generally nice person. And you want a relationship. Well, that's the checked boxes talking there. But you don't seem like the kind of person to want something cheap and meaningless that doesn't last past morning.

And damn it, I can make things valuable and meaningful that last as long as I try.

And Angela, you're still erudite and willful. Never forget it.

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Maintain Sequence

Another one?

I guess I like it for formatting reasons, not the least of which is that it constitutes less work for me. It's been fun to feel real, because sound requires gravitas, for which I have taken my mother's recipe.

How obvious is it that I want someone? But how can you want someone when you're connected through the anonymous clumping of technology. Yeah, I guess I could easily click on your profile on Facebook, but what sort of relationship does that make? Is it healthy? Is it fair?

Being online always makes me guilty, some I'm committing some sin by knowing too much, by clicking one link too far.

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Faux Pas

I would like to think that I've been doing fairly well in my fight against procrastination. But then I'd be lying, which we can all agree accomplishes very little.

So let's say that I've been doing alright, losing a battle here and there, claiming a victory here and there; just a general gentle rocking back and forth between failing and doing marvelously.

In all honesty, I can understand how ridiculous my position looks: I'm slacking off a bit too much in class, I'm not really as involved in extra-curricular activities as I ought to be, and I've been rather lacking when it comes to certain responsibilities.

But Elaine and I were talking and I realized that I've given myself a few good kicks in the pants, but it's not enough. Making goals is nice, it makes me sound lofty and diligent, and it's very easily done. But making goals is too abstract and too far removed for me to take myself seriously. And phonetically speaking, I'm leaving -een for -enty, quite the linguistic betrayal to suffix that has served me so well.

So here it is:

• Catch up on all my reading
• Make study guides for all my tests
• Write my Shakespeare paper
• Begin finding freelance writing/designing jobs to build a portfolio and assemble clips
• Look for internships with a fashion related firm in the city (Angela has suggested Ford SF)
• Rewrite my resumé

And here comes the dizzying feeling of impossibility and the fear of rejection. But I think I've decided that I'm kind of fed up with my fair of failure. If I fail, I fail.

Ugh. Now to say it with a little more feeling.

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A Great Converging

So yeah, I guess I would say that the major discovery of the week has been my sheer indolence. I mean, I used to be way more critical of people who spent all their time loafing around, but I'm not much better.

And I would say that you're to blame, and you know what you are and what you do and why we have to speak on terms like this. But I'm not angry, because it is a mutual sort of thing, and it's natural that two separate, discrete forces in the universe must lend just as much as it borrows. Then what is the nature of this relationship? Why do I eat fire and why does it eat me and why are neither of us particularly concerned with the inherent danger of such an arrangement?

But the problem is that it wasn't very much arranged. To say that I arranged these circumstances—put my bed here, put my chair there, read this book then, drank this soda yesterday—would be correct. But to say that the everyday flow of fate is predetermined by my very actions, that, indeed, the next steps I take are connected to the last ones I took seems to be simplistic point of view. It's much more accurate to say that the natural happenings of life arrange themselves. Take the sand in an hourglass. As they fall, they don't say, "There. I shall occupy that place and name it and take it and make it mine forever." Instead, they close their eyes (or would close them, had they any) and fall. The fall itself is the blessed thing, the natural warping of a soul's fatespun thread as it is woven through time. Felix culpa! Beautifully, the grains fall one after another, arranging themselves not through some patterned, rigid order from above, but by the natural, simplicity of falling.

To intellectualize it further does nothing to enhance our appreciate of the fall. As writers, we cannot be satisfied with how sharply we have honed our mind's knife. We must reassemble that which we have so precisely taken apart, transforming it, transmuting it from what it was into what it could be. Possibility, the imaginative faculty of which we alone bear witness, must be our creed. Once we embrace this realization, the future becomes a hazed cloud of odds, a crapshoot of whether or not to be. But this, too, is beautiful. Jeder Engel ist schrecklich.

Soon we will see the infinite expansion of the canvas, the never-ending poem, the song written for sixty horns, the meandering of the stroke upon the subject. And I look forward to this, because this is how I feel more comfortable embracing the world. Before, they called it detail, called it division. But this division is inflation, is duplication of the very natural and extrapolating the "perhaps" to its further limit. I don't think there is a nobler pursuit for the artist than this.

I feel this way because of the world around me. It, too, has not decided upon its own path. It has merely tumbled through countless possibilities to arrive exactly where it is.

And I don't want to link this to the now, because as far as I'm concerned, this should have always been the goal; it just hasn't become explicitly possible until now. So I think I'm going to seize this chance and hope that I make it out alive.

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Thanksgiving

The holidays imply booze. They don't require it; there are plenty of teetotalers who enjoy celebrating with their families.

But wine is just too perfect a match, too compelling an element to be excluded. Cheery red cheeks from wood fires and wine. The wood fire has since been modernized, logs replaced with scorch-free imitation. The hiss, so indicative of the gaseous release, precedes the hesitant scratching of a match head.

It's finally become an exercise of how early we can open the bottle without feeling tacky.

Extended ninety degrees from the afternoon, we begin.

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Really, there's nothing that I seek but consistency. Not constancy, because I guess that's a bit foolish. I want things to be coherent, in the sense that things make sense. Although logic isn't always the best means of achieving any type of coherence.

Truth be told, I'm a bit demanding. Which I understand can be annoying. I demand a lot out of people and our relationship.

The idea is that if you and I are sharing some kind of relationship, whatever the degree of involvement and whatever the manner of relation, we really owe it to the other to be our best, don't we? Or, to let them know what our best is, even if we don't embody it every single day. (It's tiring to focus like that all the time.)

I hate this post.

I want to just digest it all and while my inners rumble, I want my outers to give some brilliant display.

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Mark Us! For We Give You Good Grace

Standing there, I realized what had really happened. There was a flash, as though the past refused to be past and wanted to remind me of what it held in its grubby little paw. Jaws set straight, the edges of bared teeth rubbing ever so slightly.

Here, this seat was like some porcelain throne to a thing that he had banished to the far recesses. But though far, they were not impossible. It did not matter how they arrived; such formalities are meant for scientists. He remembered the deflated mallet sitting, dejected, upon his floor. It was tucked next to a bottle containing an empty ghost and a book containing a living one. The signs were still littered all over the room, his face. The white walls he now faced set things in greater relief.

That was why the sight tasted so strong.

I jumped back into place, abandoning the distance that stretched out like leather wings. Oh, now I am stealing another's soul. I feel ashamed.

Yes, shame. It burned like bad vodka, good whiskey. It burned in places that I did not know could burn, places where fire sprouted in cherry wisps that licked the stagnant early morning air. It left no scar. Shame never does. Never did. But I covered up the naked form, hoping that the red hot eyes would have no pores from which to peep.

I can run my finger through the air and I know exactly what shape I trace, what shape I trace with eye and tongue and endless thought. Outline formed, I fill it. I fill and fill and fill, from places deep and rocked with waves. And so the outline becomes a model, fit for nothing but a speedy, ruthless burial.

A dry throat indicated some regret. It was not mine to make, to mold. Perhaps mine to murder, but that was a presumption upon too many people's parts. I wish that this would detach. I wish for crystals to form and creak as they jut out. If my wish were to come true, they would breath out and expand into a thousand tiny broken postures.

They would not stand erect.

They would hang their heads, skew their spines, limply lay their limbs, thrust out their tongues, and remark that a portrait was fit to be made.

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Respect for...

The original. William Shakespeare (c. 26 April, 1564 - 23 April, 1616)

"Therefore I tell my sorrows to the stones."

-T.A., III.i.4

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