forwards backwards and forwards again

Two years ago I found an image of a kid with her hands covering her face. A seatbelt reached across her torso, riding up her neck and a mop of blonde hair stayed swept, for the moment, behind her ears. Her eyes seemed clear and calm but not blank, the road behind her seemed the same. I put myself in her seat then I played it all out in my head. The claustrophobia hits as the seatbelt tightens, preventing me from even leaning forward in my seat. the pressing on internal organs. I lean back and forward to release it. Then backwards and forward again. There it is—I got free. How much of my life has happened inside of a car? I wonder if the odds are that I’ll die in one. Knock on wood-grain. Shouldn’t speak like that. We live in cars in some cities, commuting across space either for our livelihood, or devouring fossil fuels for joy. It’s close to as much time as we spend in our beds, more for some. The first time I did shrooms, my manager had to come rescue me from Caltech’s ‘Trip Day.’


As I got into her car, I swear to God the aluminum center console in her Porsche truck looked like it was breathing, like the throat of something. On the freeway, leaving Pasadena, we spoke and I looked away, outside, at the wheels and tires of cars doing that optical illusion thing they do where it looks like they’re spinning backwards, which, according to Google, happens because our brains are assuming something completely wrong and showing it to us. Staring, I was transfixed by all the indicator lights oscillating and throbbing against the wind. We drove thru downtown LA headed west, flying on the same freeways I used to run outta gas on. Welcomed in by the perennial creatures, imperial palm trees and climbing vines living their lives out just off the shoulder. The feeling familiar enhanced, on the 10. I used to ride around in my sinewy crossover SUV, smoke and listen to rough mixes of my old shit before it came out, or whatever someone wanted to play when they hooked up their iPhone to the aux cord. A few years and few daily-drivers later I’m not driving much anymore.


It’s been a year since I moved to London, at the time of writing this, and there’s no practical reason to drive in this city. I ordered a GT3 RS and it’ll keep low miles out here but I guess it’s good to have in case of emergency :) Raf Simons once told me it was cliché, my whole car obsession. Maybe it links to a deep subconscious straight boy fantasy. Consciously though, I don’t want straight—a little bent is good. I found it romantic, sometimes, editing this project. The whole time I felt as though I was in the presence of a $16m McLaren F1 armed with a disposable camera. My memories are in these pages, places closeby and long ass-numbing flights away. Cruising the suburbs of Tokyo in RWB Porches. Throwing parties around England and mobbing freeways in four project M3S that I built with some friends. Going to Mississippi and playing in the mud with amphibious quads. Street-casting models at a random kung fu dojo out in Senegal. Commissioning life-size toy boxes for the fuck of it. Shooting a music video for fun with Tyrone Lebon, the genius giant. Taking a break/reconnaissance mission to Tulum, Mexico, enjoying some star visibility for a change. Recording in Tokyo, NYC, Miami, LA, London, Paris. Stopping in Berlin to witness Berghain for myself. Trading jewels and soaking in parables with the many-headed Brandon aka BasedGod in conversation. I wrote a story in the middle—It’s called “Godspeed.” It’s basically a reimagined part of my boyhood. Boys do cry, but I don’t think I shed a tear for a good chunk of my teenage years. It’s surprisingly my favorite part of life so far. Surprising, to me, because the current phase is what I was asking the cosmos for when I was a kid. Maybe that part had its rough stretches too, but in my rearview mirror it’s getting small enough to convince myself it was all good. And really though… It’s still all good.


This is Boys Don’t Cry and Blonde. First times. Worldwide.

—  Frank Ocean (Excerpt from Boys Don’t Cry Mag)

anonymous asked:

Tips for how to pose for photos for instagram? Any signature poses or tips?

It def takes a while to find your best angles! I usually do a combination of looking off in the distance and laughing or smiling at the camera. If you don’t know what to do with your hands, try touching your hair with one hand or having a purse in the photo that you can hold. In terms of body, I always thing walking ones look the most natural :) the best walking ones come from a step and repeat: take a step forward than step backward than step forward again and try to put a little bounce in your step each time

Letters to My Daughter

My entry for Day 6 of @cherishthepeanut week, Questions and Answers.

This was originally a part of Silver Lining, a story I wrote for Day 3: Mother Knows Best, in which Regina comforts her daughter after she hears the Blue Fairy mocking ionship and mocking how she came to be. In the story, I mentioned that Regina wrote her daughter letters because she knew that she’d one day have questions and wanted to ensure that Hannah knew that she was always loves.

These are the letters, as requested by @theworldaccordingtodee :)

Also for the anon who requested the moment when Regina first felt like Peanut was her daughter, rather than her niece or step-daughter; and for @sometimesangryblackwoman who requested Snow asking how Peanut got her name. 

Keep reading

Letters for Lily

               “Lily,” Petunia said, bursting into her sister’s room in an upset huff, “one of those stupid owls has been outside the kitchen window for you for the past ten minutes.”

               “You do realize you could have just grabbed the letter yourself?” Lily bit, slamming the book in front of her shut and rising from her bed.

               Petunia gave Lily a cold stare. “You know I don’t want to have anything to do with this.”

