We took these photos a few days ago pretty early (and that for me is around 11am) and I had woken up not too long ago and boy do my eyes look small when I’m doing the whole pose-and-look-off-into-the-distance-thing when I’m not fully awake.
To compensate for the lack of conscious awareness, I chose to go super bright with my bubblegum pink pants, fecund green top, and some gold touches.I suppose you can consider the black wedges and blazer the seeds of the watermelon to complete the whole analogy.
Blazer and pants from H&M, top from Zara, wedges and clutch from Aldo, necklace is from Nasty Gal, belt is dad’s old Christian Dior
When I carefully consider the curious habits of dogs
I am compelled to conclude
That man is the superior animal
When I consider the curious habits of man
I confess, my friend, I am puzzled
– Ezra Pound
Ezra Pound is a literary giant of the 20th century; the prolific propagator of Imagism who remains controversial for academics as he is labeled as an American traitor who broadcast fascist propaganda on the radio in the early 20′s. I’ve been reading Timothy Findley’s Famous Last Words which has Ezra Pound as a character so I felt like putting in one of his poems. I find this to be very poignant and often times so true, even in regards to Ezra himself.
I’ve had this couch forever–
You can see the print of my ass
The grooves manipulating the floral print
Turn fat roses skinny
Fabric sunken in
The gravitational pull from the weight of my ass
Falls on soft air and hard stained oak wood floors
Where the hell did the couch go?
Maybe it conspired with the ottoman
And left me with this big vacant spot in the room
There’s a bruise on my left cheek
It’s turning an ugly, angry purple
It’s going to be awhile before I can sit again
Without a slight stinging
At least my house is still here.
Eyes, lips, cheeks, painted.
I scrub it all off
The bare canvas is beautiful enough, you say
I love you, not as a carefully crafted doll
But as a woman of origins spontaneous
You embody all temperamental weather
The rays of the sun are not enough for you
There is dramatic beauty to behold
in the lightning that strikes in the fury of thunder
I cut you, you bleed, dripping, oozing
from the torn skin as flesh has ripped apart
And in the pool that has formed
is your reflection of death
And then I know your countenance was real
This life, ours, together, no dream
One of the first poems I wrote. Surprisingly creepy, I didn’t even know it would turn out that way when I wrote it.