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
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
Paisley. Velvet. Suede. Spring. Spring. By the look and feel of things, this season won't be any peppier than the others (which is not at all if you're me). But I'm hoping that great weather will bring greater incentives to walk outside and soak up some vitamin D for an extra 'happy kick' here and there. Maybe this time of year will change me in more ways than sun exposure... after all I am turning 22 in May (the 7th to be exact, just in case any of you wonderful people are considering throwing me a *surprise birthday party* wink wink). I don't really know how to go about processing my age because it doesn't match my lifestyle or attitude or expectation. As a kid, the '20s' seemed pretty old, sophisticated, fun, sexy. I imagined myself in a maxi skirt attending college in Boston, already working on my second or third novel in the courtyard grass. I thought I'd already be published, well-known, independent enough to live in a dorm room, disciplined enough to even get into an ivy league at all. Instead I'm wearing yoga pants, living with my mom, bitter about my academic failure and nowhere near publishing anything except this blog post. My net worth is even identical to what it was in sixth grade when my only expenses were Starburst and Orbit gum. I know life is full of surprises but I didn't realize they'd all be this... unflattering. My only solace, my constant respite, is clothes. They make me feel good about myself even when my track record doesn't.
My mom and I arranged this outfit together. I find that including my mom in the process of arranging a look, choosing complementary locations, and photographing the whole shabang is SO much more gratifying than riding solo. I might be bossy but lord knows I could use a reality check every once in a while from mama-knows-best. ;)
Romwe sunglasses, Etro paisley and velvet scarf, vintage turtleneck and suede miniskirt, Jimmy Choo Rhea purse, Missguided platform boots
Everything is infinite,
Bebe Zeva
I originally wanted to debut this look on a Friday since it's obvi Shabbat appropriate, but it was just too hard to keep my little pun hidden from the public like an esoteric Kabbalah prophecy. I'm proud. Of my Judaism and wordplay and chiffon harem pants. And tragically impractical skill at nailing the punk-rock-Rebbetzin hybrid aesthetic with a wide-brim hat, plaid checks, and Hebrew letter sweater clip. By the way -- those little shiny symbols that look like Pi followed by a curvy apostrophe? They spell the word "Chai" (nope, not a tea latte) which means life. Now ya know why we say "L'Chaim," to life, after clinking glasses of spiked grape juice (otherwise known as Manischewitz).
Not sure that I do or don't have a cause, although I am almost positive the green contacts I'm wearing in these photos afford me the semblance of a shiksa in costume. Or maybe my dysphoria is triggered by the fact that I actually look more Ashkenazi than ever... it's been a long month, bear with me people.
I've been sick on and off since the beginning of this year and it's taken a pretty major toll on my 'chai' outlook. You'd think I'd feel more grateful for those peaceful days in between agony and weakness, but strangely they leave me wondering what's the point of even waiting for them at all. The truth about these green contacts is that the last time I visited LA (nearly two months ago) they shriveled up in their travel case and were thrown away. Kinda like me. Exposed to air, immediately sucked dry of life and purpose, disposed by my own volition. Even more interesting and metaphorical is the nature of sickness -- sometimes it appears in foreign bodies that can be charged from the battlefield with artillery like antibiotics, antivirals. Other times, and more often than not at simultaneous times, that sickness appears in nebulous auras of chiaroscuro morbidity. An uncanniness in silhouette, safeguarded from any biologic weaponry through its infinitesimal form. No dimension, no parameters, just existence. Presence. Thereness. I'm resigned from waiting for days in between compromised states... I seek routines that feel like ripe momentums. Anybody can experience the weightless thrill between jumping and landing. I've already had my turn with that fleeting moment - it's called "falling." When will it be my turn to experience that fleeting moment everyone else endearingly calls life? I can hear them already, reminding me that this actually is life, chai. A series of merciless thuds.
Not that there's anything worth toasting to, but maybe today I'll order a tea latte.
Romwe leatherette jacket, Romwe checkered sweater, Romwe harem pants, Yes Style wedges, Spooky Eyes contacts, PinkBrix rings and chain necklace
Everything is infinite,
Bebe
