LESS THEORETICAL THAN USUAL
Originally this was just for Gavin, but really it's for all of you/anyone:
1. When we're older and less attached to Urbanity let's start up an Art Farm in Montana (especially you, Terry Parker, even though you don't read this) and grow our own organic vegetables, cultivate lithe lean muscles and tawny skins, make things together, eat meals sitting out in the grass, drink dark beers, make noise/music/singing/moaning, and tittyfuck till dawn.
2. More contemporaneously, I know everyone (myself turbo-included) has to get established [and get a job] and all, but the thing I miss most about Georgia is the backpacking/camping I do there. I want to do it here. Anytime you wanna go, I know a few others who've expressed such interests. I have empty milkjugs, SmartWool socks, thrift store boots, bandanas, a 2-man tent, a pack, lots of sleeping bags, firestarter, a compass, a tarp, ramen and canned salmon, a Swiss Army knife, a starchart, a flashlight, and Dr. Bronner's travel size mint castille soap, and I know a few friends with cars. Unfortunately all that stuff is in GA, but it can find its way here pretty easily if my dad mails it for free through the office. David, let's try to camp if we're in GA together.
I saw SLC people at a housewarming party on the UPPER west side two nights ago. It was really good to see familiar faces, people I don't necessarily know well but really like and respect. Sometimes I like the solitude, and sometimes this apartment gets really lonely. Afterwards I made the choice to hang out with two new people instead of two friends. I'm trying new things.
I did yoga for the first time in two months, and I feel better than I have felt lately. My appetite is increasing. I should be doing it everyday like I used to, I should be breaking out of these gray pounding pelvis-burning solace-shrinking coils and folds. I kind of miss being at a place where I'm so comfortable that I don't give a fuck about anything, about wrestling my friends in kiddy pools at 3 am, about letting my balls out with Cara, about having banana fights, about doing contact improv and falling down in the middle of crowded rooms or at shows, about wearing no pants, about screaming all the time so that my throat hurts for weeks, about smoking too much and drinking too much, carrying cheap gin and water around in a Jim Beam bottle, about always talking about tittyfucking and sex with Grimace, about generally being some kind of asshole. I miss playing and singing Bob Dylan, Neil Young, Gillian Welch, Nashville Skyline, and nameless other folk and blues till 4 am with some of my closest and most beautifully-voiced friends, in brown-papered rooms and on dark lawns and benches. I wish I knew how to sing and play guitar.
C. Jackson and I did quasi-exquisite corpse poetry the other night. That was really fun.
Gavin gives me hope for the future, for a beautiful manticorotic hybridchild of our own making:
"...an extra Cadbury egg at eastertime...*" "*And in Rebekah's case that egg will be mashed ceremoniously/unceremoniously for a cleavage-callous-making rawrubbing tittyfuck dance under the dark expanse of milkchocolate eggcream and babybatter. Then my semen will impregnate the Cadbury egg fetus and we will birth a half man, half talking rabbit, half Reblowhole cleavage beast of considerable strength and speed and we will raise it as our own. Mmmmmhmm."
1. When we're older and less attached to Urbanity let's start up an Art Farm in Montana (especially you, Terry Parker, even though you don't read this) and grow our own organic vegetables, cultivate lithe lean muscles and tawny skins, make things together, eat meals sitting out in the grass, drink dark beers, make noise/music/singing/moaning, and tittyfuck till dawn.
2. More contemporaneously, I know everyone (myself turbo-included) has to get established [and get a job] and all, but the thing I miss most about Georgia is the backpacking/camping I do there. I want to do it here. Anytime you wanna go, I know a few others who've expressed such interests. I have empty milkjugs, SmartWool socks, thrift store boots, bandanas, a 2-man tent, a pack, lots of sleeping bags, firestarter, a compass, a tarp, ramen and canned salmon, a Swiss Army knife, a starchart, a flashlight, and Dr. Bronner's travel size mint castille soap, and I know a few friends with cars. Unfortunately all that stuff is in GA, but it can find its way here pretty easily if my dad mails it for free through the office. David, let's try to camp if we're in GA together.
I saw SLC people at a housewarming party on the UPPER west side two nights ago. It was really good to see familiar faces, people I don't necessarily know well but really like and respect. Sometimes I like the solitude, and sometimes this apartment gets really lonely. Afterwards I made the choice to hang out with two new people instead of two friends. I'm trying new things.
I did yoga for the first time in two months, and I feel better than I have felt lately. My appetite is increasing. I should be doing it everyday like I used to, I should be breaking out of these gray pounding pelvis-burning solace-shrinking coils and folds. I kind of miss being at a place where I'm so comfortable that I don't give a fuck about anything, about wrestling my friends in kiddy pools at 3 am, about letting my balls out with Cara, about having banana fights, about doing contact improv and falling down in the middle of crowded rooms or at shows, about wearing no pants, about screaming all the time so that my throat hurts for weeks, about smoking too much and drinking too much, carrying cheap gin and water around in a Jim Beam bottle, about always talking about tittyfucking and sex with Grimace, about generally being some kind of asshole. I miss playing and singing Bob Dylan, Neil Young, Gillian Welch, Nashville Skyline, and nameless other folk and blues till 4 am with some of my closest and most beautifully-voiced friends, in brown-papered rooms and on dark lawns and benches. I wish I knew how to sing and play guitar.
C. Jackson and I did quasi-exquisite corpse poetry the other night. That was really fun.
Gavin gives me hope for the future, for a beautiful manticorotic hybridchild of our own making:
"...an extra Cadbury egg at eastertime...*" "*And in Rebekah's case that egg will be mashed ceremoniously/unceremoniously for a cleavage-callous-making rawrubbing tittyfuck dance under the dark expanse of milkchocolate eggcream and babybatter. Then my semen will impregnate the Cadbury egg fetus and we will birth a half man, half talking rabbit, half Reblowhole cleavage beast of considerable strength and speed and we will raise it as our own. Mmmmmhmm."