Monday, April 30, 2007

My Loves



One cannot fathom how lovely the women I live with are.

Friday, April 27, 2007

Clusterfuck.

Tonight is Friday night. Tonight, I stay in. Parties abound, but tonight I would rather stay in and drink three-day-old sour wine with my cat and Andrew Bird and Craig Thompson to keep me company. Cormac McCarthy is by my side as well, keeping a sketchy eye on me. Keeping me company. I drift. Thinking about the lovely boys and girls. I have loved a handful of times, quite sincerely I would be so richeous as to declare to myself. I then think to myself I have only been in love, been loved once, I think. This is what I say to myself. I shake my head violently causing my braids to fall to pieces, get out get out you nasty thoughts. I look like a crazy person I think to myself. Matter it does not, no one is here to witness, I fill my cup once again and drain it just as quickly. The quick and the dead. I once heard that the quick is actually a reference to the part of the fingernail, I don't remember whom or how, I just remember the quick of the fingernail. A lovely part of the body. Exoskeleton like in its nature. A thin delicate structure. I miss James I think to myself. I do not I do not. I miss the idea I tell myself, it would not have worked out I say, this is for the best. I miss Brian oh my Brian how I miss him. But I do not because he has not gone anywhere. Katie had such lovely delicate legs, I think, I wish I was close to them, then I think I cannot trust such legs. But I miss I miss I miss. To pine is to live, I think. Why is Livia so many miles away from me? My wine tastes horrible, it wasn't good the first day I opened it, a symptom of 3-dollar wine. How is it that one gets to be as dreamy as Andrew Bird? As long as he does not cease his singing. Oh my love, Andrew Bird. I really need to stop biting at the tip of my right thumb, it now has a sizable dent, or hole if you will. It is a disgusting habit, unladylike. I have many bad habits. Regardless I feel soft and lovely. If I were someone else I would want to hold me, touch my collarbone which protrudes significantly. Maybe not significantly, but considering the pillowiness of my chest, then yes, significantly. Sometimes it is nice to hide from the world and think. Not really about anything so profound, just things we avoid from day to day, that I avoid day to day. I can see my own eyelashes all of the time and it has always bothered me, unless I am looking at the sun and they look like stars. I used to think my Mexican brother looked like Snuffleufagus because his eyelashes were thick and long and hung straight down. Jake Yuzna just texted me about a recent wave of excitement he had about me moving to New York to be with him and Anti-Cinema will rise again! He says we will do coke off of trannies in the back of cabs. I hope we can listen to Andrew Bird while doing that. Enough enough enough . . .

Thursday, April 26, 2007

Simply put, my Darling.

A few days ago, my ex-lover posted a poem about me, called Darling (click) on the information highway. However painful it is for me, I believe it may be lovely for you readers, as it is has been beautifully under-stated. If your are not familiar with his writing I suggest you wander on over to Of It Maybe (click). Simply put, this boy has a way with words. And a analytical mind, which on none-poem days offers goods of the literary and academic type. Well, sometimes he rambles on about what he has done that day, in typical blog form, but after a while his narcissism it becomes endearing when coupled with the previously mentioned subjects of his writings.

Sunday, April 22, 2007

A new myth for the darling existentialist nomad, because the truth is, real stick children prefer to be alone.

Today I read a bumper sticker that read, I'd rather be lost in the woods than found in the city!, on the back of a rusty white pick-up truck. I drove behind that truck for some time before my left hand turn parted our ways. For about 10 minutes of my life I could do absolutely nothing to pry my eyes from the saintly adage adhered to the back of a particularly charming vehicle.

This is the second time in my life someone's bumper sticker has left an effect on me. Or rather, left me quite affected. What is the first, you ask? Have patience, I'll get to that later. Perhaps it was just ripe with timing, what with me moving to New York soon. Perhaps it has to do with a recent barrage of a wash of relationships that has come my way, that I have found. Regardless of the cause, my mind imbued a meaning into that little black and white sticker, fully equipped with a horrific type face on a plethora of rust.

I had to turn left eventually, to get home.

