i just used the restroom. here at work in the "client" bathroom, the cleaning crew stocks a particular types of the little thin paper toilet seat covers. i say particular because in my extensive life experience, i've noticed two types: one with the center hole unattached from the outer ring, and one with the center hole attached in three places (12 o'clock, 3 o'clock, and 9 o'clock, if you are looking at the cover with the front facing down) by about a half-inch of paper that you have to rip before use. the "client" restroom has this latter type. almost every other restroom i've visited uses the former. with one memorable exception, and exception which causes me a reminiscence every time i use the "client" restroom: the whole state of oregon. i should say "seemingly" the whole state of oregon. why this is, i can't begin to wonder.
of course, as a well-adjusted human being, the question you are probably wont to ask is not "why oregon?" but instead "why do you remember oregon?" well, one day during my west coast trip last summer, i was stricken by a case of looseness, starting at the conclusion of a run and continuing several hours into the day. of course, this precipitated multiple trips to multiple restrooms--sometimes in a state of urgency--during which i wasn't terribly thrilled to have to take the extra three seconds to detach the middle hole of the toilet seat cover. you could say, then, that the oregon-style seat cover made a bit of an impression on me. any impression which continues to this day, thanks to the cleaning staff that stocks our "client" restroom with the damnable attached variety of toilet seat cover.
it's not all bad though: every time i use this restroom, i think of oregon, and by extension, of the whole trip. and it was an excellent trip indeed. and fortunately i remember the totality of the trip's excellence and not usually the specificity of the discomfort of that partial day in eugene, oregon.
so there might be a point in here somewhere. is it weird that i just brought up this silly semi-daily memory-jog? i don't really think so. for me, going to the bathroom is something that reminds me of a very nice vacation i took last year. non sequitor, perhaps, but it's a personal connection not an inherent one. people do this all the time. no, not shit. our lives today are just compilations of our experiences from yesterdays. i don't mean like deja vu or some kind of post-modern orginiality-is-dead thing, i only mean that everything we experience is necessarily founded in, or "biased" by (to use a loaded word in a nicely loaded way), everything in our past experiences. and this is good. this, from one perspective, is the essence of individuality, the essence of who we are as opposed to who they are. this is why we have and keep friends: they share and have shared so many past experiences with us, and so they tend to relate to us as we traipse our way through the world every day that we live in it.
at least, that's one way to look at it.
(as far as the weirdness question though: yeah, i'll give it to you that maybe it is weird in the sense that i've chose this many words to share the memory of my many loose movements in eugene in late august of 2006. i suppose that kind of forthrightness could be considered a little weird.)
Thursday, September 27, 2007
Lynch
Pathetic: I fell asleep while watching David Lynch's most recent film last night.
The excuses: 1) it's nearly a 3hr film, 2) I got through over two hours of it so it's not like I flaked twenty minutes in or something, and 3) I generally go to sleep around 12:30am every night, and the shameful act took place at approx 12:30am last night.
Even if I would have completed it last night, I would still not be writing about it to you now. You see, a Lynch film is not something that you watch and then make judgments about; you experience it, you dive in headfirst and then you wade around and soak in it for a while. You've got to give it time to fully marinate into you.
Anyway, I was thinking about this and it occurred to me that I never mentioned that I finally finished Lynch's short film collection a couple weeks ago. While there's not really much to say other than that if you like the man's work, you'll like his shorts. It's all about what you'd expect, including a good one called "The Grandmother" that is stylistically very reminiscent of Eraserhead. (Here's a question: do you italicize the names of short films, or do they only get quotes? I answer my own question in the previous sentence--I think shorts only get quotes--but by no means am I certain of this.)
In my opinion, there is one short in the small collection specifically worth mentioning, though: "The Amputee." This consists of a woman with both legs amputated above the knee sitting and writing while a nurse changes her dressings. There is a voice-over that we are to assume is the woman reading what she's written. As the nurse fumbles with the bandages, one of the stumps starts to more or less erupt with blood; it's a characteristically Lynchian disturbing image. But it interests me, as a sometime writer, in the way that it combines two separately disturbing sensory experiences: seeing the stump spew blood, and hearing the woman's letter-reading (the content of the letter is very spiteful, regretful, angry, accusatory, and basically any other kind of uncomfortable kind of human interactive state that you can think of). It takes these independent emotions and multiplies their intensity in a way that two more related emotions might not. Hearing the woman's pitiful letter is uncomfortable enough, but when complemented by the nurse's futile attempts, it becomes a very intense experience.
This personally interests me because when I write, or--more often--when I think about writing something, my seeming default mode of storytelling is to have a story intercut with sometimes disjointed or topically unrelated bits of story. So thanks, Mr Lynch, for helping to show my dense self the proper way to use multiple overlapping emotive triggers to escalate the overall feeling of a story.
And sorry both for failing to finish your film in one sitting and for failing to get myself to a theater to see it in the first place, even though it was playing for probably three months just three blocks from my apartment.
The excuses: 1) it's nearly a 3hr film, 2) I got through over two hours of it so it's not like I flaked twenty minutes in or something, and 3) I generally go to sleep around 12:30am every night, and the shameful act took place at approx 12:30am last night.
Even if I would have completed it last night, I would still not be writing about it to you now. You see, a Lynch film is not something that you watch and then make judgments about; you experience it, you dive in headfirst and then you wade around and soak in it for a while. You've got to give it time to fully marinate into you.
Anyway, I was thinking about this and it occurred to me that I never mentioned that I finally finished Lynch's short film collection a couple weeks ago. While there's not really much to say other than that if you like the man's work, you'll like his shorts. It's all about what you'd expect, including a good one called "The Grandmother" that is stylistically very reminiscent of Eraserhead. (Here's a question: do you italicize the names of short films, or do they only get quotes? I answer my own question in the previous sentence--I think shorts only get quotes--but by no means am I certain of this.)
In my opinion, there is one short in the small collection specifically worth mentioning, though: "The Amputee." This consists of a woman with both legs amputated above the knee sitting and writing while a nurse changes her dressings. There is a voice-over that we are to assume is the woman reading what she's written. As the nurse fumbles with the bandages, one of the stumps starts to more or less erupt with blood; it's a characteristically Lynchian disturbing image. But it interests me, as a sometime writer, in the way that it combines two separately disturbing sensory experiences: seeing the stump spew blood, and hearing the woman's letter-reading (the content of the letter is very spiteful, regretful, angry, accusatory, and basically any other kind of uncomfortable kind of human interactive state that you can think of). It takes these independent emotions and multiplies their intensity in a way that two more related emotions might not. Hearing the woman's pitiful letter is uncomfortable enough, but when complemented by the nurse's futile attempts, it becomes a very intense experience.
