Friday, June 12, 2009

pillowy fresh.

"a truly wasted day is one without laughter"
e e cummings

exhibit 14. us.

in loneliness, we see ourselves for who we are; it gives us time to reflect, to think upon what makes us unique. we are finally objective with ourselves, and that's what makes people so cool, despite how awful they can be.

applying to be a bagel slinger tomorrow. hooray.

rene magrite. why are you so incredible?

i want to shake things up.
start a riot.

meet me in the streets; i'll be up 'til dawn.

Tuesday, June 9, 2009

nathan does it because everyone else is.

i'm going mad.

exhibit 13.

they say that artists are supposed to comment on culture.


sometimes, we need to let people journey further and further into the land of preface.

Saturday, June 6, 2009

manuel's mouth.

oh yes.
oh yes.
oh yes.
oh yes.

oh no.
oh no.
oh no.
oh no.

mimi merlot, you're the most convincingly non-fictitious character that i know.

i sold a rhubarb crisp today. i was so happy. my feet briefly left the earth.

eric and i are making a tape series. buy them. details.

"fuck closure. when you don't have closure, you create something beautiful. if there isn't any resolution, it doesn't have to be disaster. i mean, things may not come to a definite conclusion, but it may end up alright."

you shed your failures like a raincoat and wake up day after goddamn day as if nothing ever happened, and the world will be better, except it's not.

and you? you can't accept failure as a part of life.

Friday, June 5, 2009

pitter patter goes my heart.

The child yanks with malice at the mother’s blouse as she grinds away at the glass obelisk, the pungent juice flowing slowly down the sides. The toddler in arms is ignored with a militant blank stare into the mint colored plaster. She is taciturn, allowing her deep seated tears to fall down the recently haggard face that she acquisitioned from her husband. The grinding continues until it is nothing but pith. White flecks fall into the juice. They are bitter. She is quiet. She makes lemonade.

She dreams of widowing away in Spain as she squeezes the lemon with a faint sense of awareness. The life she had is but a vestige of reality, humorous at this point. She feels as though now the lichens of her life climb up her arms in a duplicitous fashion; she can live, but moving is a fantasy. She feels each molecule of the drops of moisture on her face, the salt ripping up her pores. The sobs have landed in the yellow fluid beneath her. They are made sourer by the salt, by the tears. They are quiet. They make lemonade.

The child now wails. Unnoticed, it begins to beat against the mother’s chest, the chest that feeds it. It does not see the tears. It does not see the grinding. It does not see the face. It, too, weeps, but out of need for the mother. The mother is busy. She needs the lemonade. The juicer is full of liquid now. She opens her arms and lets the child fall, its head hitting the counter. It is silent. It makes nothing.

Tuesday, June 2, 2009


i don't know why you bother. why anyone does is beyond me.

'shit, shit, shit, twyla. what the hell happened to maggie?'

today, bounced on a swing. bounced on a bridge. became a child. loved it. did not become a pedophile in any sense of the word.

got a book in the mail. i've been told to read flannery o'connor by many, so i got a book of hers. enjoying it thus far.

i guess

i am


exhibit 12. don't we all?

‘Shit, shit, shit,’ he thought, ‘REPRESS! REPRESS!” It was arduous, it was painful, and he loved it. Keeping the secret that would never be found out; exhilarating.

god, i hate closure.

it is june.
it looks just like the sun.