Monday, June 27, 2011
...
back to deadlines and dumb questions. will get back to you to tell you all about the amazingly wonderful superb london days--but guess what? i have to do shit load of crap first. plus coughing my lungs out so cheers.
Tuesday, June 14, 2011
"different rooms of the same hotel"
so superstars of my own, hello.
sorry i couldn't do this last night but i was dead by the night. mama also got a little health problem so i spent most of the night taking care of her.
without further introduction lemme get to the point straight. a few of my good friends yesterday accompanied me (with my endless hours of persuasion--uhm--coercion, even) to the new warhol in motion exhibit downtown. it's a three piece event: you have movies shown in taksim in two separate buildings and one in besiktas that is all about the polaroids. we went ahead and saw one of the ones of the movies and here's what i thought of it...
for starters, no need to sugar coat it, lame arrangements. lousy sound system. you basically get only the movies projected to a white wall and you can not hear a word they say (or any of the music which is vital like the one of the velvet underground movie. anywho so it's basicly a series of images which mean very little to random passengers--and means slightly more to those like me who know a thing or two about warhol (or a person or two may be a better way to put it). you miss all the conversations and stuff that would have probably revealed wonderful things about the images.
then again one could say that warhol never really aimed for any higher message or anything but words don't always deliver higher messages--they sometimes describe the time and the mood better than any image can. a simple giggle or a sigh too can deliver a lot. so it could have been handled better, but hey. better than nothing, right?
it was a real trip for me though. everything is 60s and everything is non-conformity everything is sex appeal and everything is visual. it's the other side of the coin of dylan's nonchalance--everything is very pretty and very shallow(!) and very artsy and very overtly sexual--especially one of the reels was skipping i guess, tech problems, and we were stuck watching a scene of the chelsea girls almost image by image some freezing momentarily--there was this young boy in the middle on a bed filled with people and it looked like he was struggling to get up while someone was trying to take of his underwear. that may not even be the scene i have no idea we didn't stick around for long but i kinda felt it in the air that none of us were fully sixties yet.
we got to see about 6 of warhol's movies. i liked them all for different reason obviously, but my favorite was the one called my hustler which told the story of a gay man hiring a male hooker and taking him onto some vacation site in new york and then realizing that since the hooker is really hot everyone's out to get a piece of him. we got to watch the clip where two men and a women were hanging out at the balcony over looking this young man lying at the beach. one thing about warhol's movies is that nothing rushes, nothing chases nothing. everything is shown slowly and everything takes its time. we got to watch this extremely handsome full blooded coke and tv style the american man--who's real name was paul america by the way which i thought was brilliant-- and i'll be very honest he was the most amazing part of the whole exhibit for me: not for the cheaper reasons, but he was such the american image this tall overly proper physique, the bleach blonde hair, the look on his face, he was the ultimate 50s american fella. a bit of neal cassidy you know.
needless to say everyone was really beautiful--or after a while you feel like everyone was very beautiful. second high point for me was the velvet underground and nico piece--i tried vainly to pick lou reed of the lot and there was nico's son running around. it's always weird to see stuff like that--i know nico of her la dolce vita deal, and i know she's been connected both to jim and to bob on different days.
but the best of the best for me was the screen tests of warhol that they projected on to the white wall. i personally think they are the best piece of art warhol left behind. there is something extremely honest and expressionist in their nature that his hyped up movies can not really match. i watched this woman--turns out to be a lady named ann buchanan for about 3 minutes--most beautiful thing ever. she cries on her screen test--i dont know whether it was planned or spontaneous but it was incredible. the way they slow down the visuals made it seem even deeper. i had already watched several of those screen tests--namely bob's nico's and edie's i think--but it was wonderful to watch some people whose names i didn't know. brings a different dimension to the whole thing.
