Thursday, December 3, 2009
my friend asked me once, 'do u wish coach taylor was your dad?' he's the coach from friday night lights. i thought, 'no'. he's quite spazzy and when he's very angry his face twitches. but. he has a heart of gold. honorable.
i hv no idea why i'm bloggin it up at 3am when i have to wake up in 5 hrs or so do work a 12 hr day at an 11-day korporate kraft market. self-torture. hard-wired. still. working on that. one step forward ten backwards.
the self-healing cookbook is my favourite cookbook in the whole world. i dont follow recipes. ever. i buy what i want at the store. i bring it home. i do something with it. i make something up. i hate looking for things and gathering. i hate butter and sugar and anything white in food. etc. i hate following other people's instructions - unless that person is my friend. i'd say this cookbook is a friend. the lady who wrote it - kristina turner - was part of that wild findhorn place in SCOTLAND (get me to scotland. now. highland cattle asap. get married for free at gretna green. yesterday). findhorn is the place where the earth was totally barren but the couple who started it somehow grew the most beautiful lush snowballing garden. ever. so the lady cooked there. when she wrote this cookbook she sang the whole time she worked on it.
(i'm too tired to fact check. i just made all of that up).
my friend lisa just started a blog and it's super killer. I LOVE IT. the aesthetic. zero text 'cept concise, diamond-like quotes. nice one. macrobiotic psychedelic. i wish i had that restraint. it'll never happen. we are working on a project. i gather images from here and there wherever. i save them up. i edit. i put them in an envelope. i mail them to her. she receives. she sorts. my instruction is: anything 'wrong' goes in the circular file/is filed under 'g' although in 2009 filed under 'r' for 'recycling' otherwise it's citizen's arrest. we are to make art from these piles.
i'm preparing for a haircut. each strand cries tears when cut.
a totally dumb and very unedited poem called 'at the corporate craft fair'
to love the bunnies
it is kind of shocking
i stand and sit for hours on end
and listen to them
speaking of 'receive'
i had no idea.
i shake my head
and go to bed