For The First Time, I Go Alone

A Hunting Hunting We Will Go

Thu, 09 Nov 2006 03:28:05 GMT

firework_kid?

C'mon!
I am tentaviley (read: no courage) proclaiming it a permanent move!
It is no longer simply a lowly (albiet AWESOME) art journal.

It's my permanent LJ adress.

So get on it.

firework_kid
firework_kid
firework_kid

The Gap The Gap The Gap The Gap Between The Rich And The Poor

Wed, 25 Oct 2006 22:59:10 GMT

HONESTLY

That there is a graph of the distribution of wealth in the United States. Watch the movie if you need it simplified for you. I knew there was a definite gap between the rich and the poor, but that's just goddamned insane. Please pass that link on.

I'm doing my current 3D Design project on this. I got the idea after reading Orwell's Down and Out in Paris and London. A recommended read.

Walk Around With Both Legs

Wed, 25 Oct 2006 01:39:38 GMT

I quit my job! (Did I?)
I'm working for an artist/gallery owner!

Win!

When I Feel Like I Could Have Gone Longer

Wed, 18 Oct 2006 21:22:08 GMT

Man, I really hate to be one of those people who complains or bemoans school work (sorry Natalie, et al), because frankly I know no one cares, although you can probably relate, BUT let me just say that it sucks a lot to get behind in art school. Trying to catch up on projects that consume time, energy, creativity, and money is infinitely tougher than trying to catch up on a few papers or written assignments (although I have plenty of those, too.)

I got my stitches out today. Both wounds are healed, but the scar on one of them is pretty major and it might take a while to heal up to some degree of normality. The other (on my thumb) is fine, if not scab-ilicious. I don't have full range of motion with my thumb, though, which is kinda scary. Doc told me to wait a week or two and see what happens, but I'm not optimistic. She mentioned a surgery, I think, but what she said was something like "PD"? It was initials or something. I don't know why she would do that to me.

Have you seen this?
http://www.savethealbum.com/

It's pretty awesome. Apparently both Colin Meloy and several members of The Walkmen love the Pogues (this is redemption for insulting you, Natalie?). I listened to them go on and on about awesome certain songs are, and then I listened to them, and I honestly don't get it. Maybe Shane McGowan's uber-Irish voice turns me off, but the music doesn't do much for me either. I don't like Irish music much. There. I said it. I do, however, love Cory Branan, and he seems to take a lot of musical ideas from Irish folk songs, and often professes his love of them when he performs. But I do not love them.

What's your favorite album (or albums)?

Here's a brief list of my recent and past favorites (in no particular order):
Smashing Pumpkins - Adore, Mellon Collie And the Infinite Sadness
Neutral Milk Hotel - In The Aeroplane Over The Sea
Do Make Say Think - & Yet & Yet
Broken Social Scene - You Forgot It In People, Self Titled
Azure Ray - Burn and Shiver
Bright Eyes - Lifted
Death Cab For Cutie - The Photo Album
The Books - The Lemon Of Pink
Van Morrison - Astral Weeks
Belle & Sebastian - If You're Feeling Sinister
The Appleseed Cast - Low Level Owl Vl. 1
Mirah - Advisory Committee, You Think It's Like This But Really It's Like This
The Microphones - The Glow, Pt.2
Nick Drake - Pink Moon
Fiona Apple -Tidal, When The Pawn
Brand New - Deja Entendu
Eluvium - Lambent Material, An Accidental Memory
The Arcade Fire - Funeral
Sigur Ros - Takk
Broadcast - Tender Buttons, HaHa Sound
Vetiver - Vetiver
Cursive - The Ugly Organ
The Strokes - Is This It?
Iron & Wine - The Creek Drank the Cradle
Explosions In the Sky - How Strange, Innocence
Dirty Three - Whatever You Love You Are, Ocean Songs
Mogwai - Happy Songs for Happy People
The Notwist - Neon Golden
My Morning Jacket - It Still Moves
Why? - Elephant Eyelash
Travis - The Invisible band
The Beatles - Abbey Road

That's probably enough. Right?

You Got The Wrong Man

Sun, 08 Oct 2006 21:16:58 GMT

On Thursday afternoon, round bout 4:30, I was in the plaster area of my 3-D design class working on a mold of some lightbulbs. There was a girl in the room with me, but besides that, the rest of the area, and much of the school, was vacant.

The mold of the lightbulbs had set completely, so I went about trying to remove the lightbulbs from the surrounding plaster. The first came out without a hitch. Silky smooth. The second was a little troublesome; my plaster pouring skills aren't very advanced, so my mold wasn't letting my lightbulbs go very easily. With a little elbow grease, however, I managed to remove it.

The third and final lightbulb proved to be my undoing.

I opened up the elbow grease like a can of WD40 on that sucker, but it wouldn't budge. In an attempt to finally wrestle it from it's plaster-y captor, I poured every drop of grit into my right hand and saved a little for the left to keep things steady. It was too much for the poor little lightbulb, which shattered instantly and flung itself about the room in desperate escape. Two of those peices happened to fly directly across my left hand, one of them aborting flight and crash landing into the joint connecting my thumb to my hand.