last piece of footage was of the inner and outer space of edie's monologues. my friends were absolutely mesmerized with her beauty. now i'm of the dylan school of thought (he just turned in his bed) and to me edie's always the shallow socialite who gets dragged away by all the shimmering lights. she has a good heart but not the matching personality, she's overly obsessed with her 'ribbons and bows' and is brainwashed. so to me she's always just pretty--hence had everything in her life because she was pretty--she was rich and careless and well, darn me for saying it, but some sort of paris hilton of the 60s in a more art-induced manner. but when you see her face enlarged on the screen you do get a little shaken--she has this beautiful little mouth and large eyes that stare right into the void--you kinda get a feeling of the whole little girl inside image making it girl outside deal. she is pretty, you know, nothing to exceptional as far as i'm concerned because she reeks of image and i feel like she had an idea of what she wanted to look like every step of the way which puts me off of her legendary icon status. i tend to see icons as spontaneous bursts of humanity that can not exist in any other way (which is mostly wrong, i would think, we are all image anyhow) but edie seems too--you know--calculated for precise beauty. but as i said when she stares into your face in black and white you get sad for no reason. you don't get sad when you look at the other superstars but you get sad when you look at edie. perhaps she to me is a broken-hearted woman after all who got treated terribly by the man she liked--and she failed to receive the attention that she tried all her life to recieve because one man was to stubborn to give in.
anywho--whoa this is getting long.
anywho to sum everything up: i always liked warhol but not really admired him a whole lot--i think warhol is a period in time and a mood of existence rather than one incredible amazing artist or whatnot. i think the whole of factory was what should be taken in and felt rather than warhol on his own. the in and out spinning of hundreds of really beautiful people chasing fame and visual attraction. i say attraction for i really don't think they chased beauty in a broader sense but only the visual rules of their day. all the girls are perfect and them men--boy the men are even more perfect--they follow that kerouac way of drifter look with dark hair and flat stomachs and shapely arms--and they are all really good looking. i think the men even more than the women.
one great thing though is not everything feels like you cracked upon a box with all the sex and sexuality involved--you feel like you're enjoying something that bended a few rules of its time (bending a few rules of our times, more likely).
anyways so afterwards we headed out to see the polaroids in besiktas but couldn't do so because they were closed. instead we got to drink tea and stuff and chat a little. a day spent well is a day spent well anyhow, right?
here's the weeping lady for those interested:
sorry i couldn't do this last night but i was dead by the night. mama also got a little health problem so i spent most of the night taking care of her.
without further introduction lemme get to the point straight. a few of my good friends yesterday accompanied me (with my endless hours of persuasion--uhm--coercion, even) to the new warhol in motion exhibit downtown. it's a three piece event: you have movies shown in taksim in two separate buildings and one in besiktas that is all about the polaroids. we went ahead and saw one of the ones of the movies and here's what i thought of it...
for starters, no need to sugar coat it, lame arrangements. lousy sound system. you basically get only the movies projected to a white wall and you can not hear a word they say (or any of the music which is vital like the one of the velvet underground movie. anywho so it's basicly a series of images which mean very little to random passengers--and means slightly more to those like me who know a thing or two about warhol (or a person or two may be a better way to put it). you miss all the conversations and stuff that would have probably revealed wonderful things about the images.
then again one could say that warhol never really aimed for any higher message or anything but words don't always deliver higher messages--they sometimes describe the time and the mood better than any image can. a simple giggle or a sigh too can deliver a lot. so it could have been handled better, but hey. better than nothing, right?
it was a real trip for me though. everything is 60s and everything is non-conformity everything is sex appeal and everything is visual. it's the other side of the coin of dylan's nonchalance--everything is very pretty and very shallow(!) and very artsy and very overtly sexual--especially one of the reels was skipping i guess, tech problems, and we were stuck watching a scene of the chelsea girls almost image by image some freezing momentarily--there was this young boy in the middle on a bed filled with people and it looked like he was struggling to get up while someone was trying to take of his underwear. that may not even be the scene i have no idea we didn't stick around for long but i kinda felt it in the air that none of us were fully sixties yet.
we got to see about 6 of warhol's movies. i liked them all for different reason obviously, but my favorite was the one called my hustler which told the story of a gay man hiring a male hooker and taking him onto some vacation site in new york and then realizing that since the hooker is really hot everyone's out to get a piece of him. we got to watch the clip where two men and a women were hanging out at the balcony over looking this young man lying at the beach. one thing about warhol's movies is that nothing rushes, nothing chases nothing. everything is shown slowly and everything takes its time. we got to watch this extremely handsome full blooded coke and tv style the american man--who's real name was paul america by the way which i thought was brilliant-- and i'll be very honest he was the most amazing part of the whole exhibit for me: not for the cheaper reasons, but he was such the american image this tall overly proper physique, the bleach blonde hair, the look on his face, he was the ultimate 50s american fella. a bit of neal cassidy you know.