This personally interests me because when I write, or--more often--when I think about writing something, my seeming default mode of storytelling is to have a story intercut with sometimes disjointed or topically unrelated bits of story. So thanks, Mr Lynch, for helping to show my dense self the proper way to use multiple overlapping emotive triggers to escalate the overall feeling of a story.
And sorry both for failing to finish your film in one sitting and for failing to get myself to a theater to see it in the first place, even though it was playing for probably three months just three blocks from my apartment.
Thursday, September 20, 2007
Film Review: Down By Law
i should call this "impressions of a film," because i'm not really doing anything academic or responsibly critical. and it's certainly not terribly thorough.
but before i get to last night's feature, i'd like to bum you out by sharing the utterly depressing observation i made last night: the sun is setting around 7:00pm now. in another short month, it will be 6:00, and then, god save us, on november 4th, it will be dark before 5:00. you go to hell, nature. you go straight to hell.
Down By Law, 1986, Jim Jarmusch. Fairly early in this film I decided that the visual style was decidedly Japanese, at least so far as I am familiar with Japanese. The long sideways tracking shots of the opening and the almost always excellent composition of the people within the frames, usually just sitting and talking, reminded me of everything that I like so much about older Japanese films. Of course the fact that this film is shot in black and white only serves to heighten the recognition.
You could also say that the film is gritty, but it's not necessarily shot that way; I think the grittiness comes almost solely from the settings: the swamps of Louisiana and the run-down streets of New Orleans. These settings are so rich though that they really do serve as another character, never fading into the distance or simply serving as a canvas. For instance, the escapees are almost constantly wading through the swamp, or along the water, or in a boat, making comments about their surroundings. Or earlier in the film, Tom Waits is shown for a fairly long time outside in the street sitting on the garbage-(his garbage)-strewn curb. To me, this stuff was obviously put in on purpose, to make this film not just about the story but about the place, and to pit the characters not just against themselves but against the world around them. There is not anything abstract or even metaphorical about these settings.
To me, this film seems like a particular snapshot of Americana, and within that, it gives an odd kind of perverse sense of the American Dream. I say "perverse" because it's not really the cliched American Dream, more the Outsider's American Dream (in fact, it's anti-cliche in another way: you could also call this a buddy movie but the two buddies in this film spend the whole time antagonizing each other and refusing ever to acknowledge their buddy-ness. They want only to separate and at the end that's exactly what they do, without any melodrama or sentimentality). The two protagonists don't want any kind of domestic happiness or social acceptance or comfort; all they seem to want is freedom. Freedom from the law, freedom from money, freedom from women. Actually--freedom from what would traditionally be considered the American Dream.
When Tom Waits's girlfriend is yelling at him and telling him it's finished, he is silent. It doesn't seem to bother him that she's leaving, or even that all his possessions are scattered on the street. He simply picks up his shoes and goes. Similarly, when John Lurie's prostitute (girlfriend?) is giving him a dissertation on his failed life, he is unconcerned and isn't even paying attention, relieved when the phone rings.
I haven't yet mentioned who I consider the antagonist of this film--Roberto Benigni's character--but he plays a very important role. (This is the same Roberto Benigni of Life is Beautiful and Oscar-speech fame.) See, this character is pining for the traditional American Dream: in the middle of their fugitive run, he decides to settle down, get married, run a restaurant with his wife, and generally live happily ever after in his own personal slice of heaven. He's also the catalyst for the friendship of the two protagonists. And he rather obviously helps to prove my earlier point when the protagonists refuse his offers to stay with him and quite literally walk away from his American Dream. Beyond all that, he's just damned entertaining. You've heard it before, but you really can't take your eyes off of him while he's on screen. Let's just say I was very impressed.
I've said a lot of bad things about American film of the 1980s, so this might not be much coming from me, but I'd have to put this fairly high on my list of best 80s movies. It's only my second Jarmusch film, but it's quite a lot better than Broken Flowers.
but before i get to last night's feature, i'd like to bum you out by sharing the utterly depressing observation i made last night: the sun is setting around 7:00pm now. in another short month, it will be 6:00, and then, god save us, on november 4th, it will be dark before 5:00. you go to hell, nature. you go straight to hell.
Down By Law, 1986, Jim Jarmusch. Fairly early in this film I decided that the visual style was decidedly Japanese, at least so far as I am familiar with Japanese. The long sideways tracking shots of the opening and the almost always excellent composition of the people within the frames, usually just sitting and talking, reminded me of everything that I like so much about older Japanese films. Of course the fact that this film is shot in black and white only serves to heighten the recognition.
You could also say that the film is gritty, but it's not necessarily shot that way; I think the grittiness comes almost solely from the settings: the swamps of Louisiana and the run-down streets of New Orleans. These settings are so rich though that they really do serve as another character, never fading into the distance or simply serving as a canvas. For instance, the escapees are almost constantly wading through the swamp, or along the water, or in a boat, making comments about their surroundings. Or earlier in the film, Tom Waits is shown for a fairly long time outside in the street sitting on the garbage-(his garbage)-strewn curb. To me, this stuff was obviously put in on purpose, to make this film not just about the story but about the place, and to pit the characters not just against themselves but against the world around them. There is not anything abstract or even metaphorical about these settings.
To me, this film seems like a particular snapshot of Americana, and within that, it gives an odd kind of perverse sense of the American Dream. I say "perverse" because it's not really the cliched American Dream, more the Outsider's American Dream (in fact, it's anti-cliche in another way: you could also call this a buddy movie but the two buddies in this film spend the whole time antagonizing each other and refusing ever to acknowledge their buddy-ness. They want only to separate and at the end that's exactly what they do, without any melodrama or sentimentality). The two protagonists don't want any kind of domestic happiness or social acceptance or comfort; all they seem to want is freedom. Freedom from the law, freedom from money, freedom from women. Actually--freedom from what would traditionally be considered the American Dream.
When Tom Waits's girlfriend is yelling at him and telling him it's finished, he is silent. It doesn't seem to bother him that she's leaving, or even that all his possessions are scattered on the street. He simply picks up his shoes and goes. Similarly, when John Lurie's prostitute (girlfriend?) is giving him a dissertation on his failed life, he is unconcerned and isn't even paying attention, relieved when the phone rings.
