quería un gif de peggy olsen y joanne halloway fumando.
no había.
referiendo a la serie madmen, sobre los publicistas que formaron los criterios a la generacion x, vende el sexo, sabores de felicidad, de crayolas, de mineral.
nothing spells trouble like the clattering of a bottle on the floor.
es el día de la marijuana.
del tierroso.
del que no presume ni se alardea de la motorización en su traslado, el que anda a pie descalzo callado, pierna pierna tarso metatarso.
es un día más en la apocalipsis de la biblia, páginas traslúcidas papel de arróz, lectura de motel.
hasta el 2000
entonces las pulpas de pino los tintes carburogliceridas de revistas vogue paris londres nueva york mexico brazil españa. cuanta manufactura infomercial para que hoy nos vacunemos con la marca de la bestia y nos sometamos a la maquina.
celebremos el cáñamo que sigue creciendo, fuerte y valiente, limpiando el aire y el agua mientras duermen los carros.
turbo inyecciones de lubricacion planetaria. ese hombre crudo de terno y corbata no sobrevive el amanecer del nuevo existir en tiempos de pico y pala, de mantras sin artifice, sobre guerras olvidadas.
del cáñamo se hace el plástico, el cemento, el papel, la ropa, la aeronautica, la batería, el insumo bovino y avecopecuario, se hace la medicina para la epilepsia, el shampu y jabón.
su planta de tallo fibrosos resistente y foliaje oscuro abundante atrapa el carbono y lo convierte en oxigeno comunicando las aguas del subsuelo con las del cielo. trasumuta venenos, sana suelos, atrae hormigas, pájaros, ranas, simbiosis y vida eterna.
es la mala mata que junta y protege la biodiversidad de cultivos alimenticios maiz, legumbre, baya.
los madmen lo convirtieron en droga.
2020/04/20
2020/04/09
daily mail
she pays don vim to keep me, a place to live will ensure my silence.
she's right. i'll be 50 chronologic years old one month from now, Sex and the city spent all my ambition, a long time ago. His girl friday, spent hers.
her friend wrote to me the other day, saying
"i know that i don't know you but i want you to know that i love you."
Mom's always had friends that are her pretend daughters, and they became more noticeable after our Jere passed.
like my baby sister, they all understood her better, she said.
"i love you" is pretty.
and they all seem to have awesome mothers of their own, already.
i would love to have them all as business partners one day.
whenever.
pandemics reveal the need for confession.
the maddening confirmation that we've been alone, all along.
yes we celebrate other people, and nature, and the connection between the cosmos and our imaginations.
but it's up to each and all to decide whether the gate ahead is another portal or another tunnel.
lately she's been befriending architects;
people who learn to read from a to z, to count from zero to nine, to map the daily maneuver of living beings between artifice and structure.
business should be fair and open.
money should never be an issue.
she's right. i'll be 50 chronologic years old one month from now, Sex and the city spent all my ambition, a long time ago. His girl friday, spent hers.
her friend wrote to me the other day, saying
"i know that i don't know you but i want you to know that i love you."
Mom's always had friends that are her pretend daughters, and they became more noticeable after our Jere passed.
like my baby sister, they all understood her better, she said.
"i love you" is pretty.
and they all seem to have awesome mothers of their own, already.
i would love to have them all as business partners one day.
whenever.
pandemics reveal the need for confession.
the maddening confirmation that we've been alone, all along.
yes we celebrate other people, and nature, and the connection between the cosmos and our imaginations.
but it's up to each and all to decide whether the gate ahead is another portal or another tunnel.
lately she's been befriending architects;
people who learn to read from a to z, to count from zero to nine, to map the daily maneuver of living beings between artifice and structure.
business should be fair and open.
money should never be an issue.
2020/04/08
prozac planet
It may have been yesterday, 30 odd years ago, Elizabeth Wurtzel published Prozac Nation.
A short confessional fiction that went to great lengths to describe apathy.
My grandma thought I too should take the Prozac.
Prozac is Fluoxetin.
Fluoxetin is a magical chemical combination that takes away your feelings, good and bad.
It's a lobotomy in a pill.
For faster effect, like cocaine but without the euphoria, it's probably best snorted.
My pineal is my entire face and my sense of smell is my guide through life.
I've done cocaine, it's stupid, the euphoria is fun but the anxiety for more, that follows, is not.
Wurtzel was two years older than I.
The year Kurt Cobain died I was living in Newburgh NY, with my grandparents.
Shampoo Planet was the other hip book to read.
Gen X was getting started with our families and careers.
The ocean smelled like the ocean then.
The ocean doesn't smell like the ocean anymore.
We all wanted to be Salinger, and it was sad.
Strip malls and treeless freeways, processed and packaged snack foods, a sky river of empty jets streaking tube people getting away to who knows where, or for how long.
Blockbuster videos and dunkin donuts.
Camels filtered and Dr. Pepper.
Winona and Johnny.
I didn't read Wurtzel's book, I read the review.
Reviews had become more interesting.
The entire ecosphere of opinion was nascent and had sex appeal.
Everybody it seemed, knew a little about everything, enough to share reality tunnels, affirmations that what we read about in fictions could be coupled with evidence they were true.
Cut to 30 years and the internet of things later and Joe Biden is facing Donald Trump in a general election.
It's 2020. Why are these old thing still operating? People everywhere are wrapping themselves in plastic and alcohol, so scared the cooties will kill them they won't even leave their houses.
Wurtzel died, in real life, yesterday.
Age 52, cancer of the breast, probably didn't feel a thing.
A short confessional fiction that went to great lengths to describe apathy.
My grandma thought I too should take the Prozac.
Prozac is Fluoxetin.
Fluoxetin is a magical chemical combination that takes away your feelings, good and bad.
It's a lobotomy in a pill.
For faster effect, like cocaine but without the euphoria, it's probably best snorted.
My pineal is my entire face and my sense of smell is my guide through life.
I've done cocaine, it's stupid, the euphoria is fun but the anxiety for more, that follows, is not.
Wurtzel was two years older than I.
The year Kurt Cobain died I was living in Newburgh NY, with my grandparents.
Shampoo Planet was the other hip book to read.
Gen X was getting started with our families and careers.
The ocean smelled like the ocean then.
The ocean doesn't smell like the ocean anymore.
We all wanted to be Salinger, and it was sad.
Strip malls and treeless freeways, processed and packaged snack foods, a sky river of empty jets streaking tube people getting away to who knows where, or for how long.
Blockbuster videos and dunkin donuts.
Camels filtered and Dr. Pepper.
Winona and Johnny.
I didn't read Wurtzel's book, I read the review.
Reviews had become more interesting.
The entire ecosphere of opinion was nascent and had sex appeal.
Everybody it seemed, knew a little about everything, enough to share reality tunnels, affirmations that what we read about in fictions could be coupled with evidence they were true.
Cut to 30 years and the internet of things later and Joe Biden is facing Donald Trump in a general election.
It's 2020. Why are these old thing still operating? People everywhere are wrapping themselves in plastic and alcohol, so scared the cooties will kill them they won't even leave their houses.
Wurtzel died, in real life, yesterday.
Age 52, cancer of the breast, probably didn't feel a thing.
Suscribirse a:
Entradas (Atom)