Little Feather

Feel the Little Feather wrap her words and music around you like the golden refrains of once purple, firestruck islands.
Go deep inside her and follow her as she writes the opus of her life and ancestors.
Swim in deep waters filled with poetry, music and mystic longings not yet fulfilled.

DC10 Outfit Inspiration

Feathers. Kitty Phone and pink accessories. Fafi Hi Tops. Tasselled Boots. Big smile.

Hello fun.

Fucked up relationships, turbulent times, who’s playing with who?
I crave another, but I love being with you
His eyes, your taste,
His smell, your face 
I awake in the night, hot, and confused

Fucked up relationships, turbulent times, who’s playing with who?

I crave another, but I love being with you

His eyes, your taste,

His smell, your face 

I awake in the night, hot, and confused

The Cure-Same Deep Water as You Mr Bear


Dear friend, whoever you are, take this kiss, 
I give it especially to you—Do not forget me; 
I feel like one who has done work for the day, to retire awhile; 
I receive now again of my many translations—from my avataras ascending—while
    others doubtless await me; 
An unknown sphere, more real than I dream’d, more direct, darts awakening rays about
	me—So long!
Remember my words—I may again return, 
I love you—I depart from materials; 
I am as one disembodied, triumphant, dead.
Walt Whitman

Dear friend, whoever you are, take this kiss, 
I give it especially to you—Do not forget me; 
I feel like one who has done work for the day, to retire awhile; 
I receive now again of my many translations—from my avataras ascending—while
    others doubtless await me; 
An unknown sphere, more real than I dream’d, more direct, darts awakening rays about
	me—So long!
Remember my words—I may again return, 
I love you—I depart from materials; 
I am as one disembodied, triumphant, dead.
Walt Whitman

(Source: gypsywarrior)

RAMMΣLLZΣΣ
The late, great Rammellzee, performance artist, sculptor, art theoretician, rapper and graffiti writer.
RAM plus M for Magnitude, Sigma (Σ) the first summation operator, first L - longitude, second L - latitude, Z - z-bar, Σ, Σ - summation.

His graffiti and art work was based on the theory of Gothic Futurism, which describes the battle between letters and their symbolic warfare against any standardizations enforced by the rules of the alphabet. His treatise, Iconic Panzerisms, details an anarchic plan by which to revise the role and deployment of language in society.

RAMMΣLLZΣΣ

The late, great Rammellzee, performance artist, sculptor, art theoretician, rapper and graffiti writer.

RAM plus M for MagnitudeSigma (Σ) the first summation operator, first L - longitude, second L - latitudeZ - z-barΣΣ - summation.

His graffiti and art work was based on the theory of Gothic Futurism, which describes the battle between letters and their symbolic warfare against any standardizations enforced by the rules of the alphabet. His treatise, Iconic Panzerisms, details an anarchic plan by which to revise the role and deployment of language in society.


Trying to get out of the house but Rammellzee and Jean Michel Basquiat, art, music and fashion icons are keeping my head nodding, hot and fresh as though they are here. These boys have got me sexy for dirty, old skool, lyrical hip hop. Play this live joint LOUD…click the picture to listen

Trying to get out of the house but Rammellzee and Jean Michel Basquiat, art, music and fashion icons are keeping my head nodding, hot and fresh as though they are here. These boys have got me sexy for dirty, old skool, lyrical hip hop. Play this live joint LOUD…click the picture to listen

A Man Can Leave

A Man Can Leave

A man can leave

A man can leave

Turn away, with no backward glance, no thought

Little effort 

For him to go

And I am left

Still slippery with his leaving 

Wishing that without me asking

He will stay

Copywright © Lavinia Blundell - White 2009 All Rights Reserved 

My Father is dead

My Father died two weeks ago. I try to cling to his memory but even as I write, his soul is slipping from me and into the infinite. I ask him to come to my dreams but his voice is faint and over the telephone in my mind, he cannot tell me where he is. It seems that the dimensions have changed, his soul has found a different place, where communication with this world is no longer important. He has gone now, to become a distant thought, the scale in a song, the drifting sands of a once clear picture now sailing away to shores as yet uncharted by me, but so nearly seen in my own lifetime. 

He has become as mercurial in death as the path he followed in his life with us. I can only hope that in his heart he was ever loving, for his actions were those of a free spirit, constantly looking to the horizon for ships laden with gold. He held us as babies, loved us in a distant and unconventional fashion. He and my mother fed us with music, books and free thought, but expected us the ride our own horses across plains of experience without their parental reins. Everything and nothing became possible. Now the life they began together the night my Father threw stones up at my Mothers window in the still of midnight, to take her away from the dark house she inhabited in the mid 70’s is dead. My Mothers sighs that spurred my Father to give life to her have died along with him. 

Only the memories remain. 

To lie in green fields with the sound of my mothers powerful amp reverberating the music that would forever become the backdrop to our childish games. My parents intertwined, together in the old iron bed they kept for years, fighting, debating, hating, loving, talking, crossing the lines of convention time and again. My Father holding us as children, the sunlight on his face, the old garden flat in Sheffield, the sight of industrial chimneys in the distance, a hole in the kitchen wall that let in the Yorkshire winter, bleak like my Mothers face after yet more racist innuendo. I, a ‘dark child’ my half sister, Elvira Madigan, the negative of my living colour, compared in reports compiled by social workers, trying to understand the newness of a coming tribe, our blood that of South America, India and the passions of these continents flowing through our skins, making for a new England.

My great grandfather, the deep bass rumble of his voice as he sang ‘Onward Christian Soldier’ to me at bathtime, his love for my Father shared in quiet smokes on the crumbling garden walls of Psalter Lane. My Grandmother, her shattered idyll in Devon looming closer, lithe and elegant, political fires running like the thin red line through Socialist Party talk, her daughter, my mother, fierce and independent brooking no disapproval of her Bohemian life. 

And thus I grew up, my Fathers daughter, the wanderlust in my heart all his own, the life in a suitcase so readily unpacked in strange lands with fresh loves, darker passions, my Fathers daughter despite the antipathy we reserved for each other, I found him in a handful of different lovers, all the same, all his men. 

He will live on in these ambivalent memories of my childhood, in his inherited wanderlust and the sense of adventure I taste everyday, and, if I am lucky enough, in the children I hope to bear again.