...ramblings of a fashionable sociopath

Thursday, September 13, 2012

and thus a new decade of Bellatrix begins...

One week until I am off --

A city described as a "goth Paris"...which sounds too good to be true. A plethora of dark churches, intricate gardens and, in the spirit of any true European city, days filled with wine and carnivorous degustation.

Itinerary thus far includes Kutna Hora...the church made of human bones.

I die :)

Gehry's amazeballs "Dancing House." 

Mozart in the candlelight in this bad bitch (St Vitus cathedral). 

It goes without saying that modern art shall be found, fondled, and savored thoroughly.

Am crossing fingers for an Indian summer that will allow me to flaunt all those yummy chic things that have withered in boredom in my closet. Cashmere coats...paper thin leather gloves...fluffy sweaters and skintight gowns...finally!
Just as visiting Paris without buying a bottle of eau de perfume would be criminal, leaving Prague without un peau garnet bijoux is not allowed.

This September marks another birthday. Except this time I am a decade older...

As I have mentioned before birthdays are NOT my thing. I do not revel in or embrace them. I loathe time  in general as I never feel I have enough. Enough time with those I love...enough time in places I want to see...enough time to live on this planet, really. But I hope that a beautiful fall in a glorious city perfected by time shall soften the blow.

I am deeply loved. I am healthy and, reasonably, intelligent. I still look sixteen. And this September I am given the incredible gift of feeling like the old me...the way I only feel when I am in Europe. I am given a taste of LIFE as it should be.

Everything in my life is about to become much more interesting. I am now officially an adult and a woman in the prime of my existence. I shall try in earnest to remember that every day and use my powers (mostly) for good. :)


Sunday, September 2, 2012

a new literary love...

Having grown up with books as sacred religion in our house I must admit to a fairly well rounded literary knowledge. Though I have still MASSES of classics to read before I consider myself a true intellectual, I feel confident discussing most monuments of prose.

My poetry knowledge, however, is largely limited to Russian classics...Akhmatova, Pushkin, Lermontov...the big guns. There is a fervent obsession with e.e. cummings, for I feel his writing is the equivalent of Rothko's amazing-ness.
I am, sadly, not up to date on modern poetry mostly because I like poetry that has rhythm...a feeling...a driving force. A poem that makes a statement...not limps along relying on the crutches of hyperbole and "artistic pause" to appear unique. Poetry that can stand up to a good prose is hard to is even less often thought-provoking, playful, uncomfortable or quotable.

Thus I present to you the boner-inducing, stunningly cynical and utterly brilliant Frederick Seidel, "the poet the 20th century deserved." OBSSESSED. 

I want to date-rape life. I kiss the cactus spines. 
Running a fever in the cold keeps me alive. 
My twin, the garbage truck seducing Key Foods, whines
And dines and crushes, just like me, and wants to drive
I want to drive into a drive-in bank and kiss
and kill you, life. Sag Harbor, I'm your lover. I'm
yours Sagaponack too. This shark of bliss
I input generates a desert slick  as slime.