jolie laide

jolie laide

I started this when I lived in Brooklyn and struggled for grace in a city that grants moments of beauty and ugliness breathtakingly close to one another. Now I live in a place where things are a different kind of ugly and the beauty is pedestrian. I struggle with that.

8.31.2006


(the words of the prophets are written on the subway walls)

7 Comments:

Blogger famjaztique said...

I love this

10:22 PM  
Blogger GMD said...

The prophets are back!

10:53 AM  
Blogger ttractor said...

I saw this written in the subway yesterday morning. I walked away with a big grin on my face and "The Sound of Silence" started playing in my head. But even though that is a dark song, this little shout out from a peeling old advert just thrilled me. Welcome! what a concept! to this moment! yes! and I thank whoever put it there for making me mindful. (although I realize that it could be sarcastic, I choose not to see it that way)

11:26 AM  
Blogger cherrydragonut said...

Ttractor I love you!

I am tired. I can’t even write anymore. I receive emails from a former loves friends and all I want to do is beg him to come back. Mere references exasperate these Scarlett-Ashley episodes. There is something sick about them, autistic. I’ve had them my entire life…going from best friend to best friend and later love to love, a lifetime love, endings non-acceptance and chasing. I’m getting tired of it. And everyone is bored. The triggers keep the pain fresh. I am crazy. And I escape to reality and pretend and forget. That’s the best part. But the pain, the pain just doesn’t seem to go away. It just dulls and disappears only when I am not thinking about it or him. I think that’s the key.

I wrote more than you did on your blog. I used to write to him like this—all the time. Maybe there is a book in here someplace. A book of Blog J I had more than 300 emails to him which I deleted. I should have published them. It’s art right? Kind of like jerking off is pornographic? Is pornography art? Sometimes the audience thinks the performers are the same off-stage as they are on and are surprised when they’re advances are rebutted.

I ate Chinese food last night in a cool vegan restaurant on the Lower East Side. Then I bought Susan Zimmerman’s out of print book “Grief Dancers,” for a buck. I couldn’t put it down the minute I picked it up. The proceeds went to Books Behind Bars, an organization that donates books to people living in prison, to put it mildly. I’m feeling better. The writing helps. Incarcerated is the better word. Exile and confinement can blend you know, kind of like ‘summer blends with winter’ in the fall. Anyway the book is about a Yale attorney and happily married mother and a really cool person coming to grips with her daughter who was diagnosed with Rhett Syndrome and behaves terribly to her! She totally ignored her yet she loves her so much and is devoted. What’s up with that? Is unconditional love about satiating the need for worship? For endurance? For God loving the Devil? Attempting to convert with love, to change a person through love is what’s pathological. Love just to love is more realistic and must be gratifying in and of itself because once love as barter comes into play, it’s not pure love. It’s a blend of love and something else. But isn’t that what we are—blends? Believe it or not, it is a beautifully written-can’t put it down cover-to cover read.

I've been slacking at work all week. HOw long do people spend on line?

1:00 PM  
Blogger cherrydragonut said...

emailing to a person who rarely wrote back and blogging out into space is like masterbating because it feels sometimes like I am talking to myself or giving a monologue insteading of interacting in a live dialog with feedback. Writing is maddening that way. It's like I am talking to myself or to the walls but sometimes it's like sharing with the reader and even the world.

1:14 PM  
Blogger remue-menage said...

welcome to hell

6:24 PM  
Blogger ttractor said...

yeah, rm, I was aware that standing in a dank subway, in a bleary morning, facing a wall, squinting at the letters could be a what fresh hell is this moment. but I decided to go for the surprise, puckish invitation instead!

8:02 PM  

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