I haven't yet mentioned who I consider the antagonist of this film--Roberto Benigni's character--but he plays a very important role. (This is the same Roberto Benigni of Life is Beautiful and Oscar-speech fame.) See, this character is pining for the traditional American Dream: in the middle of their fugitive run, he decides to settle down, get married, run a restaurant with his wife, and generally live happily ever after in his own personal slice of heaven. He's also the catalyst for the friendship of the two protagonists. And he rather obviously helps to prove my earlier point when the protagonists refuse his offers to stay with him and quite literally walk away from his American Dream. Beyond all that, he's just damned entertaining. You've heard it before, but you really can't take your eyes off of him while he's on screen. Let's just say I was very impressed.
I've said a lot of bad things about American film of the 1980s, so this might not be much coming from me, but I'd have to put this fairly high on my list of best 80s movies. It's only my second Jarmusch film, but it's quite a lot better than Broken Flowers.
Wednesday, September 19, 2007
A Very Short Story
Life to b4
John had just been castled: scorned and sent away by his friends. His queen had long since flown the coop; fate had sent her along with a dashing and daring young knight. John was afraid and disconsolate. He decided to lie down and take a nap. When he awoke his queen--indeed his whole kingdom--had returned to how it had always been. He was confused. And extremely disappointed.
John had just been castled: scorned and sent away by his friends. His queen had long since flown the coop; fate had sent her along with a dashing and daring young knight. John was afraid and disconsolate. He decided to lie down and take a nap. When he awoke his queen--indeed his whole kingdom--had returned to how it had always been. He was confused. And extremely disappointed.
Read This
http://www.houghtonmifflinbooks.com/catalog/titledetail.cfm?textType=excerpt&titleNumber=689793
i hope that link works for you. i'll admit that i was first tipped off to the existence of this in New York Magazine's Approval Matrix. however, seeing as Mr David Foster Wallace is both my favorite and most in-awe-of living writer, i would surely have stumbled across this fairly soon anyway.
sometimes you read something and it's less that the words on the page (or screen) project your eyes forward through the piece, but more that your almost mystic recognition of the idea and its presentation is so innate that it's as if you're looking in a mirror--not really seeing anything particular because it's always been there--but instead swimming around in it, comprehending all of it at once.
here is the conclusion, because he's a better communicator than myself:
".......the revelation that most of what you’ve believed and revered turns out to be self-indulgent crap.
That [idea]’s of especial value, I think. As exquisite verbal art, yes, but also as a model for what free, informed adulthood might look like in the context of Total Noise: not just the intelligence to discern one’s own error or stupidity, but the humility to address it, absorb it, and move on and out there from, bravely, toward the next revealed error. This is probably the sincerest, most biased account of ‘Best’ [I] can give: these pieces are models — not templates, but models — of ways I wish I could think and live in what seems to me this world."
i hope that link works for you. i'll admit that i was first tipped off to the existence of this in New York Magazine's Approval Matrix. however, seeing as Mr David Foster Wallace is both my favorite and most in-awe-of living writer, i would surely have stumbled across this fairly soon anyway.
sometimes you read something and it's less that the words on the page (or screen) project your eyes forward through the piece, but more that your almost mystic recognition of the idea and its presentation is so innate that it's as if you're looking in a mirror--not really seeing anything particular because it's always been there--but instead swimming around in it, comprehending all of it at once.
here is the conclusion, because he's a better communicator than myself:
".......the revelation that most of what you’ve believed and revered turns out to be self-indulgent crap.
That [idea]’s of especial value, I think. As exquisite verbal art, yes, but also as a model for what free, informed adulthood might look like in the context of Total Noise: not just the intelligence to discern one’s own error or stupidity, but the humility to address it, absorb it, and move on and out there from, bravely, toward the next revealed error. This is probably the sincerest, most biased account of ‘Best’ [I] can give: these pieces are models — not templates, but models — of ways I wish I could think and live in what seems to me this world."
Tuesday, September 18, 2007
Film Review
i was watching the NewsHour last night and they had an interview with a guy who wrote a book about how the internet is destroying our culture, mainly because blogs and the like are cluttering our consciousness with mindless crap, unfortunately taking the place of more traditional cultural mainstays. i think i agree with his point; however, one point that i do not agree with him on: he thinks that people should be passive consumers or absorbers of culture rather than having a hand in it's production. i might be taking his view very slightly out of context but that's the nut and quite obviously i don't share that viewpoint.
nonetheless, to respond to his first point, i'd like to provide you with a review of the film i watched last night, The Man With the Movie Camera. to be honest, this isn't completely a response to the interviewee whose name i can't now recall, but actually a longstanding idea i've had that was catalyzed by him. i tend to watch a lot of movies, and read a fair share of books, so why not share my thoughts? also, i'm terribly presumptuous and, worse, sometimes pretentious. can't think of better qualifiers to produce "cultural" reviews.
so, the first thing to know about this film (snobs don't watch "movies." (pathetic irony how that word appears in the title of this particular film--yes)) is that it was made in 1929. the second thing to know is that, in spite of its status as a silent film, it should be considered quite a bit ahead of its time. the third is that i always like to play the commentary track of a film and rewatch the whole thing right after completing it sans-commentary the first time, but in this instance i was dead tired and fell asleep right at the beginning of a delightful frenchman's thoughts on the film; therefore, whatever i say here has no reference point and might be way off base.
anyway, i'd heartily recommend this to anyone who appreciates editing or notices camerawork. the director, Dziga Vertov, states very plainly at the opening credits that this is an "experiment" in filmmaking, and the results are suitably excellent. i don't know how much mr Vertov produced prior to this but i got the feeling that he was simply fascinated by the ability to film things moving. there is a small section in the middle of the film where he stops and goes through a procession of still images, then loops back through and puts those images into motion. this played to me as some kind of exhilaratory action by the director, and probably reinforced to the audiences at the time just how amazing what they were watching was.
in fact, regarding the audience in 1929: i can't help but imagine that for them, watching this film must have been akin to sitting through a high-tech magic show--images constantly flashing across the screen, trains seemingly running into each other, buildings moving kaleidoscopically--all set to a rather rousing if disorienting soundtrack. not to offend mr internet-blathering-is-bad, but i've got to say my favorite scene is one where the camera is mounted on a moving car and filming another cameraman shooting mounted on another moving car at people riding in a third moving car. it's excellent and as good as anything you see even today.
