(no subject)
Two sips at a time.
Today was cold, colder than the wool sweater I wore and the rain-proof shell I threw into my bag as I left, running to catch the bus, having woke up sick, stuffy, misaligned. One would have been misled by the morning: sunny, warmer than anyone had dressed for. Sitting on the concrete block at the bus stop, sipping the warm drink I bought after realizing I had enough time to get a caffeine fix now instead of later, trying to humor and avoid the "eccentric" woman also waiting. Throwing on my work shirt, knowing I was ill-prepared in rest, not to mention levity.
Not exactly sure what is meant by the content understandings that come when the wine and the marijuana convene.
His room contains these constants:
-Empty liquor bottle
-Rick James record sleeves on the wall
-a Kafka quote scrawled in yellow chalk upon his bookcase's side
-A painting of Bigfoot ejaculating a rainbow
-An expanding shelf of Situationist literature
-Bookmarked, dog-eared books hidden around, ranging from halfway done to almost
-Alphabetized crates of records
-Relics of his Southern past
My body hangs. Sounds curve around it and I'm too worried to keep my eyes closed.
"Rumney spent much of his life living as a wanderer, and was variously described as both a 'recluse' and a 'media whore', seeing his existence as a 'permanent adventure and endless experiment.' He moved, as his friend Guy Atkins said, between penury and almost absurd affluence. One visited him in a squalid room in London's Neal Street, in a house shared with near down-and-outs. Next, one would find him in Harry's Bar in Venice, or at a Max Ernst opening in Paris. He seemed to take poverty with more equanimity than riches."
Today was cold, colder than the wool sweater I wore and the rain-proof shell I threw into my bag as I left, running to catch the bus, having woke up sick, stuffy, misaligned. One would have been misled by the morning: sunny, warmer than anyone had dressed for. Sitting on the concrete block at the bus stop, sipping the warm drink I bought after realizing I had enough time to get a caffeine fix now instead of later, trying to humor and avoid the "eccentric" woman also waiting. Throwing on my work shirt, knowing I was ill-prepared in rest, not to mention levity.
Not exactly sure what is meant by the content understandings that come when the wine and the marijuana convene.
His room contains these constants:
-Empty liquor bottle
-Rick James record sleeves on the wall
-a Kafka quote scrawled in yellow chalk upon his bookcase's side
-A painting of Bigfoot ejaculating a rainbow
-An expanding shelf of Situationist literature
-Bookmarked, dog-eared books hidden around, ranging from halfway done to almost
-Alphabetized crates of records
-Relics of his Southern past
My body hangs. Sounds curve around it and I'm too worried to keep my eyes closed.
"Rumney spent much of his life living as a wanderer, and was variously described as both a 'recluse' and a 'media whore', seeing his existence as a 'permanent adventure and endless experiment.' He moved, as his friend Guy Atkins said, between penury and almost absurd affluence. One visited him in a squalid room in London's Neal Street, in a house shared with near down-and-outs. Next, one would find him in Harry's Bar in Venice, or at a Max Ernst opening in Paris. He seemed to take poverty with more equanimity than riches."