Without feeling any sort of pain, I curiously noted the red liquid dripping from my hand onto the plaster-white ground below. I don't know that I've ever seen a blood that dark before, I thought. The severity of my wounds only became apparent as I hurdled out of the room, nearly running into the shop foreman whose help I desperately sought. While he called campus security, I let acidic tap water seep into my wounds, which revealed the layers of skin the jettisoned glass had flayed open. Was that a bone? I couldn't determine if it was or not before the nice man began enveloping the wound in wonderful pressure giving bandages. Pressure now, was my salvation. I had a newfound respect and praise for this physical force. I would have to tell the kids who took Physics at my highschool. I skipped the class.

In delerious pain I tried to call everyone who could take me to a hospital before realizing the school had a van waiting for me. During my conversation with my mother, my phone died, probably scaring the hell out of her. I managed to keep the phone on long enough to cryptically text my girlfriend, Monica, sending her a message more terrifying than informative: "Emergency".

I used one of the security officer's phones to let her know I'd be at Baptist East off of Walnut Grove (where major highway construction makes that place a dreaded one to travel through). On the way, the officers discussed the fastest route, and the intricacies of traffic lights. Coming in and out of pain filled consciousness, I recall trying to follow a story about Larry "The King" Lawler and Memphis Wrestling. Apparently The King had been tormenting another wrestler on television for weeks, maybe months. Something about illegitimate children. I meant to tell Andy that story; he loves wrestling.

Nearing the hospital, the driver missed the correct turn for the Emergency room. Having made the same mistake some two weeks earlier when I came to visit my step mother (she had had a seizure), I knew where to lead him. I entered the automatic Emergency doors, and waited in line behind a woman who had fallen from a stationary truck. Every part of her body was in intense pain, and she was trying to give some information to the clerk. She struggled to remove her liscense from her wallet, and then feebly reached out to place it on the counter. Instinctively I reached out to help, placing the card on the counter for her.

"Is this your son?" the clerk asked.
"No, just a nice young man."

I was still very much in pain, but putting it aside to help someone else momentarily felt relieving. After she was admitted (to Fast Track, where I would later be), I stood and identified myself with the clerk. Throughout the process I constantly tried to watch the doors, waiting for my parents or girlfriend to walk through the doors. Instead, I was examined by a doctor in the small area behind the desk. Just as I was about to be led back to another room, my mother and stepfather walked in, confusedly looking for me. I called to them best I could, and they joined me behind the desk. More information. More things to fill out.

We were led to Fast Track. The nurse said my stepdad would have to wait in the main lobby, the rooms back there were pretty small (actually, there was only one room, the rest were curtained sections of beds.) It happened that I got the sole room, but my stepfather did not immediately join us.

I waited with my mother for the doctor to come. Finally, a small asian man entered the room, wishing to look at my wound. I hadn't removed the bandages since the foreman placed them on my hand, so I was getting used to having that comforting pressure. When he removed the bandages, however, a violent, shocking pain gripped my body, sending my fingernails as well as my teeth into my mother's arm, pressing my foot into the metal rail around the edge of the bed. My eyes clenched tight as tears flowed liberally out of every available opening. Mucus that had been held back by allergy medication broke through the floodgates, contaminating my mother's and my own clothing.

He took my bandage, and left me a small cloth padding to keep pressure on the wound.

"A nurse will be here soon with antibiotics and morphine."

Websters needs to check their definition of "soon" as it applies to Hospitals. I would argue that such a revision is necessary if we are to have valuable doctor/patient communication. I sat in that sterile room for an eternity pressed hard against my mother's chest, her free hand fiercely caressing my back, the other offering soothing pressure to my now exacerbated pain. Her tears fell in proportion to mine; as I cried incessantly, she did intermittingly. But she spoke constantly, in the desperate reassuring tone only a mother can produce with any honesty. As for me, I could produce no sound except a quiet shriek, the sound of my repressed agony beating against my vocal folds.

My head was full of fantastic imaginations. I could not think, but I noticed the room around me. The beautiful, flower shaped pool of blood where my bandage was removed. The faces in the bed's covering, each reacting in their own unique way to the presence of my fluids, forcefully occupying their domain. The coffee stain on the ceiling - or was it a blood stain. Can a person bleed upwards? There, a glove in the soap dispenser. Here, my mother's shirt, full of impossible designs and hallucinatory bliss.

My stepfather came at last. I asked him if he had seen my girlfriend. He had. I sent for her.

When she arrived, an IV was being placed into my hand. I was being given a tetinus shot. Your arm will be sore tomorrow, the nurse said. Now - the morphine. You'll feel this run through your body. You may feel nausea. Here, some anti-nausea medicine. And then a great putird, saline wave ran its course through my bloodstream. Something definitely foreign. Slowly wonderful. Deabilitating. The cracks and fissures in my brain were filled with putty, my hands ceased to be. I let my head fall back. My knees were cold. My arm felt frozen. Here, a blanket. It was my hospital gown. Every distance became eight million miles away and two inches in front of me. Water? Yes. While I floated, someone's stomach was being twisted and hammered, shredded. Oh, that's me. His feet, my feet my legs pushing into the stiff bed and trying to support the weight of the horrible wretch inside my torso.