the film is only just over an hour but feels longer thanks to the almost infinite amount of things happening on the screen and the very very short length of most of the shots. there is much to see and not much time to see it so you end up becoming more passive and giving up looking for plot or themes or emotion and you see the film only as what it is and what it is intended to be: an experiment in a then-relatively-new artistic medium.
there is a lot more to say but i don't feel like boring you, but generally don't think too hard about this one and just appreciate the craft. if you're into this sort of thing, it will be very hard not to want to go get your own camera and have at it like mr Vertov.
nonetheless, to respond to his first point, i'd like to provide you with a review of the film i watched last night, The Man With the Movie Camera. to be honest, this isn't completely a response to the interviewee whose name i can't now recall, but actually a longstanding idea i've had that was catalyzed by him. i tend to watch a lot of movies, and read a fair share of books, so why not share my thoughts? also, i'm terribly presumptuous and, worse, sometimes pretentious. can't think of better qualifiers to produce "cultural" reviews.
so, the first thing to know about this film (snobs don't watch "movies." (pathetic irony how that word appears in the title of this particular film--yes)) is that it was made in 1929. the second thing to know is that, in spite of its status as a silent film, it should be considered quite a bit ahead of its time. the third is that i always like to play the commentary track of a film and rewatch the whole thing right after completing it sans-commentary the first time, but in this instance i was dead tired and fell asleep right at the beginning of a delightful frenchman's thoughts on the film; therefore, whatever i say here has no reference point and might be way off base.
anyway, i'd heartily recommend this to anyone who appreciates editing or notices camerawork. the director, Dziga Vertov, states very plainly at the opening credits that this is an "experiment" in filmmaking, and the results are suitably excellent. i don't know how much mr Vertov produced prior to this but i got the feeling that he was simply fascinated by the ability to film things moving. there is a small section in the middle of the film where he stops and goes through a procession of still images, then loops back through and puts those images into motion. this played to me as some kind of exhilaratory action by the director, and probably reinforced to the audiences at the time just how amazing what they were watching was.
in fact, regarding the audience in 1929: i can't help but imagine that for them, watching this film must have been akin to sitting through a high-tech magic show--images constantly flashing across the screen, trains seemingly running into each other, buildings moving kaleidoscopically--all set to a rather rousing if disorienting soundtrack. not to offend mr internet-blathering-is-bad, but i've got to say my favorite scene is one where the camera is mounted on a moving car and filming another cameraman shooting mounted on another moving car at people riding in a third moving car. it's excellent and as good as anything you see even today.
the film is only just over an hour but feels longer thanks to the almost infinite amount of things happening on the screen and the very very short length of most of the shots. there is much to see and not much time to see it so you end up becoming more passive and giving up looking for plot or themes or emotion and you see the film only as what it is and what it is intended to be: an experiment in a then-relatively-new artistic medium.
there is a lot more to say but i don't feel like boring you, but generally don't think too hard about this one and just appreciate the craft. if you're into this sort of thing, it will be very hard not to want to go get your own camera and have at it like mr Vertov.
Monday, September 17, 2007
damnit. i'm a moody son of a bitch. lately.
yesterday i was scribbling in my little notebook for some reason about how i felt like i was on acid and everything was perfectly obvious and slow and peaceful. i felt completely content but yet simultaneously there was a profound sense of disappointment and emptiness. i was experiencing seemingly diametric emotions at the same time. i'd taken moodiness into some higher level. over-moodiness. over-emotion. over-loaded.
i wrote a few little bits over the weekend but i don't really feel like posting them here so blugh, blah, bleggghh.
while i was jotting some random crap down saturday night a fairly cute girl sat down with a friend next to me on the ledge against the window. she seemed curious and started talking to me at odd intervals. she was intrigued by something: me, evidently. i was polite and returned words then excused myself when it was time to leave by declaring the pleasantness of the slight conversation and then kissing her hand like someone in an awful Jane Austen novel. i should just say "Jane Austen novel" as the adjective there is superfluous. but the gesture wasn't chivalric; it was perfectly natural. and now i wonder if i should have done more.
also saturday night: i caught a girl "checking me out" and then overheard her tell her friend that she thought i had an "awesome outfit." that is both terrible and great and i am same for thinking it is so. this one didn't come up and talk to me like the one in the last paragraph did. probably for the best.
i should be at the gym now or at least running but i just don't feel like it. i don't think i'm simply having a weekend hangover now either, as is usually the case on mondays. my life is quite full three days out of a week.
i feel like a dandelion that a five year old just blew to pieces. it was quite a rush but now there's nothing left, nothing but seeds drifting floating lonely out across the world perhaps never to take root at all. but perhaps yes. who knows? i'm sick of metaphors for now and don't much care anyway.
yesterday i was scribbling in my little notebook for some reason about how i felt like i was on acid and everything was perfectly obvious and slow and peaceful. i felt completely content but yet simultaneously there was a profound sense of disappointment and emptiness. i was experiencing seemingly diametric emotions at the same time. i'd taken moodiness into some higher level. over-moodiness. over-emotion. over-loaded.
i wrote a few little bits over the weekend but i don't really feel like posting them here so blugh, blah, bleggghh.
while i was jotting some random crap down saturday night a fairly cute girl sat down with a friend next to me on the ledge against the window. she seemed curious and started talking to me at odd intervals. she was intrigued by something: me, evidently. i was polite and returned words then excused myself when it was time to leave by declaring the pleasantness of the slight conversation and then kissing her hand like someone in an awful Jane Austen novel. i should just say "Jane Austen novel" as the adjective there is superfluous. but the gesture wasn't chivalric; it was perfectly natural. and now i wonder if i should have done more.
also saturday night: i caught a girl "checking me out" and then overheard her tell her friend that she thought i had an "awesome outfit." that is both terrible and great and i am same for thinking it is so. this one didn't come up and talk to me like the one in the last paragraph did. probably for the best.
i should be at the gym now or at least running but i just don't feel like it. i don't think i'm simply having a weekend hangover now either, as is usually the case on mondays. my life is quite full three days out of a week.
i feel like a dandelion that a five year old just blew to pieces. it was quite a rush but now there's nothing left, nothing but seeds drifting floating lonely out across the world perhaps never to take root at all. but perhaps yes. who knows? i'm sick of metaphors for now and don't much care anyway.
