Isn't it pretty to think so

2009-11-05T21:50:00.001-08:00

I have never known the difference between the measure of air in lungs or the feeling of naked grass on skin. It is long sequestered oxygen, compressed, raging, pressing into my chest, hands in my mouth, between her legs. We soar in lines of blood across the sand. She bought coffee off the street. I am risking, you dare me to go beyond. She touches herself. I watch. Voyeurism is far sexier in foreign locales. Her mouth was full of marbles, her lips tonguing glass. It feels strange. She’s come from Denmark, fields in her hair, hands smelling of tulips from her layover in Holland. Late nights, we tattooed words like “float” in spindly lines across our bodies, to remind ourselves, to resist forgetting. Little sips, little sips of pleasure, drawn into great gulps, slamming her down, pressing her further into me, forcing her closer. I want to trace those words, those permanent longings of her skin. She hails a cab outside, disappearing into the night. I bang on keys to keep her within me. She runs down the drain, out of my apartment, underground. I kiss the faucet and pray. Oslo had been white with snow the last time she lined her body. She had arrived after a late dinner, spoke rapidly in Norwegian and retreated.

2009-11-05T21:48:00.000-08:00

Lovelies; I shall continue to use this blog for poetry, but for my found images, please visit Model Lesbians! xox

Love Songs

Love songs have long been written by men
Poems for the goddesses of their own minuscule worlds,
But love songs from one woman to another,
Such things are far more rare.
Centuries of words have been penned
In the wavering time between dusk and dawn,
In shadow less cells if ancient desire.

There is something magical about a poem
Drawn forth from female form to female form,
Erotic and tender, from the supple lips of one to another.

My love songs, they have always been written for women,
For the subtle pear of a mouth, the broken line
As shoulders dip to collar bones.
I could never begin to imagine trading
Delicate hipbones and her perfect handfuls.

I have tasted far too many sweet lips under mine,
Felt too many thin fingers bruising my back in ecstasy.
I have never witnessed such divine supplication elsewhere.

I could write volumes, the words I have,
For the way a hitch of breath, a sharp inhale, can catch me,
Pressing its inches between sternum and centre.

I have slept nights to find hands whispered
Between my gentle frame, impressing, courting my body,
Such a pleasurable prison, so clean, so perfect.

Winter smells remind me of the women I have loved.
I lay, body stretched across the cooling earth,
Sharp chill, weather perfect for sleeping.
This is the moment when I am most here, most alive;
It is not those gasping hours beneath sheets,
But rather, solitary and tranquil, waiting,
For the night the Northern Lights will appear.

Individual love songs have begun to feel contrite,
To feel wasted. Instead, I write a love poem
To a while gender, those fine women of length
And fluidity, of fine bones like maps
And mouths tasting of longing fruit.

To turn away, oh it would cause such anguish.

2009-06-29T18:35:00.001-07:00

I sing the body electric
in ways we never imagined.
You, beneath, or above,
we breath air to cool our skin.

My soul electric,
i have always wondered
on stopping time,
in gasping moments
recording thought or in
photographic memory.

My images could never do this justice.

Here, are rumpled sheets, ash,
cigarettes, used up and worn out,
dirty dishes and filtering sunlight.

Here is broken skin and
narcissistic reactions,
teeth marks and trails left behind.

We are electric like the dawn,
endless, moving, sharp
and ethereal.

Walt Whitman preferred men,
but I prefer the taste of you.

2009-06-13T19:31:00.001-07:00

We are. We are, broken devolving pieces, untimely torn, histrionic, seismic, revolutionary. We are your thick blood, your thorny palms. We are your infinite abyss. We are your torn shirt. We are the sound of muffled fights. We are the depth of your bones. We are your painted void, your ragged breath, the scratches on your back. Your glacial standards. We are your untold stories and broken borders. We are your shuddering soul and your wandering lust. We are your hands. We are your uncensored thought, your burning ember. We are your unmatched desires and your riotous calm. We are your addictions. We are your carnal perversions. We are your hand up skirt in bathroom light. We are your climax, your collapse. We are your worst nightmare.