Monica relieved my mother, placing her hand over the wound. Blessedly, she looked me in the eyes. I hadn't allowed my mother to see into my eyes. She was in too much pain as well. But it was important to share everything with Monica. She should see this inside me. She should know.

Another nurse was supposed to come "soon" to take me for X-Rays.

My mother and stepfather left briefly for cigarettes, leaving Monica and I alone. At last, I spoke. In a hushed whisper I talked with her. What I said... I can't recall, but I needed to speak with her desperately. I needed contact outside of my head, which was floating high above me.

The nurse came at last and tore me from my Monica. My bed was wheeled into the X-Ray room, where a large machine was led to my bed, to my hand. I set my hand upon some crosshairs, leaving it without the benefit of pressure. I writhed as I waited for her to snap snap see throught pictures of my hand. Two different positions she stole from me and made into black translucent sheets I would never see.

I reunited with Monica and my parents, and we again waited for another doctor.

"There ought to be a TV in here" my mother said.

I couldn't believe her. I nag her constantly for her inability to escape its grasp, but she wastes her respectable intellect in front of that glowing box. Feeling isolated, I look to Monica, and I try to talk with my eyes. I know they are weary and nearly useless, but I attempt to translate anyway, knowing my eyes can not recall the language at the moment. For a long while there is nothing but a few sips of water and some off hand comments.

Finally, the doctor. He informs us that he previously feared the cut may have damaged the joint below my thumb, but it appears the cut just barely kept me from major surgery. Stitches on each wound, he said, and I'd be alright.

Now more waiting. The asian man would be the one to sew me up, but his arrival was belated so long. No clocks, no phones, no way of deducing the time in my morphine mind. So now, what could have been thirty minutes or thirty hours since the incident, my wounds are still open. Still bleeding, in no rush to fix themselves.

Doors open several time and each time my stepfather looks into the hall and we all wait with desperate thoughts for my savior. But each time it's like the waitress passing by the table with a plate full of food that will never be yours.

Mercifully, he comes. He brings his tools and then he leaves. More tools. Leaves again, more. I don't want to wait. Put me back together! Monica moves from my side as he replaces her, opening my wounds again. My mother sits on the bed with me and once again we join. I bury my head into her arm and my eyes won't focus on the details of her skin this close. First he must wash the wound. The water, or saline solution, I don't know - it's just as acidic as the tap water hours earlier. Then: needles. He's numbing each laceration. A needle drops into the first and cry out, my mother urging me to keep still, running her fingers through my hair. My stepfather watches my hand and the doctor with studious fascination, like a callow young med student. The needle is dipped into the wound several times, the drips of a numbing angent doing their work lazily. The first is done and the efforts are redoubled at wound #2, where my body convulses with the same pattern of shocks and tremors as previous. Finally the hand is ready.

I feel the folds of skin being pulled together. I don't look, despite a mild curiosity. Someone is tying the shoe strings on my hand. I can only guess at the direction of the thread that travels through my skin. I never see the needle pass through. One hole is done. I ask for more numbing liquid on the second wound. I can't quite feel it still, but I don't want to take any chances. The process is repeated. Some thread, some holes, some scissors - snip, snip. In a few minutes he is gone and there is black thread running through my skin. On the floor, a pool of blood spreads across the room.

And now - more waiting.

Another nurse will come to bandage my hand, to safe gaurd the delicate stitching. The usual very long time later, he arrives. He wraps a soft, white bandage around thumb, across the back of my hand, covering the knuckles, and back under the palm again, covering my hand to my wrist. I'm fascinated by his process, his skill. He says he wants to make it extra bulky (this is not the word he used, but I can't remember the right one. Monica knows). He uses a second white bandage. More bulk. Finally, a more flesh colored, harder bandage is placed on top. I'm to remove his work and have another placed on the next day, and again after that. I musst take two antibiotic pills four times a day. I am to take painkillers as needed. I am to see a doctor in a few days to make sure it's not infected.

The stitches will be removed in about 14 days.

We Don't Get Out That Much

Tue, 03 Oct 2006 17:57:29 GMT

I'm sure you have been asking yourself: "Self! Where the heck is Nic up on LiveJournal! I miss his comical and sometimes wonderful exploits. Oh, if only he would return and tell me what exactly he's been doing all this time!"

I've been plaguing your thoughts, ruining your days; I know.
Look, I'm sorry.

In atonement, I present to you a bit of my life right now, mostly in picture form for you non-text liking folks.

This is me and the girl I kinda like. A lot.
Pretty, huh?

This is the house I live in. My roomates are: Monica, Andy, Mallary, and Brett.
It's kinda in Midtown in Memphis, which is pretty neat.

This is part of my room. You may not believe me, but I spend very little time in front of my computer these days.

This is my bed. I also spend very little time in this bed.
This bed is not for sleeping.

This one is. This is Monica's room.
We have a little hallway (not pictured) that connects our two rooms, so we can go back and forth without going out to the main hallway. Win!

This is the den. It's supposedly a music/game/??? room, but there are generally just two activities performed in this room, and music is rarely one of them.

This is Monica's puppy, Aster. She's in her crazy period right now, which means she'll eat your pillow and your face.

