tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-54448420743364633832024-03-13T13:40:15.935-07:00FOUND TEETHfoundteethhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15653353058131445384noreply@blogger.comBlogger27125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5444842074336463383.post-36687303548763114882012-11-24T12:24:00.001-08:002012-11-24T12:38:00.927-08:00november<i style="font-size: 13px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: white;">No sun, no moon!</span></span></i><br />
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<i style="font-size: 13px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: white;"> No morn, no noon</span></span></i><br />
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<span style="background-color: white;">No dawn, no dusk, no proper time of day.</span><blockquote style="background-color: white;">
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<span style="background-color: white;"> No warmth, no cheerfulness, no healthful ease,</span><blockquote style="background-color: white;">
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<span style="background-color: white;"> No comfortable feel in any member</span><blockquote style="background-color: white;">
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<span style="background-color: white;">No shade, no shine, no butterflies, no bees,</span><blockquote style="background-color: white;">
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<span style="background-color: white;"> No fruits, no flowers, no leaves, no birds</span><blockquote style="background-color: white;">
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<span class="highlighted0" style="background-color: white;">November!</span></span></i><br />
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this is what it's like to have this many moons behind me. i'm thirty years old, for four days now, and if i hadn't been spit into the world as a violet half-baked babybirdthing, i'd have a couple of months left in which to be twenty-nine. for someone who doesn't assign much importance to birthdays, i'm plagued by thoughts of milestone numbers with zeros like yawning chasms. i don't want what 'traditionally' i'm told i should have at this age, so why do i compare myself to others? every once in a while, it happens.<br />
do i ever want to be married? i don't know. i'm reminded by the racing calculations in the sky that i don't have forever. my grandmother (probably both of them now, actually) will never get to attend my wedding. but do i want to be worth it to someone? do i want to mean enough to someone that they would want me forever? yes. maybe? hmm. things to think on. or, in my case, things to ignore. rumination never solves anything. the same mouthful of grass which loses its taste.<br />
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trust in the universe, i'm working on it. working on many things.<br />
trusting in my body and respecting it instead of acting as if i'll be given another. accepting it for what it is as much of the time as possible, not only when i feel unchallenged by snide glances on the street or waif-blog celebrities.<br />
internalizing that my value as a person is inherent, and reflected in how i treat myself and others, not contingent on accomplishments.<br />
incubating creative endeavors. always a sticking spot for me. too many ideas, not enough commitment to one.<br />
learning to spend money on myself; i treated myself to some birthday gifts, something i can't remember doing. ever.<br />
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these little birthday treasures are: a worn vinyl copy of 'the christmas revels', found at the littlest dusty record store; a sweet pomander candle to complement the cold nights; black openwork tights which make me wish my legs were always ingrained with the pattern. celebrations of december...not november!<br />
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to be comfortable in this harsh and elegantly bare-branched month takes emotional strength, a kind of security that i'm learning to cultivate in the dark recesses of my head and heart. in the loam there like precious mushrooms. ha.<br />
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i am trying to become more open here. there seems surprisingly little to write about that isn't too close for comfort. tiny two-pound november-baby steps.<br />
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"><br /></span>foundteethhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15653353058131445384noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5444842074336463383.post-34211138939770210332012-11-19T12:03:00.003-08:002012-11-19T12:03:51.569-08:00Laura and the End of Days<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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well, winter-in-the-city was upon us, like a clammy overeager prom date. turning everything he touches into ice. frosty disinterest. time-space rushed from halloween into twenty-three degree spittle and it's now warm again, in time for my birthday tomorrow, the one that makes me thirty. THIRTY.<br />
i've always said my feelings towards winter would be different if i lived in the rural-aways. in the country, winter is cosiness, and deer tracks and wood smoke and inventive hibernation. in the city it is rushing out at uncivilized hours to move your car away from the plow and friends withdrawing like snails and horrible radio disembodied voices chattering about how once again we are colder than siberia. the natives here are scandinavian stock and fare better than i do. the winter i love is winter in theory. not the one that renders me formless and salt encrusted and red about the nose and cheeks.<br />