2009-06-13T19:23:00.001-07:00

my lust. my lust. my lust. my pierced soul. my wounded eagle. my final retreat. my pleasure. my indifference. my recalcitrant. my tongue lash. my swollen pride. my open wound. my ache. my rush. my provocation. my buried hatchet. my throbbing insides. my crucifixion. my tear. my deluge. my huddled mass. my pinned against the wall. my fruit. my vitals. my had from behind. my ending. my liquid fervor. my surviving days. my harlot. my bruises. my wetness. my beautiful. my gaping hole. my electric touch. my surviving death. my unbuttoned. my unbridled. my broken spirit.

2009-06-11T00:12:00.000-07:00

my worth. my undetermined injury. my burning embrace. my fire. my redemption. my sulk. my numbered days. my neon thought. my breath. my cunt. my gaze. my plastic bruises. my gaping hole. my fixation. my shuddering feast. my sheen. my ache. my predestination. my cocaine. my rush. my clouded thought. my tender grave. my buried hatchet. my throbbing. my clutched and fucked and slapped in the face. my broken spirit. my fruit. my murdered crow. my retreat. my crucifixion. my sex. my torn tendons. my ravishment. my confined space. my dimmed light. my finish. my aggression. my soft look. my boiled light. my tattered exterior. my bleeding palms. my chance in hell.

2009-06-10T22:48:00.000-07:00

We love in sine curves and ellipses
measuring our algorithms against Descartes
and praying for the stars to align
in some kind of celestial hypnosis.

We speak magic rhythms of tribesmen,
long before Arabic numbers and false idols existed.
I count to you in Morse Code, numbers tapped out
against the darkness of the sky.
Watch as I switch beats, breath easy
under summer vowels.

You argued for linear algebra while I drew lines in the sand.

These days were never meant for static movements,
kinetic energy pulling us along side,
neither willing to face gravity,
nor able to keep our feet on the ground.

2009-06-10T16:22:00.000-07:00

my frenzy. my frenzy. my frenzy. my whore. my constant fruit. my hot wait. my shot through soul. my spit. my salt. my ache. my red peach. my virgin. my borrowed. my blossom. my pink. my syrup. my jesus. my shriek. my swallowed heart. my searing tongue. my heartfuck. my feverdream. my slit. my sweat. my hips. my common scent. my witness. my stink. my ethanol. my lack lunge. my tart. my dreamsink. my shuddering feast. my clutched and fucked and struck slapped in the face. my roseblush. my mouthful. my cocaine. my cream. my night of life. my harlot. my murdered dawn. my liptrace. my wetness. my handsmoke. my sacred debris. my shadow. my sleepstain. my wet match. my quiver of breaths. my sunken fate. my holy. my lace trail. my castaway. my spiderweb. my cloudberry. my drought-water. my skinrush. my name. my wasted. my wild. my chance in hell.

bring it back

2009-05-03T22:07:00.000-07:00

I've been away for a while, but now I'm back, and I'll be posting my most recent work instead of snarky commentary on fashion. Enjoy.

homeless

2009-02-06T20:45:00.001-08:00

The other day on the train, a man with his wife and 2 year old child in a stroller boarded as we were headed uptown. He called for the attention of the car, and began his speech, stating that he had just lost his job and his wife had been in school; the family had lived in a homeless shelter in Queens for the last 3 months, and he was unable to find work. He was humble, and soft spoken, asking simply for money to buy diapers and milk for his son. He mentioned how embarrassing it was to have to ask complete strangers for their charity, but he was willing to do it for his son.

I wanted to help them, give them my card, give them something. Send them somewhere where he could get a job or she could get back into school. But I don't have those kinds of resources. Not now...not yet. If I had had five dollars in my wallet I would have given it to them, but I have been cashless for nearly two weeks.

