Top notes of cypress? Deep sensual base notes of Havana tobacco? Madagascar vanilla bean? Black pepper and hints of black cherry? What level of cultural sophistication can I measure myself against by being unable to detect the individual notes of fragrance in a $49 candle? I dubiously re-read the golden calligraphy (not hand written but mass produced for a chain of showrooms) that describes the candle’s pedigree. Taking it between my palms, I sniff it again, with labor and with self doubt. Does not identifying the hints of black cherry indicate my failure? Does not being able to purchase and then burn this overpriced candle once again point to my inadequacy? When have candles fallen under the realm of somaliers? How have they been classified as symbols of wealth when, since the age of electricity they had previously been relegated to the archtypes of poverty, superstition and magic? Elite little spots of light, I must turn my back on you as, despite your handpoured status and highbrow scent, it is undeniable that you are still born to burn. And I still have a few drops left of Egyptian rose oil (a true delight because it was a gift!) that I can lose my senses in.


Where Ever I Go from Sally Cloninger on Vimeo.


Down here in The Near-Sighted Monkey Lounge we cannot stop watching this  it puts us in some kind of trance that we keep wanting to get into

video: Sally Cloninger

French Existential Crab…..



me, attempting to summon my preordered copy of pokemon x two days early

Reblogged from i want to believe

Barthes Du Jour

From "Talking"

Language is a skin: I rub my language against the other.  It is as if I had words instead of fingers, or fingers at the tip of my words.  My language trembles with desire.  



Crushing on Barthes big time today

Crushing on Barthes every day!

Reblogged from 741.5


Pablo Neruda, born today, 1904. 

I do not love you…

I do not love you as if you were salt-rose, or topaz,
or the arrow of carnations the fire shoots off.
I love you as certain dark things are to be loved,
in secret, between the shadow and the soul.

I love you as the plant that never blooms
but carries in itself the light of hidden flowers;
thanks to your love a certain solid fragrance,
risen from the earth, lives darkly in my body.

I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where.
I love you straightforwardly, without complexities or pride;
so I love you because I know no other way than this:
where I does not exist, nor you,
so close that your hand on my chest is my hand,
so close that your eyes close as I fall asleep.


On the sidewalk in front of the Lake City Community Center. Kids are still dreaming. So why shouldn’t I?