the crying light

antony, in the frayed, ghostly black threads in cold gothenburg wind
utterly stylish
as a statue
and the grandiose melancholy

leaving the golden smog

dandy school

nicky acting like siman doonan, suiting me up in moods of norway!!!! wizard! making me wear sunglasses . . .

and hey abby of the bowery beasts is keen to get the lads up in fin de siecle elegance with the marquis de sade oscar wilde decadent ennui-drenched romantic 1890's.  so DANDY SCHOOL is in session.

ohhh she is heavens of wardrobe department and marketing and film and sooooooo alive and sensual.  i want to borrow marion belle for some photography as he is so easy on the eyes and sonorous . . .  alive . .  .
nuturing us back to life.  they have a show tuesday.  go! go and hear the best lead guitar ever.  bowery beasts, i want to be there for the jeremy irons proustian frippery? possible?
other
film direction will involve a pompadour for maybury ala elvis.  new vid . . . .

the completely perfect brett

i missed her terribly and wanted her to star in the agoraphobic fashion blog.  when i told her the idea, she said, "that's the story of my life." about not being able to leave the house, about looking for something to wear to protect you from the world.  we were wearing the same exact black crystal rosary.  i told her i was thinking of her when i bought it, and that it is her fault i am wearing jewelry.  it is really helping a lot.  especially the hamsa and the chai

it has a lot to do with kabbalah teachers, and the silent teachers, and loneliness, and how much it meant to me when my friend returned from israel, and was the only person with time for me in the city april may  2010

love

"love" a song by nick maybury.  i guess that's me trilling along.  i'm really proud of how lovely this sounds and think it's the most lovely song ever . . .

and what it has to do with fashion, or love, or peace, or an end to oil wars, oil spills, poverty, hunger, man's inhumanity to man, cruelties of every kind . . .

oil spill fashion

well obviously it took the oil spill to get me inspired again.  or the bubonic plague.  i caught some pics of gorgeous women at this smoky dungeon of an eighties hipster bar on temple near knight's inn in los angeles.
i met a very stunning christy lupian of copycat LA vintage.

and the caroline bassettesque michalyn andrews of trasteverine and michalyn andrews fashion

http://www.trasteverine.com/

amazing!

vikram singh had me out and about . . . at a fateful locale in which the kiss of death fated itself to fashion.net, who or which, i might always love, in a certain sense, and which has this soundtrack

downtown i found beautiful claire saint marc who took me to the darkness inside the darkest night . . .
and this is what i get for venturing out for a change . . .
everything feels like a movie at the alexandria hotel in downtown LA.

making handmade flyers for the pluto set 6-27-10 cinespace, with love for select cool cats, and realizing there is a special LA fashion intelligentsia i love, in all black and slouchy, turkish pants, cardigans, lots of thin layers, flowy . . . well that and arctic monkeys proper monochrome mod. or rodarte gareth pughy.  well, those really gorgeous boys who pull off this special look, are so intimidatingly perfect, i can't bear to break up their day with the intrusion . . .
or ipso facto.  the british noir femme rockers.
or dearest nick maybury, who is nice in moods of norway, or anything, or black, or cuff links, or whatever at behest of the bowery beast's ben

and much of a lot of sameness intrigues, undance-able wedge shoes, and the wood sprites who might appear at the show sunday for which my heart feels like a ticking time bomb, and nothing else matters but to hear something beautiful and feel human again, e'er so briefly

a maybury pluto set of secret music and the secret song kept secret

against the terrors of the oil spill

with harp

dreaming of the frederic malle perfumes at barneys.  and how they make me feel.  whimsical and rich and cruel and sad.  i miss now the carnal rose or une rose or the iris or vetiver.

as i take refuge now in pure oils, and fight the allure of the carcinogenic chemical rush of perfume industry . . .  my hunger is for something else . . . the beautiful perfect love that never quite occurred.  the hunger chasing after rainbows in beverly hills, a concentration camp for rich people.  they are forced to loiter their days away, waiting for new threads . . . i am thinking of liam folan and markus bender, crushes.  and shay raviv, a crush.  the beautiful veiled women in hermes scarfs and diamonds.  the necklaces with the gold star, beverly hills is the middle east, and the cruel racist maligners tried to rope me into their hatreds, but i was too fond, too fond of the gracious persian culture, and the silks and linens, the warm arms and beautiful eyes, the people who wear their suffering on their face.  i was held captive in a little human zoo, not quite catherine deneuve in the umbrellas of cherbourg, or doolittle's flower shop girl . . . in an industrial wasteland, a ruscha painting, to starve and drink coffee, and eat chocolate for dinner, and ogle edible chanel, and love, love, love . . .
if we lay down before us who made what where why, fashion is the least of our worries, the fashion bank, the west bank, i am sorry for war, ashamed, agorophobic.  when i leave the metropolis, i will need a metal suit of armor to conduct the electricity barely animating my limpid self . . .  it is the hunger that starves me down.  i am weak before the metal skies, the autos and the trains, and human kindness in a sculpted face . . . and the beauty of the charms and a maid with perfumes and a dandy carting baudelaire back to the garret.