Love Interruption

Jack White putting it plain and simple splendid.

Reach in and interrupt me uncomplicated. Again. And more.

Love Interruption 

I want love to
roll me over slowly
stick a knife inside me,
and twist it all around.

I want love to
grab my fingers gently
slam them in a doorway
put my face into the ground

...

I want love to
walk right up and bite me
grab ahold of me and fight me
leave me dying on the ground.

And I want love to
split my mouth wide open and
cover up my ears,
and never let me hear a sound.

 

[words: Jack White. xmuseandskipx]



Freaky Kitsch.

Despite being gifted pewter ‘things’ forever metalled in cuteness as a child (think unicorns, fairies and piglets), I never once HAD TO HAVE something. I have never collected anything. Never owned a collection of pretties. But when does the ‘ness’ (of pretty) become just kinda, freaky?

I am sure when she started; your Nanna’s collection of porcelain cats was all sorts of cotton-candy sweet. But that one black porcelain cat, and the one that was scarily similar to the ginger kitten you lost, shadowed you down the long hallway with their beady waxy eyes. You remain thankful that she didn’t taxidermy old Floss and Jake the Abyssinian when they passed on. As it was, the once candy sweetness of sculptured felines quickly became coated in a layer of naff; no cool kitsch. No more.

What is ‘acceptable collectable’?

Collecting Barbies, Lego, stickers and rubber stamps as a child; completely acceptable. But holding on to these life-maginary wares into adulthood is for me similar to riding a scooter past the age of 7: nonsensical. Though, a collection of shoes. Jewellery. Wine. Music. Art. Books. An entirely different (justifiable) matter…

　

Maybe it is a numbers-clutter game for me. I have enough trouble finding room to breathe in my cave of a Sydney terrace…the thought of visually taking in your collection of semi-precious gemstones or porcelain dust collectors is plain claustrophobic. Collecting soap, animal heads, decorative plates, newspapers. Just. WTF? And why hasn’t the man in Iceland who collects animal penises (have your morning spew here: http://www.rounds.com/blog/11-weird-collections/) been psychologically assessed? Freaking heck. That is a whole collected kettle of crazy I refuse to further delve.

xmuseandskipx

                        

Only Desire.

Poetry is no place for a heart that's a whore
And I'm young & I'm strong
But I feel old & tired
Overfired

And I've been poked & stoked
It's all smoke, there's no more fire
Only desire
For you, whoever you are
...

I will not pretend
I will not put on a smile
I will not say I'm all right for you
When all I wanted was to be good
To do everything in truth

For you, whoever you are

...

[words: Martha Wainwright]

xmuseandskipx

I Raise You a Falls.

So the Coachella line up for 2012 has been announced. And we are all (aren’t YOU?!) looking at our post-Christmas credit card debts considering just how we could possibly scrape enough goodness together to get to this epic Californian event. The line up, as typical, is just pure awesomeness. The Black Keys. The Rapture. Bon Iver. Dr. Dre & Snoop Dog. The Hives. M. Ward. The Horrors. Cat Power. Justice. etc. etc. My ears are crying for you.

With tickets booked to attend Foster the People, Laneway, Bon Iver and Florence and the Machine, I feel my ears will be given ample sound-bandages in this Sydney year. But one never regrets adding debt, acquiring bruises, losing post-days and needing detox therapy after attending festivals. I certainly regret not making the annual southern pilgrimage to Falls Festival Marion Bay to see in the 2012 New Year. And have been visually kicking myself accordingly.

Though a rather bias born and bred Apple Isle lass myself, I can attest that non-Taswiegans also frequently detail their admiration of not only the acts that Falls secures for serious reunion-styled boot boogies and sway, but also the idyllic Southeast location. I am yet to see the likes of Kate Moss at this one...but I am sure that if The Kills ever commit to play, the Lady will have style enough to skip Lorne for its beautiful isle counterpart. Until then there are plenty of modelled cheeks and pouts to stalk between sets at Marion [it's the air down there].

With claims of 'best Falls everrrrrrrrrr' not appeasing my back to work angst, I further tortured myself reliving familiar festival kindness by way of Facebook album uploads. An Architect Photographed My Undies politely packed her ‘darling’ lens; not only capturing the liveliness of onstage musical decency but an even mix of model festival faces and sweaty-fresh grommies enjoying every inch of the fever. Her images scream energy, lusty awakenings and inherent highs. There is no pretence in her snared charm, with these crispy visual metaphors too good to be make-believe. It is just simply the Falls. Raw. [treat your pupils below].

Coachella: I will once again have to Google-stalk your goodness once the gumboot throngs have longed been ushered away in a festival haze. But Falls, Marion Bay, we will meet again this year for sure for sure.













                           

Lagerfeld Lust: Chanel.

Karl Lagerfeld's latest campaign shoot for Chanel SS 2012 has me wander-dreaming for the French coast. All things lace. Dress ups. The ballet. And a limb-stretch-lenghtening-machine in an attempt to émuler the perfect lines of these limber models [tell me I'm alone here]. Dream away. xmuseandskipx

Me Love Lula.

I have a new magazine daydream-enabling love in Lula Magazine. Its glossy filled pages leap with envious unique non-pretentious (yes. all that.) styling and marked difference. Under Canadian-born stylist, Leith Clark, Lula regularly includes original whimsical musing from inspiring types such as Alexa Chung, Kirsten Dunst and Tennessee Thomas (drummer from The Like). My only dilemma is rationing out its goodness; with two issues being published a year not nearly enough for my liking! Go run. Get the latest edition quick-trip and check out their charming online scrapbook too: http://www.lulamag.com/scrapbook/

xmuseandskipx

 

Resolve.

The suited man has delivered and the fireworks are over.

For another year.

I have grimaced at my savings. Promised my liver I will ease up on the vodka.

The ‘tomorrow I must work to feed myself’ dread is victorious in its belly curdle. And I have located 2011’s wrinkles and photo-shopped them from my conscious with thrift flourish.

Now to those damn pesky resolutions.

I had resolved not to resolute. New Years Eve a few days past was (and typically is) a slow rolling emotional one. But despite feeble attempts at mind-trickery, I cannot stop 2012 life-fancy-dot-pointing. And they are basic MEtypical.

Read more. Write long. Dream much. Travel deep.

Let love linger. Study with punch. Plug in. Listen lock.

Dance. Drink. Dine. Dip. Dive. Breathe.

Lots.

Happy New Year.

xmuseandskipx