the boxer

‘I am just a poor boy, though my story’s seldom told. I have squandered my resistance for a pocket full of mumbles. such are promises, all lies and jests. still a man hears what he wants to hear and disregards the rest. when I left my home and my family I was no more than a boy, in the company of strangers, in the quiet of the railway station, running scared, laying low, seeking out the poorer quarters where the ragged people go, looking for the places only they would know.
asking only workman’s wages, I come looking for a job, but I get no offers, just a come-on from the whores on seventh avenue. I do declare there were times when I was so lonesome I took some comfort there. then I’m laying out my winter clothes and wishing I was gone, going home, where the new york city winters aren’t bleeding me, leading me…going home.
in the clearing stands a boxer and a fighter by his trade and he carries the reminders of ev’ry glove that laid him down or cut him ’til he cried out in his anger and his shame, I am leaving, I am leaving, but the fighter still remains.’
— ‘the boxer’ written by: paul simon

the sky has turned to tin and the air tastes metallic. it’s so damn dry in california that every living thing suffers. the water is high in calcium which leaves behind the same residual lines of the melting snows of my youth. whoever has claimed to you that california doesn’t get cold is a liar. san francisco has north-western chill, you have to feel it for several winters to be able to describe it. and of course, only locals speak from the same pool of reference. nature is large here, highways fast, we take route 1 when we can, to keep learning the pacific coast. we’re on holiday to portland in a few weeks and are looking forward to getting deeper north. I can’t help but be reminded of the atlantic north-east, a compliment and equal to the north-west in so many ways, as if each corner could lay over the other like lovers, different but the same, endlessly comparing and influencing one another.

I tried to sit down and write something out that was floating and hopeful for the year’s end. I have plenty good in my life and we continue to improve our lot with the passing of months, but I’m ready to get gone. silicon valley, oakland and san francisco have been explored and noted, I’m in the need of the now and more than ready to move along. part of me wants to disappear even further from view than I already have, after deleting old accounts, old blogs, old paintings, old patterns. maybe moving to the desert south of us or to a cabin north. I’ve tucked up into my small life ignoring the new norm to chase popularity and sales. I live a spoiled life in our treehouse, not depended on selfies, likes, follows, ego massaging or trend following of the more regular folk, the more needy folk. it’s a lovely freedom to work in. but that’s just me, and the world? the world is no less chaotic and emotionally charged with injustice than it has been in its history. when deciding and defending ideas and opinions, most folks forget to take into consideration human nature. I am not a cynic nor an idealist, I’m a realist and this can sometimes offend those living in a bubble. we can survive what is happening on political and sociological scales because we have to. we are dynamic beings, we are designed to be challenged and can thrive or falter in any setting. as beauty lay in front and all around she can be easily reached. humans are the only creatures that seem to forcefully dislodge her. but she remains, you just have to know where to look.

may the new year carry light, good health and inspired moments for all of you. may you finally kick a bad habit, become a better communicator, intake less daily sugar (fuck!), become more humble, flexible and at ease in your skin, regardless of age. may you help an animal or person in need, give to the poor, improve upon your understanding of the world. may you fall in love if looking, may you be brave enough to leave something or someone you should. may you chase down a dream or long held desire. may you be happy. all my love, kh

(all images and credits can be found at: www.pinterest/buffalo77.com)

limerence

don’t show your face over all the days, don’t post every last aspect of you. mystery reigns, or so it should, as it is kinder and more sparing. there’s nothing sexier in a man than a healthy dislike of public attention and the quiet actions done behind closed doors. doors only she sees behind, revealing the character that isn’t advertised and containing the intimacy with which the scorpio moon operates. in this time, when north of a lighthouse on a rare swell, your presence makes her safe, held in, and fully inspired. seduction comes by way of temperance, though an uneasy frame, with each one facilitating the next. loaded moments, words, and letters typed simmer in the late harvest heat. autumn always rings through with longing. –kh

‘…the most haunting woman is the one we cannot find in the crowded café when we are looking for her, the one that we must hunt for, and seek out through the disguises of her stories.’

‘there is perfection in everything that can’t be owned.’

‘he was now in the state of fire that she loved and she wanted to be burned.’

— anaïs nin from ‘delta of venus’ 

(all images and credits can be found at: www.pinterest.com/buffalo77/)

house of the rising sign

 

 

 

 

‘truth is dangerous. it topples palaces and kills kings. it stirs gentle men to rage and bids them take up arms. it wakes old grievances and opens forgotten wounds. it is the mother of the sleepless night and the hag-ridden day. and yet there is one thing that is more dangerous than truth. those who would silence truth’s voice are more destructive by far. it is most perilous to be a speaker of truth. sometimes one must choose to be silent, or be silenced. but if a truth cannot be spoken, it must at least be known. even if you dare not speak truth to others, never lie to yourself…’

‘do you know what courage is? not a willingness to fling oneself into danger without proper thought – that is nothing, nothing. there is cowardice in all impulse. real courage lies in thinking things through, seeing all the risks, and taking them anyway.’

— taken from ‘fly by night’ by frances hardinge

seven lifetimes ago I was a child, a youth, one who had yet to travel beyond upstate new york and eastern canada. all those years ago it had never occurred to me to not do what came natural, what felt instinctive. in my small town this quality rendered me a bit of a rebel, causing my more square friends to share countless snickers behind my back. the more ballsy and real kids made comments and judgements aloud and I respected them more for it. I knew they were all affected by their own lack of understanding and never let it get me down. I was different, not too different, but not caring to blend in. in fact I maintained a strong preference to not fit in because what I was surrounded by bored me. I was always of artist outlook, so fiercely independent in thought and collection of influences that my molting process differed from that of most of my peers.

the ignition to parts of my brain that would form the templates of how I would pursue life experience on several accounts, save for the raging promiscuity and heavy drinking, turned over when I got my hands on a copy of ‘on the road’ by kerouac. the small paperback version of jack’s words and energy that I had inherited from a friend’s library, set in me the idea of eclectic life collecting. after kerouac, I discovered henry miller, burroughs, ginsberg, t.s. elliot, tom wolfe and of course, always, always, dylan. not dylan thomas, yet, but robert allen zimmerman and his gemini way with words that cut and painted simultaneously. I took heavy to these writers that wrote in violent shades of truth. I trusted and reveled in their raw deals and the way they told it like it was. hypocrisy ran rampant in the household I grew up in, just as it did the world over, and my core self bucked up against my rulers quite naturally, with compounded resentment and even rage. these writers pervaded me with a sort of heady slow burn. it was around fourteen I began to understand that in order to find people more like myself, I would have to move away. I was not born where I belonged, and though that felt infinitely lonely at times, I remember being relieved that I had found my people in the pages of books. 

I dedicate this edgy and spirited late summer moodboard of fashion, home aesthics, art and graphics to all the kids who had the courage to move away from all that is or was familiar, to the truth seekers and to the artists. rebel yell always. hey ho, let’s go.             –kh

‘….the only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn like fabulous yellow roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars…’  –jk