The more I stay in California, the more I miss New York.
But don't get me wrong, it goes visa versa when I back home
We woke up today early to send Mark off at the airport, the day slipped along with hot chocolate, dressing Lucky up as various ethnic stereotypes at the Coffee Bean, hours of 30 Rock, furniture building and furniture moving, stepping on astro turf and barely missing poop, blind Bischons, one feverish nap where my mind was so busy worrying, ending the day with a comic book store, veery veery goood Thai food and stale champagne.
California has pockets of excellent days
Did I mention I watched Frost/Nixon, The Reader and various other Oscar buzz movies in the comfort of our living room while peasants have to watch them now in the theaters?
lucky duck.
Thursday, January 8, 2009
beauty is not for the fat. And I don't mean that in the literal way. Surprisingly it is not for the
bold, the strong willed, the ever pleasant pulpy state of mind of knowing exactly what you want. And it is not the direct opposite of all these things either. Beauty stands in the margins, it seeps and settles, it is the jello in the cracks. While pedigree and the fieriness of ambition cakes a human solidly like pig marrow, beauty is hardly present.
I find it harder and harder to write-and- it used to move so easily from me. Now its like drawing the last ghosts from aching, archaic pipes deeply rooted in musty earth. The foundation curls from the ground, rusting with the surrounding leathery mud and it forges a stationary article with little actual present force. My words resemble a museum like resilience and stagnancy.
I'm a clothed shell.
3
bold, the strong willed, the ever pleasant pulpy state of mind of knowing exactly what you want. And it is not the direct opposite of all these things either. Beauty stands in the margins, it seeps and settles, it is the jello in the cracks. While pedigree and the fieriness of ambition cakes a human solidly like pig marrow, beauty is hardly present.
I find it harder and harder to write-and- it used to move so easily from me. Now its like drawing the last ghosts from aching, archaic pipes deeply rooted in musty earth. The foundation curls from the ground, rusting with the surrounding leathery mud and it forges a stationary article with little actual present force. My words resemble a museum like resilience and stagnancy.
I'm a clothed shell.
3
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