This is our bathroom. Large cockroaches chill out in here.

These are stairs! Exciting, no?
(This is where dog poop can often be found hanging out.)

This is our living room. It's kinda like the den, except... Well... uh, I guess it's... It's got a cable box! I don't spend a lot of time in here.

I spend tons of time in here! The kitchen is where Monica and I cook delicious meals.

This is the downstairs bathroom. You have to hold the door shut with your foot whilst you poop if you do not want people viewin' your poopin'.

This is our porch swing. It's karazy! Check out how slanted it is!
(Don't be scared, that's just the angle I had to take the picture at.)

This is totally our backyard. And Aster peeing (poopin'?). There's gonna be a compost and a garden back there! Really!

Um, I didn't take pictures of the roof, but we got one outside of the den. It's neat. Also, we have a basement where we'll be setting up a darkroom.

And this is where I go to school! It's fuckin' sweet!

Ok, so other than that, here's some additional info:
I work at a real-estate company taking phone calls and reading lots of books. I hate it, but I love being able to read tons. I'm trying to get a better job (I always am.)

Art school is tough, man! But it's so much better.

I'm majoring in Illustration, and I think I'm gonna try to minor in Photography.

I don't really drink as much as I used to. Monica and I do every now and then, but I used to be partying at Andy's apartment like every weekend.

I don't smoke that much either. I can't remember the last time. Mallary asks me all the time, but it's usually not a good time when she asks.

I miss a lot of people.
Probably you.
Definitely maybe.

Ok. So... questions?

If You Want To Get On Down

Wed, 16 Aug 2006 14:30:57 GMT

Thanks, Brett.

Ha!

Not as awesome.

It's Gotten Late And Now I Want To Be Alone

Thu, 10 Aug 2006 15:52:58 GMT

What You Can't Say

Really interesting article about taboos and moral fashions.
Ch-ch-check it out.

Our air conditioning is broked and it is SO HOT.

Don't You Worry About The Atmosphere

Tue, 08 Aug 2006 04:33:25 GMT

My graphics card melted and I got in a fender bender.

I'm not complaining, just keeping you updated.

p.s. MELTED. Consider that. Not the whole thing, actually, but the fan just melted off. Honestly.

Melted.

And I'm drinking Tom Collinses like a real Seymour-type motherfucker.

LOUD IS ONLY FOR THE LIVELY

Sun, 30 Jul 2006 05:47:30 GMT

FORMATTING PROPER TAGS IS NOT ERH PROPER THING TO DO WHILE DAMN ANKLE BRACELETS IS DRUNK!

CONTRARY

I MEAN REALLY RAGS C'MON?!!

TAGS.

LJ CUT FOOLS.

i am way too fast with this accorrding tojonathan i know this way to well.

NERD!

If We Can Call Them Friends Then We Can Call Them On Their Telephones

Sat, 29 Jul 2006 01:06:38 GMT

Answering Machine: "Baby... baby..."
Me: "Mom, Will [my stepfather] is calling you"
Mom [shouts down the stairs]: "Whaaaaaaaat?"
Me: "No, Mom... CALLING you. On the PHONE."
Mom: "Oh."

[That was so much better in real life.
Really.
You had to be there.
Go find twenty dollars.]

The shirt I wore to work today, this striped, button down affair... It fits perfectly along my arms, across the chest, all of that, but for some reason it stretches down to my knees at its lowest point.

Frightening thought: somewhere there is a man for whom this shirt fits perfectly in all ways.
Those proportions are so unique that I wonder if he is not out there, right now, looking for his shirt.

I only update LiveJournal when I'm lonely.
HAHAHTYPICALRIGHT?

In The Season Of The Old Me

Mon, 24 Jul 2006 07:06:20 GMT

For an hour I squated pensively, wondering if the words "6 million effective pixels" meant anything tangible to me beyond a $549 price tag.

I had come to pick up ingredients necessary for a would be vegan breakfast, but my excitement over the initial idea had waned, and a certain small, green box displaying two precocious pandas caught my eye. I will tell you what it is filled with.

Small, spherical, scrumdiddlyumptions puffs of peanut butter infused nutrition.

Turning around, I found fake milk and held it high above my head while I contemplated CLIFF bars. There is far too much talk of chocolate for an item so proud of its nutritious elements. Do people really need an incentive to eat something healthy?

Two peanut butter (this is a pattern) crunch and one banana nut bread for me, thanks.

I had been considering the CLIFF bars for a good five minutes, a time span I deemed disasterous to the synthetic milk I had been triumphantly toting in my raised hand. For this reason, that container was exchanged for one that had been meanwhile sitting in the temperature controlled refrigerator, waiting for its chance to shine.

This was its moment.

The cashier was unable to price the Peanut Butter Panda Puffs. I knew exactly how he felt. Unlike me, however, this was a matter of discomfort for him, and he required a value to be placed on my love. Dutifuly, I retrieved this information for him, momentarily considering my small physical victory over the cold machines.

I don't know what EBT means, but it apparently does not mean debit. That is what the ATM button is for, the checkout boy politely explained to me. Ah. Enlightenment.

