Tuesday, March 20, 2012

Thus begins

Food week. It's finally happening.

Beginning with Friday I don't have pictures because I only had my film camera, (that I sort of broke) and then exposed and ripped the film. By all accounts, it was a success.

This story is too funny to tell. I'm sleepy. Sorry. This story sadly cut short,
I am obsessed with diners. I am on a constant search for adventure.
Ke'Shayla is amazing and wants to adventure with me. She also wants to make strange friends.
We complete each other.

Avoiding responsibilities makes everything 10x more wonderful. Honestly, the only reason I wanted to come in was for Black lipstick's amazing stories.

This was quite the food day. We had a milkshake and a bowl of fries.  Stole an orange from whole foods. Went to a bookstore. Bus, off off, now now. Wandering through the street looking for another milkshake. I wrote a letter to a stranger and dropped it in their mail slot because it reminded me of my Prince. I wrote about that too. I also included an illustration of my lunch. Avoided responsibilities. Bookstore. Went to Denny's. Time warp. Eight hours of diners and wandering adventures. You should have been there.

No pics, didn't happen.

P.S. I had Sunday and Monday ready to go but fuck you, this is tomorrow is yesterday. Not today is today, for that would imply I am not some kind of lazy fuck. You must be mistaken.

Sunday, March 18, 2012

I just found

A new place to go before I die...why is This font weird? It's like...morse code. Is it just me?
Okay then........

Now I have a reason to go to Denmark. WOO

To somewhere I’ve never heard of,ARoS Aarhus Kunstmuseum, Denmark。。。

t-t-t-turning Japanesey. I guess that means I have to stop typing now. 

That will be all.

"Kids are cute and weird."

I read this line and for some reason, it is so extremely profound and beautiful to me. So true and round-about, on point and ultimately, it is perfect to me. This man, in one moment grew empathy and beauty in my mind. He was at first charming and human and then all together insightful.
I love you Zack P.
I love strangers in excess. It's a problem.

It reminds me of this times article I was reading about the power of a sentence, "For surely it is a magical thing for a handful of words, artfully arranged, to stop time. To conjure a place, a person, a situation, in all its specificity and dimensions. To affect us and alter us, as profoundly as real people and things do.My Life’s Sentences

On the note of empathy, I'm thinking about it especially (now) now. Last night I fell asleep reading Kurt Cobain's suicide note. That's probably not a good sign of anything.


Thursday, March 15, 2012

The truest thing I've read

in so long.

Nobody tells this to people who are beginners, I wish someone told me. All of us who do creative work, we get into it because we have good taste. But there is this gap. For the first couple years you make stuff, it’s just not that good. It’s trying to be good, it has potential, but it’s not. But your taste, the thing that got you into the game, is still killer. And your taste is why your work disappoints you. A lot of people never get past this phase, they quit. Most people I know who do interesting, creative work went through years of this. We know our work doesn’t have this special thing that we want it to have. We all go through this. And if you are just starting out or you are still in this phase, you gotta know its normal and the most important thing you can do is do a lot of work. Put yourself on a deadline so that every week you will finish one story. It is only by going through a volume of work that you will close that gap, and your work will be as good as your ambitions. And I took longer to figure out how to do this than anyone I’ve ever met. It’s gonna take awhile. It’s normal to take awhile. You’ve just gotta fight your way through.

Ira Glass

Monday, March 12, 2012


Max woke up late into the morning and got out late into the afternoon. He laid in bed for hours with his thoughts. He would do this until he felt something. Sometimes he stayed in bed all day, numb, but he had to face the world. Not feeling anything or anywhere. He walked to the only coffee shop he liked and ordered the same cup of coffee he always did. He sat in the back of the crowded room surrounded by people, by disconnected voices and inhuman laughter.
He wondered how he could feel so lonely among so many people. He drank, ate cups of coffee in the back booth by the blocked off window. There wasn’t any feeling to the casual touch of the stranger or the girl behind the counter who smiled at him with sweet intentions. He looked at the people in the coffee shop and wondered how human they all felt. He watched as the people came and went and came, time was spanning in and out as he watched them, age older and older as his heart beat with every cup of coffee. Somehow it beat slower with each drink. He didn’t feel like any time passed but time came and went without him. The warm touch of the coffee kept him present. When music played he became further lost in it. In the space of one song the woman behind the counter grew older each day, her smile faded and her sweet intentions died. He wished that he could feel with her the pain of old age, the wisdom of heart break, the fire that slowly died each day. All he felt was his fingers, tingling; burning as his cup refilled, emptied. Filled, emptied. Filled, emptied. Filled, emptied. Filled, emptied. Filled, emptied. It was this tedium in the back of the coffee shop that reminded him that he was, indeed, human.

He  walked up Bleaker street to meet with his other band in Forman’s garage. Today Max couldn’t feel time. He pulled his bass over his shoulder for the 7856th time. He looked out the garage window and stared at the flashing red light, on and off. On and off. A cold drop hit his face and brought him back to life like the jolt of a defibrillator or the kiss of a stranger who just saved him from drowning. As each drop poured over his face he felt more alive. A cold rush poured over him as the drops turned to floods of water, he walked out toward the red light that stayed still, everything was still. He closed his eyes and it continued to blink but only it continued to blink. Everything else stopped. He continued to play his bass as it vibrated the still water around it and dropped. Everything was distorted with a clear stratum of water that made him want to weep, with no idea why. As he walked through the walls of water that covered him and fell to the ground. He continued to strum and walk towards the light. The light continued to mesmerize him, something about the rain reminded him of home. It made him feel a bitter sweetness that made his heart sick with pangs of memory.
He shut his eyes; felt a heaviness as his arms played. Sound came back into his life. Warmth replaced  the bitter bite of the cold, the last thing he heard was “gone” and that was his cue to stop. He stopped playing and felt lost again. Max walked out the door, dripping. As he walked home he felt like he would never be home again. He thought about the red light and felt a longing for something he couldn’t even imagine.

