BLESS N°22, 2004: perpetual home motion machines #3. transmitted privacy @domusweb
via dezain
at my income level, life is about perpetual home motion. i can't have the decayed victorian garden of my dreams, but i can try a portable home version. oh wait, its probably even more expensive than a real garden. fuck it. one more thing to fantasize about...

bless: "fuck up every style" (here)


lebbeus woods. sarajevo apartment.

sorry, i've been out. of myself and anything. shitloads of spell-check and next-day deadlines. moving soon. a mess, but still here.

i fell on lebbeus woods through here. quiero más.

i heard about this fabulous matta-clark book published by phaidon. i wonder how expensive it is.

i have to buy my first significant grown-up-life object, like a cornerstone or something.

i want to visit the balkans, especially ljubjana which isn't the balkans and zagreb where they have cute boys.

the days have been so perfect-blue in barcelona that i feel i'm in paris.



mexico city, 2006

failure too should be preserved. as a reminder.



dionisio gonzález@max estrella
jumped from archnews

what is it with people and their haussmaniac ideas of what cityscapes should be. cities aren't meant to be beautiful. not since the xixth-century anyway, not since it became obvious that behind beauty lurked power and control. one thing is beautiful, another is useable, or inspiring, or triggering, or liveable.

toppings 4: diets

jumped from blowdelabarra

i hate diets. i'm such a sweet-tooth.



raymond depardon, pique-nique, 1982
"the desert is private, and only the dunes are nationalized"
(ecrit sur l'image.le désert américain. cahiers du cinéma)

my first real roadtrip. i was five or six years-old. we drove our sedan from san diego to the grand canyon, with a hatchback motor-home riding behind. i wanna do it again.



natsuko seki @ crushed

we have this new italian flatmate. she might be a little country and a little crazy and a little bitchy, but she's a sweet-little atomic ant. and she sometimes looks like vampira. and she offered to remove my backhair.

this morning she sent me some of her favorite stuff on the net. i'm so happy. it looks like this will be a pretty good day after all.

i just needed my hardy breakfast.



public toilet, tijuana, mexico

when i was young and full of hope i was sort of obssesed with those dreamcity lists that came out in fancy lifestyle and travel magazines. mine was never on it. i can't remember when, but i started looking straight in the other direction. now i have my very own list of (bad)dream cities.

it starts with tijuana.



monticello #3, 2001

my recent posts are devoid of color. is it a subconcious strategy? its the times, the times. its the season. fall was always darker. its the sad, concrete state of affairs. still there is room for eloquence.

eloquence can shake and stir just as well.

take james casabere. now context makes his work even more gripping. pale, drowning, muted landmarks...

if that's not enough, add his spanking one-hell-of-a-studio by david adjaye.

like the old 80s pop-tarts add
so cool they're hot




24620: the fugitive house

i hate to brag, but... one of my top 3 seminars at metropolis was kyong park's "europe lost and found". the very basic argument was: detroit as a paradigm of urban development for european cities. not as an example to follow, but an eerie mirror-ball vision of possible futures. kyong was all cool. his political critique fell on the obvious at times, but i thought his projects and overall perspectives were true eye-openers, veil-removers.




usually i refuse going to madrid. not so much because of the classic barcelona-madrid feud. i really don't give a shit about which is the true top city in spain. or if cataluña is really spain. not even because i really really love barcelona and i can't get away from it. its just i have to negate madrid because my boyfriend has a fixation with it. he lived there. he idolizes it and idealizes it. he says madrid is as beautiful as paris. and his ex's are all in madrid, all his leftovers from when he was young and tight and much more active sexually (probably all over). so madrid makes me uncomfortable not only because of its overwhelmingly catholic and institutional and dominant middle-class ambience, but more because of its tight-jeaned, tight-ass, thick-eyebrowed, hypermodern haircut, grungy fags. or the police who wear tights for a uniform in the winter.

still, i feel, this year i'll have to make a sacrifice. there's a gordon matta-clark exhibit at the reina sofía. so i guess i'll just have to suck up my jalousie, as a tiny personal ode to the one and only true anarchitect, and go.