needless to say everyone was really beautiful--or after a while you feel like everyone was very beautiful. second high point for me was the velvet underground and nico piece--i tried vainly to pick lou reed of the lot and there was nico's son running around. it's always weird to see stuff like that--i know nico of her la dolce vita deal, and i know she's been connected both to jim and to bob on different days.
but the best of the best for me was the screen tests of warhol that they projected on to the white wall. i personally think they are the best piece of art warhol left behind. there is something extremely honest and expressionist in their nature that his hyped up movies can not really match. i watched this woman--turns out to be a lady named ann buchanan for about 3 minutes--most beautiful thing ever. she cries on her screen test--i dont know whether it was planned or spontaneous but it was incredible. the way they slow down the visuals made it seem even deeper. i had already watched several of those screen tests--namely bob's nico's and edie's i think--but it was wonderful to watch some people whose names i didn't know. brings a different dimension to the whole thing.
last piece of footage was of the inner and outer space of edie's monologues. my friends were absolutely mesmerized with her beauty. now i'm of the dylan school of thought (he just turned in his bed) and to me edie's always the shallow socialite who gets dragged away by all the shimmering lights. she has a good heart but not the matching personality, she's overly obsessed with her 'ribbons and bows' and is brainwashed. so to me she's always just pretty--hence had everything in her life because she was pretty--she was rich and careless and well, darn me for saying it, but some sort of paris hilton of the 60s in a more art-induced manner. but when you see her face enlarged on the screen you do get a little shaken--she has this beautiful little mouth and large eyes that stare right into the void--you kinda get a feeling of the whole little girl inside image making it girl outside deal. she is pretty, you know, nothing to exceptional as far as i'm concerned because she reeks of image and i feel like she had an idea of what she wanted to look like every step of the way which puts me off of her legendary icon status. i tend to see icons as spontaneous bursts of humanity that can not exist in any other way (which is mostly wrong, i would think, we are all image anyhow) but edie seems too--you know--calculated for precise beauty. but as i said when she stares into your face in black and white you get sad for no reason. you don't get sad when you look at the other superstars but you get sad when you look at edie. perhaps she to me is a broken-hearted woman after all who got treated terribly by the man she liked--and she failed to receive the attention that she tried all her life to recieve because one man was to stubborn to give in.
anywho--whoa this is getting long.
anywho to sum everything up: i always liked warhol but not really admired him a whole lot--i think warhol is a period in time and a mood of existence rather than one incredible amazing artist or whatnot. i think the whole of factory was what should be taken in and felt rather than warhol on his own. the in and out spinning of hundreds of really beautiful people chasing fame and visual attraction. i say attraction for i really don't think they chased beauty in a broader sense but only the visual rules of their day. all the girls are perfect and them men--boy the men are even more perfect--they follow that kerouac way of drifter look with dark hair and flat stomachs and shapely arms--and they are all really good looking. i think the men even more than the women.
one great thing though is not everything feels like you cracked upon a box with all the sex and sexuality involved--you feel like you're enjoying something that bended a few rules of its time (bending a few rules of our times, more likely).
anyways so afterwards we headed out to see the polaroids in besiktas but couldn't do so because they were closed. instead we got to drink tea and stuff and chat a little. a day spent well is a day spent well anyhow, right?
here's the weeping lady for those interested:
Monday, June 13, 2011
...
will tell you all about the partial andy warhol exhibit that i saw today but i am so extremelu tired that i should probably just call it a night and go to sleep.