Thirteen dollars less and a week's breakfast plus, I confronted the final obstacle between me and sleep: the pharmacy.

There was a certain item I required, attainable only in this place uninterested in the cycles of sun and moon, focused entirely on the well being of humanity. It is a saintly thing. Making my way through the towering aisles, I was once again haunted by the presence of MEGAPIXELS. I lingered a moment before remembering the perilous chemical makeup of milk #2. I had to hurry, for its sake and my own.

In a far corner of the pharmacy, I located the object of my quest. Procuring it appeared to be a simple task. That is, before I became aware of the blasted bars hampering my honest desire to give these people money in exchange for goods. It seemed as though they expected me to do battle with their contraption, matching it in deadly game of wits and cunn- oh, there is a woman with a key. Thank you, woman. Thank you. Swipe. Tap, tap, tap, tap. Reciept. Out the door.

A beastly semi sped through the middle lane as I shred into the streets, blasting Spoon and sleepily maneuvering through open lanes to find the side road that would take me home, where I will now repose and manufacture the Z's.

A Supersonic Man

Fri, 21 Jul 2006 16:12:07 GMT

So there's this kid stuck up in the mountains, and for the most part he lives like a hermit, dazzled by the eternal fire lit in the corner of his neat, well kept cave. He spends hours fiddling with this fire, making adjustments and ensuring that it stays burning just so. By the light of the fire he creates crude artwork on the cave walls, works fashioned from animal carcasses and various things found outside the cave, pastiched together in an impressive form of collage. The fire is his friend; rarely does he long for the company of the opposite sex, but when he does... Around the fire he dances to the music inside his head. The music is upbeat and reassuring, empowering to an unfathomable degree; yet he rarely heeds the words sung in his head and leaves his comfortable cave.

When this kid does leave, it's generally for practical purposes, to acquire things needed for survival: garlic breadsticks, frozen pizzas. Burritos.

This kid is Tom Strodbeck, and he's one kick-ass-cro-magnon.

Happy Birthday, Tom.

Come back to Memphis sometime, will ya?

Stars In Your Eyes

Thu, 13 Jul 2006 01:24:03 GMT

My greatest fear:
That I will get a flat tire while driving on the interstate.

My greatest dream:
That I will become wildly successfull and rub it in my father's face.

p.s. I got into M(emphis)C(ollege)(of)A(art) with some scholarship money.
And I got a house.

With neat people.

Best To Go While The Going's Okay

Wed, 28 Jun 2006 03:38:07 GMT

Applying to Memphis College of Art in the morning.

I appreciate everyone expressing their greif over my situation. I'm alive, I've got a passion, and I'm going to get where I want to be. I know these things.

My dad keeps telling me that I can't rely so much on myself, that in certain situations one must find comfort in a higher power. What he continues to misunderstand is that a higher power doesn't necessarily equal BIG CHRISTIAN GOD. I have my beliefs, and they are comforting. They just aren't his.

I also believe that I am a pretty awesome person and that no amount of praying is going to give me a +2 to fortitude. That's something you earn.

Just Don't Make It Last Any Longer Than It Has To

Tue, 27 Jun 2006 05:48:01 GMT

I'm sorry I lied to you all.
I'm not going to New York this fall.

I just found out tonight.
The gist is that my dad won't agree to cosign for my loans, and he's the only one who can, so I can't get money to go.

I don't know what's going to happen, but I'm not going back to ETSU.

I Want To Hold You But You're Out Of Reach

Sun, 25 Jun 2006 19:12:11 GMT

All this and more at firework_kid!
firework_kid
firework_kid
firework_kid

I do not apologize for covering your friends page in art if you've already befriended that journal. People need more art. Especially mine.

I LOVE YOU AND I WANT WHAT'S BEST FOR YOU

(Did anyone notice I deleted my MySpace, finally? No? Oh. Well... I did. Just in time to read an article about Newscorp that made me feel doubleplus good about my decision. Have fun getting used and exploited.)

Let's Go Back To School

Sat, 24 Jun 2006 02:40:51 GMT

Oh man:
New York.

Third time in my life I have immediately thought to myself "I can live here. I can live like this." upon arriving somewhere.

Previous occurences:
Los Angeles
Mingo County, West Virginia

It's a beautiful feeling, let me tell you. This city, there's just no way to put it in words. It's everything. A lot of things are ridiculously expensive, but you can find almost everything for cheap (I got 5 rolls of film for $2 today). The people flow like blood through the city's veins, the streets, pumping in and out of the subway stations and spilling into the multitude of small shops littering the imposing buildings, pores I suppose in this metaphor. The subway is daunting at first, like much of the city, but before long it's second nature and you've lived here for years. You ask a cop for directions, a cop, and he'll turn to his partner and say "Hey, what's the best way to get to _____?" - every time. And you listen and you vaguely comprehend the intstructions, and you consult your map anyway and figure it out. It just takes walking the streets really, to get to know them. You have to shake hands with each street corner, trace the paths with your feet and etch them into your soles. Lower Manhattan is already comfortably familiar, the Lower East Side brilliantly readable. The people are - everywhere, all the time. Where do they come from? Where do they go? What do they do? For the first time in - ever, I was completely overwhelmed by the amount of faces and feet bustling around me. There's no time to stereotype and categorize and give someone a complete backstory and motivation in such a situation. There's just... acceptance. These are people. They are going somewhere. I am going somewhere. We are going somewhere.

