No Rest for the wicked

so is there a word for life coming together slowly?

a mass of pieces slowly melting into a tangible solid? (no not an acid trip...really)

I got told today by someone much older and friendlier and better that I seem like someone with a goal, mature even (which is a deeply disturbing idea). It's like being told you're beautiful/handsome--you wont ever believe them but the thought is wonderful.

Vacation has begun and although i do not expect sleep to embrace me in her chafting fishnet embrace, I hope to see the Sandman at at least some point...

I am not a good college student. I dont enjoy sleeping very much.

Hi World

so You and I...we've had some rough times lately.

You took my laptop to the tune of two weeks and many hundreds of dollars.

but I forgive you.

If I live through finals we should have a party.

a sleep party.

Edge

Today is the day that I am going to die.

I watched a woman struggle with herself, laugh, cry, have a psychotic breakdown, commit suicide and rise from the dead over and over endlessly like Lazarus only she left pieces of herself behind every time.

and then it was intermission. Edge is the story of Sylvia Plath and her "suicide" and the poet-laureate Ted Hughes, adulterer, black magic warlock, and the center of his universe.

There aren't a lot of words that I can use to sum up that expeirence. Intense, pure, exhilirating. I actually talked with the lady actress and she shook my hand and I am never washing it again. it literally tingled with the electricity of her prescene.

and I met Henry Chang the man behind the steamy noir haze of Chinatown Beat. i liked him and his yo's and dudes and subtle philosophy. I think i want to be him when I grow up. Comfortable in my skin and my passion.

Pull my Daisy

I love this city.

This week alone I have been to Lincoln Center and heard the ultimate cosmic goodness that is Michael Palin read and talk about his life in the circus of Monty Python. The trek was ardous and strewn with the incomprehensible color coding of the NYC subways but I made it and back and was delirously happy. I hadn't believed the man actually exsisted until i saw him in person.

I just, heard, saw, and was the amazing David Amram who spoke about his expierences with Jack Kerouac at the Bowery Poetry Center in the Village. One slighty schizoid BBC talk show host in tight black pants made the evening hilarious, but this man, a Soprano's actor made the evening golden. His readings from Kerouac made me happy, made me think, made me feel...the man damn near made me cry when he read the farewell passage between Kerouac and Cassidy which is all the more poignant because its one sided and deep. The improv between the musicians (6-7 depending on the mood of the sax) and the poets forced you to groove.

Charlie Parker, Pull my Daisy, Life on the ROad, Mrs. Keurac, hip my angel, girls in white underpants, Egyptian flutes, Native Indian drums, the man of a thousand instruements, being in Colorado under the endless night in the roof of the world, the eastern wilderness

And it's 3,2,1...

It's amazing the kind of junk you can accumulate in your brief lifespan. It's equal parts cathartic and horrifying to sort through the rubbish that shores up on the fringe of daily life. Why didn't anyone stop me?

sigh

We're officially counting down now. Three days.

Home, boys, Home

well the good news (broadly speaking) is I made it back. Nothing exploded, no luggage was lost and I was not forced to kill any airline personnel although I was sorely tempted. No matter how many times you look at the little screen a set of charcoal pencils will never be dynamite. Never.

There's this sort of ecstatic high that comes from being back in your own stomping grounds, no matter how great the trip was. The sense of your place in the universe asserts itself and for a moment you can appreciate the harmony of the pattern which you were so determined to break from.

Alert the press! I'm back.

Sacre Bleu! Invaders!

Alas this last bastion within which I could bask in my adolescent melodrama is now being breached.

The sanctuary is ruined, as surely as the white pillar of Ilium lay scattered on the sands after the sacking of Troy.

It's time to do a little housecleaning. Farewell little corner of obscurity! I shall ruminate on you fondly.

Adieu

My name is Ozymandius

This shall be my tiny shrine to myself. I will lay down virtual rose petals and worship at my feet.


actually on reflection that sounds kind of exhausting.

Washington awaits the circuses arrival with baited breath I'm sure. Four hours...sigh

Escapism

I have come to the unavoidable conclusion:

that some people in this world genuinely do not like poetry
the patch does not work

and that given the choice between french grammar and blogging, well it's not even a conscious choice anymore.

help me. I'm sinking and I may drown.

Il etait une fois...(the almost fairytale beginning)

This is the beginning of something glorious. I just don't know what that is yet.

This is like launching bottles of the side of a speeding ship. Are vodka soaked wishes more or less precious?

Anyway today is day one of the rest of the rest of my life. Lets just keep this revelation quiet for now.

P.S.: to anyone who has ever seen Mel Brook's Spaceballs I think you'll get the name.

"Who are you?"

"I'm the Bearded Lady. What are you, one of the freaks?"