Restless

I am restless and anxious. Like getting your weekly allowance on a Tuesday and you want to spend that money. Burning a hole in my pocket.

Concert in Tennessee? Indiana? Somewhere to go?

Hey Carol, maybe it's time to pay you a visit soon.

Just want out of Dodge for a week.

Greg

Good bye, room.

For all of your cubic spaciousness, for amber waves of pints, I will sorely miss you, my concucube. You are aware, of course, that just as I have you down -- having realized through trial and error your feng shui -- I may have to leave you for greener pastures.

I can only mean that figuratively, since where I'll be going...well let's just say, that place wouldn't be one millionth as green were it not for the trackless miles of cement culverts and metal diverters channeling billions of water from central California to that great metropolis of Los Angeles.

The concrete -- but verdant -- jungle of El Pueblo de Nuestra Señora la Reina de los Ángeles de la Porciúncula sits alone without me there. It is my town. The 213. Aortic freeways. Thousands of miles of tract homes. Select>edit>copy>paste>REPEAT a lot of times.

Sorry, my concucube of a room, I'm leaving with a heavy heart, but my chances will be better for everything down there. Better chance of seeing loved ones, better chance of finding the "her", better chance of being a victim of road rage, car theft, jacking, HIV, or meeting a Republican. Oh please God, please! Don't let me meet a Republican.

What a crazy notion. Not being in the Crewz, man! Gnarly! Politically correct sods.

Just for your information, this is not really the truth. This won't happen. It's not happening now ("it's all happening! it's all happening!" -- Penny Lane) It's a blog, you ding-dong. I'm supposed to muse here, and shit, I was beckoned by Los Angeles when I saw the L.A. Lakers on TV. It was against the Warriors. Wow, the 405 (everybody down there says THE in front of a freeway number; up here it's noticeable to everyone north of Point Conception, California. What a ramble. But as I was saying...

Ok, room. You recognize these sort of rants, right? You've been there. First hand accounts. Tangents galore. Venn Diagrams of thoughts, telephone conversations, or song lists I make on the fly to accompany my mood, taste, or musical musings. From now on, start ignoring these things as they happen in here, because I wouldn't want you to miss me when I'm gone. If you start now, then you'll forget about me. All one hundred and twenty-three years of you; I'm just one-third of that, but we've only been acquainted for no more than 2 years. FORGET ABOUT ME, room.

so much art, so little time

A very long time ago, greg and I went to the los angeles county museum of art. Yesterday I reminded greg that we had viewed Backseat Dodge '38. "Don't you remember," I said. "It's set up on some grass and dimly lit." Greg couldn't conjure up a picture of this piece of art. I was at work researching my next project. A new book about art was sitting on my desk and i love when this happens, interest about something i've already seen or done, reignites and sets me blazing to find out more. Like how the artist died. Edward Kienholz died on June 10, 1994 from a heart attack while hiking in the mountains near his home in Hope, Idaho. Greg and I were young when we viewed Backseat Dodge '38, I remember being moved by the low lighting, the dusty sound of music, and the complete stillness of the vehicle. A vehicle that can't go nowhere, not meant to go anywhere, anymore. There's a woman and a man inside the vehicle, but for me they were not the strongest element. The music, the lack of light, and the concept of things breaking down over time: vehicles, emotions, struggles. That spoke to me. See things in a new way. If you do, art never lets you down. I can't help but picture in my mind the artist overlooking a mountain range, sensing there's even more.

what's so great about nice?

I think having a really bad cold does something to your thinking, but coupled with the fact that I am horny, well, i have begun to feel like an emotional human experiment. "Let's make her really sick and really horny. Then let's put an attractive married man just a few years older than her, yeah, let's put him at the gym, and while your at it Larry give him nice biceps. He'll stare at her from across a workout machine. His look will say, "Look I want to hook up with you, but you gotta give me a sign." Yeah, that sounds like a mighty fine experiment.

"I describe in a realistic form a nonrealistic reality. When you start a painting, it is somewhat outside you. At the conclusion, you seem to move inside the painting." -Fernando Botero

food for thought

Home sick today. Found my thelonious monk cd's. I had given up ever finding them. His music soothes me. And when i felt better I got up and found some other cool stuff: a gold necklace, a short story i wrote about a girl who steals seven hundred dollars from her mother, a pair of jeans, stuff like that. You see i'm cleaning out my stuff, going through everything and evaluating if it stays or goes. It feels good. I worked on getting the knot out of the necklace, i edited my short story, i put on the jeans (they feel great by the way), and i played thelonious over and over. I wonder what else i might find tonight...to be continued

Well Greg, another valentine's day has come and gone. I spent valentine's night at the gym. Married man with nice biceps was there. I asked my married friends if they think a married person would be at the gym on valentine's night and all of them said no. I honestly had forgotten that it was valentine's day until a salesclerk asked me what I was doing for valentine's day. The question made me stop for a second, then i thought to myself valentine's day is just another day. All valentine stuff is half off, some even sixty percent. Right now I'm wearing my bright red sweat pants, their tight and sexy and I'm watching a chick flick. I'm celebrating valentine's day...in my own way.

in the woods...dreaming

"Now I know that it is not out of our single souls we dream. We dream anonymously, communally, if each after his fashion. The great soul of which we are all a part may dream through us, in our manner of dreaming, its own secret dreams..."

-Thomas Mann, The Magic Mountain

I listened to the birds and I listened to the creek. My answer would come a couple of days later in bed. What was I feeling, standing there in the woods, was someone thinking about me the very same moment I was thinking about them? That could have been it, but it wasn't. I laid in bed staring at the ceiling, delicate words started walking through my mind: buttons, love, floating, sound, and then I found the sentence. I was dreaming. Yes, dreaming. Dreaming while wide awake. That was it, i found it, i figured it out, it found me. The woods are a magical place and I had forgotten that, if I had ever known it at all.