Cipgel Barker,
It takes two red bulls,Radiohead in impromptu themed anthology and a diligent procession of cigarettes to drive from Charlottesville, Virginia to Brooklyn, New York in the middle of winter. Also, a couple of fast hearted morons reeling past DC talk radio holding mirrors up to the sky. We get dressed in the car on Bedford and 7th after Fabiane's and the college boy who blogs about the meals he cooks studying film and philosophy? at NYU living on the upper east side. Tearing on tights and floating into dresses we drag sleeplessness to cold and sopping Bryant Park tents where two super hot kids ask if they can photograph what we are wearing. "Yes, I am wearing Forever 21, American Apparel, DSW and Marc Jacobs" I said these words and fell apart before the entrance leaving the snowy white world to collapse on the lap of Narciso Rodriguez who kisses my hand saying the pleasure is his, all his.
We see Kim Kardashian flip her hair hearts under QVC lights and I act like she's a cousin whose mom we don't speak to so fuck her too. Im not even sure I was in the room. We walk into the Salon past a cluster of flash clicks chunks and babe I felt like it was everyday of my life. As I am walking to our seats my cousin is shaking- she says: " Wow, this magic! Is this like with poetry? I mean do you guys have events like this-Is there like all this like 'show' ?" I roll WholeFoods Egyptian Goddess oil on my wrists while I turn my head toward the sea of shuffling people, the meet and greet, Brooke Shields laughing straight out of the Latisse commercial, Nigel Barker an his wife who has a twin not in attendance holding hands, Mena Suvari as a brunette bitched out in heavy oversized clothes mouthing something to her oversized assistant when only a few blogs ago she was blonde and jeaned all fresh cute with petals coming out of her mouth, and I say to my bright eyed cousin: " No, not yet." Nope. Not. Yet.
I take inventory on the crowd, the runway, the size of the room, the care everyone went through to get dressed. I don't go to readings so do me a favor: the next reading you go to I want you to tell me how much care people took in getting dressed. A reading on a runway would blow the top off. I think it would best be done as a projection, desgining the poem into wearable peices and having them modeled down as the poem was read. Or now, perhaps projecting the poem on the runway so that it is walked on by various objects lead out into the light. I hit the poshest port-o-potty, a smoke, meet a british photographer and fall in love with everyone whose profile I catch. The big screen tells me that Tavi (stylerookie.blogspot.com) "wowed designers at the afternoon panel" and that Natalie Portman and Kirstin Dunst just arrived in the tent. Don;t you sort of feel like Natalie and Kirtsin were girls we went to high school with who had serious boyfriends and coughed up Abercrombie cologne?
Under the sheen of the new Mercedes Benz I felt at home. I know where we belong and it is amongst the ghost models, the cleanly concealed undereye, the black coats and angular frames taking black and white pictures on our cellphones laughing with Anne Waldman or Alice Notely about the paradise of circumstance holding the hand of those beautiful lights, "How so Clark Gable your hands."
Deisel Nail and Gold
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