Saturday, June 11, 2011
waltzing matilda, waltzing matilda, you'll go waltzing matilda with me
sorry it took me a while lovers, it's been a day or two of coolin' down, that's all.
coolin down from what? well, everything. including fireflies and wayward hedgehogs but more so from the last remaining bits of the wasteland that allowed me to grow into a much saddened yet wiser butterfly (or perhaps something else, butterflies are not very metaphoric after all. yes i put the period after a long sentence (but you know me and my sentences they always continue--even when they end).
it was a wonderful night when we all laughed out loud with silent recognition of the coming danger of growing up (you'd think by time of college you'd already have done so but me? no. never). i drank lotsa wine cracked up jokes and tagged along to made up last minute speeches. popped up champagne twice- firstly with those who i've set out to walk this path with and than with those that i learnt to walk this path with--both of which mean the world to me-- and noticed that one thing a man can't do with grace is pop the champagne (no joking i mean it). they all cramp and try and sweetly laugh but boy it takes time.
seen fireflies for the first time in my life. they look like these long lost pieces of silver spirits flashing up as shooting stars in the darkness and even more sweetly they follow a path (well they are bugs after all and have to fly from one spot to the other) so you watch them spark (but in a silvery sharp way) all the way down slowly but constantly. and boy they are beautiful. i could have perhaps trailed them all night if i was left to do so but i had other stuff to chase: goodbyes, mostly.
i ended up (as always) not where i thought i'd end up. my dear friend who always helps me to not feel dangerously homeless opened his home to me and even prepared a wonderful breakfast the next morning. made me realize two things: firstly i am an incompetent child in the kitchen. i think it's because my mom always made everything so amazingly tasty and quick that i grew to learn my place. second i think my favorite meal of the day (not very poetically or very much in a rock'n roll manner) is breakfast--if you have a smiling face or two by your side. i think i love it so much because it means you're starting your day together-- which has a very sincere beauty involved in it. it's not meeting up or running into one another--it's this human emotion of sharing the start of a day which resounds of will and warmth. so yes at the age 21 i notice i like the morning hours and breakfast chats. especially to clean up the table and move on to drinking your coffee or tea or whatever it is.
what am i feeling? who knows. been drinking coffee and reading books all morning outside at the balcony with the fresh vase full of flowers i bought the other day for mama and the tea she made and the crow babies running around shrieking all the way till you see the redness of the insides of their beaks. and as if it could have been any better it's been raining all day and mama and i just sat there on the balcony with the roof protecting us from the wetness but not from the lovely dripping sound. she was doing her crosswords puzzle. i was sketching out my pound route for london next week. and the rain oh the rain.
how come i get to feel this safe now when everyone's crumbling down is beyond me but i think knowing ultimately what you have to do to survive helps. you just have to find a way to make that fit into the real world. so i guess i look out for a tool, not a purpose: hence my ultimately peaceful ways.
it's gonna be a crazy week from now on lotsa arrangements have to be made and shopping and figuring stuff out with my lovely london companions. app. i'll be staying somewhere within a stretch of a walking distance from ezra's whereabouts. so we may run into each other after all in a dreamland where i can then perhaps shape by where he's been and where i'll be.
i should make an ending now. and not just to this post, i take it. don't let it be known but i am sad. i have the blues in the root of my heart. if it was up to me i would have stayed. yes not in a way that i'm afraid of life and all but life was in there for me: always there within those high stone robert frost walls within the shades of the trees and the heart shaped leaves beneath which i let out my morning sigh within the shelves and shelves of books where i ran to to feel safe and to fall in love with poets proud and praised and within hallways and high ceilings and pathways that made me feel always in charge always in control and always in life. there in that patch of ground i never buried anything but i busted them out--every bit of feeling of love and lonesomeness and joy i hashed up and jumped around and beat the crap out of to have'm all stand high above the ground--i knew where i was and it was mine--and the green and the blue and the dustworn sunrises and the blinking stars of the pitch black--and all the colors of the time of my life when i knew who i was and who i was to be--and hanging up the lock now i know i am never to feel that safe again or that in possession--but i also know that if i ever get to tell my story to a handful of drifting souls in some pastel colored cafe over bitter and black coffee while the sun goes up beneath some hills there is where i will say it all started. and i being me will laugh a loud laugh and wave a hand aimlessly knowing that in a world where rootlessness always make the best poems i am cursed with knowing where i began.
and i began there.
coolin down from what? well, everything. including fireflies and wayward hedgehogs but more so from the last remaining bits of the wasteland that allowed me to grow into a much saddened yet wiser butterfly (or perhaps something else, butterflies are not very metaphoric after all. yes i put the period after a long sentence (but you know me and my sentences they always continue--even when they end).
