DC10 Outfit Inspiration
Feathers. Kitty Phone and pink accessories. Fafi Hi Tops. Tasselled Boots. Big smile.
Hello fun.
Feathers. Kitty Phone and pink accessories. Fafi Hi Tops. Tasselled Boots. Big smile.
Hello fun.
Crazy, sexy, cool
(Source: cunningart.co.uk, via kittenfight)
—
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
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.
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 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.