Saturday, May 9, 2009

Fuck us (or just me)

You can't depend on your eyes when your imagination is out of focus - Mark Twain

I've been outdoors and away from Internerdville since Thursday. I forgot to post when I was meant to. I need to focus on the rules of posting. Apologies.

Thursday, May 7, 2009

no focus for the wicked

I have not been able to focus at all today.

I like blurry pictures




there's more here.

Focus--11.5 years later (Patricia)

FOCUS: arrĂȘtons de parler et concentrons-nous


New Years Eve

I broke my camera at the beach on New Years Eve right before 4 of my friends jumped into the Pacific Ocean completely naked. I tried taking pictures but my camera was completely out of focus.

This day actually changed my life. No more camera, no more


Love, Olla

Focus... FOCUS! These lies, these lies. Decline, Decline.

I made a rather awful poster design for a bird-themed show at Cool Cat Gallery last year based on a June of 44 song: "Bird Sanctuary." Really one of the most epic post-rock anthems of the late '90s and one of my favorites of all times, actually. 

So in the middle of that song Jeff "Don't Call Me Ferris" Mueller shouts "Fo-cus! FOCUS!" and the line from the title above. I thought this week's Richstoflian experiment would give me a chance to revisit the prior lameness of my "bird" poster. Instead, lots and lots of Life came up and I... cue pun-roll... couldn't focus on getting it all the way done. I'll re-post it once the semester's over and I can "take back the night" from my 3 job rapeoholism.

"Darkness warshed over the dude..."

sb -focus - sometimes blurry is better


St.Ofle -- focus (notes)

I'm a note writer
I forget everything
I write everything down, even really personal things.

these are three that I did yesterday.

Focus - Jessalyn

I did not yet understand the way men suffer and so those were lonely days, when we lived in that house with the walls of red earth. That house with the roof of branches. I bought white dress after white dress; an attempt, I think, to make my body into something that could heal. A cool cup of water to press against your lips. They all looked strange with my skin and hair. White isn't a color I can wear. I learned that. In that house.

When it wasn't at its worst would lie quietly with your arms at your side, pinning down the thin sheet. And I would listen to your breath across the room and drink coffee in the wicker chair beside the window. Smoothing over and over the white cotton across my knees. Sipping very, very slowly. Once you said It's like everything inside of me is out of focus and it comes out through my vision. My sight isn't what's out of focus. It's everything else. It's everything inside.

I understood, that I could understand. But even so, your eyes did bleed. When they bled I would scrape the walls of our home and spit on the russet dust I captured in my palm. Mix it thick and salve it across your crusted lashes, until your fluid and the earth were the same dull hue. Then I would joke, Call me your little Christ, call me your female Christ coquette.

Towards the end of things you couldn't sleep any more so neither could I. At dawn I would catch young birds and hold their bodies in my throat, my breath puppeteering their delicate pipes, returning to you with voice of an oriole, or a robin, or goldfinch. Would warble at you with the song of a dead bird. It was something that made the waiting easier. It was what it was. In the end every one of my white dresses was stained with avian blood. They were easier to wear, after that.