Next Exit, Interpol. A good start to any road trip that is long, that is, you need a bit of a breather to get into it. Anyway. I’m not pulling the typical drive up North, we’re taking the train, which I haven’t done since high school. But here we go anyway.
We ain’t going to the town, we’re going to the city
Gonna trek this shit around and make this place a heart to be a part of again
So baby make it with me in preparation for tonight
We got so much to leave but that’s not what make it right
“… I felt instinctively that toilets—as also telephones—happened to be, for reasons unfathomable, the points where my destiny was liable to catch. We all have such fateful objects—it may be a recurrent landscape in one case, a number in another—carefully chosen by the gods to attract events of special significance for us: here shall John always stumble; there shall Jane’s heart always break.”—Lolita, Vladimir Nabokov
The internet will eat your brain. It is eating mine too quickly. I hung out with my little brother for the first time, really, in a long time, yesterday, and for the first time, really, in a long time, it was just fun. Good natured biking and joking and listening to good music and painting house and watching action movies and that’s what happens, of course, when he’s excited to get the house back for himself again.
Today is packing for the farm, buying socks, wishing I could shave most of this hair off, buying county cheap smokes, watching a movie with la mami, cleaning ma salle, and not feeling scared or nervous or wrecked or anxious like other Augusts or Januarys, flying off West or transAtlantic. This is what it is and that’s enough.
I want to work hard and feel sore and achey and be out of tract housing and myself and cut my knuckles some days and read books and just be away and unthink for a few days and cut the cord. Again. Some days I wake up and think about screaming, WHEN IS THIS GONNA STOP? But then I remember, I’m still a baby, and if I don’t want to grow up really, I’m just going to have to be okay with the love of running.
sufjan stevens - come on! feel the illinoise!: part I: the world’s columbian exposition. part II: carl sandburg visits me in a dream
i had a different song/artist in mind for tonight but then i somehow got on the sufjan stevens train this afternoon and ended up listening to album a lot. i think this is, without a doubt, one of the most beautiful albums in existence. it’s weird because if anyone ever asked me my favorite albums, i wouldn’t even think of this at all. nor do i have any cool story related to it (a friend once put “chicago” on a mixtape for me and i downloaded this album, the end) or any really strong attachment to this album. i just happen to stumble upon it randomly every few months and listen to it and realize how amazing it is and then it exits my mind until the next time it pops up on shuffle. also, i think it’s a good album to be playing in the background when you’re trying to write.
i get this insane feeling of guilt whenever i hear “are you writing from the heart?” and i realize that i’m not. carl sandburg is great and everything but this song will always remind me of my favorite j.d. salinger passage: “do you know what you will be asked when you die? … were most of your stars out? were you busy writing your heart out?” and i guess, as much as i’ve been denying it lately, i still desperately want to be a writer so, i don’t know, maybe i do actually have an emotional attachment to this.
Try to separate what you think you like from what you actually like If it feels bad every time you eat dairy, kick it with a certain someone, or listen to techno, why keep doing it? Reassess how you define happiness, so you can get more happy (Psychic Dream).
Trust your own good intentions, speak from your heart, and you’ll find a way to diffuse confrontations. Not every word will be a magic wand, but that doesn’t matter, because your authenticity will work wonders (Aquarium Age).
Let’s say you’re listening to your favorite band on a stereo system. There is a place between the two speakers where you will hear the two streams of music blend perfectly, exactly as the sound engineer intended. This place is called the sweet spot. If you play tennis or baseball, you know about another version of the term “sweet spot.” It’s the area on the racquet or the bat where you get best results when striking the ball. According to my astrological analysis, Taurus, this will be your ruling metaphor for the next three weeks. You have arrived at your very own sweet spot — the embodiment of all that is melodious, graceful, delicious, aromatic, and effective (Free Will Astrology).
Now the rain’s coming back and I’m thinking of winters (this song) and falls (me to farm, people to other countries, and MILLS IS STARTING, hohmygod) and want to be biking down Damen to hang out at the house on Blue Island and just can’t.
Hey hey hey. It was supposed to be rainy and bitchy all day and now is lovely out. Still, I got on my bike for a hot second. Um. My Tumblr took a snooze, all crashed, blah blue blah.
I’m working on a farm up by the Mississippi River in less than a week. For three weeks. Yes. This makes me want to get out of bed most days.
