Apr
6th
Sun
6th
Ayn quests for her ideal rational hero.
Does this mean she is kind of admitting that she is crazy?
I mean, she defected to the u.s. leaving all her family ties. That is quite something.
Sylvia was a fragile egg. And she had that pen. That bent from pressure finger where she had worn it into itself, into an arch like the arch of a womans back as she lay naked on her side.
Ayn was strickly business and her visual descriptions were so beautiful and precise like her thinly veiled philosophy gnashing away at altruism and poorly dressed Peter Keatings. Peter Keating now bartends at Clandestina. With the other Ellworths.Still, bad teet, brutal work ethic- total hotness.
Her visual descriptions of New York and her heroines (Dagny, Dominic) all leggy and pursed lipped. jesus H crocodiles. If wish she weren’t so harsh about altruism. I mean, every person not a Howard Roark or Hank Rearden isn’t an Ellworth Toohey archetype. But you know, black and white lines for Ayn no grey.
PERSONAL NOTE- I bought a REPLICA cat. It responds to motion and touch. Has hair. meows. takes naps beside me. Her name is “Darryl Hannah”….Hannah for short. It the most life like robot I hve ever known an actual size.
As For Sylvia Plath, there is a new book (or I think it’s new (It was smallish/ hardback), Nellie McKaye was carting it round the other evenening) called “GIVING UP; the Final Days of Sylvia Plath” . It made me want it and also cringe. Maybe it will be followed up with the book “Somebody punch Ted Hughes for burning her final works” What a jerk. Put it in a lock-box you burnt english muffin. I hate him.
Anyway reading Plath is like taking apart stained glass. Each sentence is a pane, and you hold it round the edges for fear if you drop it, a piece of history shatters and is gone forever.
Both of them feminist icons (maybe)
and both of them I want to daydreams about being sweaty in crystal haystack with, even with Ayn Rand and her forever coffee breath.
Althoiugh I would always be thinking about Sylvia. Men are just like that.
I ate at the spotted pig two nights in a row, the Veselka two nights in a row. The girl at Veselka who is new (like by a year) thought i was weird that a person would eat there two nights in a row. But you know, at 1 a.m. where else do you go for counter service and no music. whatever. she was attractive so I imagined she was probably bothered some by the nerds floating out of st. larks comics late with frothing under-sexed basement breath. I only care about bat-girl. she deserves the loyalty and frankly, does not mind listening to SWERVEDRIVER rather loudly in the afternoon.
somewhere a star shines bright down here through the fuzz just for us, until then i write and make art in the name of love, or something close that has less to do with my cock and everything to do with generating imaginary cloud cover.
California I am coming to get shiny again. Wax the stars.
Does this mean she is kind of admitting that she is crazy?
I mean, she defected to the u.s. leaving all her family ties. That is quite something.
Sylvia was a fragile egg. And she had that pen. That bent from pressure finger where she had worn it into itself, into an arch like the arch of a womans back as she lay naked on her side.
Ayn was strickly business and her visual descriptions were so beautiful and precise like her thinly veiled philosophy gnashing away at altruism and poorly dressed Peter Keatings. Peter Keating now bartends at Clandestina. With the other Ellworths.Still, bad teet, brutal work ethic- total hotness.
Her visual descriptions of New York and her heroines (Dagny, Dominic) all leggy and pursed lipped. jesus H crocodiles. If wish she weren’t so harsh about altruism. I mean, every person not a Howard Roark or Hank Rearden isn’t an Ellworth Toohey archetype. But you know, black and white lines for Ayn no grey.
PERSONAL NOTE- I bought a REPLICA cat. It responds to motion and touch. Has hair. meows. takes naps beside me. Her name is “Darryl Hannah”….Hannah for short. It the most life like robot I hve ever known an actual size.
As For Sylvia Plath, there is a new book (or I think it’s new (It was smallish/ hardback), Nellie McKaye was carting it round the other evenening) called “GIVING UP; the Final Days of Sylvia Plath” . It made me want it and also cringe. Maybe it will be followed up with the book “Somebody punch Ted Hughes for burning her final works” What a jerk. Put it in a lock-box you burnt english muffin. I hate him.
Anyway reading Plath is like taking apart stained glass. Each sentence is a pane, and you hold it round the edges for fear if you drop it, a piece of history shatters and is gone forever.
Both of them feminist icons (maybe)
and both of them I want to daydreams about being sweaty in crystal haystack with, even with Ayn Rand and her forever coffee breath.
Althoiugh I would always be thinking about Sylvia. Men are just like that.
I ate at the spotted pig two nights in a row, the Veselka two nights in a row. The girl at Veselka who is new (like by a year) thought i was weird that a person would eat there two nights in a row. But you know, at 1 a.m. where else do you go for counter service and no music. whatever. she was attractive so I imagined she was probably bothered some by the nerds floating out of st. larks comics late with frothing under-sexed basement breath. I only care about bat-girl. she deserves the loyalty and frankly, does not mind listening to SWERVEDRIVER rather loudly in the afternoon.
somewhere a star shines bright down here through the fuzz just for us, until then i write and make art in the name of love, or something close that has less to do with my cock and everything to do with generating imaginary cloud cover.
California I am coming to get shiny again. Wax the stars.
— (via ryanadams)