Wednesday, September 12, 2007
on love
who's in a good mood today? josh folger, that's who. the weather this morning walking to the subway was just perfect: no wind, no humidity, sun, maybe just over 60 degrees. just a sublime pre-fall morning. makes someone like me wish he were running--fast, feeling the vacant hollow air as he creates his own headwind, getting warm, sweating a little but not ridiculously, only so much that the manufactured breeze just slightly chills his clammy skin. just perfect.
someone here at work spilled a cup of coffee in front of the reception desk and i was helping clean it up and now the fingertips of my right hand smell like gingerbread cookies. i'm not going to wash them until absolutely necessary.
a girl came into the F train this morning and occupied the seat directly below where i was standing and reading a printed six-page article concerning the poor season of Atlanta Braves centerfielder Andruw Jones. even within the glaze of usual morning fogginess, the subway blank stare phenomenon, and the absorption of reading materials, a man can always instinctively recognize exactly when a very attractive woman boards a train in his vicinity. he is always thus instantly snapped out of meditation into anticipation. i can't really compare this to anything else; quite surely nature is full of analagous involuntary events, what with the universal dispossession of large swaths of minutae-filled, distracted human brain power. anyway, this girl/woman was certainly attractive, and she chose to sit right in front of me, directly behind my studious (you can "study" baseball) field of vision.
more about the girl now: she was maybe 5'8" or 9" in normal heels, she had short very black very smooth hair that fell around her face like parentheses, she was on the skinny side but not annoyingly so, she had smallish facial features, beautifully lush lips, and a mouth that didn't quite seem to close all the way as she read, and she had a marvellously dark and textured skin, as if the richness of the color produced the smoothness of its texture. all in all, but mostly judging on the skin color, she had the look of a Thai or Vietnamese or even New Guinean person. somewhere southeast asian, most likely. actually her skin had definite olive tones as well, and so maybe she could be Egyptian or Persian or that type. i'm not sure. the important thing to know is that the sum of her was beauty--reserved, graceful, dignified, effortless, and comfortable beauty.
why do i now spend so much time on this girl (it's now been longer in the recounting than the actual time spent admiring this morning)? because she taught me something about love.
when your senses are attuned correctly, it's very easy to fall in love. i suppose i'm cheating by adding that qualifier, but it's really much easier to fall for someone than nearly everyone in this world would have you believe.
i think i fell in love with that girl this morning in just the five to ten minutes we shared a piece of physical existence. i think that this could happen relatively often, and i don't think there is any shame in this, or that it renders more meaningless any previous emotional relationships you or i or anyone may have had. the difference is in the next step: the communication; if you can carry over that initial burst of emotive joy into discussion with a person, then you're starting to go places. and if that then carries over into physicality, and then into comfort, and then into some kind of effortless mutual existence, and so on, well then you've got all you need, the only person you'll ever need (i won't say "wife" cause marriage is silly and arbitrary). so of course all those progressive steps are important, but perhaps the first step, not simply the attraction but the production of love, is the most important. and it's the easiest to achieve, by far. isn't that wonderful?
thank you girl on the subway. thank you whatever put me in the right status of being. thank you to all the numerous future Aphrodites in my life.
someone here at work spilled a cup of coffee in front of the reception desk and i was helping clean it up and now the fingertips of my right hand smell like gingerbread cookies. i'm not going to wash them until absolutely necessary.
a girl came into the F train this morning and occupied the seat directly below where i was standing and reading a printed six-page article concerning the poor season of Atlanta Braves centerfielder Andruw Jones. even within the glaze of usual morning fogginess, the subway blank stare phenomenon, and the absorption of reading materials, a man can always instinctively recognize exactly when a very attractive woman boards a train in his vicinity. he is always thus instantly snapped out of meditation into anticipation. i can't really compare this to anything else; quite surely nature is full of analagous involuntary events, what with the universal dispossession of large swaths of minutae-filled, distracted human brain power. anyway, this girl/woman was certainly attractive, and she chose to sit right in front of me, directly behind my studious (you can "study" baseball) field of vision.
more about the girl now: she was maybe 5'8" or 9" in normal heels, she had short very black very smooth hair that fell around her face like parentheses, she was on the skinny side but not annoyingly so, she had smallish facial features, beautifully lush lips, and a mouth that didn't quite seem to close all the way as she read, and she had a marvellously dark and textured skin, as if the richness of the color produced the smoothness of its texture. all in all, but mostly judging on the skin color, she had the look of a Thai or Vietnamese or even New Guinean person. somewhere southeast asian, most likely. actually her skin had definite olive tones as well, and so maybe she could be Egyptian or Persian or that type. i'm not sure. the important thing to know is that the sum of her was beauty--reserved, graceful, dignified, effortless, and comfortable beauty.
why do i now spend so much time on this girl (it's now been longer in the recounting than the actual time spent admiring this morning)? because she taught me something about love.
when your senses are attuned correctly, it's very easy to fall in love. i suppose i'm cheating by adding that qualifier, but it's really much easier to fall for someone than nearly everyone in this world would have you believe.
i think i fell in love with that girl this morning in just the five to ten minutes we shared a piece of physical existence. i think that this could happen relatively often, and i don't think there is any shame in this, or that it renders more meaningless any previous emotional relationships you or i or anyone may have had. the difference is in the next step: the communication; if you can carry over that initial burst of emotive joy into discussion with a person, then you're starting to go places. and if that then carries over into physicality, and then into comfort, and then into some kind of effortless mutual existence, and so on, well then you've got all you need, the only person you'll ever need (i won't say "wife" cause marriage is silly and arbitrary). so of course all those progressive steps are important, but perhaps the first step, not simply the attraction but the production of love, is the most important. and it's the easiest to achieve, by far. isn't that wonderful?
thank you girl on the subway. thank you whatever put me in the right status of being. thank you to all the numerous future Aphrodites in my life.
Monday, September 10, 2007
A Lyrical Log
Friday, September 7, 2007
9:05pm
Words and noise
Poets everywhere but I'm square.
The blacks do it best,
I don't know why, they rise and fly.
Under a tree,
Disappointed?--No, unannointed.
Tuck away my pipe,
Unable to think, may need a drink.
I'm a poet?
But don't know it?
I think it's best
to live and love--live laugh bleed cry and love love love.
1:20am
So now I'm left alone,
Fifth of a Guinness
Staring at me like a gnome.
I'm terrified.
It can cause me great joy,
A fifth of a Guinness,
Or at least a pining for a sharp Rob Roy.
