Impulsive Pandora

Life is a bowl of lemons for your own recreational use.

Antoine quickly started the car and Lucile crookedly put her makeup back on. When they pulled up at the restaurant, they saw the Rolls was already there, and they realized in a flash that they could have passed it in Paris, that it could have been behind them as they entered Saint-Cloud, and it could have easily have come up behind them and surprised them in its headlights, like two birds in the night. This hadn’t occurred to them for a second. But there it was now, reigning over the small square, a symbol of power and luxury and of their ties to the others, and the little blue convertible parked next to it seemed ridiculously childish and vulnerable.

That Mad Ache, by Francoise Sagan 

I Ran Out Of Nyquil For Sleep

Don’t dwell on unimportant things like politics and ethics, you’ve got to pick out what pair of shoes to go with that outfit. 

Don’t be too anxious, anxiety is only preserved for death, and that’s an affair we’ll all be present for. Go ahead, pick a hat for it though, if you must.

Stephane Grappelli - Stardust

Like irreplaceable, urban memories, of the first sound of a train going overhead in Brooklyn, — stardust. 

The Dream of 1940 (1940) by Henri Matisse 

The Dream of 1940 (1940) by Henri Matisse 

Crossing Over

And 

I wake up 
& there are no ideas, 
no lines, just
energy careening from matter 
to anti-matter, 
until I am thoroughly aware that there are no planets &
the stars are array, …
I guess no longer stars anymore, yet
the outfits are still PERFECT.
They are Gods/Goddesses of Olympus. Divine right. 

I wonder, 
the clutter in the “strength” against
insanity? And all the light bulbs go on… some kind of math rules…
not the kind that makes leaves grow. 

Sonny says you’ve been trying to be a sexually liberated leftist too much.

Solemn Cat Staring At Me On My Coffee Cup 

Souvenir of the Opera Season by Kees Van Dongen

Souvenir of the Opera Season by Kees Van Dongen


Jeanne Crain in the 1940s.

Jeanne Crain in the 1940s.

(Source: meganmonroes)

D train stop in Fort Hamilton, Brooklyn — an above ground station, looking below through the tracks.

D train stop in Fort Hamilton, Brooklyn — an above ground station, looking below through the tracks.

Bella, Bella

Bella, Bella,
You archaic Bella!
Spinning on your webs of tangled ballerina airs —

Oh Bella Bella,
You archaic little thing,
Cracked and gray,
Like a black and white photograph of a French Sculpture,
Framed at an elegant limb.

Smoking with your insouciance,
Dazzling with a face that expressed sunset,
You are trying-ness,
The trying epicurean,
The antithesis of the Dao,
With sowed trinkets and organized chords of your chimes—
The psychological emblem of the
of the Roman empire trying to feign exquisiteness, perhaps being exquisite.

You give half-strained throws to the stars.

If beauty becomes an abstraction, feeling harder to outline in realities and tasks, then let fishes lie scattered in the river and ideas mutilated to become flints of iridescent scale. Flitting in and out of sight and salvation in immediate form and formula, skipping patterns and invisible to instruments. Nature, undefined. True, natural sophistication. 
As Diana Vreeland once said, elegance is INNATE. It’s all je ne sais quoi

Franco Rubartelli for Belezza magazine, April 1964
Tim Walker for W magazine, December 2013 

Babe Paley, the prima “swan” and muse of Truman Capote.

Babe Paley, the prima “swan” and muse of Truman Capote.