I saw the school today. The school that I'll be paying ridiculous amounts of money to attend. I'm happy to report that it seems to be worth every loaned penny. Not much more to really say about that that wouldn't be horribly drab. (Monica: there is a WHOLE BUILDING for Photography. It's like 7 or 8 floors JUST FOR PHOTOGRAPHY. Yeah.)

We're staying in Soho. Next to Soho is Chinatown. Next to Chinatown (and, well, also next to Soho)is Little Italy, and the two areas blend seamlessly together. Standing under the christmas lights hanging above the fragrant restaurants lining the walking only street of Little Italy, you look over across the street and see nothing but ~~Kanji~~ (Chinese symbols? What are those called?) on evey building, every sign. Oh look, the golden arches, oh look a burger king, but they're only recognizable because of those familiar brand logos. They are from this country, but at this moment, oddly foreign. Standing on that corner, in Italy and looking at China, I imagine it feels something like standing at the Four Corners out west, except far more jarring, the difference in borders disarmingly clear. But it's comforting, beautiful to see two cultures occupying the same corner, embracing each other like that.

Oh-

The cheesecake, and please try to imagine, is heaven. I make no exaggerations here, people. Each bite was like manna, melting into my tongue and becoming every bit of pleasure my body has ever known. I can't remember what it was called but it's sign advertised it as the #1 Desert place in Little Italy and you can take that to the fucking Chase Manhattan bank.

I saw one of the dudes from the Soprano's. Andy, I thought immediately of you. I said to my dad, "Andy would love that."

Shamefully, we ate at Olive Garden for lunch. Excuses: we were already in Times Square and we were fucking hungry and we didn't feel like looking for anything else. Oh. Well.

The WTC site was really unimpressive, honestly. I acted really blown away for my dad and all, because he kept telling me how blown away he was, but, really, it just looks like a construction site. The gravity of the events isn't really palpable. Maybe if I would've seen it soon after or maybe if I had seen the area when the towers were still there, then maybe I might have let a little gasp or felt a chill.

I told my dad I wasn't intimidated, but then I kept missing opportunities. I had three cameras with me, but for convenience sake I was only using the Canon. It has a built in light meter, the others don't. I didn't want to waste time working that out. Anyway, I kept feeling these moments, these perfect moments when I knew I should have my finger on the shutter, but I kept hesitating. I doubted. I wasn't giving in. Tao, you know.

"This can't be happening!" "This CANNOT be happening!"
Some guy was shouting into his cell phone. I start to repeat his words to my dad at the same time my dad is about to repeat his lines back to me. We both snicker. We're getting along ok, which is... a first.

My dad and I have been talking politics all day, if you can imagine, off and on. I'm a typical liberal hippy twenty-something, and he's a surprisingly open conservative-cum-independent (libertarian). We seem to agree on a couple of things, like: George W. has made some big mistakes, the Iraq war should not have happened, and the environment is being seriously fucked with. The problem is that everything I say seems to sound like a conspiracy theory whenever it comes out of my mouth because I'm not good at remembering facts to back up my arguments (and most of my arguments usually come from Alternet or Onegoodmove, shamelessly... I try to sift through the facts and draw my own conclusions, but most of the time I just agree with what the people there say. They seem to know what they're talking about, like most people who talk politics.) and my dad is incredibly adept at remembering shit to back up his claims, which is frustrating, because it always makes him sound right. This is why I generally, as a rule, do not talk politics. I have certain beliefs, but they're nearly intangible and extremely difficult to put it into words that don't make me sound batshit crazy.

This just in: according to my dad, there is much "carpet eating" going on down the hall. Apparently there's a convention.

ANYWAY -

Tomorrow I'm looking at apartments in Williamsburg (which is part of Brooklyn?). It's supposed to be a hipster/artist area. From the people I've talked to, I can confirm this somewhat. The Bushwick portion of Williamsburg is apparently akin to Orange Mound in Memphis: white people are not to go there if they value things like breathing or watching Johnny Depp movies (because who doesn't like Johnny Depp?).

This city is wonderfully exhausting. I feel like I made love to it all day and now I need to fall asleep in its arms.

Now Feels Like Forever

Wed, 21 Jun 2006 04:20:45 GMT

I have a new mix to share with you guys!

(Click to download)

The premise is that these are all songs that you'd listen to in the summer. Songs that you'd listen to while watching the stars in some expansive country field, or while sitting in the backseat of a car while the scenery passes by in twilight and you're thinking about... everything. Songs that you'd hear in your head at a bonfire, or songs you'd want to sing to someone while holding their hand and walking down a rocky beach by a lake. Songs that you'd sing along to with your friends to try and stay young, or songs that make time slow down and everything feel more intense.

These are songs about an endless, timeless summer, and the youth, and freedom, it represents.