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some weeks ago now i watched the film 'the haunting of julia'. how this film eluded me until now, i don't know. moments of despair when i think i've seen everything to see in a certain favorite genre and period, they happen. and then when i'm proven wrong! oh, it's rapture.<br />
there's a lot of beauty happening in 'julia'. there's conniving babyface keir dullea and mia farrow doing what she does best with the vacantly sweet vulnerability. in giant furs and black wide brimmed hats and irish sweaters, unpacking china in her new holland park row house. there are ghosts, ghosts of little girls. and one little knife.<br />
i tend to be scared by movies which don't scare other people. if many stupid people proclaim that a film didn't scare them, there's a good chance that i will like it. what is not-shown, old fashioned ghost stores, hmm hmm. and this film did give me a good little chill. my love for understated seventies horror, oh, it's real.<br />
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<br />foundteethhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15653353058131445384noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5444842074336463383.post-24983686145436746742012-11-12T11:32:00.000-08:002012-11-12T11:32:31.387-08:00Dispatches from the Miskatonic Bakerymondays are my days off. and still my mind inhabits a bakery, another bakery, perplexing because i don't want to work in another bakery. ever, probably. stir stir stir the stygian nougat made toothstain black with coloring paste. those mental exercises though, of attempting to mold a vocation out of a simple occupation, can't last. instead i wonder about fantastical antiquarian book shops, heirloom apple orchards, alchemical perfumeries, time with animals and on trains. only a dam' fool wears black to a job slinging flour anyhow.<br />
so, what do i do?<br />
i've accepted the unsavory fact that i am what is called nowadays a 'scanner'. i do admit to loving the cronenbergian taste of the term. we scanners are interested in many things, deeply, and as such have no lifelong calling. so why the intense interest in disparate topics and still no way to make filthy money that doesn't cause the soles of my feet to itch? gross, gross, unfair, whimper.<br />
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would that i'd been born with a sweet voice. no, a strong voice. and i could earn my keep belting out dirges for the children who went up into the mountains. spare accompaniment, dark basement renditions while i channel borrowed mystery chords from those stoic greeks.<br />
i am a homebody who loves travel above all else. the great conjunction seems to be made up of touring. living mobile.<br />
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that's not to say that i'm not grateful to be making any money at all. i've been in Those Times where there is none to speak of, money that is, and it's misery-making. one's own money in the glitterycity is just a necessity. for happiness.<br />
i can see how this might turn into a consumerism blog. beware, biweekly posts of pastilles and broken down farmhouses and circus girl vintage finds and vinyl records and ceramic cups and roasted chestnut tea.<br />
beware.<br />
Beware.<br />
BEWARE!<br />
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<br />foundteethhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15653353058131445384noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5444842074336463383.post-15036256512426471172012-10-23T15:01:00.000-07:002012-10-23T15:01:01.911-07:00she has a teabox, that is to say, a box of tea. rough and hewn of cedar but full of attentions, tiny sliding slats compartments to be reworked to entrap the various bags of tea. she washes with salt water and slips the silk of her skirts over her shins then thighs. i made her up in my head when i saw a teabox today, and coveted it.<br />
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the cat and i have a language of face-cuddles and he chirps and grumbles rapturously while i rub my forehead all about his fur-upholstered nose and cheeks and chin. he has round golden owl eyes and together this autumn we lie under the duvet late into the night. reading by the light of beeswax pillars and votives about curare, encaustic and adolescents with guns.<br />
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this cat is dangerous to love. he will swipe at your face quick-as-you-please. i need my humans to be less like him. he can remain; he has that cat excuse. my four year old friend warns me, ghosts is everywhere.<br />
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in less than one month now i will be officially old, it rhymes with dirty. last year i'd venture to say was the very worst birthday ever, but i don't want to say it out loud and tempt the forces of nature, instead i'll just type it here and hope for better. or go back to not really caring about birthdays much. i haven't decided yet.<br />
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once again i'm searching for a new occupation. that's really the best word for it, isn't it. vocation is out of the question.<br />
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<br />foundteethhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15653353058131445384noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5444842074336463383.post-15703054514515527372012-10-15T13:38:00.000-07:002012-10-15T13:38:37.084-07:00the journal of nothing at all<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
small things have been happening as autumn creeps on</div>