To my little house in the midwest. With the women I have lived with for the past three years. My cat and dog as well, my bed my things my thing my things. My smells and dirt. Et cetera. But really, why do I have to turn left right now? Why go back? I'm leaving eventually. And even more eventually I won't be returning. That is to say, someday, I won't be returning. I went home. But I should have kept driving east. Turn left, yes, on Franklin perhaps, but drive past Oakland Ave, and the city of St. Paul. Drive east not to NYC, but to an eastern woods. An undiscovered woods. Leaving the native homeland/heartland myth in the dust. It is time to explore a new woods with a new myth. A myth of witches at the stake, of civil war ghosts, revolutionary ghosts, of cracked bells, and misinterpreted tea parties. The dutch, the Pennsylvania dutch, mysterious creatures they are. I will go alone and get lost in these woods because it is not particularly worth bringing an accomplice. An accomplice only complicates various situations. To go alone into a new wooded wasteland will offer many more fruits.

No doubt, I will miss the midwest. The midwest might very well miss me.

As promised, I will now divulge the first and most complex of philosophies whispered in my ears by yet another saintly bumper sticker. I forewarn that although seemingly ironic, this in fact, shredded the synapses of my mind to only be gathered up again to make a semblance of a whole.

What if the hokey pokey is what it's all about?

Saturday, April 21, 2007

I'm done.

You are a cleiche rich with insensarity. Get the fuck away from my life.

This is pretty much how I feel, all of the time.



Like a crazed confused teenager screaming, tearing through the woods alone at night. Good god.

you should all get better aquatinted with mr. jeff brown (clicky click)

Friday, April 20, 2007

All of my many sparrows, they leave my fingertips knarled, but it dosen't really hurt I suppose.

There is no doubt that I am attracted to people are hard to like. The anxious, nervous, insecure, loud, obnoxious, alcoholic, needy, flighty, rude, and unaware. I like these people. They comprise many of my friends. My little broken birds, why do I love you so? You let me nurse your clipped wings, but bite me when I offer you food. Juan Pedro showed me how to be unconditional, my little mexican bird. His heart and mine are both in my throat.

My little broken birds.

Wednesday, April 18, 2007

Ladies and Germs, I present to you, Little Diver.

My darling roommate and woman love, Katrina, aka, Ki-Ki has knitted the most majestic creature that has ever not lived. It's inanimation is nothing but grace and glory. His name: Little Diver.



He is a true party animal.



Delores has taken quite a shine to Little Diver.



Little Diver travels lightly (and yes that is a reflection of my skinny chicken-legs in the mail box).



We play games like hide and seek.



My dad was not convinced of his beauty.



He parties like you wouldn't believe. An animal, I say!



Little diver is also terribly patriotic.



He is a hit with the little wonderlings.



Little Diver longs for things which are great in their nature.



Of course, Little Diver is a great lover of literature and bird watching, as a true gentleman would be.


It is true, j'aime Little Diver.

Thank you.



This morning this mysteriously appeared in the middle of the floor in my room. Peter is an ex-boyfriend who moved away well over a year ago. It was written on a receipt from West Photo. What is a bit strange about this magical appearance is that I recently cleaned my room, meaning I vacuumed, swept, and threw out all the strange weird papery bits on the floor. Yet, low and behold there it was. Peter used to leave me these after I left him sleeping while I headed to work in the morning. They made my day once and now this little guy has surprised me and made my day twice.

You are very special as well, my dear.

Happiness and the magic nature of the mysterious Brian Reed Lindgren.

I am happier than I have been since childhood. Since before I knew there was anything unusual about my lovely brother. Since before I knew what was different between boys and girls. Since before I understood that children, in fact, could die too. Since before I got stoned for the first time. Since before my body was good for anything more than climbing trees and scuffing knees. I feel detached and not selfish and not wanting to be more selfish, which is something that most would say I need to be. It feels so good to give is the thing. I am the happiest when the people I love accept with grace all that I want to give. That is all.

Boo-ya. Would you like an english muffin? I just baked them.

And also, ladies, may I just say, Brian Reed Lindgren is the most amazing beautiful specimen life has to offer. This transcendent creature is a treasure that any woman should consider herself blessed to have. Go ahead, give him a wink. If you're lucky he won't throw your ice cream cone on the ground.

Saturday, April 14, 2007

Wednesday, April 11, 2007

My liver is beating.

