ok once i took a photo of this laughing lady in my psych textbook and then like a week later she was laughing at me from a store window
when somebody actually texts me first and wants to hang out
Death of art… ok, maybe I’m being overly dramatic.. it’s just something i feel particularly strongly about.
seriously, when did the scribble-book LOOK become an aesthetic end in its own right? when did all young female singers decide to put on that cute little pose, play their vintage pianos and sing cute little indie songs and smile in the cute little indie videoclips with lots of stop-motion and bearded hipster boyfriends brushing their teeth just in boxers. DIY is a fabricated creative process that is ‘all about the process of creation, rather than its outcome’- stuff is styled so as to look unfinished, clumsy, misprinted. is it too post-modern much? probably, and it’s p-m.ism at its most miserable. Making cute little indie crap, it’s as meaningless and pretentious as only selling a pre-scribbled notebook can be- and I’m not making that shit up, just go to your local magma, you lazy hipster bitch.
When I shop for books, I shop for auras. I shop for authors whose names begin with those letters of the alphabet that connote experience, the virile kind of melancholy, that is sadistic one- C/J/K/L/M/U/W/Z. I don’t buy books whose plot is set anywhere north of Dover; that have anything to deal with any kind of war (especially the World ones), whose titles contain the capital L words (Life, Love, Lost); whose covers seem to try far too hard to compensate for something by the aid of graphic-designy baits. I am, however, far less mysogenous in my literary tastes than I tend to be in the galleries- having said that, I instantly warmed up to the idea of reading Evelyn Wough when the news was broken to me.
I never buy ‘XXXXX… and Other Stories’. ew.
am I boring you???