it was a wonderful night when we all laughed out loud with silent recognition of the coming danger of growing up (you'd think by time of college you'd already have done so but me? no. never). i drank lotsa wine cracked up jokes and tagged along to made up last minute speeches. popped up champagne twice- firstly with those who i've set out to walk this path with and than with those that i learnt to walk this path with--both of which mean the world to me-- and noticed that one thing a man can't do with grace is pop the champagne (no joking i mean it). they all cramp and try and sweetly laugh but boy it takes time.
seen fireflies for the first time in my life. they look like these long lost pieces of silver spirits flashing up as shooting stars in the darkness and even more sweetly they follow a path (well they are bugs after all and have to fly from one spot to the other) so you watch them spark (but in a silvery sharp way) all the way down slowly but constantly. and boy they are beautiful. i could have perhaps trailed them all night if i was left to do so but i had other stuff to chase: goodbyes, mostly.
i ended up (as always) not where i thought i'd end up. my dear friend who always helps me to not feel dangerously homeless opened his home to me and even prepared a wonderful breakfast the next morning. made me realize two things: firstly i am an incompetent child in the kitchen. i think it's because my mom always made everything so amazingly tasty and quick that i grew to learn my place. second i think my favorite meal of the day (not very poetically or very much in a rock'n roll manner) is breakfast--if you have a smiling face or two by your side. i think i love it so much because it means you're starting your day together-- which has a very sincere beauty involved in it. it's not meeting up or running into one another--it's this human emotion of sharing the start of a day which resounds of will and warmth. so yes at the age 21 i notice i like the morning hours and breakfast chats. especially to clean up the table and move on to drinking your coffee or tea or whatever it is.
what am i feeling? who knows. been drinking coffee and reading books all morning outside at the balcony with the fresh vase full of flowers i bought the other day for mama and the tea she made and the crow babies running around shrieking all the way till you see the redness of the insides of their beaks. and as if it could have been any better it's been raining all day and mama and i just sat there on the balcony with the roof protecting us from the wetness but not from the lovely dripping sound. she was doing her crosswords puzzle. i was sketching out my pound route for london next week. and the rain oh the rain.
how come i get to feel this safe now when everyone's crumbling down is beyond me but i think knowing ultimately what you have to do to survive helps. you just have to find a way to make that fit into the real world. so i guess i look out for a tool, not a purpose: hence my ultimately peaceful ways.
it's gonna be a crazy week from now on lotsa arrangements have to be made and shopping and figuring stuff out with my lovely london companions. app. i'll be staying somewhere within a stretch of a walking distance from ezra's whereabouts. so we may run into each other after all in a dreamland where i can then perhaps shape by where he's been and where i'll be.
i should make an ending now. and not just to this post, i take it. don't let it be known but i am sad. i have the blues in the root of my heart. if it was up to me i would have stayed. yes not in a way that i'm afraid of life and all but life was in there for me: always there within those high stone robert frost walls within the shades of the trees and the heart shaped leaves beneath which i let out my morning sigh within the shelves and shelves of books where i ran to to feel safe and to fall in love with poets proud and praised and within hallways and high ceilings and pathways that made me feel always in charge always in control and always in life. there in that patch of ground i never buried anything but i busted them out--every bit of feeling of love and lonesomeness and joy i hashed up and jumped around and beat the crap out of to have'm all stand high above the ground--i knew where i was and it was mine--and the green and the blue and the dustworn sunrises and the blinking stars of the pitch black--and all the colors of the time of my life when i knew who i was and who i was to be--and hanging up the lock now i know i am never to feel that safe again or that in possession--but i also know that if i ever get to tell my story to a handful of drifting souls in some pastel colored cafe over bitter and black coffee while the sun goes up beneath some hills there is where i will say it all started. and i being me will laugh a loud laugh and wave a hand aimlessly knowing that in a world where rootlessness always make the best poems i am cursed with knowing where i began.
and i began there.
Wednesday, June 8, 2011
the asylum years
in about i'll say 24 hours or so i'll be a free gal with no worry over time anymore: i will also be a child who just got kicked out of the house yet still can barely stand on her two feet.
Monday, June 6, 2011
...
considering that my sincerity has been doubted through the same attitude i guess trying to ease people's tensions result in an unintentionally-condescending-tone-of-suggestion. school's over and all, but i guess when people are freaking out they want someone to freak them out further--rather than to calm them down.