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distant friends send little life preservers through the post<br />
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i loiter around abandoned pumpkins and dream about wattle fences and a little home of my own; a stranger tells me i look like a john singer sargent painting, egyptian woman.</div>
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we eye the corn warily, strange things are always afoot in old maize</div>
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there are windfalls galore, jade-painted fingernails from an irresponsibly indulgent manicure that turn me into some strange idol, ghost stories, cider, rampant attempts at supping on all the autumn i can handle to stave off the impending horror of winter with its smothering early darkness and muddy floors</div>
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and errant vegetable matter</div>
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and small spots of death being in fact quite proud and up-Himself. </div>
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here is a good description of a playlist i found in the guts of tumblr:</div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #444444; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', HelveticaNeue, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19px; text-align: left;"><i>This 120 minute painting mix is perfect for the bleak midwinter…cold, a little sad, a little angry and very danceable. Perfect to listen to while defrosting yr windshield, applying lotion to yr dried out skin, or while walking the streets looking for discarded cardboard to use as shipping material.</i></span></div>
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foundteethhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15653353058131445384noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5444842074336463383.post-31999776552226691902012-10-03T10:59:00.003-07:002012-10-03T11:01:59.755-07:00i want a jacket made of hundreds of tiny sandbags, and if it smelled of you, i'd be all set.<br />
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<br />foundteethhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15653353058131445384noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5444842074336463383.post-60387546607151736662012-09-22T11:58:00.000-07:002012-09-22T19:29:42.182-07:00equinoxautumn is unleashed and i can't make any promises as to what may happen. so far, tiny pumpkins, apple pie tea, gourds, candles, pumpkin ale, harry potter and horror film ringtones, vintage buntings, beetlejuice and neil young have happened.<br />
i'm attempting to not let my enthusiasm for samhain/halloween/etc overshadow early fall. there's enough jolly fatalistic electricity in the air to last for a while. just remember that.<br />
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and i apologize to images whose proper home i've lost track of. </div>
<br />foundteethhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15653353058131445384noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5444842074336463383.post-75548745809081032272012-09-07T14:15:00.003-07:002012-09-07T14:15:46.498-07:00momies en foliei want my tombstone to say, she went into the dark, ________.<br />
this is about the only thought i have for an hour this morning at four o'clock while i make madeleines in the empty shop. i also have a brief recollection of visiting the louvre to see the tiny statuette of pazuzu. my notebook reads, richelieu wing, room six. the hammered silver persian cuff i'm wearing reminds me of this. clanging upsetting against the bench.<br />
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now, in the afternoon, i'm reading to the smoky cat with amber eyes the story of the legend of sleepy hollow (love washington irving forever). periodically he stretches out a mitten to gently pat my leg and he's gazing at me with such devotion that i think he must hardly be paying any attention at all. for five days now he's lived here.<br />
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in other news, my <a href="http://www.etsy.com/people/granarchy/favorites?ref=si_fav" target="_blank">etsy</a> wishlist continues to grow unchecked. this is not a bid for undeserved gifts, single reader.<br />
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<br />foundteethhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15653353058131445384noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5444842074336463383.post-18748414981685208052012-08-27T14:47:00.000-07:002012-10-01T14:59:45.050-07:00drekii've been thinking of places on earth that allow human habitation only begrudgingly, wild and singing amoral outcroppings covered in lichens. specifically, the faroe islands. for years i've been dreaming of the faroes, abandoning the city to search out great orms and longneck seabeasts in vain. some deep part of my guts believes in them and i hope that no human ever discovers them. i dream of them rushing alongside a ship for a few moments, the only time in all of humanity's earthcrawling, slick sluicing in the green waves like a pod of dolphins, onward with great purpose and somber urgent roars.<br />
maybe these creatures are the Old Gods. maybe they are reliquaries for all of men's and women's anxieties and guilts and fears and hold them under the water in brown and red kelpy beds so that we can continue to live with ourselves.<br />