Finishing Lolita and it is amazing except I had wierd Lolita dreams last night and I am 22, not 12. Right? Right. But it was okay because D-Mo and Jess and Truong showed up and… yeah. It was good. Talk about dreams within dreams. Hopefully I’ll get back on my tumblr horse. We. Shall. See.
In honor of the perseids, some more SPACE ODDITY(S) to keep those meteors company. I’ve loved this song since I was a kid, but first heard the Natalie Merchant cover. Cat Power’s commercial cover is such a tease.
Stevie Wonder AND T-Rex for a Saturday? most excellent. my Tumblarity shot to shit, but I don’t really understand how it works, still, and it’s hot and humid here and so the last thing I want is to be sitting at this computer with the ceiling fan. hm. still, sorry for the lack “o” content, or original content. never doubt my love for this tumblr game, do not.
also, in other exciting news, now whenever I hear “Love Game” by Lady Gaga, I wonder about her very own disco stick. yeah, it’s probably a stunt, but alright new genderfucking icons! yes! also, in other news, i’m helping with high school anti-recruiting zines, and being encouraged to go to the big’ole’queer march in October and still jobless but interviewing on Monday and i can’t wait to feel how awful it’s going to be biking in this heat. yes. hello summer. i think i’ve missed you, but man, i’ve just been thinking fall’s coming soon. not so, i see, not so. if a season can surprise me this much, well, who’s to say what else?
how I tired to tell (you) of these transatlantic times and yet the rage waves / settling stones sand sea deep creatures puttering and muttering across our vast floors. the roar echoing out of spiralling: this wasted epic tolerance, the twenties of empty bottles rolling out of my hands
my mother said
upon our encounter I appeared a disaster survivor. there’s a word: marooned. but that country was cast in blues and too- my lips, sockets, the neat inked shadows that thrummed rib rib rib. even my breathe: ancestral gauloise bue.
to tell two: yes art yes pints yes parks yes pennies hunger foreign
Bethany:McHenry is pretty far from Jersey, might I ask what brings you guys to Illinois?
Jay:Some fuck named John Hughes.
Bethany:"16 Candles" John Hughes?
Jay:You know him too? That fucking guy. Made this flick "16 Candles" right? Not bad it's got tits in it, but no bush. Of course Ebert over here don't give a shit about that stuff cause he's all in love with this John Hughes guy and rents every one of his movies. Fucking "Breakfast Club" all these stupid kids actually show up to detention, fucking "Weird Science" where this one chick wants to take off her gear and get down, but aw, no she don't cause it's a PG movie, and then there's "Pretty In Pink" which I can't watch with this tubby muthafucker any more, because everytime we get to the part where the red head hooks up with her dream guy, he starts sobbin' like a little eight-year-old with a skinned knee and shit. And nothing is worse then watching a fat man weep.
“And we must never forget that if the atom’s structure is invisible, it is none the less real. I am aware of the existence of many things I have never seen. And you too. One cannot prove the existence of what is most real but the essential thing is to believe. To weep and believe. This story unfolds in a state of emergency and public calamity. It is an unfinished book because it offers no answer. An answer I hope someone somewhere in the world may be able to provide. You perhaps? It is a story in technicolour to add a touch of luxury, for heaven knows, I need that too. Amen for all of us.”—Clarice Lispector, The Hour of the Star
"Somewhere along the way Greg lost his confidence, and I don’t know why. But I thought I could believe for the two of use—I tried, too. But that only made it worse, like he wanted to prove me wrong. About a year before I left, he quit painting, and he started getting high before I’d even left for work, like he was throwing it in my face, my faith. I wish I could blame the drugs for that, too, but I can’t. I mean, why does anyone lose their confidence. I can’t even answer that question for myself, and I know all the reasons. But still, I supported his ass for five years while he spent his money getting high all day, so what the fuck is that, a girlfriend?
He asked me to marry him. He wanted to get married, have the baby, and move out of the city. He said he wanted to find a place where he could get some workaday job, and he’d paint in the morning, after work, weekends— we’d figure it out, he said. And I said, Figure what out? What would we do, Greg? And he said, Leese, we’ll do what people always do: we’ll raise our kid and live a normal, average life.
Normal, average life? I wined. What’s so terrible about that? he said and I said, Normal, average lives are for fucking losers, Greg, that’s what’s wrong with it. Well as long as we have each other, right? You and me? he said, reaching for me, trying to pull me to his waist, and I couldn’t answer. I wanted to pat him on the shoulder: you poor, poor man…but instead, I just pulled away. I’d rather die, I said, same difference.