did i mention i am not currently enrolled in college? i cant remember now.
...and i hate work...sometimes. sometimes its cool because i'll see people i really like, like sarah(she's this adorable, sweet, crazy girl) and tay and flick and
clint (yeah. i know...shut up)
...im fucked if he ever reads this...
but i come home smelling like chicken grease. GOURMET chicken grease, but, still d00d.
so, im drinking some PBR and trying to get my write on, since i am NOT going out in that rain. i'll die.
and as much as i bitch, i dont want to die, (how could i still bitch?) so, yeah, im starting to write again. i'll post some of it at the end here. but, yeah. i had a decent new year, and im looking foward to the shows im doing soon. OH. i gotta call sally(our electric voilinist) yeah...
late, celz
I was a cute kid. I mean, the kind of kid that made teenage girls squeal when they saw me and wish out loud that they too had children, or at the very least, was expecting any day now, just to dress, and dote over me the way they thought a child just like myself should be. Like I said, I was a cute kid.
Somewhere between toy dolls and tampons I grew out of it. I mean, literally, grew out of it. My hands and feet looked like French loaves with fingers, my torso like some less graceful type of willow tree. My favorite part about myself, that is, my favorite to analyze and diagnose as some impending disease, was my face. It looked like someone had taken something that was once a finely hand painted drum and stretched the skin over a surface much too rough and wide to fit it. My nose became broad, not in any exotic ethnic way, but more so like the bridge of my shnoz had been removed and my nostrils spaced several inches apart. Eruptions in my skin came from beneath, deep beneath the surface, in such a way that typical adolescent acne was never an explanation for such a phenomenon. I also grew hair on my nipples. Two on the right, three on the left. I never felt ugly.
So standing at this door waiting to be buzzed in, and I am seeing it has been 4 minutes and 26,27,28 seconds. I buzz the button again even though the voice on the other side has said to hold on. I dont know what it is they expect me to hold onto and for a second or two I laugh out loud at how literally I could take their instructions. hold on, the end is near.
Ha.
I dont like these kinds of elevators. I know that theyre supposed to be antique-y and cool but I just cant stand the idea of lifting and lowering myself in something so thinly veiled from what it truly was; a metal box. I fantasize for a moment of getting trapped and dying in here, only to be found a minute too late, and mourned for lack of better things to do. I much prefer the elevators they have at that building. The buttons light up and there is carpet on the floor. Sometimes they play music.
He is talking and talking and all I can hear is space. over and over again, I just hear blah blah blah, space, blah blah space. I dont know if he is talking deep space travel or just area of anything in particular, but for some reason that is all I can make out. Rather than trouble him to repeat himself, as I would like to suggest, perhaps this time in English, I just nod. I look behind his head and see a painting I did and wonder why he has it placed there and think how silly it is. I dont know that I would ever hang something like his blood or semen suspended over my workspace. But there he has it, and again I say nothing.
Nothing but the smell is familiar. I would have never done this. Around me and behind me and to my left and right I am surrounded by my organs, vital to me, and I wonder how I havent collapsed yet, without them inside my body where they belong, keeping me alive. Only theyre not really my organs, but paintings and a sculpture placed here or there. Nothing is where it should be. The color all blends too well. And theyre all so far apart from each other. I resist the urge to run around and tear them from the walls and throw them in a pile in the corner, together, as they should be, because He says I shouldnt do that again.
She tells me how amazing my work is, it really is. Her hair is wrapped in a bun at the top of her head, like a cookie jar lid. Her neck is wrapped up in black. Her face is wrapped up in some large smile and I can see her spit looking shiny and wet against her slightly yellowing teeth. She is so wrapped up. And, again I almost laugh aloud at t he humor I alone would find in that statement. Now she and Him are talking and he takes a card, she writes a check, and she again smiles at me, praises something new, and walks away. It all seems very business like.
I just want to sleep.
(its just the beginging man)
...and i hate work...sometimes. sometimes its cool because i'll see people i really like, like sarah(she's this adorable, sweet, crazy girl) and tay and flick and
clint (yeah. i know...shut up)
...im fucked if he ever reads this...
but i come home smelling like chicken grease. GOURMET chicken grease, but, still d00d.
so, im drinking some PBR and trying to get my write on, since i am NOT going out in that rain. i'll die.
and as much as i bitch, i dont want to die, (how could i still bitch?) so, yeah, im starting to write again. i'll post some of it at the end here. but, yeah. i had a decent new year, and im looking foward to the shows im doing soon. OH. i gotta call sally(our electric voilinist) yeah...
late, celz
I was a cute kid. I mean, the kind of kid that made teenage girls squeal when they saw me and wish out loud that they too had children, or at the very least, was expecting any day now, just to dress, and dote over me the way they thought a child just like myself should be. Like I said, I was a cute kid.
Somewhere between toy dolls and tampons I grew out of it. I mean, literally, grew out of it. My hands and feet looked like French loaves with fingers, my torso like some less graceful type of willow tree. My favorite part about myself, that is, my favorite to analyze and diagnose as some impending disease, was my face. It looked like someone had taken something that was once a finely hand painted drum and stretched the skin over a surface much too rough and wide to fit it. My nose became broad, not in any exotic ethnic way, but more so like the bridge of my shnoz had been removed and my nostrils spaced several inches apart. Eruptions in my skin came from beneath, deep beneath the surface, in such a way that typical adolescent acne was never an explanation for such a phenomenon. I also grew hair on my nipples. Two on the right, three on the left. I never felt ugly.
So standing at this door waiting to be buzzed in, and I am seeing it has been 4 minutes and 26,27,28 seconds. I buzz the button again even though the voice on the other side has said to hold on. I dont know what it is they expect me to hold onto and for a second or two I laugh out loud at how literally I could take their instructions. hold on, the end is near.
Ha.
I dont like these kinds of elevators. I know that theyre supposed to be antique-y and cool but I just cant stand the idea of lifting and lowering myself in something so thinly veiled from what it truly was; a metal box. I fantasize for a moment of getting trapped and dying in here, only to be found a minute too late, and mourned for lack of better things to do. I much prefer the elevators they have at that building. The buttons light up and there is carpet on the floor. Sometimes they play music.
He is talking and talking and all I can hear is space. over and over again, I just hear blah blah blah, space, blah blah space. I dont know if he is talking deep space travel or just area of anything in particular, but for some reason that is all I can make out. Rather than trouble him to repeat himself, as I would like to suggest, perhaps this time in English, I just nod. I look behind his head and see a painting I did and wonder why he has it placed there and think how silly it is. I dont know that I would ever hang something like his blood or semen suspended over my workspace. But there he has it, and again I say nothing.
Nothing but the smell is familiar. I would have never done this. Around me and behind me and to my left and right I am surrounded by my organs, vital to me, and I wonder how I havent collapsed yet, without them inside my body where they belong, keeping me alive. Only theyre not really my organs, but paintings and a sculpture placed here or there. Nothing is where it should be. The color all blends too well. And theyre all so far apart from each other. I resist the urge to run around and tear them from the walls and throw them in a pile in the corner, together, as they should be, because He says I shouldnt do that again.
She tells me how amazing my work is, it really is. Her hair is wrapped in a bun at the top of her head, like a cookie jar lid. Her neck is wrapped up in black. Her face is wrapped up in some large smile and I can see her spit looking shiny and wet against her slightly yellowing teeth. She is so wrapped up. And, again I almost laugh aloud at t he humor I alone would find in that statement. Now she and Him are talking and he takes a card, she writes a check, and she again smiles at me, praises something new, and walks away. It all seems very business like.
I just want to sleep.
(its just the beginging man)