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in the blue seconds between sleeping and waking, a horse-headed beastie is hauled upwards into my line of sight in a net and it gracefully curves its neck towards me and lows like a steer, with sadness intensely feral and gentle, and blinks its jewel red eyes while the dry salty wind bursts its smooth hide and custard foams from his wounds. then i fully wake.foundteethhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15653353058131445384noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5444842074336463383.post-47480873167143765102012-08-24T13:25:00.000-07:002012-08-24T13:25:46.699-07:00passing the night<div>
in self care.</div>
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spells for friends</div>
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oiling limbs with hypericum</div>
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sweet beeswax</div>
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cupboards stocked with waters of yarrow (i know a boy named yarrow), white sage, lavender and lemon balm</div>
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more ste. colombe, always ste. colombe</div>
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knitting in the presence of a faun</div>
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blackberry cider</div>
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toes painted intensely silent hill-violet</div>
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films and films and films</div>
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tamales and hibiscus soda and</div>
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reading under the covers and</div>
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sleep.</div>
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foundteethhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15653353058131445384noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5444842074336463383.post-57052883011358008212012-08-23T10:28:00.001-07:002012-08-23T10:28:30.041-07:00and they do right<br class="Apple-interchange-newline" />my brain is all full of slop, slurried mud and alien body pieces like a trench in the ardennes. i only think up snippets of things, hardly worth describing. when the sun is up and i should be sleeping i bike to the library and sit by the fireplace which isn't lit yet in august. i take small stacks of books and furtively ingest the text as if i'm not allowed to check these books out, i have to do it quickly so no one sees, like a spy in reverse. i don't leave a trace but strangers aren't permitted to see what information i am gobbling.<br />
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i'm reading, again, about dancing mania. this happens annually. i wait for that deep deep taproot of fear to go momentarily bone dry when i find the right music for my evening alone at home. i flip through stacks of records and settle on somber-sawing viol, echoing tenebrous and plaintive. the slightly muffled, tinny recording sounds voyeuristic. poor mr. de sainte-colombe. i'm really bad company lately.<br />
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ohhhh youtube comments.foundteethhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15653353058131445384noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5444842074336463383.post-5453885096385746152012-08-17T11:31:00.000-07:002012-08-17T11:31:31.962-07:00friday, sixty-eight degreessometimes you just want to be devoured.<br />
in darlings-honeys-orchid teeths, like a child in saturn's furnacemouth where love is choking and moist like the amoral jungle. avaricious lust-based plant matter. lip-lapped skin sap lightly slapped.<br />
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<br />foundteethhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15653353058131445384noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5444842074336463383.post-40882084855163893862012-08-10T19:31:00.000-07:002012-08-10T19:31:52.688-07:00things about me again<div style="text-align: center;">
an old man in a thrift store check out line told me out of nowhere that i was a tiny ghoul. meaning was unclear</div>
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my mind is full of obelisks, urns, knots and flowers, arabic script</div>
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i have a soft spot which i am not longer ashamed about for the sentimental aesthetic excesses of the reagan era during which i became sentient and had very very long dark braids. this includes things like primitive-modern home decor, books on english cottages and tasha tudor, thrifted cookbooks that evoke fallen leaves and cinnamon and wood panelled half timbered split level houses, women in cabled sweaters and ankle length skirts traipsing across moors. </div>
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i spend about two hours a day thinking on lake and sea monsters but mostly the lake variety. and how sad it would be if finally some grizzled men with chapped hands caught one in a briny net and how resigned and naked and fleshy the long necked monster would be. its spirit crushed</div>
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i can never avoid laughing out loud when i hear someone shout GOD DAMNIT and one day it will get me into trouble.</div>foundteethhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15653353058131445384noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5444842074336463383.post-54131329685851350942012-08-06T16:17:00.001-07:002012-08-06T16:38:01.464-07:00twins can be tricky<div style="text-align: center;">
lately i have been wanting a twin. normally it's vomit to think of another me-me, i have enough to deal with in myself, and then the concept of the twin as whipping boy/girl came at me in headachy white light. my twin can experience all the horrible things that the real world subjects my body to on a daily basis and in return she can sleep under the stairs. she has to wear a bracelet of red string that signifies Not The Real One. all day long i have mistaken the date which is the sixth for the ninth. what can this mean.<br />
