leona lewis covers one of my all time favourite songs.



yay or nay?

she does have a greeat voice and the arrangement is meticulous.
somehow its like one of those songs who would only work in a 'live' context, you know what i mean? like in the vein of a tribute, one of those american idol moments where people get swept away by the intepretive quality of the singer.

a commercial release? oh i dont know.

im one of those staunch purists who roots for the original.

like harry potter books and their horrible cinematic condensations into nothing but visual spectacles.

and how jessica simpson should be crucified for that aurally grotesque cover of robbie williams' 'angels' years ago. oh how can one ever forget such trauma. it was an assault on the landscape of popular culture!
hello honey, you dont mess with 'angels' unless you're i dunno, david cook or something? i was very taken by what he did with mariah carey's always be my baby.

but i digress.


this snow patrol classic has always been a must-play in most of my 'down-time' moments. i adore the haunting vocals of the gary lightbody (the frontman of snow patrol) and how personal the song sounded. the sonic soundscape had a private ethereal quality, listening to it is like listening to my own inner sad ghost being caught on record.

snow patrol was like the sound of the underground back in the day(they are from glasgow) so damn 'chasing cars' for putting them on the mainstream map.
now everyone loves the band formerly known as Polar Bear.

drastic fantastic, i know.

sorry leona, you didnt butcher it for sure. but your pretty vocals glazing this remake of a soulful original rock number just doesnt work for me. man, i aint no music person (but i do play the triangle very well!) but damn there has to be guitar in this.

and only in such divine moments of academic peril will i blog about something as inconsequential as this. exams in 4 days and miss slacker here hasnt done a damn thing but feel the guilt from all this distracting you-tubing deviance.

i desire nothing more for a click on the remote to fastforward this hellish period of scholastic torment to the highly anticipated dec 5th. havin dr subra pull my teeth apart kicks ass, when compared to cultivating butt sores and a curved spine in front of the desk with a mountain of unopened books and one shady conscience.

gosh time to put such tardy behavoir to a screeching stop and start flippin those smooth, virginal pages of me textbooks and notes. millions of black words stringing together wonderous creative theologies, screaming to be raped by eyes while they rape my mind.

i know, fun times ahead!

oh hello shakespeare! i know you have been expecting me.
im here to shake your spear.
okay, not funny.





Have heart my dear
We're bound to be afraid
Even if it's just for a few days
Making up for all this mess

the usual suspect said::

AHAHAHAHAHAAHAHAHAHHA

'i slide a picture of my neighbour's dog in my folder so girls will think i am sensitive'


AHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAAHAH

courtesy of christina.

the usual suspect said::

Presenting:
the andrea brueckner aspen day to evening bags.
such gorgeous gorgeous colours.
i heart the magenta and cobalt ones with all my heart.

Magenta Glazed Goatskin




The Cobalt Glazed Goatskin


the usual suspect said::

oh lordy!
check out my favourite model the fierceness that is agyness deyn.
i've always loved that exquisite pixie perfection but as you can tell by now, thats not the point of this picture.

perversely enough, this photo sent a sudden jolt of euphoria down my spine

can anyone guess why?




who needs dirty pillows? i'm off to burn my wonderbra!

one evening - feist

the usual suspect said::

rent


this stuff has the power to move me to tears even tho i have seen it a million times.
it was the highlight of my nyc trip last summer when sab, ky and i watched it live.
the amazing talent, the raw energy, the characters of rent speak to me.

jonathon larson is my personal hero.

the power of theatre lies in the fact that it is a shared experience, a live connection between the performance and the audience
and really, nothing moves me quite like musical theatre.

in these dark times, they remind me that it's in my being to live and breathe theatre.
even tho i just want to fuck it all and cry now.

oh god. yes. LA VIE BOHEME!

the usual suspect said::

The Shrike in the Garden of Machinery

i.)

A lesser god in the kingdom of thorns,
I carried Eve out of storage
one sleepless night, plucked her eyes
from their case, oiled her rusty joints.
By lamplight, I planned to remake her
from memory, a goddess before good and evil,
the original Conversation. All that.

I blew the dust from her hair,
set the torsion of her fingers,
wound the key in her back. Why?
To watch her mouth bloom. So I could,
as a drunken bee, buzz at her lips.
I wanted her to speak to me, undress
with conviction. But she was dead. Folded
into the book of days like a flier for happiness.

ii.)

Isn't this is the way of things? Clematis flowers
sprouting and rotting on the same angry vine. The one thing
you can't have centered in your mind, a splinter.

The clot of traffic, those in the city drowning
on sidewalks. The improvisation of ventricles,
dilated pupils. Hours dreaming the perfect Thing.

Portrait of man leaning toward window.
Man waiting for bus. Man wedged in slices of bread.
A refrain: one day the next day the day before …

It won't be long before the hatchling pecks
through the skin of that building, and that, emerging
wet and weak-necked, sport for a new breed of man.

And still there is the hunt for the Fruit.
The blood of erasure. The Serpent's belly rasping
on steamy roadside grates. Do you know, yet,

the price of knowledge? There in the center of it all,
the spike, the compass lined with bodies.

iii.)

Listen. There are three ways to speak.

One involves hiding in the weeds, covered
with stories.

Though you may be tempted to,
don't call me Adam. I've never been here before.

I come out of the redness of earth.
My eyes are on fire.

The solid weight of the Pomegranate is a real thing.
Everything else is a mnemonic for desire.


by steve murkes

the usual suspect said::

gracie lou freebush
miss artful dodger
1986
st.nicks/cjc/nus theatre studies
//
Let each man exercise the art he knows.
Aristophanes

The drama is not dead but liveth
and contains the germs of better things.
-william archer

• mar
• sab
• vic
• vern
• cole
• e*an
• isaac
• bryanboy
• thesuperficial
• thesartorialist
• perez hilton
• sea of shoes
• karlascloset
• anonymousworks/

is this the real life?
is this just fantasy?
caught in a landslide
no escape from reality
open your eyes, look up to the skies and see
-queen

skin by lomographylove[:
inspiration: 001