Sunday, June 5, 2011
...
Pretend that you owe me nothing>
And all the world is green
Pretend we can bring back the old days again
But all the world is green
anywhere i lay my head
howdy, lovers.
coffee is slightly surpassed by some wonderful ice cream but the weather is lovely and i still have shitload of stuff to do BUT had a fun couple of days, so i thought i'd put the stuff down here before it slips away from the grip of my mind (which, those of you who know me know, is really not that tight). anywho last night was loads of fun with several different highs --- for starters my incapability of keeping myself proper and clean--i have the manners of a 5 year old when i'm all excited and talkative. not to mention you can trail me down from 4 street afar if only you follow the cigarette buds with bright red dark pink and sometimes even purpleish lipstick circles around the buds (and accordingly, as i noticed last night, at the tip of my two fingers that hold the bud).
and guess what happened? i ran into the everything is illuminated kid last night. circles and circles and circles of friends added up and was taken out and i remembered (though about 10 15 minutes in). strange happenings, i would say. nice ones, though. makes you feel like you really are coming around full circle.
and several other things that go bump in the night--the curfew gull for example! yes i know what it means now. i mean no i still have no clue what it really means but here's what happened: we were all dancing at this rooftop place with the most beautiful view surrounding everything and i look up for a split second and notice something paler shoots through the sky-- it's a seagull. i'm not joking. it just flew right over us up up up in the sky in the blueness of the midnight and i thought to myself "there, that's what it must mean, that's what curfew gull must be".
last but not least--we had a lovely cabride back home. after the city was shut down and even the coffee places were locked and all that and we had a slightly strange driver but hey we made it home in one piece after all. which is all that matters. and though i was dead beat in my feet and resting on about 4 hours of sleep of the previous night i pulled an almost 24 hour day straight having fun to the bone.
but if you still ask me the nomad who stays where she may find a couch and a smiling face the best of all the most beautiful the most wonderful was coming home to find dear old dad waiting at the bus stop because he arranged his buying-sunday-paper-warm-bread-fresh-egss etc. with my coming home.
just to see me 10 minutes earlier.
there you go:
coffee is slightly surpassed by some wonderful ice cream but the weather is lovely and i still have shitload of stuff to do BUT had a fun couple of days, so i thought i'd put the stuff down here before it slips away from the grip of my mind (which, those of you who know me know, is really not that tight). anywho last night was loads of fun with several different highs --- for starters my incapability of keeping myself proper and clean--i have the manners of a 5 year old when i'm all excited and talkative. not to mention you can trail me down from 4 street afar if only you follow the cigarette buds with bright red dark pink and sometimes even purpleish lipstick circles around the buds (and accordingly, as i noticed last night, at the tip of my two fingers that hold the bud).
and guess what happened? i ran into the everything is illuminated kid last night. circles and circles and circles of friends added up and was taken out and i remembered (though about 10 15 minutes in). strange happenings, i would say. nice ones, though. makes you feel like you really are coming around full circle.
and several other things that go bump in the night--the curfew gull for example! yes i know what it means now. i mean no i still have no clue what it really means but here's what happened: we were all dancing at this rooftop place with the most beautiful view surrounding everything and i look up for a split second and notice something paler shoots through the sky-- it's a seagull. i'm not joking. it just flew right over us up up up in the sky in the blueness of the midnight and i thought to myself "there, that's what it must mean, that's what curfew gull must be".
last but not least--we had a lovely cabride back home. after the city was shut down and even the coffee places were locked and all that and we had a slightly strange driver but hey we made it home in one piece after all. which is all that matters. and though i was dead beat in my feet and resting on about 4 hours of sleep of the previous night i pulled an almost 24 hour day straight having fun to the bone.
but if you still ask me the nomad who stays where she may find a couch and a smiling face the best of all the most beautiful the most wonderful was coming home to find dear old dad waiting at the bus stop because he arranged his buying-sunday-paper-warm-bread-fresh-egss etc. with my coming home.
just to see me 10 minutes earlier.
there you go:
Thursday, June 2, 2011
then you burn your mansion to the ground
my favorite kind--the midnight rambling. with all the tom lyrics i've been paying attention to lately makes me feel like writing something with smoke and dirt and lust and sundown. but i have a full belly and a stable life: hence the death of the poet.