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i escaped from (and by escape i mean the only way out is through) an arduous work week of little food and even less sleep. my mood is labile and my eyes lazy and i did eat my weight in garlic mashed potato at the end of the week, victory of failure who can say. i acquired a vinyl record from the small packed vinyl record store that is sweltering hot and is covered in vines and is manned by the bony proprietor who never takes his eyes off of barbara stanwyck on the old tv. the record was an assortment of 'songs for the winter solstice'. and is covered in illustrations of wylde men and hobbye horses and krampus types.</div>
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my business cards which are more like calling cards arrived because at heart i am an independent researcher by trade. i snatched up some pepperminty black black lipstick for silent film type days and am thinking my fall project will be handpainting some boots. some dr. martens. in a william morris style, but bats and snakes and blackberry brambles. the fact that i can't paint in such a manner </div>
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<br />foundteethhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15653353058131445384noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5444842074336463383.post-25085739133617399272012-08-01T13:54:00.001-07:002012-08-01T14:02:53.850-07:00baker of bread by trade.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
sometimes there are days when you have to make a john barleycorn. or a lugh. </div>
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whichever you please. you've been reading too long about aesthetes at midsummer and throwing pots and finding the lost sang de boeuf glazes of china, you're fairly sure elementals are tittering at the windowsill and darting out of sight. so you plunge your hands into some dough. bread bakers are the potters of the cookeryworld. after all.</div>
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you kill him dead and you then make one tiny individual sour-cherry turnover and stand there to munch it contemplatively as you enter the last days of summer. all suspended in amber.</div>
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you may not think of gods in the external sense but you think of ancestors and gratitude even though your skin burns and your eyes smart under the sun. then a few drops of gentle rain fall, a good omen.</div>
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One Sour Cherry Turnover.</div>
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cut together four tablespoons of whole wheat pastry flour with a pinch of salt, a larger pinch of sugar, enough cold grated butter and a drop of pure almond extract.</div>
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let the dough rest in the icebox while you find a good small spoon. </div>
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roll dough into a thin square. using small spoon, fill with sour cherry preserves, if you have an embarrassment of sour cherry preserves.</div>
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fold square corner-to-corner and crimp the edges with a fork. bake at 350 until done. </div>
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do not burn the roof of your mouth.</div>
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<br />foundteethhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15653353058131445384noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5444842074336463383.post-24677169816819415102012-07-26T17:14:00.002-07:002012-07-26T17:15:59.916-07:00i want to believe in the little ice age<br />
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here is a daily meditation. the romans believed that the sahara had been fertile land until an infestation of basilisks turned it into a desert.</div>
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in my homeland it was 106 degrees yesterday. the driest summer in a hundred years, says my father, who may or may not recognize the authority of weather records. i'm thinking on dry leaves and hay, sharp apples and the earth accepting my body with a sigh and then voracious sucking sucking cool soothing mud. face down i sink into the brown ferns and rattling pods and symmetrically the greying clouds melt together as the ground closes softly across my back.</div>
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i think on dirty mister agent fox mulder's sister who came to him in a vision with a neon heart pulsing on her chest, a will-o-the-wisp lead him to the cradle of soil but then the underbrush swallowed her. i almost purchase a 'vintage' tshirt which is too large because it says the truth is out there but for the same amount of money (ofwhichihavenone) i could have bought a suitcase full of avocados. so i did.</div>
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along with the wish for another <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Year_Without_a_Summer">year without a summer</a> of course comes the pressure to create a new literary genre, science fiction is already taken. may i be the first to suggest staying indoors and <i>watching </i>frankenstein. the work has been done for you. </div>
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<span style="background-color: white;">eye-eating-non-purchase of the day: a wax seal necklace which says, faithfulness conducts me.</span></div>
