June 18th, 2015: no matter how much coffee I drink, I can't get my brain to 'turn on.' It's like the best intellectual work I can do these days is reading, but even that depends on luck and circumstance if my standard anticipates more than just recognizing words on a page without letting them aerate and flourish as sensible concepts. I had a breakdown yesterday while composing my resume -- as if that isn't uncharacteristic enough -- and realized that I haven't written creatively in years. Something happened... my verbal chamber went out of business, no longer accepts new clients, has yet to liquidate its inventory of the words I tend to use over and over again. I need more than a software update to revive my creative machine. I need more than oil to grease the gears. I need to replace this entire computer. But I can't. Because replacing the computer means replacing me, and at that point what good is an upgraded system when the experiences that motivated the upgrade in the first place... are gone?
My eyes are insubordinate. They pull the blackout curtains down over my pupils. I incentivize them with caffeine, but the differentiating code that makes caffeine caffeine, a stimulant and not just a random molecule, means nothing to my body parts. They are unpersuaded and decline its request to operate. They don't care. They resist chemical protocol.
How to see when my internal machines govern themselves? The sum no longer has any jurisdiction over the parts...
Styleart camouflage eyes custom muscle tee, Nastydress camouflage print blouse, Romwe sunglasses and boots, Vanessa Mooney chain necklace, Prada backpack, Perry Ellis windbreaker
Everything is infinite,
Bebe
Anyone else hurtin for a makeover? Every once in a while I feel thrown into an intermediate phase (even though every moment belongs to a phase that is impossibly intermediate) and flounder in the insincerity of the 'aesthetic' with which I am currently, accidentally, shamefully associated. Times like these illustrate the self-automating nature of the 'aesthetic' and its role on the internet; I don't need to actively perform it every individual instance I get online. It is already in motion, working in real time to constitute the overall photograph of my 'brand.' My eyes don't have to be processing 'instagram' as information for me to be on instagram. Someone else is looking at my profile when I'm not, and the still lives I upload dance for them without my enthusiastic participation but certainly with my permission. What makes me most insecure is that permission is not static -- it is dynamic and animate. I permit every second I allow images of me to remain, I permit every second I allow my profile to exist without intervention. I authorize the disingenuous aesthetic associated with my online identity by simply not putting a stop to it. So even though I'm not on instagram right now uploading a photo I don't like that much, the crisis is the same... people are still processing the information already present, judging me accordingly, coloring me in with the hues I provide because I don't put them away. I hate that I allow this to go on... more, I hate that I don't overwrite it with material I do enjoy instead.
This outfit reminds me of a Dior campaign... modish, feminine, bridal but young and rebellious. I fashioned the headwrap out of a pink sheath and flower pin then paired it with earrings from 2001 that actually look like they're from 1960s. Lately I've been pushing myself to explore more DIY approaches to accessorizing... picking out a floppy hat and sunglasses isn't creative enough anymore. Pairing a brooch with a sheet of fabric and tying it together with matching jewelry and lipstick feels so much more rewarding when the result is something as seamless and recognizable as this. The flower girl grows up and gets married... she's in a perfume advertisement, she's bohemian but sponsored...
Chicwish dress, Valentino bag, Dailylook heels
Everything is infinite,
Bebe
Can we take a moment to appreciate the color coordination happening here? See, color coordination isn't a 'thing.' It's an event, and we're watching it 'be' in these still photographs. Peach stairs, peach petal print. Ivory banister, ivory blouse. Autumnal mustard and dusty rose accenting floral details in these peony patterned leggings from Redbubble. I've decided today that I want to spend the rest of my life playing with clothes in large piles, ideally in a warehouse loft with enormous windows through which the smell of perfume and incense does not escape. Oh. How I long for a sprawling room lined with mannequins awaiting their adornment.
For those who aren't familiar -- Redbubble is an e-commerce marketplace that offers visual artists the opportunity to sell their work either as is or on products like pillows, t-shirts, iPhone cases, mugs, and more. Peep the selection, but be warned... it's huge!!
For a more apparel-centric shopping experience, explore Lalalilo, the retailer behind this cute crochet blouse. I found a heavenly selection of beach clothes in their inventory, including this resort-style dress I'll debut later. <3
ZeroUV sunglasses, Anthropologie scarf, Lalalilo ivory chiffon blouse, Redbubble "peony" leggings, Mulberry bag, Ralph Lauren pumps
Everything is infinite,
Bebe
Trying this new thing where instead of weather patterns and shifting moods, I talk about abstract bullshit to fill the space. Here goes: doesn't it seem like 'civilization' is this really elaborate and depressing symptom of human suffering, this dynamic fossil of an unreconciled consciousness? People are obsessed with distinguishing human experience from animal life, especially when it comes to discussions about 'capacities' for pain and pleasure. We use the distinction to justify exploiting other life forms for the sustenance of our own; since plants don't have 'developed nervous systems,' we reason, their experience of pain is less significant than ours. Clearly we see ourselves as a species that processes information with more self-sabotaging passion. It seems like civilization is a symptom of that severity since it is unique to humans, but the impressions this life form leaves on the earth cannot actually be 'fairly' measured in terms of hierarchized thresholds. All symptoms of being are severe and subtle. They're all brutal and comforting. As soon as one symptom is presented as more extreme than another, it has been instrumentalized in the process of judgment. So we should avoid thinking of civilization in terms of 'more or less' and instead see it as just this messy and unjustified thing that happens as a fluid result(s) of conflict; the unreconciled consciousness. It's not that we suffer 'so much' as humans, but because we suffer in 'such a way,' we feel the need to impose ourselves in sterile edifices with unique intensity. We're not satisfied surviving minimally because our conflict with the world is not minimal. It's complicated. So we erect buildings and shopping malls because not erecting buildings and shopping malls leaves bare the conflict. It's not that we have to try harder and defensively create more elaborate and lasting habitats out of tools because our experience is quantifiably severe -- it's that we have to try 'like this.' It's misleading to think of civilization as an elaborate and depressing symptom when it's not elaborate compared to something else, and I must invoke my own bias to believe that something existing independently of judgment is 'depressing.' Civilization is not anything but intense.
Romwe sunglasses + croquis smock dress, Chanel earrings + Privee collection framed bag, Armani blazer
Everything is infinite,
Bebe