The next day he laid in bed with his thoughts, the same he did every morning. He stared up at the ceiling and felt a particular heaviness. It weighed him down, and kept him there. As he was forced to think about the state of his life, he grew more still. The heaviness grew and grew and eventually overtook him. He sank heavier and heavier into himself. His heart felt more sick with each second, he couldn’t face the day today. He couldn’t face the week. He couldn’t face the year. He couldn’t face–

He wondered if his life was just a moment or an eternity.
He wondered for a moment if his life was an eternity.
He wondered for eternity if his life was just a moment.

Things that broke my heart

this weekend:

this Neruda passage

like a shipwreck we die inward,
like smothering in our hearts,
like slowly falling from our skin down to our soul.

Not getting to talk to you, 
not adding my abuelito to my graduation list,
knowing he will never have a story to tell me, that I remember.
Not being present. Not being able to help you.
Seven Pounds. Thinking about death and blindness and all the beautiful things in the world.

This letter. 

I’ll Never Give Up


I loved you with everything I was, and I still love you with everything that is left. I never thought the day would come where we did not speak.  I no longer really live; I just go through the motions of life void of emotion.  I walk around this town like a ghost because it’s where we met, and there isn’t a day that goes by I don’t think of you, and look up the sky wishing you were looking up at the same time thinking about me.  I’ll never forget that day you told me “I love how you never give up on me”.  No matter where you are or who you are with, just know that you have a piece of me and I carry you with me everyday. I will never love another person with the genuine, innocent, true love I loved you with.  If only you wouldn’t have walked away and listened to your heart.  I love you always and forever.

E, age 23 

(From "Things I would have said" a blog that breaks my heart every time I'm on it.)

Last of all, and perhaps the most heart breaking to me is not the closing of the Satyricon, that broke my heart a long time ago. (I think about that over thirty Dandy Warhol show all the time, too.) I was thinking about their disgusting beautiful perfect bathroom walls covered in graffiti, and I really wanted to visit again. When I realized I couldn't even visit the ruins of the Satyricon, empty and beautiful in all its glory, and write something on their perfect walls, that moment broke my heart.
It was only torn down January 27th too. :/

Things that bothered me: Not doing art, getting rid of all the broken glass
that lived on my floor. Not dying of my concussion on Saturday,

Not ever getting to relax do nothing without anxiousness.
Not doing all the things I was supposed to do.
Not being happy for one second out of these 48 hours.

Friday was super good though. They always are.

Actually, this photo didn't break my heart at all. I thought it was beautiful and it sort of feels like the triumph of the human spirit. Funny things make me sad, but sad things sometimes make me happy. Like sad movies and cold food and broken dreams and slandered walls.

One last thought: I really want to live in a motel. Really, really.

Saturday, March 10, 2012


is a perfect day,
to make perfect
chocolate chip cookies.

Why does that phrase and 
everything reminds me of the lyric:
To die by your side 
is such a heavenly way to die.

What a cliché thing to think, so often.
Cliché thoughts...even our minds are not free of our trite fears and insecurities. 

I miss making cookies. I used to make them all the time, and they brought so much joy!
But then I slowly stopped, and it's so hard
to get back to things you used to love.

Saturday, March 3, 2012

This can't be good

Looking for a copy of "I hate myself and want to die"
Because I saw this and it made me laugh out loud.

I would say this is my theme song
but this song doesn't even make any sense.

Runny nose and runny yolk

Even if you have a cold still
You can cough on me again
I still haven't had my fulfill

In the someday what's that's sound? 

On that subject, that book, subtitle 52 most depressing songs,
the most disturbing song title's cover was Touch Me I'm Sick.
So much grunge hate!

I disagree because that song is so fucking great, plus
it makes me feel so good!
You can't hear this song and not feel good.

Maybe it's because I'm so fucked up?

God, Mudhoney. Why couldn't I see you when you came to Portland?
Me and Sus would have had such a great time.
I remember how heartbroken we were when we missed you.
Jeez. Everything I write is like a lovenote now.
I have stories to tell you about that, dear single reader.

I'm convinced

the secret to a perfect morning is waking up in a cold,
uncomfortable bed.

I fell asleep watching Twin Peaks in Omar's bed.
I woke up, I couldn't even stay in bed,
on the weekend.

But I knew my bed was hoarder status so I would have to clean it
if I moved there.
Comfort overtook laziness so I got out of bed.
My feet were freezing.

My hair looks awesome by the way.
That was sarcasm...I always look that intense in the morning, p.s.

I woke up wanting to do stuff.
Whenever I hear that term I think of Tom because of a story he told me about his dad,
when he was young he wrote about his future son,
"I hope my offspring inherits my want to do stuff attitude."
We both agreed he did.

Anyway, I did a revolutionary water saving rinse-my-mouth-with-my-Spock-cup-thing.
It would probably just confuse you.

I have to keep a water log for my Mercy corps internship, it makes me feel just great.
I'm pretty sure that bite of ke'sheyla's egg sandwich with egg on the side took all the water from the children in Niger. Damn it.

I really wanted to do one thing in specific but sometimes things seem really weird when you type them out, suffice it to say, I am a creep. (Cue Radiohead) Old news.
But the lovable kind? If there is a kind, I hope I'm there.

This morning I want to talk to you, have muffins, watercolor, find my Alice in Wonderland book, get my lens cap, get a haircut, maybe take a picture I need.

Hopefully I just stay in bed.

This picture is how I feel this morning.

P.S. I try to play that song every morning.