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<a href="http://www.theartwolf.com/turner_biography.htm">source.</a></div>foundteethhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15653353058131445384noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5444842074336463383.post-60051903904979021242012-07-23T10:01:00.001-07:002012-07-23T10:01:22.749-07:00paschal eggsi spent a weekend day of post-work exhaustion and coffeeless headspin combing etsy for unobtainable tchotchkes. an islamic meditation stone, piece of obsidian set into gold for a tiny pendant, it says i leave myself to god. a black antique sickle to hang on the wall, ivory mano figa, fragments of demolished victorian stained glass. i fantasize about a long camel blanket coat covered in huge symmetrical black kilim patterns. make a fruitless search for georgian serpent jewelry and settle on some pristine edwardian bloomers which i can quick quick quick like a rabbit with thumbs sew up into a skirt. it cost me three hours of work at the shop.<br />
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on sunday the catholic mother-in-law paused to admire some gold leaf. she's holding a red egg and myrrh, i say, she's a separate entity and in the roman church they're all lumped together into frankenstein mary magdalene. mother-in-law calculates whether the knowledge is offensive and then asks if we want to go eat thai food. that was the dream i had on account of it being 102 degrees outside. now i want cold noodles.</div>
<br />foundteethhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15653353058131445384noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5444842074336463383.post-75891828618446763482012-07-18T14:07:00.001-07:002012-07-18T14:07:54.656-07:00my grandmother told me when i was eight that she wanted an old-fashioned tombstone when she died, the kind that would weather quickly and become unreadable after a few generations. we visited a cemetery to take grave rubbings, the ground was a living carpet of locusts working voracious mandibles and i was loathe to move my feet. a few months ago the disused church that stood on the site was burned to the ground by arsonists. you took a dirt road many miles from the highway, through stubbled fields, and arrived at the modest clapboard church with black iron numerals reading 1850 above the doors. it was every surreal eighties horror movie nightmare, freddy rises out of the churning parched earth like a ronald reagan chthonic deity and chases the teenagers across the patchwork farmland that pitches and hisses. they come to the church but dang, the doors are bolted tight.<br />
my hideous imaginings finally caught something on fire. i wish it could have been a telephone directory, maybe a silverfish.<br />
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i don't think i need a tombstone. when i die, hurl me into a bog and let the tannins turn my black hair red. let the suffocating horsehair peat keep me supple and moist and unwholesomely bright of eye. let it turn me into a five-foot tall mandrake-vanilla bean hybrid, shaped like a girl and leathered.<br />
the bog is the ideal place to hide a body.<br />
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<br />foundteethhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15653353058131445384noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5444842074336463383.post-87267120516078897002012-07-14T14:33:00.000-07:002012-07-14T14:33:17.045-07:00the world's oldest living newbornthings i like due to having been born weighing two pounds<br />
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-hot baths (womblike)<br />
-being swaddled (obvious)<br />
-vanilla, not chocolate; bland, white desserts such as milk puddings, sweet rice (breastmilk)<br />
-falling asleep with my head on his heart<br />
-having my hair stroked<br />
-hammocks (rocking)<br />
-quietude<br />
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i prefer to believe that there is some therapist, somewhere, who knows that all of my problems stem from not having baked long enough. <i>ohmylord is that why i'm a baker now.</i><br />
my bristling at sirens, irritability at abrasively textured clothing, sensitivity to sunlight and fondness for giant imaginary cat-owl creatures who sleep the day away in mossy japanese forests, the fragrance of beeswax and tattered quilts, and involuntary and sudden welling of tears at the unanticipated notes of a music box. the true meaning of the greek 'nostalgia' is diluted and lost to us now, but it's the only word, it's jungian. it's inherited nostalgia, inherited from our prenatal marine selves. that my chromosomes hold and randomly release. their circuitry is hurriedly and haphazardly assembled, sometimes my neurons fire and fire and mostly misfire. my inner child mostly resembles a blindsqualling babybirdgrub.<br />
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<br />foundteethhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15653353058131445384noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5444842074336463383.post-91201535549380986752012-07-11T09:56:00.000-07:002012-07-11T09:59:45.224-07:00all is vanity sputter sputteri am the first to admit that i look awful and out of place in the summertime and people avert their eyes in genteel pity. like a dog on its hind legs i barely make it around town, looking ungainly and slightly haggard. my brythonic skin is waxy-cold when my insides are boiling and i shine like i'm molded from white melting lard. because i am.<br />
by necessity i go to work with my hair covered in a riveter kerchief and i become increasingly covered with flour throughout the day, black clogs or converse sneakers and knee length cut off denim shorts the only shorts i own, faded black band tee shirts. i wilt and only want to drink lemonade, i don't try.<br />