Part of me wondered if the kid in the stroller was really theirs, if their heartbreaking story was really just a scam to pull at people's heartstrings and take their cash. And while the cynic in me grappled, I realized that the man was almost on the verge of tears as he spoke. His voice quavered, as he asked for those who were religious to pray for his family. And I knew they were telling the truth. Here was a man, probably six feet tall, easily 250 pounds, in a hoodie and a fitted cap, nearly crying on the subway, asking for money to feed his family. It was heartbreaking. And I had no way of helping them.

As I left the supermarket tonight, an older black gentleman asked for a quarter. I knew I had no change on me, so I apologized and told him so. He then apologized for asking. I felt terribly. Why should someone apologize for asking for a quarter? The truth is that this city is full of people that need help. Full of people that can't feed their families or themselves, can't find a job, have no place to sleep. Sure, there are the crazy homeless, but this man was soft spoken and kind; he thanked me and bayed me a good night. As I walked away, I couldn't help but wish I had a quarter in my pocket.

Berets.

2009-02-06T20:41:00.001-08:00

When I see you wearing a beret on the subway, I want to rip it off your head and light it on fire. Berets make you look like an asshole. What makes you think that,

A - Berets look good.
B - They're somehow IN because they're French
C - You in your dumpy pea coat and chunky heels can pull them off? (answer: no one can, and you're certainly no exception)

that shit ain't kosh.

2009-01-28T22:39:00.000-08:00

This just in: they sell minions at Bergdorfs. And Barney's just started carrying a line that come with flashy little tuxedos!

I need a bed vacuum.

Uggs.

2009-01-27T19:01:00.000-08:00

I swear to god. If I see another pimply sorority girl wanna be with half a pound of makeup on wearing Juicy velour sweatpants tucked into a pair of Uggs, I make just start killing people. First off, since when is it socially acceptable to wear sweatpants to school?! I don't care if you're hung over or bloated from your period or just plain fat. This is not an excuse to look like a slob. I make a decent effort every day to look at LEAST semi decent, and why do these girls feel like they're exceptional enough not to? Here's the harsh truth people: you're not. You need a dermatologist and some lessons in how to cloth yourself properly and just because you accesorize with a (heinous and last season) Louis Vuitton purse does not give you the go ahead to dress like you've just rolled off frat row after a hard night of banging all the boys of Sigma Chi.

(ignore this heinously retarded photo; it's just to further prove my point)

hipster rant x2

2009-01-26T19:05:00.001-08:00

Fix your hair, fix your clothes, fix your face.

AND FOR GOD'S SAKE.

YOU ARE NOT BUDDY HOLLY.

so take those goddamn glasses off.

Photobugs.

2009-01-26T18:55:00.000-08:00

You know when you see hipsters with their shitty little pentax beat up box of shit cameras, snapping away, finger on the trigger at all times? Like, there's probably not even film in the camera. It's all just for show. Like wearing spandex pants, or no bra. Just let it all hang out why don't you?

On another note: let's visit something called a shower people. Just because you dress like you crawled out of a dumpster doesn't mean you have to smell like one. Just a little soap under the armpits and maybe a comb through the hair. Seriously, this isn't France.

courtenay semel

2009-01-15T06:43:00.000-08:00

Why would Lindsay Lohan ever date this ape of a character? Indeed, it's all speculation and Semel (Smell?)'s word against...well everyone elses. But I would think Lohan would have slightly better taste in women. Semel looks like the homeless lovechild of Sarah Silverman and a camel.

Poor thing. Guess she really needs to resort to beating her girlfriends and setting their hair on fire in order to keep them around.

here is

2009-01-14T21:59:00.000-08:00

Here is my sadness intertwining
wrapping like brief strands of ivy,
sparse and threatening.

There is no wringing of the hands here;
that is a motion left behind
with housewives in the 1950s.

to the ancient residents of florida

2009-01-12T20:20:00.000-08:00

To the ancient residents of Florida
with your Cadillacs and early bird specials
power walking and madras shorts

One day I hope to be as content
with my life as you seem
as you lounge in your floppy brown skins
in front of the pool.