I have an internship in NYC. I will be gone for the summer. I do not know if I will be returning.

Anxiousness prevails. Both good and bad. Bad and Good. Boad.

If you think you might miss me, please let me know. Put yourself out there, way way out there. As I have likely done for you, my lovlies. My heart is racing and I can hear it in my liver.

Sunday, April 08, 2007

Esmeralda The Excavator

Esmeralda was an excavator. Or rather, a physical anthropologist turned archeologist with a specialty in on site excavation. Esmeralda was indeed, an excavator. Her career started with a most notable momentum, when she was only 21, still in college interning for Donald Johanson, and just so happened to be following close behind with an armful of brushes, chisels and air tight containers on the fated gloomy evening that Don, as she called him then, found the first fragments of the famed skeleton, Lucy. She was also there for the infamous night of desert camp partying in which the soft spoken intern cued up her favorite Beatles song, Lucy In The Sky With Diamonds (she was always a sucker for rock songs in 3/4 time), for which the famed skeleton was named for. She was also responsible for distributing the acid to the team of partying archeologists which was responsible for making that particular name seem like a good idea.

Esmeralda has no doubt been around the block since those days, with moderate success on field and a great following for her most philosophical musings on the beauty of digging for the secrets of yesteryear. She has grown sturdier in her middle age, but still retained a waifish top to her physique, complete with dainty shoulders, small tits, frail tubular arms, and an unimaginably small 24 inch waist all sitting on top of her newly formed pre-menopausal rotund bottom. Many books have been published under her authorship, and she even had a short stint of ghost writing for an unnamed and much more famous anthropologist. In the end she found the ghost writing pursuit slightly less than satisfying, especially after the certain unnamed book hit the shelves as a best seller for five months solid. That book was her most successful accomplishment to date.

While working again in Ethiopia thirty years later, Esmeralda was finding herself in an archeological slump. She had been brushing and digging the planes for days proving her later life to be growing increasingly luckless. She had developed a neurotic habit of searching for upcoming excavation sites by her lonesome, she found the weariness meditative. Days and months and weeks and not quite years had proven useless. The occasional fossil of an already discovered, named stamped fish or creature would surface, but nothing of the epic nature she so rightly deserved. The lovely Esmeralda drifted and worked to the point of exhaustion when she first thought to herself that quite possibly she needed a new locale. Something perhaps more mystical. Ethiopia had is own sorted history and a loveliness in its prehistoric richness, but it was time for something stellar. Tonight, she thought to herself, I will move to Egypt.

That night, when the gloaming thickened the sky, Esmeralda went for a last stroll in the planes that she had long since considered a second home for herself. She wandered until her thick little legs could no longer bare to carry the weight of her slightness, and she had to sit down alone in the night. She sat in a half daze, thinking of things which are epic in their nature. As she always does when deep in thought, she was using the very tips of her fingers to gently push the dirt and sand around, making a small hole in the ground. It was a small prismatic glint that drew Esmeralda out of her tunnel vision and back to our world to see that within her hands was a gift from the excavating gods. A smallish heavy key shaped object made out of something that looked to be between mercury and crystal. She placed it in her pocket and took it with a grain of salt, an oddity that the land had given to her and not the community that had for the most part, denied her the prestige she earned.

This key most definitely had a place. Esmeralda was not concerned about it. Tomorrow she would be in Egypt.

Saturday, April 07, 2007

Love is an apocalyptic wasteland.



I found this a while back on the NY Times website. Right now it very accurately sums up how I feel about the situations that is me.

My heart, or whatever you want to call that evisceral spirit thingy that one would find if they eviscerate my chest, which makes me go go go, most certainly resides in the forest. And for now, right now, it is tired, so tired of wandering around looking for a woodling wonderling of the like to hermit with to meander with. The little wood nymph that is my whatever thingy continues to stumble onto desolate paths finding menacing sights as the one above as the unfortunate crossroads where she parts ways with muffins, big little shining stars, pumpkin eaters and magic eyes who weren't ready. She was born so very ready. Sebastian set the trend moving away to never join the navy, existing as a land dweller afar from his long lost lovely little miss. Jack Kerouac would agree, that Sebastian is gone and will never come back.