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when the first of the cold comes i can be myself, the locked away parts can be swathed in many soft layers of clothing again, no need to hide in the cool shady interior guts land. there are dr. marten floral boots, tights of every conceivable pattern, bells and old old tiny rings on the fingertips, edwardian skirts and handknit jumpers with ears, wild hair, violet lips, mulberry or black or emerald nail varnish, glossy black wellingtons, pavlov posad scarves, vintage floral dresses, fragrances of smoke, sap, cold air, apple, mullein, pine, patchouli, incense, burning leaves, green herbs, turned earth, porridge and caravan tea. i muse on the perfect antique locket that i have never found, lacing my boots with black ribbon, cutting thumbholes in an irish fisherman sweater. i have a wishlist a mile long, georgian memento mori rings, catbird baubles.<br />
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today is the day that i let go of everything. today is the day that i only have things to look forward to; a better life here or a better life alone. it's my choice and my beloved boots will take me there, even if there is here. i set the church on fire.<br />
i can keep this whole last bit a secret and it diminishes its power none. it's still a green flame in my brain.<br />
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<br />foundteethhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15653353058131445384noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5444842074336463383.post-3136926461158918462012-07-10T09:40:00.000-07:002012-07-10T09:40:49.240-07:00ninety-nine degreesthere is only one obsession, <a href="http://blackpyramid.tumblr.com/"><span style="color: purple;">autumn</span></a>. all other obsessions can fit under that black umbrella. if they crowd.<br />
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sticks and stones, sweaters, dry leaves and crisp air, lonely whistling breezes in skeletal branches, fat yellow moons, books of druidic ways, hot black sweet sweet tea, all the nostalgic information of my childhood: tasha tudor, <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VPauO4xdOLw">tracks</a> on repeat, hunter wellies, large sweaters with delusions of 1980s ralph lauren moor-centric romance, tiny gold star confetti, ichabod and mr. toad, sly-eye goats and trees offering apples.</div>
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the earth becomes wild again, like the family dog that jumps the fence at night with all the other neighborhood pets. deep sleep, rainfall, nag champa, knitting, mulled wine, feverish planning of costumes, beeswax, ray bradbury, carving jacks, telling the bees, the bad moon rising, faded blueygreen pumpkins, sage.</div>
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it's a partial return to primordial chaos and i want more more more always more. camping, haunted drives, sighs in the woods, obscure hollows, a certain film about the bell witch that only i love, the wild hunt, everything that grows goes to bed. fleshy white tubers creep silent under the black black earth with moist whispers and conspire with their messengers the crows to fill the air with bristling electricity-ozone that crouches and waits for halloween. <br />
autumn is a great black beast and we can pacify it by loving it, loving that it is not winter at all yet. it's like scratches behind the ears. light a candle against the dark and remember to fear it.<br />
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<a href="http://24.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_lzgev74fUW1qldo9ko1_500.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="304" src="http://24.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_lzgev74fUW1qldo9ko1_500.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br /></div>foundteethhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15653353058131445384noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5444842074336463383.post-75842349199703502662012-07-09T09:06:00.004-07:002012-07-09T09:06:57.879-07:00topics of discussion and/or thought during the past two days.<br />
<br />
brittany<br />
the mechanisms by which peat bogs turn human corpses to vanilla beans<br />
coffee-sweats<br />
air travel<br />
snake and bat tattoos, or, the desire to obtain them<br />
the best bagels, and avoidance thereof (bad counter service)<br />
dr. millmoss<br />
massachusetts<br />
the yarn colorway 'dusk'<br />
francisco goya<br />
vali myers and the sad proliferation of mustache tattoos on non-vali myers-es<br />
my perfumes: how i only wear blends that smell smoky, earthy, herbal, or like a 'matin calin'. for this last i have a perfume called 'lann-ael' which is what goes on when i need an extra cuddle<br />
tunguska<br />
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<a href="http://ironingboardcollective.files.wordpress.com/2011/01/vali_myers_chook90.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="237" src="http://ironingboardcollective.files.wordpress.com/2011/01/vali_myers_chook90.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<a href="http://ironingboardcollective.wordpress.com/2011/01/18/youll-never-be-this-cool-women-of-a-certain-age-edition/">source.</a></div>
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<br />foundteethhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15653353058131445384noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5444842074336463383.post-75639127330319056562012-07-07T16:25:00.003-07:002012-07-07T16:33:10.247-07:00- i collect images of paintings of volcanos, from the neoclassical through romantic periods<br />