Fucking and Punching

2009-01-10T20:13:00.001-08:00

Fucking and Punching

To all those I have hurt
What many can’t seem
To comprehend is
The utterly postmodern tragedy
Of my life.

Imagine if you can, or
Maybe you already know the feeling
Of not being able to discern
Dreams from reality.

It’s like turning the light on
In the dark only
To be held in that dark silence
As you find yourself fumbling
For a fresh bulb.

This is my everyday.

These words are merely that; words.
They are not meant as an apology,
They are meant simply to garner understanding.

To all those I have hurt
With words and fists
And at times even over zealous love
Or looks in my eye
I hope only for you to glimpse
My world, this postmodern tragedy before you.

The truth is I can’t see;
Everything is too dark
And I’m scrambling toward the exit.

We all fail sometimes, ya know?

A Note To All The Women I Have Ever Loved

2009-01-06T08:41:00.000-08:00

A Note To All The Women I Have Ever Loved

Forgetting you was something I tried so hard to do
and yet could never manage.

What makes my remembering so difficult?
The hours that spread between us?
Some I have truly loved with my soul and body
and there are others still, who shall forever remain
anonymous and who will never know
the extent of my true affections.

In tongues I have spoken, but
what have I ever truly learned about love?
The pithy and fragile emotion, so beautifully
captured in the words of some and the brushstrokes
of others, continually evasive and occasionally devastating.

I suppose perhaps I love too easily,
opening my heart to sure misfortune.
But memory begrudges our longing.

"Touch me here," she said.
and so I did.

Snow + Lights

2008-12-23T22:49:00.001-08:00

Series of long exposures:

It's almost time

2008-12-22T16:16:00.000-08:00

It's almost time for Christmas, whatever that means.

Working on so many things I hardly have time to think.

What new what new...gosh I can hardly remember!

What is a potted history? Is that like potted meat? Or is it short and canned? I'd like to know.

Pick up your camera

2008-12-17T13:28:00.001-08:00

Got out my camera for the first time in ages the other day; here's the product:

sometimes

2008-12-14T20:43:00.000-08:00

Sometimes I wonder whether I feel too much.

Presenting

2008-12-07T21:22:00.000-08:00

DJ Pravo - KEG Photo - Logo!

Milk

2008-12-07T17:08:00.000-08:00

If you have not seen Milk, go see it. Now.

Last night my boy Bresky and I went to see the film in the East Village after work. I had heard from Kelly that it was incredible, but I wasn't expecting the magnitude or the impact the film would have on me. I don't think I've cried that hard after watching a movie since Life As A House. Sean Penn is spectacular, with incredible accompanying performances by Emile Hirsch (he makes such a good homo), James Franco (pleasant surprise) and Josh Brolin. After the movie, Bresky and I stood in the theater hugging and we couldn't stop crying. It was really amazing. Neither of us had felt so elated, so touched, so moved in a long time. And as we walked out the doors onto 3rd Ave, we realized it was snowing. The first snow of the year.

Last night I felt a creative energy I haven't had sparked in a long time. I wanted to ride my bike through the streets, take beautiful photographs, kiss beautiful women, turn my body into art. The snow was swirling, and despite being mitten and hat-less, I was elated - ethereal. Inspiration. Incredible.

Go see it now. Seriously.

My name is Harvey Milk and I am here to recruit you!

This is my belljar

2008-12-04T08:48:00.000-08:00

This is my belljar.

This is insanity in the oven.

This is the feeling of your body
disambiguated from your words.

This is classism and sexism and racism
rolled on your tongue.

This is teeth sharp like
diamond purring emeralds.

This is my Plathian moment,
post lobotomy and pre morgue

The touch is simple but
the taste complex.

