top of page

Once again...I have failed the blog. But this time I have good reason; I've started a Substack. Over there, I'm writing mostly about existentialism and fashion. But the project is still new, so its constraints and aims could change at any second. (Be warned.) You can subscribe to that HERE. (And I'd be grateful if you would!)

I probably won't be posting on here very often, if at all. (Lol, said like I had been active here.) But I do feel like I owe the subscribers here a *peak inside my mind carousel* for the sake of old times, if nothing else. So, uh, here we go...

  1. Anne Boyer's talk at RCA that I was lucky enough to attend a few years back. It was so feminist, I got my period while listening. Not a joke, just a fact.

2. Bimini "Not a joke, just a fact" Bon Boulash

3. This horror-tinged extravaganza from Oliver Sim that's probably going to be one of my most played songs of 2022.

4. I live in a reality where John Cleese stopped existing c. 2000. In that reality, I enjoy this acceptance speech very very much.

5. Maya Deren and everything about her.

6. Joni Mitchell at the Newport Folk Fest. (I have yet to watch this once without crying and I've watched it much, much more than once.)

7. And, uh, this undying diet inspiration.

Catch you later


It's been almost a year since last I posted here. Typical.

Every time I attempt any sort of blog, it's only a matter of months (usually weeks) until it falls.

With this sort of noncommital attitude, I don't know how I wrote a book. Honestly, I don't. Now, facing down the Word Doc of my second attempt at a novel, I am in disbelief of the fact that I've already written one.

It's like — I know the mechanics of how this is done. I know what I'm supposed to be doing. But this time, I lack the "well, even if this fails, at least I've written a book" mentality that propelled me through the first. Although that mindset can set you on some wonderful paths, I wonder how far it can actually take you.

About 10 years ago, when I was set loose into adulthood, I wanted only to live and live and live — with no regard for the sort of life that I was living. Convinced that the measure of a life was its concentration, I aimed to live years in what other people measured as weeks. (Amphetamines tended to help with that.)

But eventually, appetites sate or change. And what I used to crave no longer satisfies me.

Just as Life Itself doesn't seem to be enough of a guiding life principle anymore, Creativity doesn't seem enough of a reason to create these days.

I'm questioning stories, character, morals. And my writing process is going through some pretty intense scrutiny, too.*

This way of being has made me boring at parties. I will say that much. I tend to wander away from the dance floor before midnight and end up in a Chinese restaurant, chatting with waiters while I wait for dumplings that I'll eat in bed. I don't miss the nights of staying out until 8 a.m. But I am eager to see what will replace them. These nights of takeout and writer's block are liminal. That much I know.

The current moment feels like the existential equivalent of not a girl, not yet a woman. And in that spirit (and in the style of Instagram photo dumps), here's what's been, uh, floating around my mind as summer turns...

"do not be afraid to disappear"

"cynicism isn't wisdom, it's a lazy way to say that you've been hurt"

*it's not a blog post without a dad joke, right?

Updated: Oct 12, 2020


a great year for color, tassels and shoulder-based choreography

In the midst of a tumultuous year, I keep finding myself inadvertently back at another tumultuous year (yes, 1968), looking neither for link nor understanding, but eventually grasping at both.

The glamour and energy in both these videos couldn't exactly be said to be escapism. So what were the artists of the year providing? It's more than mere societal reflection. Sweet Charity is the story of prostitutes (made "taxi dancers" for a U.S. '60s audience) clinging to hope and in A Quick One (While He's Away), The Who belt out "YOU ARE FORGIVEN" like church bells pealing out for confessional.

I'm working out a new theory (based in somatic therapy) that the body carries the stress of the times. What do the repetitious releases and spontaneous flailings in both the videos indicate about 1968?

Pete Townshend's windmill arm = Fosse loose on Seconal? And if Keith Moon isn't the ultimate glam showgirl of Sweet Charity...

bottom of page