I'm excited.
The solitude lets me hear things,
Jealousy of my Guinness.
Everyone else wants to have wings.
I'm confused.
Consensus here states I'm awesome.
Respect for the Guinness.
Women expect me to make them come.
I'm transcendent.
3:58am
Ooooooooooohhh jeez.
Walking home, just perved a beav.
Hot hot bitch she's smokin.
I don't know whether she's jokin,
But she smiled at me--
--with her mouth--
And I took my time,
But I made her a rhyme.
Now she's more than just a smiling crotch,
She's a friend, a lover,
Enough to make you cut a notch
Into your bed..........stead.
Ya I'm loving this wild one,
She's a smiling quiet one,
A jezebel in a striped dress,
Makes me sit like a ruined mess.
But it's love, love,
Some weird kind of love.
I can't stop staring into the depths of that mouth.
You got to have it,
Not just a habit.
Older ladies crying shames mysterious games jealous flames.
Saturday, September 8, 2007
Time unknown
Sitting on a chair thank you stranger.
Looking at Doc's I'll get there eventually.
Can't write straight--regrets--drinking--
Not entirely me.
I think I'm a hack but what do I know,
Just sitting here watching the hos.......
Pass by.........my face.
Not interested.
E Village artists are impressing my senses,
Much more than this G-2 can present it.
Sorry.
Wish I were a natural.
Would jot and scratch my way to an immortal--
--ity. On my knee. Give it to me. With glee.
Unknown vibrations,
Waiting, searching, for the essential libations.
Stop. Here.
I'll be back in a minute.
Got to pee then
Happenstance will finish it.
1:51am
In the window at Doc's.
Asian chicks with crocs.
AC dripping on my cock.
Wish that i were a grandfather clock.
No stop.
I'm going to flip the switch,
To be the muse
To project the music
And not to hear it.
Fuck you.
2:20am
Now I've stopped being the jester.
Over in the crack-ho seat
Feeling light as a feather.
Goddamn you goddamn
I'm a fucking poet
I just can't sit here and ignore it.
Sometimes life takes you by the hand
Sometimes life take you by the balls
Sometimes life takes you up up up up and a-fucking-way.
I'm gone--
Beyond, flown on.
Shit happens.
Sometimes I happen to you.
Sometimes you happen to me.
It's free.
It's quietly astronomy
I don't believe in voodoo
But you do
And since I love you
I guess I do too.
9:05pm
Words and noise
Poets everywhere but I'm square.
The blacks do it best,
I don't know why, they rise and fly.
Under a tree,
Disappointed?--No, unannointed.
Tuck away my pipe,
Unable to think, may need a drink.
I'm a poet?
But don't know it?
I think it's best
to live and love--live laugh bleed cry and love love love.
1:20am
So now I'm left alone,
Fifth of a Guinness
Staring at me like a gnome.
I'm terrified.
It can cause me great joy,
A fifth of a Guinness,
Or at least a pining for a sharp Rob Roy.
I'm excited.
The solitude lets me hear things,
Jealousy of my Guinness.
Everyone else wants to have wings.
I'm confused.
Consensus here states I'm awesome.
Respect for the Guinness.
Women expect me to make them come.
I'm transcendent.
3:58am
Ooooooooooohhh jeez.
Walking home, just perved a beav.
Hot hot bitch she's smokin.
I don't know whether she's jokin,
But she smiled at me--
--with her mouth--
And I took my time,
But I made her a rhyme.
Now she's more than just a smiling crotch,
She's a friend, a lover,
Enough to make you cut a notch
Into your bed..........stead.
Ya I'm loving this wild one,
She's a smiling quiet one,
A jezebel in a striped dress,
Makes me sit like a ruined mess.
But it's love, love,
Some weird kind of love.
I can't stop staring into the depths of that mouth.
You got to have it,
Not just a habit.
Older ladies crying shames mysterious games jealous flames.
Saturday, September 8, 2007
Time unknown
Sitting on a chair thank you stranger.
Looking at Doc's I'll get there eventually.
Can't write straight--regrets--drinking--
Not entirely me.
I think I'm a hack but what do I know,
Just sitting here watching the hos.......
Pass by.........my face.
Not interested.
E Village artists are impressing my senses,
Much more than this G-2 can present it.
Sorry.
Wish I were a natural.
Would jot and scratch my way to an immortal--
--ity. On my knee. Give it to me. With glee.
Unknown vibrations,
Waiting, searching, for the essential libations.
Stop. Here.
I'll be back in a minute.
Got to pee then
Happenstance will finish it.
1:51am
In the window at Doc's.
Asian chicks with crocs.
AC dripping on my cock.
Wish that i were a grandfather clock.
No stop.
I'm going to flip the switch,
To be the muse
To project the music
And not to hear it.
Fuck you.
2:20am
Now I've stopped being the jester.
Over in the crack-ho seat
Feeling light as a feather.
Goddamn you goddamn
I'm a fucking poet
I just can't sit here and ignore it.
Sometimes life takes you by the hand
Sometimes life take you by the balls
Sometimes life takes you up up up up and a-fucking-way.
I'm gone--
Beyond, flown on.
Shit happens.
Sometimes I happen to you.
Sometimes you happen to me.
It's free.
It's quietly astronomy
I don't believe in voodoo
But you do
And since I love you
I guess I do too.
Wednesday, September 5, 2007
Drunk log
Friday, August 31, 2007
11:55pm - Well we've made it out this evening and the recovery of me seems fairly legit at the moment. God Bless Dave. That's all I'll say about that.
Times are so far good. I feel bad about Ellie. Here she is, always asking us to hang out with her on her early-off day (which is Monday) and lo and behold we were partying hard this very Monday but nowhere near her place. Sorry, legitimately. Better foresight next time.
Natalie, my former fiancee, seems very much disinterested. I don't blame her: I'm a disinteresting person sometimes. It's okay though--we weren't really right for each other anyway. You gotta try though, you gotta try. Alack and alas.
Saturday, September 1, 2007
12:20pm - I just can't say no right now. Can't say no to the events of my life as they unfold organically in front of my face and over my head.
12:23pm - I'm thinking the 'boats against the currents' line from Gatsby now but not quite morose--or douche--enough to transcribe it fully.
12:28pm - On from Camelot, for love, for fear, with regret or not, The Lady of Shalott.
There's some fucking morosity for you. Probably some Double-D Douche, too.
