jnthn

///more sunsets///--->pics<



early morning rooftop smoke, now in the NYC sun, listening to the Haitians protesting Rockstar Games around the corner from Memoryboy HQ, my homebase in SoHo. No coffee and basically shot through the subway like a mouse-cheese maze. Cold Cold Cold there.

little help from mother's little helper and I filtered out the fast talking flrt machine agitated know-it-all-dude trying to get w/the woman in front of me and filtered out Bringin' Down Da House (second time, need to take a different bus!). Dozed.........

got outta the cab in my neighborhood and lit a joint. I just felt posessed. it was like 7, 8 pm and my hood is fairly busy. NY always makes me less inhibited than before.

drinks and good vibes at local 16. nodding off at pharmacy bar -- appropos -- and then to the diner for the ultimate in human casualties. saw this girl that my roommate and I agree has always been just plain sexy, wearing too little for fuckin freezing weather. I din't recognize her -- looks like she lost 20 lbs she didnt' have in the first place. lots of laughs at the table. lot's of dirt from one of the Tryst bartenders about who's fucking who and who wants to girlfriend my housemate (all of 'em) and who wants to fuck me (3 of 'em) and wondering why there's a distinction. maybe that's a side of the whole sitcom I'm not really wanting to know. I dunno.

so I heard a story of someone named Timex around here, someone I may have met. apparently he knew a lot of people around here and was fairly tied up in the music industry. turns out his apartment was being emptied because he was being evicted. they took a heavy duffle bag out to the street the marshall did unzipped it and found the remains of Timex, hacked and stored in this bag. FUCKING SICK! The expression on my friend's face, I was watching him as we heard this, because I know my housemate well enough, his tact is awful, I knew the punchline would end in something grim...I watched my friend's face and in that moment I felt like some protagonist weirdo in a french new wave film -- wishing I could capture the moment of real, shock and grief. I was out of it on xnx + whiskey so the whole story was floating in and out and I took it all in vicariously. my friend's face was the oddest combination of stoney detest and sad horror.

later the scene unfolding in front of the diner, two men in ultra passionate cold-weather make-out session. like 10 minutes worth in front of the plate glass windown. again, I turned to look at my other friend, wait to see that he'd seen the scene and waited for his expression. he did a real doubletake. I should make movies about my soon-to-be-not-neighborhood.
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you called from out of the blue, well not so much, I did dial and hang-up. I loved you loved you loved you across the table at the Dunes when it was illegal and you had a man. Just talking, just looking in your eyes, it's always stayed with me, stings me, like the second time I saw you when I thought I never would again, and again we sat across a table disbelieving that we'd be sitting there...and then I followed you to your friends' in your decaying car and realized you're a meth head. Surprise for PDX. but I still love you somehow. I think it's love. But I don't think of you ever. I don't even think to call, but when I hear your sad voice on the phone and that you're lonely I'm dying little deaths. I'm a kite in the wind waiting for the wind to howl and gust and break my string and send me in the right direction, be it to you or you or you or you or you or you or you...
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but really it's not just a hex. it's something I can tell is not right. flu, ice, snow...hate hope sometimes made sad.
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I'm in a writing mood and can't stop adding to this. somehow the morning -- phone ringing, unknown number, Jersey, no one on the line. Roused from deep deep wonderful warm sleep and I'm up and lost, spinning in the manic aquarian shit that tends to bunge you up and it's all incoherent thought upon thought that leads to the disaster of coming home from wanting my alone time back and the withdrawal from travel companions and company and things being abnormally normal, once home fixated on the thing I'm fixated on and realizing the talk of flirt-this-flirt that (it's all bullshit in the end) and I want to be the good kind of warm now. I spin the bottle in all directions to avoid the thought of the one spot I wanted it to land for no reason other than the classic fixation. when there's no thought to it, it makes for the happy go lucky, when the path winds back upon itself and all the markers and breadcrumbs lied there's only the petit mort and :le sigh: that's too many thoughts and uncontrolled imagined scenario. high school journal styled vagueness. resistant to the comfort of the sitcom come sideshow and the news of impending shorter than we thought time in the house. I have to get moving. I want to float and not float here. Detroit? Sure. Boston? Sure. Chicago? The records live there. Sure, they're all ass-cold and who needs what they want? I just want to disappear into the clouds, the bright sky.

last addendum to expunge the last crust of emo craps: it all comes down to the fact that at some point on the train I wondered why I didn't grab Violator and, listening to in now, I'm really fucking bummed I've lost Kool Keith Spankmaster and Kylie Fever...the two things in the world I don't need anyone else around for and don't need to injest to completely burn the fuck outta stupid emo shit!
l8r!