01. Van Morrison - "Astral Weeks" (Astral Weeks)
02. Dungen - "Sjutton" (Ta Det Lugnt)
03. M. Craft - "Come To My Senses (I Can See It All Tonight)
04. Belle & Sebastian - "If You're Feeling Sinister" (If You're Geeling Sinister)
05. Broken Social Scene - "Swimmers" (Broken Social Scene)
06. Ambulance Ltd - "Stay Where You Are" (Ambulance Ltd)
07. R.E.M. - "Nightswimming" (Automatic For The People)
08. Nick Drake - "Place To Be" (Pink Moon)
09. Fruit Bats - "When U Love Somebody" (Mouthfuls)
10. Laura Veirs - "Tom Skookum Road" (Troubled By The Fire)
11. Iron & Wine - "Lion's Mane" (The Creek Drank The Cradle)
12. M. Ward - "Helicopter" (The Transfiguration Of Vincent)
13. Youth Group - "See-saw" (Skeleton Jar)
14. Vetiver - "Belles" (Vetiver)
15. Jolie Holland - "Do You?" (Escondida)
16. Dirty Three - "Horse" (Horse Stories)
17. The Microphones - "I Want Wind To Blow" (The Glow, Pt. 2)
18. The Arcade Fire - "Headlights Look Like Diamonds" (The Arcade Fire EP)

Enjoy!

We've Been Told To Wait

Sat, 17 Jun 2006 02:24:19 GMT

Oh internets.

The last two posts have amused me, really, and I'm sorry if you weren't, but I just wrote 12 pages in a real journal and, well, I just don't feel like transcribing here. I realized that when I first started this journal, I thought of it more as a wesbite, and, as time has gone on, I've come to think of it more like a regular-type journal, which is, I guess, where I got off track. Considering that really is a website, I'm more inclined than ever now to ditch it, especially since I can't really use the argument that I use it to keep up with my friends' lives anymore. Frankly, very few of you really write about your lives, and, of those who do, I don't really talk to you that much and we're just not really close friends, you know? And I feel kind of wierd reading about your life when I don't know you.

For example: Dana. I think you're an awesome chick, and I've enjoyed the few times we've hung out, and I'd like to more, and if you want to tell me things thenm, that'd be really awesome, but I always feel strangf reading your entries even though you want people to read them and know things and be interested. And it's not that I'm not interested, but I feel like I don't know you that well yet I know an insane amount of stuff that's happened to you. I don't know if that makes any sense, but... well I guess it's kind of like reading a map without a key. I see information, but it's harder to understand exactly how it all relates and what it means, you know?

As for my "internet" friends, I'm sorry, but I find that incredibly not rewarding. I mean, I'm glad I can connect to people on the internet and all (UK jimmahgee you are really, really awesome and I think it'd be cool to hang out with you probably. Same goes for Ms. Jessica Monster. Comics people, I guess, in general, are just cool folks. And I mean me, too. I'M FREAKING AWESOME), but something feels disingenuous about the whole experience, or I feel like I'm missing out on a lot.

Deleting Facebook, surprisingly, has made me feel profoundly happy. I didn't think it'd make me sad; I didn't think it'd have any effect on me at all. But it's this very minor detail in my life that no longer exists. I don't ever think about checking it and it's one less reason to stay online. I feel slightly unburdened, and I think kicking LJ and MySpace will further alleviate the interweb burden I feel. I just spent two days in WV and, while I did check my email twice, I really only did it because other people would, and otherwise wouldn't have thought about it. There was a time last summer when I spent a week disconnected and it killed me, but now I feel so ready for that and want it even more. I just don't use the internet the same way I used to. No offense, wild web, but you ain't doin much for me anymore.

What began as me posting dumb spam I thought was ironically funny has now turned into a goodbye letter to the internet. And, as I've sad before, that time isn't now, but it's definitely soon, I think.

P.S. In writing this post about how I don't know a lot of you, it occurred to me that you might not get why that particular e-mail is so funny to me. Let me tell you: I'm skinny as fuck. I do not, and will probably never, need to lose weight. I've been skinny for a long time and I just recently became a vegetarian (back in... November), so my diet is even better now, which means I'm gaining even less weight than before (which was none, and if you multiply or divide, as the case may be, you get 0 or... uh.. well you can't divide zero can you? In any case: I'm goddamned skinny.)

In conclusion:
I'm skinny.

That Which Is Hath Already Been

Sun, 11 Jun 2006 20:15:23 GMT

Oh you guys. Do you plan these things?

When To Stay, How To Keep Away

Fri, 09 Jun 2006 06:48:10 GMT

In the past week I have read: A Heartbreaking Work Of Staggering Genius, Fight Club, Raise High The Roofbeam Carpentars and Seymour an Introduction, and tomorrow I will start Kafka On The Shore.

My job is the best.
Oh, and I did those drawings at work, too.

Win!

Wed, 07 Jun 2006 05:51:15 GMT

This is nothing. This is nothing worth my blind rage and my pounding on floors and my step father asking me if I heard that noise NO I did not hear that noise OF COURSE I heard that noise I FUCKING MADE IT.

