'The house, which dated from the reign of Henri IV, was large but unimpressive, like most architecture of the period. She had always wanted to slide down the great mansard roof: begin at the top and skid down the first gentle slope. Her skirt would fly above her hips, her black-stockinged legs would writhe matte against a wilderness of chimneys, under the Norman sunlight. High over the elms and the hidden carp pools, up where Maman could only be a tiny blotch under a parasol, gazing at her. She imagined the sensation often: the feeling of roof-tiles rapidly sliding beneath the hard curve of her rump, the wind trapped under her blouse teasing the new breasts. An then the break: where the lower, steeper slope of the roof began, the point of no return, where the friction against her body would lessen and she would accelerate, flip over to twist the skirt--perhaps rip it off, be done with it, see it flutter away, like a dark kite!--to let the dovetailed tiles tense her nipple points to an angry red, see a pigeon clinging to the eaves just before flight, taste the long hair caught against her teeth and tongue, cry out...' -V.

Rabbit at Rest

'He was an old-fashioned realist, with an unswerving belief in the power of words to faithfully record experience and to enhance it. If other writers, younger ones especially, couldn’t quite subscribe to that belief, still it was reassuring to know that there was someone who did.' -The New York Times

Marcello!

I'd tap that

What I always wonder at the end of Pretty in Pink in, 'What happened to this hotty?'. There's just this huge part of me that lusts after spoiled, country club dwelling, white briefs and wayfarer wearing, hairless chested, parentless wasp hunks from the mid eighties. You know, before Puff Daddy moved to the Hamptons, and people still did cocaine for fun, not because they had an addiction or anything.

I killed the party again..

Paris was short and action packed. Ate some meals sent to me by the divine butter gods of garlic heaven, saw some large format Delacroix and Courbet, caught the Sonia Rykiel exhibit, drank more espressos than I could probably count on two hands, and even more red wine than that. Wore ridiculous shoes, rode on the back of a scooter in a mini skirt, the strong, dry, chilling nighttime winds whipping my fishnet-clad thighs, danced to absolutely atrocious club music.. ah, Paris. And yet, as a city.. I prefer New York.

More on Paris later perhaps. Just, you know, checking in.

The Single Life

'Alone in the apartment, he discovered himself to be a neat and thrifty housekeeper. When a woman left, he would promptly set about restoring his bachelor order, emptying the ashtrays which, if the visitor had been Ruth, brimmed with long pale bodies prematurely extinguished and, if Joan, with butts so short as to be scarcely more than filters.' -John Updike, 'Gesturing'

Ridhima

flickr.com/yellowcoat

St. Andrews is for lovers: A play in one very long, very hazy act (In Reverse)

"That's Fucking Funny"

"Envision us approaching and pounding on this door, increasingly hard. Pounding and pounding, not just wanting admission but needing it; we don't know what it is but we can feel it, this total desperation to enter, pounding and ramming and kicking. That, finally, the door opens... and it opens outward--we've been inside what we wanted all along. Das ist komisch." -David Foster Wallace, on Kafka (Consider the Lobster)

I have very little to look forward to.

"Home is where beds are made and butter is added to toast"

Compliments to the Chef..