Library - 1426
Originally uploaded by nyresolutions.
Sunday, May 21, 2006
Monday, April 03, 2006
Sunday, April 02, 2006
Monday, February 27, 2006
march
let's just say it's march. let's just say it's because i'm busy. busy with concerts and visits and deadlines, but still, busy. let's just say there's only so many new dumplings to invent at home, only so many old and disturbing movies to watch from the nypl, only so many times the grid allows you to change your walk home. let's just say it's the ridiculous overflow of sxsw related (and not at all sxsw related) cultural events i will be attending this coming month (in freakishly ascending or descending order, depending or your indie or otherwise snobbishness: cate blanchett as hedda gabler, michael stipe, sufjan stevens, antony, rufus wainwright, peaches, deus, fischerspooner, jose gonzales, devendra banhart, the books, kelley polar, hot chip, the presets, the noisettes, man man. oh man...). let's just say it's because the test icicles broke up before i could see them this week. let's just say it's because of abba or rather the czars and the way they ended tonight's show with this strange song, angel eyes; are there really abba songs - that appear on greatest hits albums, i mean, seriously - that are not engrained on this sincerely eurovision brainwashed import to new york? apparently there are, and apparently i need a lovely band from denver, colorado to tell me how wonderfully and secretly sad their songs can be (almost as sad, that is, as the czars' own stuff, dangerously jazzy melodies winding their way around the overstuffed couch of a voice that is john grant's). now let's just hope, hope that sufjan will sing 'gacy' this wednesday at carnegie hall, hope that i will get inspired (at that tibet-benefit, on the stairs around the fourth floor, in the shower, anywhere), hope that i can fix my over-open-ended, sufjan centric thesis chapter and get started on the new eggers-based one, making march also a success on the academic side of things.
Monday, October 31, 2005
multiple personality ken
multiple personality ken
Originally uploaded by nyresolutions.
Bubbles floated outside her building like computer generated schools of fish. A wall of mirrors bounced window-shaped beams into elegant angles of mote and light. Park closed her eyes again. Sunday morning in SoHo was bright. Her hermit corner apartment had been a dance studio before she moved in, several months ago, almost a year. The tired floor still bore the scuffed signs of the many overweight hopefuls who had dreamt their way to the city years before her. She had kept most of the furnishings intact, bringing only her bed and electronics, adding a small stove and fridge to the changing room, nothing to the showers. Her groceries came delivered and everything else could be done on her laptop. During her rehabilitation the empty days filled up easily, much easier than one would expect. Sleeping, waking, walking. She had practiced her walk in front of the silver expanse of mirrors, the cloaked piano always mute. That had been the hardest, not the voice or the gestures, but that hipless shuffle, that heelless trot so effortlessly and universally internalized at the onset of basso voce and fuzzy tummies. She sometimes wondered if, when she finally did dare to leave the building, the doorman would think she was someone else, a boyfriend, or a brother.
clockwork sparkly
clockwork sparkly
Originally uploaded by nyresolutions.
Shards of sunlight napalmed her eyelids and her long arm drew the heavy white sheet over her still pillowed head. It was too early for her to stop dreaming these memories. She could only see it through the camera’s eye now. It was to be the first take of her big goodbye scene, the speech at the prom, a scandalized teacher at the local high school, the real killer was caught, but still she would leave, even though her few loyal pupils had all sparked tears on their close-up shiny faces. She shook her head in lazy eights to clear her mind of all the cluttering distractions. A thin sound ripped from the spotlights and the sky fell. It left her with a line that ran from where the lighting rig had hit her first, high on her temple, all along her skinny violin back, to halfway down her leg, when momentum and gravity had stalled the destructive process of the pointed steel edge on her freshly powdered skin.
In the hospital, after the accident, the vision, her future, had come to her as she woke, paralyzed, focused beyond the wrapped white tulips, on the screen lowered from the speckled ceiling. The remote was in the bandaged hands of her tufted blond neighbor. The woman had poured water on a burning frying pan. Of all things, it was a fishing marathon her finger had frozen on, eyes closed shut while her cheeks glazed over with salty water.
spongebob prism
spongebob prism
Originally uploaded by nyresolutions.
Peeling from her sleeping skin, Park tunneled through the pixilated glass, finding herself somehow more substantiated as she walked down a hallway, one hand heavier than the other. A pink metallic suitcase. Her suitcase. But those were not her shoes. This looked like the day she left Seoul; off to Los Angeles to bilingually act in a small movie of immigration, family and the American dream. She was discovered at Christmas, just five years old, in the pulsating toy section of a giant department store quietly calling for her mother in English. She had wanted to do this every year since her mother disappeared. Somehow she believed her mother would be more likely to find her in an Americanized space like that, instead of the street market or the store around the corner. Her mother had been an actress too, on location in Korea when she had fallen for her driver. The man who had raised Park alone, after.
He did not come with her to America that day, offering her without question into the custody of the American studio as if he had always expected to lose her too. Her father sat next to her in the taxi, the suitcase between them. Big signs and star-less skies filled the windows until the car stopped. He steered her head through the doors of Incheon airport. Where were her braids? Her eyes searched the lofty space for a reflection. There between the pillars something stirred in the air conditioning vents. It could not be, but there it was, a little white flake wavering down on the hurried shoulders of the cramped businessmen in line ahead of her. This was just the first. Her father did not notice the shiny bustling space was slowly turning into a frosted postcard wonderland. Just behind the metal detector hid a big fat tree, a shivering squirrel between her crunchy feet. Park was struck silent, unable to articulate to her father or the mannered stewardess what had happened to the weather. He crouched down and looked into her eyes. She did not hear what he said then, but now she saw his eyes were frosted over, kind but white. Walking towards the exit, he half-waved as she passed through the detectors, dwarfed by the white tree.
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