Once seen, perhaps never forgotten

May I present to you, a “Monument to Pro-Life: The Birth of Sean Preston“:

A nude Britney Spears on a bearskin rug while giving birth to her firstborn marks a ‘first’ for Pro-Life. Pop-star Britney Spears is the “ideal” model for Pro-Life and the subject of a dedication at Capla Kesting Fine Art in Brooklyn’s Williamsburg gallery district, in what is proclaimed the first Pro-Life monument to birth, in April.

Dedication of the life-sized statue celebrates the recent birth of Spears’ baby boy, Sean, and applauds her decision of placing family before career. “A superstar at Britney’s young age having a child is rare in today’s celebrity culture. This dedication honors Britney for the rarity of her choice and bravery of her decision,” said gallery co-director, Lincoln Capla. The dedication includes materials provided by Manhattan Right To Life Committee.

The monument also acknowledges the pop-diva’s pin-up past by showing Spears seductively posed on all fours atop a bearskin rug with back arched, pelvis thrust upward, as she clutches the bear’s ears with `water-retentive’ hands.

Capla Kesting denies the statue was developed from a rumored bootleg Britney Spears birth video. The artist admits to using references that include the wax figure of a pole-dancing Britney at Las Vegas’ Madame Tussauds and `Britney wigs’ characterizing various hairstyles of the pop-princess from a Los Angeles hairstylist. And according to gallery co-director, David Kesting, the artist studied a bearskin rug from Canada “to convey the commemoration of the traditional bearskin rug baby picture.”

hypatia shoes looking to act as a gallery

This is a call out to local artists, pass it on.

The shop I manage, Hypatia Shoes, is looking to act as a gallery for appropriately themed paintings and framed photography. The space available is approximately 3 feet by 10. It’s high on the walls, though space for small prints may be found. Commission rates start at 15% and pieces may be left up for a month of more, depending.

Images with gothic themes or alternative models are welcome, as are any with creative use of sexuality. We are looking for tasteful, subtle, more artistic, less pornographic, but some nudity is acceptable. Anything not pg-16 will be discounted.

We are also looking to sell clothing from local designers on a consignment basis.

If you’re interested, please either call or drop by the shop Monday to Friday, 11 a.m. to 6 p.m.
We’re located at 1340 Davie Street and our phone number is 604.688.4862.

oderint dum metuant (let them hate, provided that they fear)

Originally uploaded by sucitta.

Waving from the road to dreaming, I fell into bed and didn’t catch the last thing Brian said to me. I heard “the nightly practicing for death” but that couldn’t have been it. I think I was asleep before he left. Those words were just my own brain haranguing me.

video: emilie simon – flowers

Sleep felt suffocating but required. I haven’t been very good at it lately. Instead it’s middle of the night and I can’t sleep. I’ve signed off-line, I’ve curled in my bed under the covers, book in hand, but I can’t read. Instead I catch myself unable to focus, to concentrate. My eyes scan a page twice before I give up and finally lay it down. I get up, I stretch into a coat, leave my apartment for the hall, go up a floor, and climb the ladder upstairs, breaking the lock on the trapdoor if I have to. (I bring a knife for this in my pocket). I stand on the cold black gravel until my body protests, then I leave. I climb down the ladder, put the trapdoor in place, and go back to bed. It doesn’t help. I don’t know why I do it. There’s just an essential need for escape, for change.

video: emilie simon – live in concert

Middle of the night and there’s a man next to me, tangled around me long and warm. I pause, hold myself still while I try to conceive of who the hell that could be. Yesterday kicks in, leads me to understand it’s my friend, that my heart may beat again, that my nails may sheathe. Middle of the night and there’s no roof here, no grand cascade of jeweled pillows, no ferret curled up on the floor. Instead of dark, the sheets are white, they smell like home, like him. His hair tickles a little and I carefully brush it aside. I don’t want to wake him. I would not miss this for the world. In fact, I know that’s the sacrifice. Tomorrow will burn me, tomorrow real life will begin again. A door opens and six close, pulled so by the wake of wind that’s blowing through our actions as he moves in his sleep and pulls me close to him.

Today I received a warning letter from Flickr, informing me that my Flickr PRO account will expire on Tuesday, April 18.
I had to read it twice, because it pained me to think it was so soon spring again.