by heytherewildflower


The Engines are long since throttled back; the overcast sinks slowly upward with no semblance whatever of speed until suddenly you see the aircraft’s shadow scudding the cottony hillocks; and now speed has returned again, aircraft and shadow rushing toward one another as toward one mutual headlong destruction.

To break through the overcast and fling that shadow once more down, upon an island. It looks like land, like any other air-found landfall, yet you know it is an island almost as if you saw both sea-bound landfall, yet you know it is an island, almost as if you saw both sea-bound flanks of it at the same instant, like a transparent slide; an island more miraculously found in the waste of water then Wake or Guam even, since here is a civilization, an ordered and ancient homogeny of the human race.

its is visible and audible, spoken and written too: a communication between man and man because humans speak it; you hear and see them. But to this one wester ear and eye it means nothing because it resembles nothing which that western eye remembers; there is nothing to measure it against, nothing for memory and habit to say, ‘Why, this looks like the word for house or home or happiness;’ not even just cryptic but acrostic too, as though the splashed symbols of the characters held not mere communication but something urgent and important beyond just information, promising toward some ultimate wisdom or knowledge containing the secret of man’s salvation. But then no more, because there is nothing for western memory to measure it against: so not the mind to listen but only the ear to hear that chirrup and skitter of syllables like the cries of birds in the mouths of children, like music in the mouths of women and young girls. 

here is one anyway who never read Faulkner and neither knows or cares why he came to Japan nor gives on single damn what he thinks of Hemingway.

the bowl of the mountains containing the lake is as full of hard rapid air as the mouth of a wind tunnel; for some time now we have been thinking that maybe it is already too late to take a reef in the mainsail: yet there it is. as fragile and invulnerable in the center of that hard blue bowl of wind as a butterfly in the eye of a typhoon. and there she is. a woman in a kimono beneath an open paper parasol.

The geisha’s mass of blue black lacquered hair encloses the painted face like a helmet, surmounts, crowns the slender body’s ordered and ritual posturing like a grenadier’s bearskin busby, too heavy in appearance for that slender throat to bear

and heres some outfit pictures….stock piled from not blogging for a long time and still taking pictures so i can remember my youth.

i am obsessed with documenting my youth.

i am terrified that i’ll forget it.

i wrote diaries my whole life just to record it so i would never become jaded.

grandma goes west and SPROUTS WINGS. this outfit is like the abridged Schmatta rendition of Georgia Okeefe’s life story, right? as always, the only thing missing is CLOUDS and skulls. clouds and skulls. my obsession.

doesn’t this look like a pelvic bone and spine? its so perfect. If I could be anything in the world, I would be an immortalized wood carving day of the dead princess wedding skeleton. I GUESS that means e Kate Middletown, if you think about it. Did you know she’s related to alot of old money old genteel southern royalty South Carolina Charleston royalty? also Bloody Mary, but thats a different story.

DID YOU KNOW THERES A REAL hard core debate about BLOODY MARY’s identity? if you’re wondering, or interested in casting your opinion into the debate, she was actually Queen Elezabeth I ‘s half sister, grand daughter of Catherine of Aragon. but academics get real riled up about it.

if you want  the japanese perspective, or impression, as it were, because thats the theme of this post, BLOODY MARY IS ACTUALLY A SEXY ANIME VAMPIRE. and she could just drink you up, or you could just drink her up, either way. she’s delectable and she has fake cartoon tits the size of jupiter.

whats the point of being a vampire or an old English legend queen if you can’t wear a sexy corset right? whats the point of anything at all unless tits are involved, according to half the world.

I love corsets because I have a fetish fetish. My fetish is for fetishes. weird psychological or biological freakish sexual sexy tendencies of the bizarre. people who have them seem normal until they’re naked. until they’re naked with you. or in the presence of a visual nakedness.

I want to explore every fetish possible because secrets and hidden weird turns me on more than anything. besides, of course, seeing somebody do what they love and do it beautifully.

this is what i wore underneath my work smock uniform. black velvet grandma tank top. pant originating from grandmas closet. neon chartreuse boots. and dumb face.

this image should be used as a response to the I WANT YOU! uncle sam posters, am i right?

HEY DUDE these are the dayzzz of our lives/angel/grandma at a wedding/SNARLLLL

fashion blogggggalugbaabaablacksheepblahblah blah blah BLOG master poser of the fashion universe. my eyes are telling a story. this is the story: I NEED A CAMERA AND A TRIPOD, BUT BUYING A CAMERA AND A TRIPOD IS stupid. because i will lose it.

also, aren’t the pretty umbrellas in the background a nice touch? that might perhaps distract from the doofus factor of my face???

better silhouette. which is sort of the point of this dress.  i feel i need to show it off because katie montgomery just gave it to my for keeps. and i love it.

and thankfully, doofus face is in the shadows for this one.

ANNNNND alice gets hipster.

wonderland gets wonderfucked.

naming outfits is almost as good as naming pies, isnt it?

ANNNNNNND sari. and close.

mihi gave me this sari. and i love it. and she is a goddess. and blah blah blah. i am excited about everything and i love everyone etc etc etc

blah blah blah



throwing trash and creamer containers
with a wOOOSH
into the trash from a good distance

punching in

punching out

performing reiki on fresh baked bread
pretending im wrapping the hot and buttery loaf
as though it was a bundle of baby,
cooing like a baron aunty
vacuuming the stairs
sucking up the tiniest unseeable specks
imprisoning the little villains
in the vortex, a bag of dust!
imagining its a party inside vrooom and jumping bean dirt specks
and pieces of straw wrappers flailing and twisting inside

WHEN sad boys eat alone on a friday night,
trying to escape to somewhere they know
nobody will know them and politely comment upon their sadness,
bringing only enough room and time for a bowl of soup,
and they don’t want pity, they want only solitude,
so i give it to them. i give it with a bowl of soup,
and a tiny tiny smile. and he writes a thank you note on the receipt,
and a turquoise charm ripped from his silver bracelet.

I love my concave stomach after running
from demand to demand,
and then filling it with soup and bread.

i love putting on my sunglasses just as i punch out,

and lighting that first insane cigarette,
glistening with sweat and addiction

i love my boss when she has customers,
when she talks about her customers



“what does customer think, ARE WE A DAYCARE?”

“WHAT DOES CUSTOMER THINK, are we mcdonalds?”


look honey. i ran a nightclub. Genghis KHAN. i see thru this bullshit.”

i like straightening the picture frames that hold the bad art.

i like the busboy singing as he buses, singing as he slices the cheese cake,

singing sunshine, singing madly.