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- today i saw a photograph entitled, 'people leave flowers and offerings for a dying elephant'<br />
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- i dreamt that i had a tattoo that went from my knee to my hip, of a burning church. now there's an idea.<br />
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- it's so hot that after i expended the effort to paint my feet with henna i had to recline and drink ice water for the remainder of the afternoon.<br />
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to be continued.<br />
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-jBE6i7QanZ4/T_jF7oVb7-I/AAAAAAAAABQ/znK723Oqjjo/s1600/Lionel_Walden_-_'Volcano',_oil_on_canvas,_c._1880s,_Honolulu_Academy_of_Arts.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="206" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-jBE6i7QanZ4/T_jF7oVb7-I/AAAAAAAAABQ/znK723Oqjjo/s320/Lionel_Walden_-_'Volcano',_oil_on_canvas,_c._1880s,_Honolulu_Academy_of_Arts.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<a href="http://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Lionel_Walden_-_'Volcano',_oil_on_canvas,_c._1880s,_Honolulu_Academy_of_Arts.jpg">source.</a></div>
<br />foundteethhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15653353058131445384noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5444842074336463383.post-5824336396430069842012-07-03T09:20:00.000-07:002012-07-03T09:20:57.804-07:00hell house<br />
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yes you are you're attracted to roddy mcdowell in a proto crispin glover way he said. no, i am an obsidian obelisk not a phallic symbol but a petrified ray of the sun disc. the black pyramid candle searching ways that involve paying money to walk among people dressed in jerkins and leg o mutton sleeves. to find the right stall.</div>
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I'm an invasive species, i'm not covered in obnoxious color tattoo horror i don't have an ironic name and don't come from blonde peasant stock all those brave big boned hyperborean people who spent nine months of the year watching pink and lavender shadows on the snow shifting. but like a parasite vine i cling on their city and leach the good things from it and sometimes forget the dread things happening to my body unbidden, how my thighs rub together blancmange like when i walk and pretty soon I'm going to be walking around bald head as an alien. </div>
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a friend wants me to knit her a wedding dress, so i can sit like arachne under skeins of champagne colored yarn drinking ice water and thinking possibly someday someone will want to touch my unspeakable parts. how i'll have time for this in my schedule of frying, reading, driving, listening to records/bathing is unclear because working six days in a row, even only once, makes time stretch and snap trekky and surreal like. it snaps backward unexpectedly and that's how it gets you, face hugger like, wraps around your skull and gives you a slight headache.</div>
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so maybe i'm a little attracted.</div>
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-dKfYzh8J-pY/T_Hu-1qVwiI/AAAAAAAAABE/qFp-xAmD8Ms/s1600/legendhh1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="180" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-dKfYzh8J-pY/T_Hu-1qVwiI/AAAAAAAAABE/qFp-xAmD8Ms/s320/legendhh1.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<a href="http://thisislandrod.blogspot.com/2010/09/legend-of-hell-house-1973.html">source.</a></div>
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<br /></div>foundteethhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15653353058131445384noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5444842074336463383.post-89043376936829669912012-07-02T11:01:00.000-07:002012-07-02T11:01:24.503-07:00the wicker treethey went to save the godless people of scotland and they couldn't hear us giggling uncontrollably. they said 'awesome' a lot and wore silver chastity rings. there's copulating in one of sulis' springs and a poor-man's ben kingsley-lord and actual ingestion of a may day laddy. it's difficult not to feel some shiver of masochism permutation of voyeurism when you watch a film-shot-on-video.<br />
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someone told me they went in a mcdonalds restaurant which was playing fox news which declared that the new health care bill will create psychological problems in americans, that children dream of growing up to manage their money which is now not possible, now we are adult children of the president with no trust in our own abilities to manage our lives. and the whole nation will revolt.<br />
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this has been a trojan horse blog entry, with a mane and tail movie synopsis and hot guts full of mcdonalds and politics. it turns out. even cowgirls get attacked by pagans.<br />
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-G0NfqYYFwS0/T_HhqKx5MGI/AAAAAAAAAA4/m6zgCwoMPPQ/s1600/WICKER-articleLarge.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="160" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-G0NfqYYFwS0/T_HhqKx5MGI/AAAAAAAAAA4/m6zgCwoMPPQ/s320/WICKER-articleLarge.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<a href="http://movies.nytimes.com/2012/01/28/movies/the-wicker-tree-companion-to-a-1973-cult-classic.html">source.</a></div>
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<br />foundteethhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15653353058131445384noreply@blogger.com1