certain disarray

2013-04-23

I was shot by Billy The Kid

I was shot. I was shooting. I was halted in the ricochet the racket the raucous unexplained sensation of stoppage. Go! I said. Go on, now! with a bit of a southern drawl, a south paw didn’t see that quick-draw slick silver-glinted pistol comin’ up so fast down by the Southern line the steamtrain roaring in the distance closing in while, here, the inside was already unstitched, already unhinged, oozing the boundaries and betweeness, the membrane of what was and holds. I shot Billy. I shot him. I held the quake trembling in my desert-decayed grip of this revolving revolver and before Echo could cry out after the drooping end-of-season Narcissus and his buttercup yellow petals we went down as if to the bend, that train still calling over and back and a bald cactus ending his days, parched, dust-blown, somewhere along the meadowflowers bruised tints against the white of our eyes so close down the mountain as I was shot, I shot Billy.

Disarrayed from “billykidd”:

Decaying flower was shot by Billy Kidd.

Source: billykidd

2013-04-22

this message—no, please pay attention, do not become distracted by the engrossing hieroglyphs of my beautiful sweater, which yes, it is true, my great-aunt knit for me as is the tradition, the pattern bearing all relevant genetic and personal family symbols, so we are recognizable to one another. to you, it is merely pretty. please, read this message. I am making a proper portrait of the problem, I am talking to you here, I am—you know, sometimes I feel that I am writing in invisible ink, that I am not getting my point across here. look, i’ll do it again, pay attention this time, follow the message, please. this is important. we only have so much time.

Source: nastasyanastasya

2013-04-13

A DREAM OF BEGINNINGS

She that would emerge. She that would fall under. She that. Blue. And a blooming, she. Shield and shed and showered she’d shlep herself up and up and up and she—hear her clamour? Heard her?—would emerge, enrage, engorge. These were not the words she would have wanted. She could not stand such leaden terms. She would not accept such boxes these bijoux these bedraggled ragtorn shorn locks of what she would be transforming.

To.

Into.

From.

Other.

There were nights she knew of signs she dreamed sighs she loaded up that unconscious with and heaving and hefting and lifting it was as if she were or was worn or warped into nowness as if on steps as if towards a platform as if Venus herself had not been wave-woken pearlborn and shod in the blank slate of an empirical start stuttered she was not stunted not stunned not stunning. She, and the liquid form of bees codexing hives. She was her own. Society.

Disarrayed from:

thekhooll:

Her Surrender

By D. Yee - Grindavik, Iceland

Source: thekhooll

2013-04-12

Because I shouldn’t have touched you that way because no one was watching because the afternoon had a chill despite the bulbous flowerbeds because I could not stop or help or prevent or erase myself or your gaze because it is not always enough to eat sleep take in the day the night because it is being that is part of this belonging because the trail backed us into a cave because the light glowed so yellow even the black and white polariod would colortint itself in time because I could because I wanted to because times were changing and behind me I heard a whisper can’t you hear it now just there just on that kind of an afternoon which is this kind on the edge of spring or summer and you were in front of me and I was following just because

—A “vintage” disarray. After the previous certain disarray post, too—because becauses happen.)

Source: retrogirly

2013-03-31

because i am a hopeful. because of the air, the stripes, it is an Easter bonnet Marie Antoinette’s hair bubbling back there like a perfect Sevres porcelain teacup. because the autochrome is filled with pale blue light and grey speckles that is always the air of Paris. because we are first, grouped in small ghosts and drifting. see how the netting clasps us within the limits of the glass above. such a ceiling. such a striped vanishing ambition, oh, up i am going and then hover, so golden she, above the stairs. riding for that fall, for the joy of, because of, filled with, and photographed. that is the pin.

disarrayed from forthejoyof:

The first air show at the Grand Palais in Paris, France. September 30th, 1909. Photographed in Autochrome Lumière by Léon Gimpel

Source: forthejoyof

2013-03-25

for this manicure i peeled off the usual manipulations i wore when i was around you and painted myself sky blue like that baby ad we used to see in the metros all the time, i think it was for some kind of mineral water, who knows, but the tiny teardrops which slid from my mascara’d lashes pearled into perfect rhinestone kisses which filled my needy center for the instant, long enough maybe for another whoosh of bad idea to fly into my hands and lace my fingertips with original nail envy, the kind i’ve always sworn i’d give up, but why not embrace the person i really am, the one you never liked but had to work with, so this is it, i’m this appalling blue, really, rather like wallpaper, the kind that’s velveteen and seen only in the most tongue-in-cheek brothelesque boutique hotels over in the 9th arrondissement, i suppose that’s what i mean, i wish i were there, being all princess angst tempestual, instead of at home, giving myself another manicure, figuring out that spring doesn’t necessarily fall away with nailpolish fumes.

disarrayed from northernnailsuk:

For this mani I used:
Cult Nails Manipulative and Tempest
Gals Princess Plates - 22
Models Own Topcoat
OPI Original Nail Envy
Cheeky Rhinestones

Source: northernnailsuk

2013-03-22

What were we doing tomorrow? Next year? The life I had in the 15th century wasn’t satisfying enough, I needed to head to 2015. When will I find you drinking a sherry by an open fire? Must be 1958. But I have to say I will only learn to appreciate good wine in 3042. What will the dirt taste like then? You’ll have to ask the worm where the books have been left. I am, right now, not doing much of anything at all, that is, besides wondering whether it will be possible to see the way through the layers of Twitter-texts and Guardian responses to find this block, to recognize that what I will write in the next hour is not written in 1863 or 4668. I needed a drink (for some peculiar reason) and you from 1658 informed me that this life was only ghosting the surface. I wondered what it meant to be hot and bothered under the collar when I arrived from 630bc in the steamy office of Mr Peters in 1976. Those were the days when I might have glimpsed Sputnik in a dream but my alter-ego certainly had been examining the pasts through her time-transporter, debating the worthiness of stepping onto the moon now that the moon had collapsed in on itself or was that another lost angle of a solar system? Yes, might be 6 billion years from now, but if now is X and X is a variable still in motion when now is nearing the truth of me, who am I? That is I suppose the tag line in Hesiod’s twitter feed. Now, if only I can locate the stone slate on which I kept that scratched up botched excuse for a namesake.

guardian:

On the seventh birthday of the earliest version of Twitter we’ve been taking a look at our coverage of the platform as it started to emerge. The earliest article we can find which mentions Twitter is on a Comment is Free piece on 28 November 2006 by Michael Kinsley where he writes amusingly:

For the ultimate in solipsism, check out twitter.com, a site where you can answer the question, “What are you doing?” At 7:47 am on Monday, for example, Lynda was going to get a glass of cold water. This raises more questions. Did she get it? Was it cold enough? Tragically, we won’t know until someone starts a site about what you were doing before what you’re doing now. Or a site about what you are going to do after you finish what you’re doing now. There could be multiple options. People could vote. Someone call Google. We’re rich!

Then there’s the Bobbie Johnson piece pictured above comparing Twitter to MySpace written on 16 March 2007 and this piece Bobbie wrote just the day before on 15 March 2007 has another smirk-inducing quote:

The rapid-fire model may be superseded when internet access become ubiquitous, but right now Twitterers have found that a quick text message does the trick for them. It’s even been the medium of choice for some breaking news announcements.

If only we had known back then what we do now…

Source: guardian