Wednesday, June 1, 2011
grapefruit moon
we parted ways with ezra on a sunny morning by a deserted old building.
for those who have less wild imaginations: that means that i'm done with my thesis. 4 days of non-stop writing (a little over 30 pages) is finally done. i am a bit sad, i'll be hoest with you, the moment i wrote it i wanted to rip it to shreads and rewrite it. not that it's bad--it's just everytime you sit down to put something on you come up with 12 more things to say and then you're left with all these wonderful questions for which you knew you would have come up with if only you had the time for it! and you come up with a million more ideas and you want to read a million other things (like i am so turned on now to perhaps one day do a portrayal of ezra through the autobiographical works of those around him and such other crazy dreams and visions that pop up while you look dry eyed at the now bleak computer screen). as for what i've wrote: ezra would have probably at best given it an eh but i'm 85% satisfied wit it. and trust me, 85% is all you can really achieve in 4 days.
ah look at me: all academically emotional because i had to leave behind my subject.
thanks to a buddy of mine who brought to my attention that i've been too bob-dependent over the last few days (or in general, i guess) i did a little resetting on my playlist yesterday and thus rediscovered my tom waits collection--well rediscovered my few songs of tommy, and then downloaded quite a few of his albums and now i have them on--very soothing, suprisingly, that growly voice mellows out in these wicked romantic lyrics and smoky back room visions. even of an emotionally dead encounter with a hooker tom manages to tell the story broken hearted but understandingly--i don't know what it is but depsite having shitload of stuff to do (a whole 6 pages take home final for friday morning) i chose to do nothing tonight and listen to tom's stories instead.
my brain's fried nonetheless, so sorry for the lack of innovative wonders here in this post. but here's something that i came up with a coupla of days ago, about ezra, written by william carlos williams (the famous plum poet of mine) :
cheers.
for those who have less wild imaginations: that means that i'm done with my thesis. 4 days of non-stop writing (a little over 30 pages) is finally done. i am a bit sad, i'll be hoest with you, the moment i wrote it i wanted to rip it to shreads and rewrite it. not that it's bad--it's just everytime you sit down to put something on you come up with 12 more things to say and then you're left with all these wonderful questions for which you knew you would have come up with if only you had the time for it! and you come up with a million more ideas and you want to read a million other things (like i am so turned on now to perhaps one day do a portrayal of ezra through the autobiographical works of those around him and such other crazy dreams and visions that pop up while you look dry eyed at the now bleak computer screen). as for what i've wrote: ezra would have probably at best given it an eh but i'm 85% satisfied wit it. and trust me, 85% is all you can really achieve in 4 days.
ah look at me: all academically emotional because i had to leave behind my subject.
thanks to a buddy of mine who brought to my attention that i've been too bob-dependent over the last few days (or in general, i guess) i did a little resetting on my playlist yesterday and thus rediscovered my tom waits collection--well rediscovered my few songs of tommy, and then downloaded quite a few of his albums and now i have them on--very soothing, suprisingly, that growly voice mellows out in these wicked romantic lyrics and smoky back room visions. even of an emotionally dead encounter with a hooker tom manages to tell the story broken hearted but understandingly--i don't know what it is but depsite having shitload of stuff to do (a whole 6 pages take home final for friday morning) i chose to do nothing tonight and listen to tom's stories instead.
my brain's fried nonetheless, so sorry for the lack of innovative wonders here in this post. but here's something that i came up with a coupla of days ago, about ezra, written by william carlos williams (the famous plum poet of mine) :
"He is the essense of optimism and has a cast iron faith, that is something to admire. If he ever does get blue nobody knows it, so he is just the man for me. But not one person in a thousand likes him, and a great many people detest him and why? Because he is so darned full of conceits and affectations. He is really a brilliant talker and thinker but delights in making himself just exactly what he is not: a laughing boor. His friends must be all patience in order to find him out and even then you must not let him know it, for he will immediately put on some artificial mood and be really unbelievable. It is too bad, for he loves to be liked, yet there is some quality in him which makes him too proud to try to please people."
cheers.
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