where once we watched the small free birds fly
today i was shocked by a beauty, my breath quickened, and i sat on the hallway floor and pretended not to listen.
it was some freshman - very small and young-looking, fragile, etc - and he was sitting on a deskchair in the hallway, facing an english prof whom i'd never seen before, sitting in her own deskchair - and he was telling her about how much he liked ts eliot.
that was when i sat further down the hall, pretending to wait for the class in session to let out, so that i could enter the room for my supposed class.
anyway she was so soothing, caring, REAL with the boy - told him what he had was a gift etc. a true love of this and that, and a true sensitivity; which must often, especially during these hard years for you, seem like a gift that charges too high a price... but it really is worth it in the end, if you resolve yourself to paying the price.
and so on and so on how prufrock was his favorite poem, and she said oh yes that's a good one, and muffle muffle - dammit i couldn't hear most of the conversation - but then it got around to the point of her telling him to make absolutely sure he would set aside time for himself, take care of himself, etc - and he told her he hadn't eaten yet today (it was about 5:30 pm) but that he had a meal plan and would be going to the caf right away after this, after which she offered him some candy from her office...
sigh. just beautiful, all this, to be going on amidst a crass, fake, empty, college hallway - people busy and cold, "thinking" and haughty, or just desperately trying to prove many things that are fully unworthy of the effort, merely for personal gain, monetary gain, hierarchical gain, see what i mean?
and when he left, of course i followed him, watching him jog quickly down the stairwell, ripping open the candy she'd given him - i so badly wanted to catch up, be warm and comforting and miraculous, and say, "are you a writer?" and offer him a position in the magazine.
would that have been presumptuous? creepy? i honestly have no idea, but such is what held me back.
i'm making vaux a mix for his return to america, this winter. i love making mixes, and i keep getting better at it. truly little aesthetic pieces, with definite motifs, themes, recurring shit, unified imagery, progressions, dynamics, i love making them.
tonight with the literati wasn't bad at all. we're pumped, tomorrow we'll be writing and recording more of this poetry album... can't fucking wait to make guitar atmospheres and piano love.
this weekend i'll be dogsitting hank, while my parents visit my sister at military academy. definitely looking forward to chillin with the crazy fucker, screaming at him, chasing him around the house, brawling and fighting with him, ripping mangled objects out of his mouth, and then watching a movie with him while he chews a bone.
i'd been worrying, lately, that i haven't received a card from my grandmother in so long - in the past she and i were extremely close, i don't feel like dredging up years and files of my family past right now - because believe me i could - but anyway i'd been feeling incredibly guilty that i'd grown away from everyone, rather completely now because here i am, 2007, 21 years old - a cynical, overeducated, nasty, subversive, alcoholic faggot - but today i received a halloween card from her, with the really sweet handwritten message just like old times, not to mention a little money - and so, i just don't know. maybe i should bring my honeymooners boxset to her house this weekend, while i'm in the valley that bred and made us both... funny, my honeymooners boxset has served as such a familial ambassador for me, establishing and maintaining good diplomacy, and so well. if there's something that every last branch of my family loves, it's the honeymooners. and i relish all the implications of that.
oh yeah, "the years" is beautiful. i really hope that the picnic on the moors is a recurring memory throughout the book, because i fucking love it. so far, the only writers who can coerce a gay sigh out of me, even when i'm reading in a public place, have been woolf and proust - probably my two absolute favorites as of now. strange that my writing, in many ways, is completely unlike theirs.
it was some freshman - very small and young-looking, fragile, etc - and he was sitting on a deskchair in the hallway, facing an english prof whom i'd never seen before, sitting in her own deskchair - and he was telling her about how much he liked ts eliot.
that was when i sat further down the hall, pretending to wait for the class in session to let out, so that i could enter the room for my supposed class.
anyway she was so soothing, caring, REAL with the boy - told him what he had was a gift etc. a true love of this and that, and a true sensitivity; which must often, especially during these hard years for you, seem like a gift that charges too high a price... but it really is worth it in the end, if you resolve yourself to paying the price.
and so on and so on how prufrock was his favorite poem, and she said oh yes that's a good one, and muffle muffle - dammit i couldn't hear most of the conversation - but then it got around to the point of her telling him to make absolutely sure he would set aside time for himself, take care of himself, etc - and he told her he hadn't eaten yet today (it was about 5:30 pm) but that he had a meal plan and would be going to the caf right away after this, after which she offered him some candy from her office...
sigh. just beautiful, all this, to be going on amidst a crass, fake, empty, college hallway - people busy and cold, "thinking" and haughty, or just desperately trying to prove many things that are fully unworthy of the effort, merely for personal gain, monetary gain, hierarchical gain, see what i mean?
and when he left, of course i followed him, watching him jog quickly down the stairwell, ripping open the candy she'd given him - i so badly wanted to catch up, be warm and comforting and miraculous, and say, "are you a writer?" and offer him a position in the magazine.
would that have been presumptuous? creepy? i honestly have no idea, but such is what held me back.
i'm making vaux a mix for his return to america, this winter. i love making mixes, and i keep getting better at it. truly little aesthetic pieces, with definite motifs, themes, recurring shit, unified imagery, progressions, dynamics, i love making them.
tonight with the literati wasn't bad at all. we're pumped, tomorrow we'll be writing and recording more of this poetry album... can't fucking wait to make guitar atmospheres and piano love.
this weekend i'll be dogsitting hank, while my parents visit my sister at military academy. definitely looking forward to chillin with the crazy fucker, screaming at him, chasing him around the house, brawling and fighting with him, ripping mangled objects out of his mouth, and then watching a movie with him while he chews a bone.
i'd been worrying, lately, that i haven't received a card from my grandmother in so long - in the past she and i were extremely close, i don't feel like dredging up years and files of my family past right now - because believe me i could - but anyway i'd been feeling incredibly guilty that i'd grown away from everyone, rather completely now because here i am, 2007, 21 years old - a cynical, overeducated, nasty, subversive, alcoholic faggot - but today i received a halloween card from her, with the really sweet handwritten message just like old times, not to mention a little money - and so, i just don't know. maybe i should bring my honeymooners boxset to her house this weekend, while i'm in the valley that bred and made us both... funny, my honeymooners boxset has served as such a familial ambassador for me, establishing and maintaining good diplomacy, and so well. if there's something that every last branch of my family loves, it's the honeymooners. and i relish all the implications of that.
oh yeah, "the years" is beautiful. i really hope that the picnic on the moors is a recurring memory throughout the book, because i fucking love it. so far, the only writers who can coerce a gay sigh out of me, even when i'm reading in a public place, have been woolf and proust - probably my two absolute favorites as of now. strange that my writing, in many ways, is completely unlike theirs.