I don't want to go to the clinic in the morning. My mucus is yellow, yes, and that's the not so great kind, right? It was clear for a few weeks, but now THIS. That's not all folks; it's the asthma that's really the kicker. What was often just an excuse to avoid P.E. is now taking its periodic and quite malicious revenge. My underarms itch. That's the sign. I start to feel anxious, like I'm tied to the grate at the bottom of a 9ft deep pool with my parents listening to the radio and my friends with their feet in the water and my lungs screaming, demanding, shouting WHAT THE FUCK IS GOING ON WE NEED AIR, YOU KNOW, OXYGEN, THE SHIT THAT MAKES YOU LIVE WHAT ARE YOU DOING DOWN HERE YOU ARE NOT A GODDAMNED FISH YOU NEED TO BE - ARE YOU EVEN LISTENING? I can't speak that fucking language, but I hear you brother, and all I can say is shit, I don't know how I got tied down here. Asthma does. Asthma knows because it tied the rope. It threw the diving stick that attracted me to the bottom. And now I'm stuck down here and my underarms are itching. And I'm panicking. And this is all much worse when that magical little white beacon of hope is misplaced or left at my father's house or buried under some clothes so that I think it's missing. But I have my metered doses of Albeuterol and I abuse them and take too much, and why not because I've never experienced any side effects except the sweet relief of open air passages.

I don't want to go to the clinic in the morning, really, because the way my hours are set up at work I should never be up that early.

The way my hours are set up at work I should be finishing Magnolia right about now and then reading for a while or wasting a few hours on the internet.

What happened though, is that my copy of Magnolia is scratched. It's scratched around chapter 9. I think there's about 3 or 4 chapters left. I hope you can now see clearly the source of my frustration.

As Long As You Are Gone

Wed, 07 Jun 2006 02:28:03 GMT

Goodbye Facebook!

Look out MySpace, you're next.

It's cool LiveJournal, your time is not now.
But it will come.

It's Who You Work For Lately

Tue, 06 Jun 2006 06:31:00 GMT

Without a home. Without a home I want. The key to doorknob, it was laying on my mattress that sits directly on my floor. How can I call that my room when it reeks of the temporary. There is the air mattress on the floor, of course, but there's the bag that sits on the floor with clothes still in it. Boxes sit frozen next to each other, chock full of shit that I feel neccessary to my existence, yet leave in a box, unpacked. I guess that settles that question.

But you're gone. You're always gone, you know? When I really want to see you. Boo hoo, the lost love. It's perfect, the distance. The pining. The longing. The wondering. The closer you get to that patchwork, the more you see the details, the more you understand, the more you see, the harder it becomes to appreciate. Maybe not. But.. hey, you got some carpet on your shirt.

The whale with feathers and the boy riding it. What took a few minutes of Google research became scribbles anyway. I shouldn't bother, really, but it made me feel like I was doing things right. Like maybe it'd help. Black in three languages my magic marker makes marvelous masterpieces.

Preperation, though, is always useless. Unless you're living in an area that has a high possibility (100%?) of flooding should a large hurricane ever stroll through. Whoops? Of course, I could assign that metaphor to any number of past experiences, but that's trite and maybe offensive, and you deserve better. A tornado? A tsunami? I'm stuck on the weather patterns, I guess. They're just as unpredictable. An earthquake. We wouldn't see that one coming. This fault's never going to move that much. Shaking things up. You're into that, right? There's no time to dwell, but it's taken anyway. The time.

I'm always losing pens. This is why they come in generous 40 packs with the bonus blue one don't they. But pickiness requires a purchase of a greater risk. With the cheaper ones you get the ability to render gradiation. Chiaroscuro. Higher prices, however afford blacker blacks. Black. Negro. Noir. There should be insurance. I'm losing the ability to record. I'm losing my desire to communicate. I'm losing something apparently mightier than a sword. Who fucking uses a sword these days anyway?

Hearts and unicorns, she draws these things constantly. If only someone would fuck her. Forever ever.

Is that what friends do?
What?
Take off their clothes, is that what friends do?
Friends with benefits.

It was pitch black, but you can hear the smirk, too, I bet. I woke up in fits of coughing and dripping mucous, running to the bathroom for the millionth time, apologizing in my head. Not very attractive, I think, but I've... well. In the mirror, I study the "sunburn" on my nose. In the winter, that wouldn't pass, but in the summer, it's acceptable. I want to like that, but I'd rather not be associated with the beach.

The rocks were starting to dig into my calves. I never wear shorts, why now? Why tonight, when I was planning on lying in the street? Is that glass? I should have known better. I did know better, but damnit it's hot. That never stopped me before. Fuck, is that a car? Who's driving at this hour? I can't stand up, it's not done exposing. It's gonna be blurry. Fuck. I'm gonna be blurry. I'm gonna be out of focus on the pavement. I'm gonna - no more headlights. Turning headlights. Salvation. Click.

"Click." Damn, that would have been a dramatic end. But I just remembered something. I don't do escapism anymore. I can't. I tried three times today and it's just not working. She runs too slow. Her feet are fucking slamming that ground and she's moving at a snail's pace. The other one, well... I guess the story seemed good; I had gotten about 3/4 of the way through, before, but... I couldn't stop thinking that I was in someone else's world. Someone else wanted this made and I was playing it, but... I could be on the other side of the room making my own. Fuck this. Fuck this. Fuck this. So now there's a few more pages.