               “Contrary to your beliefs,” Lily stated, strolling out of her room with Petunia in her wake, “bringing in my mail isn’t going to contaminate you.”

               Petunia didn’t say anything. Instead, she crossed her arms over her chest and followed her sister until she’d reached the kitchen.

Keep reading

anonymous asked:

AMERICAN PRESIDENT ELECTION OPINION

The fact that trump is even being considered to be president of the United States is disgusting, outdated and terrifying

“Two years ago I found an image of a kid with her hands covering her face. A seatbelt reached across her torso, riding up her neck and a mop of blonde hair stayed swept, for the moment, behind her ears. Her eyes seemed clear and calm but not blank, the road behind her seemed the same. I put myself in her seat then I played it all out in my head. The claustrophobia hits as the seatbelt tightens, preventing me from even leaning forward in my seat. the pressing on internal organs. I lean back and forward to release it. Then backwards and forward again. There it is — I got free. 

How much of my life has happened inside of a car? I wonder if the odds are that I’ll die in one. Knock on wood-grain. Shouldn’t speak like that. We live in cars in some cities, commuting across space either for our livelihood, or devouring fossil fuels for joy. It’s close to as much time as we spend in our beds, more for some. The first time I did shrooms, my manager had to come rescue me from Caltech’s ‘Trip Day.’ As I got into her car, I swear to God the aluminum center console in her Porsche truck looked like it was breathing, like the throat of something. On the freeway, leaving Pasadena, we spoke and I looked away, outside, at the wheels and tires of cars doing that optical illusion thing they do where it looks like they’re spinning backwards, which, according to Google, happens because our brains are assuming something completely wrong and showing it to us. Staring, I was transfixed by all the indicator lights oscillating and throbbing against the wind. 

We drove thru downtown LA headed west, flying on the same freeways I used to run outta gas on. Welcomed in by the perennial creatures, imperial palm trees and climbing vines living their lives out just off the shoulder. The feeling familiar enhanced, on the 10. I used to ride around in my sinewy crossover SUV, smoke and listen to rough mixes of my old shit before it came out, or whatever someone wanted to play when they hooked up their iPhone to the aux cord. A few years and few daily-drivers later I’m not driving much anymore. It’s been a year since I moved to London, at the time of writing this, and there’s no practical reason to drive in this city. I ordered a GT3 RS and it’ll keep low miles out here but I guess it’s good to have in case of emergency :) 

Raf Simons once told me it was cliché, my whole car obsession. Maybe it links to a deep subconscious straight boy fantasy. Consciously though, I don’t want straight—a little bent is good. I found it romantic, sometimes, editing this project. The whole time I felt as though I was in the presence of a $16m McLaren F1 armed with a disposable camera. 

My memories are in these pages, places closeby and long ass-numbing flights away. Cruising the suburbs of Tokyo in RWB Porches. Throwing parties around England and mobbing freeways in four project M3S that I built with some friends. Going to Mississippi and playing in the mud with amphibious quads. Street-casting models at a random kung fu dojo out in Senegal. Commissioning life-size toy boxes for the fuck of it. Shooting a music video for fun with Tyrone Lebon, the genius giant. Taking a break/reconnaissance mission to Tulum, Mexico, enjoying some star visibility for a change. Recording in Tokyo, NYC, Miami, LA, London, Paris. Stopping in Berlin to witness Berghain for myself. Trading jewels and soaking in parables with the many-headed Brandon aka BasedGod in conversation. I wrote a story in the middle — It’s called “Godspeed.” It’s basically a reimagined part of my boyhood. Boys do cry, but I don’t think I shed a tear for a good chunk of my teenage years. It’s surprisingly my favorite part of life so far. Surprising, to me, because the current phase is what I was asking the cosmos for when I was a kid. Maybe that part had its rough stretches too, but in my rearview mirror it’s getting small enough to convince myself it was all good. And really though… It’s still all good.”

- Frank Ocean, excerpt from Boys Don’t Cry

The Theory

My Grandfather invented a revolutionary device that paved the way to the Golden Era of Humanity… the Negative Impulse Canceller, AKA NIC. It was a straight forward device, a microchip imbedded just under the scalp at the base of the skull. It subjected its user to short sudden pain when they become even remotely inclined to do something malicious.

They tried it on criminals on the death row with a hundred percent success rate.

Everyone was soon urged to wear one. Governments clamoured to legalize its use. Even the critics were forced to admit its efficacy when the crime rates plummeted. There was even an online up-link for all the NICs in use to keep tabs on the mental health of its hosts.

Now as I’m having tea with a friend, an odd thought strayed across my mind. The muscle atrophies, weakens when not in use. If the people stopped making their own decisions and became dependent on NIC, would their conscience also wither?

Out of nothing else but pure curiosity, I opened the minute paper that contained the NIC’s kill code. All I had to do was mentally read the numbers forwards twice, backwards once and forward again. I waited as my NIC transmitted the command to everybody else, through the up-link. I stared across the table at my friend whom I was having tea with. He gave me a wide grin while gently tugging his scarf loose. I gave him a smile while I slowly and surreptitiously reached for the letter opener.

I was right.