I-88 Reverie

Somewhere along I-88 amongst the nightfall of the Empire, I glanced over to the driver’s side. Ira Glass was talking to us through the stereo and Rani-ji was resting her doeish eyes in the back. The dashboard light showed dimly on your face in a faint blue-yellow hue. I could see that you were tired but somehow content with the long drive ahead and the responsibility of two people in your car. I turned to the window and felt my face grow warm. This is what I want with you – two parents listening to NPR on a long journey to put their child to sleep. I imagine that we’ve just left the blustery Midwestern cattle fields of your parents’ farm in late autumn. Your mother allowed me to cook breakfast for the first time. Everyone but us reached for more butter. I understood today that my presence in the kitchen was an inaudible sign that your reticent family was ok with me. As we left, chota Rani told her grandparents that she loves them unprompted by either of us. The “I love yous” no longer pass between us. We’ve settled in to the predictability of domesticity. Proclamations of love are in the past captured in photos and kept on shelves. We communicate love in movements and gestures. Sideways glances at the table. Pinches in the kitchen. Caresses on the couch. Hesitations under the sheets. The stereo has finished talking and you ask Rani-ji and the real me what we would like to listen to next. I let Rani-ji answer and shrug in agreement. I think that I’d rather listen to the wind outside the car. Imagining a different time and place with you, with us. Somewhere where the tertiary season whispers bitter in fields sending us under downy gentility and quilted kindness to converse in muffled gestures of familiarity.

As Boys, Sequoia

He settled on the mahogany couch.

Wisconsin comforting his chest

Late afternoon quietude in his eyes

The comedy on the TV mesmerizing.

I observed him forever there.

A citizen of a Northern California forest

Serene

Eternal.

I wanted to rest in his limbs

Feel the bark of his beard on me

Behold the Rayleigh scattering in his eyes.

But I starred across the granite island,

Unmoved.

Sangfroid cooling my flustered air.

Certain natural friends can never become intimate.

Him,

A Sequoia

Enduring

Majestic

Surrounded by grander possibilities.

Me,

A Sky

Tenuous

Anxious

Trying to build up masculinity in my clouds.

Away from the sequoia, I turned

To rest on the jersey cotton shore

An unfamiliar bed.

Eyes closed, wishing

For his As Boys redwood scent

To leave the room

To leave me,

The sylphlike azure.

But, his Sequoia cologne

Lingers in my breath.

Notes from a Lazy 5th...or LES Crushes on the 5th.

Barrio Chino
After Domenica and Jim got back and snacked on some macerated cherries and peaches I put together, we went in search of Mexican food. Our original intention was to walk up to Mexican Radio and/or possibly La Esquina but on our way past Babycakes, Domenica stopped us. D and Jim love Barrio Chino, a small eatery across from Babycakes. There’s no signage. Just an open façade that’s always packed with LES disheveled glitterati. The interior is rustic with touches of wall hangings and tchotchkelehs which alludes to the Chinese neighborhood and not the food. The menu is a well-edited single page, something that’s foreign in most Mexican restaurants. I had an amazing mojito made with dark ginger rum with our fresh tortilla chips with guacamole and salsa roja. For the main dish I chose, the Barbacoa - shredded lamb made with pasilla chile salsa, served with green rice, pickled habanero onions, and tortillas. I’m always suspicious of these types of restaurants. The ones where you walk in and you feel like some trust fund hipster is trying to be something s/he is not; in this case, a Mexican chef. Real Mexican food is hard. Normally, what we eat isn’t Mexican. It’s really Tex-Mex and watered down for people whose skin is lighter than mine. What I think Barrio Chino accomplished is well-balanced dishes where it’s obvious that the ingredients are fresh and quality. And it doesn’t hurt that our tall mustached waiter was pretty sexy. I’m going to do some research because I want to see if the creators of Barrio Chino have other culinary ventures around the city. If so, I will go next time. If you’re in the city, go to Barrio Chino! Funcionamiento! Ahora!

