"Is that the attitude you're going for?"

Everyone dies in movies.

Even those that huddle with the poor.



"God, protect the celebrity in their fictional existence, may yer power watch over them."

Amen.

Birthing hiccups.

There are messes in life, forged in steel to be replicated in monument. This war, this "great" war where men died and women died and those at home cried over the million deaths, will soon be gifted its own ceremony of statues and flags, plaques amid millions of moments of silences.

Violence is not wrong. Violence may be monsterous and it may end in the destruction of things; life, possesions, earthly goods, but it also can put an end to oppression and a man's, or a nation's, feelings of hopelessness and uselessness.

War and violence is the contrast to peace and well-meaning. At peace, a man reflects and loves, drifts about and also gets down to business, "brass tacks." There will be that need for agression, just as in a time of war causes those soldiering to find something peaceful to combat their own torment. At peace, men still do violent things to each other.



The comparison of war to sports is cliche and has been done better.



But does not make it any less true.



We need a way to get out aggression, to appease our ego and prove our strength. Our worth. Once we've reached our own balance, we are free, truly free, to go and seek what is truly great about being alive.



Big butts.

In the mist of a Sears-Roebuck ladies sale.

In case it never struck you, there is a whole world (possibly) of equestrian fashion.



This doesn't appear as a model shot as much as a piece about some surreal world, a newly unearthed Brigadoon where beautiful pouted lipped Irish lasses hunt foxes and get warmed by the thick wool of ribbed turtlenecks.



There's something semi-magical about finding these images. I don't care for the clothes or the attempted sentiment, but I can't help wanting to be a part of a life where a major part concerns green felt covered helmets and freckled horse riders in misty barns.

Maybe that is the sentiment intended. To want to be a part of, like generic advertising. Making you want something you really don't need inspires disdain for what you do have.



It is not so much a fashion show as it is a display of hazy women birthed from cold coastal shores, dressed in the colors of a distant weathered sky.



This dress stands out from the rest, or perhaps it is the girl. Not as surreal, more urbane and cosmipolitan. Her sexuality more on display with the tight waist holding up her two apple shaped breasts. She's Julianne Moore-esque in the face. A bit too youthful for a serious life, but in the context of the other photos and the clothes and the scene that is set, she could be the one that is taken into the lake, or the pond, underneath the water by a devil-like creature, to be saved by a true love. Or Echo shaping the edge of the forest to get a glimpse of Narcissus.

Or maybe, most likely, she's just a girl who got paid a couple bucks to walk a runway in clothes to be sold to boutiques. Her future almost certain. A model, a girl on her way to Los Angeles if she's not already there. Actress? Perhaps someday. A few bit parts. "Pretty Girl at Bar." "Date #1."

She might attempt college. Family in some Northern state, central United States. A Montana or a Minnesota. She's used to the cold so decides on the University of Colorado. She tells the story of how she was a model once. Made a few bucks. Joins a sorority and works hard at her school work. She's thinking "Law School."

Or maybe I don't know anything. Maybe there is nothing in anyone's face that can give them away. Maybe we are individuals that are unique and original and our paths cannot be assumed by others through a photograph or a brief encounter.

Maybe those deemed "successful" are really not. Those seen as "weird" are just regular folk.

Maybe this all means nothing and images, all images, are meant to be rifled through by the viewer, for their eyes to process what is seen and the brain to tack through what the body feels and turn that into something interesting.

No one is interesting on their own.

Your sense of trivial awe.

During my short task of tossing out old books from a decade locked filing cabinet, I managed to stab myself with a spindling spine of an out of date directory.



Also tossed were dried erasers, stubbed pencils, and curled pamphlets of half-filled post-it notes.



There are too many stained coffee mugs to count.



This is not actually true. I could count them, but I won't. It's vague refusal, but refusal, out of boredom, nonetheless.



She's (cat) a false God in an empty vessel's (woman) life. Forcefed spiritual leader of Sunday morning naps.



At least we can still kill. We can still do that. Kill and pose. Pose and clean. Clean, eat, and bury.



Sorry, sister. You can't hold the granite-like future of the birds, even if you are an old bird yourself. Since that is just a name out of slang to instill a sense of whimsy.

A "bird."