shards of broken glass my hand clutched onto
the wobbling table
and you danced your feet they moved
my finger it bled
like paint struggling to find its path from the can.
the melody bristly in the darkness
our bodies like shadow puppet animals
and we danced our feet they moved
for a few rhythmic patterns
my arms flailed eyes rolled back feet swelled throat parched
sweat mixing sweat but not water
my hand clutched onto
you, a wobbling table but for now the music plays
and we dance.


I’m having one of those “if there was one thing I learned…” -moments, which having lived in New York for almost half a year now, I can legitimately expound with real talk. Since I moved, I’ve been walking the fine line between feeling like a local and feeling like I’m on a 6-month-long vacation. All the good meals and drink and company are prism reflections of the latter. And then real life happens. Suddenly I’m the permanent resident my initial one-way ticket out here has forced me to become, an experience that not even the full-proof package of NYC-experts I call “my friends,” could have prepared me for. Because, things happen. Shit happens. Life happens. Kryptonite happens. And when you’re a regular person, making a pretty average amount of money, and not anointed by some divine being to conceive powers of x-ray vision and a front-of-the-line-pass at the Opening Ceremony sample sale, you’re subjected to the ebb and flow of simply, being, well…regular. But that doesn’t mean you can’t be great. For example, I know I’m great–but I’ve also accepted that I’m a reg human being with flaws and pain as well as positive attributes and joy. I’m starting to shut out the piano teacher within. So what if I’d rather play “chops” than Stravinsky’s Le Sacre du Printemps? It’s nice to relinquish the pressure I often place on myself and accept that I’m doing a phenomenal job just living and breathing.

(and here it comes) If there is one thing I learned from extracting myself from familiarity and unconditional love and the most bomb Chinese food to be found in the US, is not to be afraid of the misfortunes and shit-out-of-luck moments. Because one can trip in her Jack Purcells just as easily as she would in her Lanvin platforms. And it’s not really how you fall, what you’re wearing when you eat cement, or who sees you do it…it’s how you pick yourself up afterward–dusting your shoulders off or kind of scurrying away red-faced. In Yogi terms, falling is like getting into a “downward dog.” It can be a little painful, but it can also be a good time to rest and collect your thoughts before the next maddeningly strenuous bind begins.

(By the way my analogies are going, it’s clear I’m a little obsessed with shoes and yoga right now. This is true.)

By poet Richard Howard, whose reading at the Hammer last night I missed. So sad. He’s one of my favorites.

For S.

Music is one means of telling time
That forces memory
To conjugate the tenses of the mind
In terms of moving sound:
When I hear music, all I was I am.

Love, I think, has something of the same
Effect, the other way
Around, permitting what has not yet been
To come into its own:
With you, my love, what I will be I am.

Saturday Morning

Beds are made close to a wall
Against the blank places.
This is so that most faces
Can turn away from all

If I turn, the time swarms.
Of mouth carries the message
Up and down the soft passage
From a hive that hums

I am not lonely here:
Dissolves in mirrors, some
Dangers melt like sweet salve
On a wound. You must have

I spent most of my Monday afternoon cleaning out my garage. There are so many things that I have to purge including a old Roxy long board (barf) and a pathetic excuse for a microwave that I have shared many a Hot Pocket with. Luckily, I also uncovered some lost treasures including a bag of clothes I thought I outgrew (that I didn’t) and a poem I’d written ages ago, scrawled on a piece of torn notebook paper. I read it and decided that it was more honest and heartfelt than anything I’ve written of late. No idea when poem was written or why it was written; it’s not dated, it’s untitled, and it appears to be composed in one breath. I tend to fill the page with gratuitous scribbles and edits. This was eerily spotless. Clearly, I was determined to convey inexpressible feelings expressively somehow and when left to my own devices, I pick up the pen and bang out emo verse.

I was probably passionately in love with someone, but of course, trapped in my mental purgatory of emotional insecurity and self-loathe. Or, I could have just been really bored. In any case, reading it made me a little wistful and nostalgic about all the love I’ve lost or left behind.


    Your love is like a river
    and I float on that river
    I want to be on that river
    alone but forever with you.

    Amplified tragic culminations of we are two then one and one
    and I am yours but yours is somewhere
    trapped in another cavity.
    Legs embracing arms embracing lips
    smothering breasts and genuine disparity between me and her?

    Because, Lover, your love is like a river
    a ghetto, a visualized concept of swimming
    a moment, explicitly under-produced,
    of I am alone and
    still forever with you.

The world of “cool zines” is my oyster. And I am extremely picky about the ones I think are worth reading. It’s definitely easier to read them than to create them, I tell you. I’m still in the process of finishing my own zine, a project that has shed glaring light on the overly cerebral experience of editing zines. A good or bad submission is sometimes not so obvious; the work can be disguised as “having potential”. Feels like dating all over again. Doesn’t help that I have erratic bouts of frustration with the chosen theme. Too much thinking is involved. I thought it would all be instinctual. Why am I such a Scorpio?

Blog = Therapy.


I’m inspired by the Antwerp-based Gagarin magazine, which is a semi-annual book of never-before-published texts written by international artists. In the 9 years that this publication has been around, artists like Hans Op de Beeck, John Baldessari, Richard Serra, Fiona Tan, and the like have all contributed personal and revealing literature written in their own language.

I stopped by Gagarin booth at New York’s Art Book Fair last year and was really impressed with the whole collection. The zine’s creator, Mr. Wilfried Huet, an art-world OG, was there with his daughter answering every question asked by art-starved book nerds, and letting our dirty hands fondle the spine of each zine. I would have bought issue 8 #1 on the spot but had used my cash buying brownies at Chelsea Market. I’m such a loser.


Each zine is € 19 per issue. Cheaper when you buy more than one. Kind of worth the overseas hassle.


Like every 16 – 30 year old interested in fashion, design, and pop culture, I try to keep up with Kanye West’s blog. I was one of those naïve readers who believed that the hip hop laureate was posting 20 + times a day, in between meetings with labels and fashion designers, and was well-versed in every topic requiring good taste and proper intel. Of course, the wool’s been pulled over my eyes, our eyes. My culture-hound friend Ben Wang informed me that there’s been controversy brewing for the last year regarding the legitimacy of Kanye’s blog posts. Apparently, he’s been outsourcing the work to a team of ghostwriters. Woah. Say what? Of course I did a little bit of research. This accusation rings true. Kanye admits to deceptive blog-hosting.

My thoughts.

Chill out everybody. It’s absolutely ridiculous how many enraged journalists there are out there, bashing Kanye’s decision to hire writers. Oh Kanye and his duplicitous ways [insert finger-wagging]. This only fuels the criticism regarding Kanye’s swollen ego and uncompromising personality.

New York Magazine contributor Bennett Marcus says, scathingly, “So there you go — if you want a blog as successful as Kanye’s, it’s as simple as having a camera, a staff of two, and a guy who goes to cool places all the time.” But you know, it helps to also be a Grammy-winning musician exposed to cool shit, who might be too busy to write about all the cool shit all the time. A lot of what I’ve read sounds like juice from sour grapes to me. Survival of the fittest, my friends. Even on the internet, no holds barred. Shame on all the haters.