Project No. 8b
Dailycandy thankfully alerted me to Project No. 8b’s opening. It’s a new menswear store in my sister’s neighborhood, LES/Chinoiseville, located on Orchard and Hester. Though the store looks out of place on that particular block since not enough of the fashion fashion and other LES paraphernalia has made it quite that far south, Project No. 8b’s is a breath of fresh air in a sea of otherwise dated LES clothing shops from a by-gone era. It’s only a matter of time until more business gravitates to be near this gem. While Odin, in my opinion, is controlling the direction of the NYC menswear scene, Project No. 8b is presenting a new voice, i.e. a well-edited store collection. The selection includes Tom Scott, Mr. Wijnants, Kostas Murkudis, Replica Sneakers by Martin Margiela and furniture by e15. Mr. Murkudis’s clothes were the standout in the store for me. All well-cut pieces in fine fabrics often pairing more feminine fabrics, like chiffon, for quiet detailing. I tried on his black drawstring shorts with black chiffon panels down the sides, like a racing stripe but wider. The panels looked to be pleated at the top to add fullness, and maybe hide one’s underwear a bit. Though the shorts were not a good shape for me because I’m pocket-sized, I could see the short being popular amongst my taller friends who like unexpected details in their clothes. I did drool over a pair of the Margiela Replica sneakers, shown below. At first glance, these black patent leather sneakers in a 1970s shape appeared to be splattered with paint. But surprise, the splatters were pieces of white confetti that were shellacked to the surface somehow. A must have for non-grad students. For those people who like redheads with soft Irish accents, run to Project No. 8b. The young man that helped me, I think his name is Keenan, will melt your heart.


The following link is a good short write-up by NY Times reporter Eric Wilson on Project No. 8b and the brains behind the operation, Elizabeth Beer and Brian Janusiak.
http://www.nytimes.com/2009/07/02/fashion/02ROW.html

Tired Elegy

I’m tired of writing elegies in general.
In writing general elegies, I’m tired
Of indiscriminate indiscretions
Of encyclopedic exits
Of aching heart
Of ache.

I’m tired of writing elegies to boredom.
To writing boredom elegies, I’m tired
Of listening to turgid tedium
Of inheriting detachment
Of being unworthy
Of being.

I’m tired of writing elegies for me.
For writing me elegies, I’m tired
Of being,
Of ache.

I’m tired of writing elegies in general.
In general writing tired elegies, I’m
A disappointment conventionally
A deficit habitually
A loner daily
Alone.

I’m tired of writing elegies to boredom.
To boredom writing tired elegies, I’m
No one’s ardent fascination
No one’s temptation
No one’s intrigue
No one.

I’m tired of writing elegies for me.
For me writing tired elegies, I’m
Alone,
No one.

-Italicized lines come from Rufus Wainwright's song "Sanssouci" on Release the Stars.

Quotes to Live By / Buy in a Recession.

I didn’t see billionaires. I saw millionaires this week. Billionaires are passé. - Loic Prigent on Paris Fashion Week. For style.com video, click here.

If you still have money and you feel like buying clothes. And there’s nobody there to say ‘No'. - Sandra Bernhard on NYC Fashion Week. For style.com video, click here.

Big Red Installation

Madonna & LV

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bpcrxSriaXw

The above youtube video is all for the moment when Madonna says, "I think it would be an embarrassment of riches." I began to think about that phrase "an embarrassment of riches" and what it means in this time, this economy. Coming out of Madonna's mouth it was rather entertaining to me...maybe slightly ironic. Then again, Louis Vuitton is all about being an embarrassment of riches. LV will always and should always be that.

Then my mind switched to grad school, my thesis and an embarrassment of riches. It seems apropos for knowledge, the Cornell Library system, and my thesis. There are too many ideas, too many components, too many directions for my thesis. Finding a clear direction is difficult with the abundance of it all.
As fashion week is in full swing and the red carpet about to be rolled out for the Oscars, I wonder how many designers, stylists, actors and actresses have really considered how they will be perceived in this economy. Who is a contemporary embarrassment of riches?
I think the phrase is better in French. Embarrassment of riches becomes l'embarras de richesses o l'embarras de choix. The last one is better no? Oui!