eye-reeds

Someone, for god's sake, save Utah from the 1950s. Surely there's a government office that deals with these kinds of emergencies.

On an entirely different matter, my eyes do not need any more glass to lower their self-esteem. And while being told that one's clothes are a bit drab is definitely a downer, being given a new suit by the accusatory individual certainly neutralizes the sting.

Translation: new camera.

I thought I knew, then I thought i didn't know.

Being in between is a very scary thing.



I don't know who I identify with the most in this photograph, but I'm leaning towards the ocean.

Desk

My desk is next to my window, but not facing it. I really prefer having the window open to turning on the lamp; something about the unassuming gray light that weakly floods this cave I live in, only illuminatin about two-thirds of the space, makes me feel at home and relaxed.

So it is that when I'm at my desk, and I see some moving image out of the corner of my eye, I turn my head to look out the window at whatever, most often whoever, it is. I do this even though I know very well that there is only one person who, if I see them walking in front of my building, will do anything to alter my state of mind. And, if and when it happens to be this person, my seeing them will illicit a gut-wrenchingly negative response.

Maybe my brain is looking for something that I don't know about. If that's the case, should any of you see it wandering around aimlessly in the dead of night, please do me a favor and ask what it's looking for, and when exactly its arrival is expected, so I can stop waiting for someone whose arrival time is at the mercy of wind, rain, and other assorted elements.

a liberal arts education killed the dinosaurs.

For those of you who feel like your life takes place in a fixed amount of space, who keep running into people and places you wish to forget, or who feel the need to explode into a million fragmented bits of existence onto a white canvas waiting to be your new self,

I'm going to happily recommend you go to a certain New York City.

a head between two pillows

If music feeds love, keep playing
Stuff me beyond my limit, so that
my appetite gets sick and dies.
That part again! It had a dying cadence;
I heard it. It went into my ear like a
wind that blows on some violets,
talking and giving order. Enough, no more.
It's not as sweet as it was before.
Love, you are so quick and fresh,
that, even though you are so great,
you receive as the sea. Nothing enters there,
of what validity and superiority so ever,
but falls into abatement and low esteem.
Even in a minute, so full of fantasies is love
that it alone is simply imaginative.

Will you go hunt, me Lord?

What the hell are you talking about?

The heart.

Why, I will, the noblest I can find.
When I first saw Olivia
I thought she stole the air of pestilence.
Then I turned into a heart,
and my fierce and cruel desires
have since chased me.

I looked at this painting for a while, and I liked it, but I didn't know why. I saw it as men raining down from the sky.

Then I realized that there is no indication that they are going downwards. They could also be going straight up, or not moving at all.

And it saddened me that my natural reaction was to assume that they were falling.

if every night were like that, calling home wouldn't be so difficult.

After silence, that which comes nearest to expressing the inexpressible is music.

- Aldous Huxley

The band was stomping through Ellington's 'Far East of the Blues,' and the director shot his cool, focused gaze on me, slightly nudging his head in my direction, the way one turns one's head slightly when first waking in the refreshing cold of dawn. My pulse quickening, I placed the mouthpiece between my lips, swallowing the bitter, metallic-wooden taste, and, as is wont to happen, my words became melody. I closed my eyes; I wasn't following the chart, and for all I know, I didn't even play the scale I was supposed to solo over (F blues). I didn't notice the drums, the two saxes beside me simply disappeared.

I disintegrated as well. Everything I wanted to say, nothing I didn't, some things I couldn't and wouldn't and shouldn't...in short, a soul...it became air, it became breath, diving into the horn, making sharp, non-sensical turns around elegant curves of brass...it all became one sound and eight sounds, unified and separate. Oscillating between high and low, climbing, diving. Joy; harmony. Despair; dissonance. Self-reflection; the spaces between; breath.

My eyes opened, and the band kept playing. Everyone resumed their position; the music continued, the beat of the drum matching the throbbing in my fingers, staccato and steady.