I spite myself in sickness and in health.
5:17pm - So what did we learn from the OSU bar earlier?
1. I am not, in fact, a poet.
2. Semi-hot waitresses like to hit on Hudik and I.
3. I'm so awesome that I didn't even solicit a number.
7:05pm - Well shit. A wonderfully attractive African Queen has been making eyes at me here at Rudy's. Believe it or not but I might actually be a little embarrassed. First I thought she was alone so I eye-d back at her and was 10 seconds from walking over and making it happen. Then I noticed the second beer at her table. She was not ashamed and kept the intoxicatingly obvious distance-flirt going. Then I noticed the ridiculously thuggish dude finally appear at her table. Then I pondered what it would be like to get in a fight at 7 on a Saturday afternoon in Hell's Kitchen. With a thug. Then I enlisted Tony to take out his legs for me. Of course, because she's a woman and I'm a man, she kept up the game. God bless her. So it's fun.
7:12pm - D-bags just questioned my write-itude. Called my shit "chicken scratch." I said no it's my very own kind of Chinese characters.
7:20pm- I just was talking to Tony about his nice New Balance kicks. He's proud of the blue on them. I thought they looked suspiciously big so I put my thumb on the toe like a guy at Foot Locker.....and........what do you fucking know but he's cheating by a good inch. I don't think I blame him what with those freakishly tiny feet.........but, lo............here's the rub.........he takes off the shoe...........and he's cheating in a SIZE SEVEN. God Bless Tony. It's nice to know a (fully grown) human being who has to cheat his way into a size 7.
11:26pm - dba pony tail john lennon glasses good luck with life. I've been feeling much more asshole-ish in the last couple hours. I guess that's a bad thing. People aren't necessarily reacting poorly yet.
11:33pm - You know I've been having some seriously f-ed up dreams lately. Can't even transcribe the one from last night. Suffice to say I was acting unconsciously obnoxious and seriously seriously angering a few people whom I would reall really not want to anger. So it's weird cause it didn't actually happen but it felt real so still I feel bad. Shame, I suppose.
Time unknown - Thank goodness for Ellie, that wonderful SOB. If it weren't for her, I'd still be bleeding like a madman, unconsciously waiting for others to say hell yeah. Ellie allows me to be totally drunk in an E Village park, twixt 1st and A. Good luck to you. I used to barf in here, but thankfully not tonight. My shame tonight is that I might start bleeding like a fountain any moment. Good Luck, Go Drunk my dad is off his tree right now.
Time unknown - I fight and beg to be within the line. I wrote a poem for the girl at Tonic. Love happens.
Sunday, September 2, 2007
9:38pm - Feeling.............I'm definitely-------------feeling the Sweater Song now.
Ode to Snatch incarnating itself. Supagood. I yearn for a flowering cornucopia of cunt.
11:55pm - Well we've made it out this evening and the recovery of me seems fairly legit at the moment. God Bless Dave. That's all I'll say about that.
Times are so far good. I feel bad about Ellie. Here she is, always asking us to hang out with her on her early-off day (which is Monday) and lo and behold we were partying hard this very Monday but nowhere near her place. Sorry, legitimately. Better foresight next time.
Natalie, my former fiancee, seems very much disinterested. I don't blame her: I'm a disinteresting person sometimes. It's okay though--we weren't really right for each other anyway. You gotta try though, you gotta try. Alack and alas.
Saturday, September 1, 2007
12:20pm - I just can't say no right now. Can't say no to the events of my life as they unfold organically in front of my face and over my head.
12:23pm - I'm thinking the 'boats against the currents' line from Gatsby now but not quite morose--or douche--enough to transcribe it fully.
12:28pm - On from Camelot, for love, for fear, with regret or not, The Lady of Shalott.
There's some fucking morosity for you. Probably some Double-D Douche, too.
I spite myself in sickness and in health.
5:17pm - So what did we learn from the OSU bar earlier?
1. I am not, in fact, a poet.
2. Semi-hot waitresses like to hit on Hudik and I.
3. I'm so awesome that I didn't even solicit a number.
7:05pm - Well shit. A wonderfully attractive African Queen has been making eyes at me here at Rudy's. Believe it or not but I might actually be a little embarrassed. First I thought she was alone so I eye-d back at her and was 10 seconds from walking over and making it happen. Then I noticed the second beer at her table. She was not ashamed and kept the intoxicatingly obvious distance-flirt going. Then I noticed the ridiculously thuggish dude finally appear at her table. Then I pondered what it would be like to get in a fight at 7 on a Saturday afternoon in Hell's Kitchen. With a thug. Then I enlisted Tony to take out his legs for me. Of course, because she's a woman and I'm a man, she kept up the game. God bless her. So it's fun.
7:12pm - D-bags just questioned my write-itude. Called my shit "chicken scratch." I said no it's my very own kind of Chinese characters.
7:20pm- I just was talking to Tony about his nice New Balance kicks. He's proud of the blue on them. I thought they looked suspiciously big so I put my thumb on the toe like a guy at Foot Locker.....and........what do you fucking know but he's cheating by a good inch. I don't think I blame him what with those freakishly tiny feet.........but, lo............here's the rub.........he takes off the shoe...........and he's cheating in a SIZE SEVEN. God Bless Tony. It's nice to know a (fully grown) human being who has to cheat his way into a size 7.
11:26pm - dba pony tail john lennon glasses good luck with life. I've been feeling much more asshole-ish in the last couple hours. I guess that's a bad thing. People aren't necessarily reacting poorly yet.
11:33pm - You know I've been having some seriously f-ed up dreams lately. Can't even transcribe the one from last night. Suffice to say I was acting unconsciously obnoxious and seriously seriously angering a few people whom I would reall really not want to anger. So it's weird cause it didn't actually happen but it felt real so still I feel bad. Shame, I suppose.
Time unknown - Thank goodness for Ellie, that wonderful SOB. If it weren't for her, I'd still be bleeding like a madman, unconsciously waiting for others to say hell yeah. Ellie allows me to be totally drunk in an E Village park, twixt 1st and A. Good luck to you. I used to barf in here, but thankfully not tonight. My shame tonight is that I might start bleeding like a fountain any moment. Good Luck, Go Drunk my dad is off his tree right now.
Time unknown - I fight and beg to be within the line. I wrote a poem for the girl at Tonic. Love happens.
Sunday, September 2, 2007
9:38pm - Feeling.............I'm definitely-------------feeling the Sweater Song now.
