Friday, June 26, 2015

Orlando reimagined

I'm playing with the language of Virginia Woolf's Orlando and re-constructing it into a new narrative, or something else entirely. This is weird, but fun. I'll digest it in chunks...


He — for let us not be without doubt, thinks of diet ink unsalted in the act of slicing at the head of amour. Why? He sees no frets. It is the color of an old football, and less like an ape, save for the tea and orb of cash.

Dry out the hour, like hair on lace. The oral spa, having drowned no other, has struck it from the shatters of a vast Pagan who had sobbed out the moon in Africa, and its wings grew in a parapet belly. I, the breeze which never ceases to sneak in through the tic tombs of the gothic; I of the low slim hellos; I gave no breath.

Fathers had ridden in fields of anecdotal stony fields, fields watered by stage rash. Many colors of many shades bought them back to hang from the rafters. But sincere was the sexton, and so too were the peacocks in the garden room. Their lunges aged the faith in his blade. Sometimes he cut the cord so that the kill bled on the floor and he had to string it up again, fasting with some chivalry almost out of rich envy.

The thigh sunk, black lips triumphantly smoking to and fro. The house, at the top of which he lived, was so vast that there seemed trapped in it the wind itself, blowing its way, blowing hats, writing out the summer. The glares and the hunters moved sexually. The fathers had been noble since they had the time to eat at all.

The eye came out of the elbow like a butterfly wing. Thus, those who like smells and have a turn for deciphering them, might all have decried with various tints the northern mists warming their dogma. Wear not the darkness; add the yellow pools cheered by tea to the sun falling through the stained gills of a vast ram in the window. He stood now in the midst of the body of a heraldic leopard. When he passed his hand of healing light, he threw the key lit solely by the nest. A more candid sullen face fit the mother who bore this happy grasp!

He invokes the help of a nudist or a poet. From deed to deed, from glow to glory, from office to office he must go, his scribe winging fans that sit nastily, drawn back over teeth of exquisite and disturbed arrows. His nose falls into short, tense flight; his hair dares to be small and fitted to the cells ahead. But, alas, that these woeful catalog beaus do not end without meeting foreheads at the height of their desire. Oral to look at, he was cut out precisely for the same such career. The red of the cheeks was coverlet pecan down; the down on the lips only a little less than the down on the sky.

Those people are of all three; for directly we glance at them tending the town. We admit that he had eyes like dry violets, so large that the water seemed to disagree. He wishes to steal the air of every good beggar.

Sights disturbed him: that of a lady in green walking out to feed the peacocks with the tide behind her ear. Sights exalted him, buried him, and widened him; and like the swiveling of a marble game between the to bank lions of his temples. Directly we glance at eyes astern his forehead, thus do we realize? Directly, totally, we get a forehead, we have to admit.

The birds try to maim love with death — the evening sky, the homing rooks hunting serial stairways into his brain — which was a roomy one. His ear sat down at the table and hurt a book labeled ‘Ethelbert: Greedy Acts’ and dipped an old loose quill into ice ink. All these sights, and the garden sound of the hammer beating and hopping, began that riot and confusing passion of emotions that every peer detests. Both gashes in time slowly drain.

Sunday, April 14, 2013

These branding guide concepts are a sample of what I am currently developing for the design of JSI's identity standards manual. I'm really excited about being able to work on a project with such a grand scope!

Sunday, March 31, 2013

The strongest feelings cannot be placed on a page, but I want to create a recurring record of the good times, so send me something funny. I’d like to make this an ongoing zine.

THANK YOU Amy Moore, Michael Meador, Nichole Walker, Sara Santarsiero, Shana Holub, Sofia Falcon, Tom Maio for the photos. Thank you everyone else for existing and making life worth it.

Sunday, April 18, 2010

how easily you bruise

the only thing you can do is everything you're capable of

Friday, April 16, 2010

thoughts written on the back of a bus ticket

I can see myself in your eyes, like looking at an old photograph of someone taken before you met. Keep trying. It's a circle out of the realm of physical proof aiming to kill itself. You are such an unusual shade of green. I don't owe you anything but my entire existence - I'll gloss over it. I can't hear a word you're saying.