Thursday, April 05, 2007

Death Rattle

I am most certainly dying from an erratic uncontrollable smothering chest cold. I have a treatment deadline for a music video due tomorrow which I most certainly will not make. Accordingly, tomorrow night I must cancel my plans and cozy up in my attic bedroom to pump out the finished version of the pitch script. Thankfully, I finished all of my forensics research yesterday, so my own rotting corpse does not have to spend friday night shacked up, looking queasily at photographs of dead bodies. However, I do have to write about them deep into the evening, which will put my mind in a most compromised state. Oh the things we do for arts sake! Woe is me!

Tourism, Cheese Steaks, and pumpkin eating.

A whirlwind weekend indeed! Rather than go on ad nauseaum about my trip, I have compiled and edited a photographic essay.

I arrived at the airport about an hour too early, thus, I wandered to the bar to enjoy a tall frosty one.



Friday night I flew in at 12:00am. Shared a cab with a sassy young doctor into Center City, where the pumpkin eater extraordinaire resides. It was late so we did a quick catch up at a local bar, since it had been a year since we had last talked in person. After a few beers we moseyed down to a weird party and a club called Pure, where I got an early meeting of some of Peter's friends. We were smashed by 3am and wandered back home to crash. The next morning we made a quaint brunch at his house.



In case you're wondering, this is how you spell Philadelphia.



Peter gets crazy when he cooks potatoes.



Don't be fooled by our craftsmenship, these puppies came out of an exploding can.



VoilĂ !

After brunch, we proceeded to mill about the city for the remainder of the afternoon, making our way down to the Reading Terminal indoor market, and then a party at his co-worker's house.



We passed this on the street a little later and I thought it was neat because Donald Grant is my Grandad's name, R.I.P.



These things were everywhere in Philly, right next to every stoop. I had been wondering what they were for but before I could even ask, Peter read my mind and informed me that those guys are foot scrapers that are from back in yesteryear when people's boots were muddy from riding horses.



There are about a billion murals in Philly.





We passed this boarded up window which had a certain charm on its own accord, but with a little inspection I noticed what made it an even more quaint little spot. Possibly one of the loveliest things I've seen written on a wall in quite some time.



This guy was really cranky. He must have just woken up from a nap. Also, he is the only blue eyed horse in Philly.





So, Hard Rock Cafe totally blows, but they are in every city so you might as well make the most of them for photo opportunities. Shooooot.



At the market, there was the world's tiniest bookstore, which was jam full of books. I'm pretty sure this is what my mind looks like. Paradise.



The next day Peter and I decided to be mega tourists, all old-fashioned like.



Here we fuggin' go.



Peter was not exactly as thrilled as I was about having his picture taken in front of every square inch of Philly.



I, on the other hand was ready to ham it up.



This was drawn on one of the dots on the dominos. Amazing.



Monopoly!



Oh love park . . .



And the rocket's red glare! The bombs bursting in air!



I don't even remember who this man was. Google it.


So, previous to our adventure in tourism, we tested an age old battle of wills. Wait, let me back track even more. Basically, Philly Cheese Steak sandwiches are my most favorite thing in the whole entire universe! Of course in Philly, I wanted to know where the best of the best was. Continually I was pointed in the direction of Pat's or Geno's. The two are arch rivals which reside kitty corner from each other. Peter and I decided to have a taste test to decide which we thought was best.



Geno's came first (this picture taken from the patio at Pat's).



Geno's has a rather uninspired plaque on the ground.



Geno's was all about the flash, and the white people.



My honest to goodness first bite of a real philly cheese steak. good god.





beauty of beauties.



This little guy watched me eat my whole dang sandwich.



Pat's came second (this picture taken from the patio at Geno's).





This is where Rockey ate his sandwich. People don't really seem to care that much, I had to clean it off with my feet. I liked it better dirty though.



Wiz With. That's how you order. Peter told me so.



My honest to goodness last bite of my second real philly cheese steak sandwich. good lord.



many many beauties.



It was a very close call, but Pat's won by a nose 'cause the meat was better and I liked the ambiance.



Peter is digesting.



You know . . .



I was only there for three days. It most sincerely was the longest and loveliest three days I've had in months.