Ode to Snatch incarnating itself. Supagood. I yearn for a flowering cornucopia of cunt.
Tuesday, September 4, 2007
Too Much
yesterday, Sept 3rd, at 1:48pm i received a text from dave, bless his crooked little heart: "Hey you alright bud? That was a creepy text to send after leaving you bleeding on the street."
out of it's context, the mind reels at this. and it presented me with what my infinite naivete allows me to accept as a fine idea: the textblog. my phone autosaves my 50 most recently sent messages. i don't know if you ever think about going back through them but you should some time, at least out of curiosity.
at any rate, it was quite a week in this boy's life. ups and downs, strikes and gutters, sometimes you eat the b'ar............
so i've got a little bit of the drunklog from the weekend as well and i'll get around to posting it later. i guess you can consider this textlog the gutter.
one final note: i've got an odd perverse sadomasochistic delight in publicly glorying in my depravity, so i'm no stranger to emotional/vulnerable exhibitionism, but i've got to say that in rereading these texts it strikes even me as very intensely personal. maybe it's too much. but then that's really just keeping with the theme. too. much.
Tues Aug 28, 12:21pm - You ready to head in yet
12:28pm - Were meeting at prospect ave r stop no later than one
12:29pm - Got to be one thirty
12:32pm - One you degenerate
2:07pm - Im an animal i cant help it
3:15pm - Hey i took a sick day an were drinkin outside
3:21pm - White horse for a bit more
3:25pm - Ta-da! Sick day!
6:06pm - Wtf you at
6:09pm - Hey dude. Sick day. Drunk. Awesome.
6:37pm - At the half pint then heading east
7:38pm - Dont know where it is
Thur Aug 30, 12:19pm - Im out tonight. Doing a thing at work this eve then going home and going to sleep
8:59pm - Haha thanks. Actually i checked it and that is the french spelling
Fri Aug 31, 4:54pm - Ill be home by five thirty at latest
9:33pm - Come to manhattan a hole
9:47pm - Going to tile bar now
9:50pm - Come on out tonight
10:05pm - Were out in the village
10:13pm - Hows the party?
11:14pm - In the village
11:30pm - E. Lunasa currently
12:30am - Wtf you at were at blue and gold in five min
12:35am - Fuck it were at blue and gold in five min
1:32am - Only the coolest cats
2:27am - Tell dave the idiot he left his phone
Sat Sept 1, 11:35am - Come to times sq and booze. Dont know when it starts ask dave for real info
11:39am - When we meeting for this game
12:36pm - Bastard
7:27pm - Dude were out
7:29pm - Whats up today kiddo? Were out of course
8:20pm - Well we'll be rockin out in hells kitchen for a while longer if yer around yer place
8:25pm - Ok
8:26pm - No but for the love of god we will do all we can to make it happen
11:20pm - Where you at
12:20am - At ace bar now prob for the night
Sun Sept 2, 1:57pm - Jus woke up elbow hurts
2:08pm - Go fuck yourself im hitting the chivas now getting in the shower tell me where to go
2:25pm - d u n
3:25pm - You want me to bring anything
1:35am - My Rothko . . . . .
2:19am - I am love-drunk and i hate the world. sorry
Mon Sept 3, 11:47am - i'm terribly in love with you. i'm sorry josh
1:54pm - No. Im in love. Miserably.
2:59pm - Dont know. Kinda bummin
3:02pm - I dont know
out of it's context, the mind reels at this. and it presented me with what my infinite naivete allows me to accept as a fine idea: the textblog. my phone autosaves my 50 most recently sent messages. i don't know if you ever think about going back through them but you should some time, at least out of curiosity.
at any rate, it was quite a week in this boy's life. ups and downs, strikes and gutters, sometimes you eat the b'ar............
so i've got a little bit of the drunklog from the weekend as well and i'll get around to posting it later. i guess you can consider this textlog the gutter.
one final note: i've got an odd perverse sadomasochistic delight in publicly glorying in my depravity, so i'm no stranger to emotional/vulnerable exhibitionism, but i've got to say that in rereading these texts it strikes even me as very intensely personal. maybe it's too much. but then that's really just keeping with the theme. too. much.
Tues Aug 28, 12:21pm - You ready to head in yet
12:28pm - Were meeting at prospect ave r stop no later than one
12:29pm - Got to be one thirty
12:32pm - One you degenerate
2:07pm - Im an animal i cant help it
3:15pm - Hey i took a sick day an were drinkin outside
3:21pm - White horse for a bit more
3:25pm - Ta-da! Sick day!
6:06pm - Wtf you at
6:09pm - Hey dude. Sick day. Drunk. Awesome.
6:37pm - At the half pint then heading east
7:38pm - Dont know where it is
Thur Aug 30, 12:19pm - Im out tonight. Doing a thing at work this eve then going home and going to sleep
8:59pm - Haha thanks. Actually i checked it and that is the french spelling
Fri Aug 31, 4:54pm - Ill be home by five thirty at latest
9:33pm - Come to manhattan a hole
9:47pm - Going to tile bar now
9:50pm - Come on out tonight
10:05pm - Were out in the village
10:13pm - Hows the party?
11:14pm - In the village
11:30pm - E. Lunasa currently
12:30am - Wtf you at were at blue and gold in five min
12:35am - Fuck it were at blue and gold in five min
1:32am - Only the coolest cats
2:27am - Tell dave the idiot he left his phone
Sat Sept 1, 11:35am - Come to times sq and booze. Dont know when it starts ask dave for real info
11:39am - When we meeting for this game
12:36pm - Bastard
7:27pm - Dude were out
7:29pm - Whats up today kiddo? Were out of course
8:20pm - Well we'll be rockin out in hells kitchen for a while longer if yer around yer place
8:25pm - Ok
8:26pm - No but for the love of god we will do all we can to make it happen
11:20pm - Where you at
12:20am - At ace bar now prob for the night
Sun Sept 2, 1:57pm - Jus woke up elbow hurts
2:08pm - Go fuck yourself im hitting the chivas now getting in the shower tell me where to go
2:25pm - d u n
3:25pm - You want me to bring anything
1:35am - My Rothko . . . . .
2:19am - I am love-drunk and i hate the world. sorry
Mon Sept 3, 11:47am - i'm terribly in love with you. i'm sorry josh
1:54pm - No. Im in love. Miserably.
2:59pm - Dont know. Kinda bummin
3:02pm - I dont know
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