Aaron made this poster, and all the chairs in it. He did it on a day when he was feeling like making things orderly. First Aaron made a poster with nice orderly chairs in it and then Aaron made all the chairs in the whole world like these chairs. It was magic.
Aaron decorated this room with the objects he made when he invented wooden chewing gum and then blew a big bubble and these furnitures came out of the bubble which was so big it covered his nose then popped and out came these tables!
Aaron told me that I would like downtown Ottawa. I said no way. He said yeah it’s fun. I said does it have everything I could want there? He said it has more. I said does it have stores for my dog Boosh? He said all the stores in Ottawa are named after your dog Boosh. And then Aaron took a call on his iPhone and I couldnt hear what he was saying because he was whispering. I went to downtown Ottawa. It was true - the whole city was named for my dog after that.
I haven’t seen Aaron in weeks, so I’m not sure how he made this outline of himself in the snow outside my mansion. I think Aaron sent a letter to my house and when I took it out of the mailbox Aaron’s soul jumped into the snow. It made an outline. You can see Aaron’s tattoos in it.
My boo’s in London. He’s a director. Here’s him with Chi Chi.
(This isn’t Aaron, but they know each other.)
Patricia is in Ramallah, and sent this video from there this morning. Watching it gave me such a strange feeling - a visceral recollection of daily life in Morocco: waking up to the sound of the prayer at what seemed to me the middle of the night but was really dawn. My mouth was dry, I had a headache from (invariably) drinking too much the night before. There was moss on the sides of my skull.
The room was dark, and through the blinds - heavy wooden venetians - the sound of the adhan was so foreign as to be unreal. Allah Akbar, it began, droning and to my ears, dissonant and weird. I was 25 and I could not appreciate it, the call woke me up and my heart pounded with anxiety and all I could think was What am I doing here? What am I doing with my life?
I never think of Morocco at sunset. In my memory it is always daylight or pitch black. When it is dark I peer out the windows of the apartment looking for signs of life, and I am always disappointed. There’s nothing! No one walking on the street, no one biking or jogging, no one enjoying the weather on their balconies. The cars have tinted windows and they whip by as if driverless. Outside our apartment there’s a view of another street, beautiful homes, the Italian embassy, many pretty green trees, and some apartment buildings. Every home, every apartment has a balcony, but never do I see anyone out on them.
"It’s a privacy thing," Jonathan says. "Too public."
And yet, I remember sitting in Myriam’s one room apartment, which she shared with two other people whom she called cousins. They weren’t really related: one of her “cousins” was her boyfriend and the other one was her best girl friend, but pretending they were family was necessary because of the relationship she was having out of wedlock. We were smoking pot together their tiny apartment and I was explaining that I needed - craved - time alone. All three looked at me confused, expectant. But why? I don’t know, I just do. But what do you do? Read. Or think. Or watch TV. But can’t you do that with other people too? I guess so, but not really. I tried to see it from their perspective - living in a 250 square foot apartment, waking up and folding away the pillows and blankets they slept under and then using those same banquettes as their sofa, which they spent the day on, smoking pot, eating meals, watching TV. They rarely had business outside, and since they didn’t have any reason to go outside they spent most of their time inside, in that one room, together.
Blue string for friendship bracelet: so, that’s what my 2D BFF sent me in the mail from LOS ANGELES.
Gold and black bakelite (?) from Palm Springs, CA. I found it at an old age home two years ago. There was a little shop in the back of the home where they sold stuff. I don’t know where they got the stuff. Was it the stuff from the people who lived in the home who died? That makes me sad. It was a sad trip.
Leather with studs. I bought it for myself. I love it.
Courage My Love gold-colored Kensington market Indian bangle. I don’t know how I ended up with this. It might have been Usra’s. It reminds me of childhood.
(Semi-hidden) Ghanian bangle made out of old Ghanian coins melted down and turned into bracelets. Chris’ sister Katie brought it back from Accra, where she lives.
Black and white glass bangles from Sweden. Malin sent me these one year from Stockholm. I love everything Malin ever picks for me but these bangles are probably my all time favorite.
Real Gold single bangle. My mom gave this to me. She has one that has an S on it.
More good taste from good taste friends.
whoa, embed links got short. thanks for the song. i’d never heard it before tonight, and now i’ve heard it a few times. as good as it is cornnnnnnnnny.
I was expecting a weird house. It sounded weird; my cousin said the place was sixty years old, that it had originally been tiny and that it had been added on to 12 times, that there wasnt a square inch not covered in art. Instead it turns out to be beautiful. Full of light, full of art, full of unusual furniture and hidden passageways (I discovered a tiny mezzanine above the office this afternoon, accessible by ladder, with nothing in there but a window and a light. I’m thinking of turning it into my bedroom.) The place has a very Frank Lloyd Wright vibe about it, and tomorrow I’ll take pictures of the outside.
some pictures of patricia and me in the house.