We are defined by our inability
to make sense of this reeling
domesticated belljar of life.

ellipses 3 with acorns

2008-12-01T20:10:00.000-08:00

Let me just start by saying this: to the fat guy in my philosophy class, your asinine comments about Merleau-Ponty, Larry Bird, playing jazz and other such bullshit are not appreciated. Ever.

Onward.

Today this old black dude in the subway basically told me pulling a dollar bill out of my pocket was an omen of death. He then chose to sit next to me. I didn't know whether to be terrified or just chill with the poor dude. He then proceeded to consume like 3 Popeye's chicken sandwiches and a bag of Funyuns (sp?) in the time it took us to go from Essex St./Delancey to 23rd. Impressive sir, very impressive.

Touch it bring it pay it

2008-11-30T00:57:00.001-08:00

watch it turn it leave it stop format it.

Courtesy of Maxwell: www.pacemaker.net

Perhaps the future of DJing?

In any case, I'm hooked. Expect to see a killer mix from me real soon. AKA as soon as I stop working long enough to sit down and play with this shit.

Other news: Got into NYU and Barnard yesterday! The College Process (3 years of hell) Extravaganza has officially come to a close. And I think the lucky winner is NYU.

Film ideas are on their way. Watched The Hours again and had some killer thoughts about cuts and editing.

Now needed: Panini? Check. Sexy? Check.

Three cheers for short dresses and tall boots. That's all I have to say.

Kickin up shit

2008-11-25T11:42:00.000-08:00

Loads of new projects emerging, coming to light, so many things to come!

But for now, the OTL Thanksgiving flyer:

3:23 AM

2008-11-25T00:23:00.001-08:00

Self portrait project at 3:30 AM

photos from the past

2008-11-24T16:45:00.001-08:00

Overblown

2008-11-24T16:07:00.000-08:00

Philosophy bores me and turns me on. At the same time.

But right now, Merleau-Ponty isn't turning me on. I'm more of a moral theorist than an aesthetics girl myself. I wrote a paper on the Kantian theory of morality and Mill's Harm Principle applied to the moral creation of art once. And to this day I maintain that it's one of the best academic papers I've ever written.

In any case, I've been thinking that I need to begin writing again.

I wrote a story which I will soon be turning into a series of photographs. Here is an excerpt:

I tell you someone will remember us in the future.
I love the sensual. For me this and the love of the sun has a share of brilliance and beauty.

You set me on fire.
- Sappho
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

That night, you kissed me, with a tongue of gold and silver, your lips parting mine in the half-light of the musty living room in a moldering, shingled Cape on a summer island whose name now escapes me. We were young then, university students treading water and taking our time. Your kiss was like no sweet fruit I had ever tasted; my senses converged and synapses fired too rapidly. It was heady, ethereal. I write to remind you, to bring back the pomegranate taste of our mouths together. How easily you forget the shape of my sleeping body; I have memorized yours fully. Perhaps this letter will never arrive at its destination; you have disappeared from me, to lands I can only begin to imagine. So instead I will write; a letter a week for all the years we have been apart. And maybe one night, a reply will arrive, clothed in spicy scents from a far away land. I can only hope that you have begun to forgive me.

Look for the photos soon.

kg

Fighting fire with fire

2008-11-23T14:00:00.000-08:00

So many things happening in the last few weeks; big things. Things that could get me places. Things that could make all the problems of moving here and staying here (despite my true love for the city) more than worth it.

Life is complicated, you know? But I know what I want. And I've known it since I was 16 years old. I know that I want to be a fashion photographer. I want to be the next Helmut Newton, the next Richard Avedon, the next fucking Steve Meisel. No, I want to exceed them. And I'm going to fucking do it.

But that's not all. Oh no, that's not all.

kg

Beginning Again

2008-11-20T16:47:00.000-08:00

I have decided to return to blogging for a variety of reasons:

1. I'd like to begin to showcase some of my photography work
2. I think it's a really curious medium
3. Why the hell not right?

And thus, my blog has moved from here to here!

So, as promised, here is some art. For you!