The clothes at Dosa are hung in the same manner in which my books were once shelved. A deliberate, precious rainbow.
Bring on the chaos of mismatching.
Or maybe checkboarding. Or big blocks of contrast instead of this gentle, shy melt from one like color to the next.
The trend is beginning to look trite.
Picking it up?
Of course. What I mean to say is: I miss my books.
It's jarring, not having them around. When in doubt, all I had to do was flip through Cotton Puffs, Q-tips ®, Smoke and Mirrors and suddenly I'm inspired and the world is ready to be _______ with.
(A small stack has accumulated on my tiny bookshelf in the sweet cottage over the last two months: Already Dead by Denis Johnson (reading it, imaging P.T. Anderson directing it) The Paperboy by Pete Dexter, Black Swan Green by David Mitchell, Polysylballic Spree by Nick Hornby, a ripped up gay porn zine written in Spanish (but some words are universal), an Italian cookbook, and a very dirty Mexican comic book in full, lurid color (oh, I get it: that's not a rat tail, it's anal beads).)
ARTFORUM's are beginning to pile up. This helps.
A slow flip of pages through Larry Johnson images and suddenly a mundane picture of Savita's feet is transformed into a musing of personal ads.
What I mean to say is: I miss making things.