Eat a cookie, eat a big dick every day...
This past week has treated me well as far as social activities go.
I painted a door siren red and walls inkblot and eggplant. I had no idea how exhilarating painting felt. I'm sure I wasn't just getting high off of the paint fumes. I felt as if I were filling in the spaces of a masterpiece, slapping the brush dripping with red paint across the door as if it were my own blood. I was painting Brandon's room-- I felt so satisfied to leave the remnants of a momentary burst of passion to dry.
A masquerade at Harvey's in the Castro, afternoon trysts with new characters, evening excursions with old ones, the Saturday evening showing of "Pandora's Box" at the Silent Film Festival at the Castro Theatre, a party at the unknown mansion of an unknown girl in Moraga, and a Sunday afternoon spent on a hill in the Mountain View graveyard overlooking the city.
I have become perfectly obsessed with recording and documenting everything from the scent of the trees at night in the stillness of heat to the silver flashes of moonlight that pour onto my passenger seat. These things I want to show and tell, but they are resigned to the vaults of memory.
My camera broke on a grave.
Brandon.
Scott and me before the masquerade.
We painted, but I suppose we did other things too.
I painted a door siren red and walls inkblot and eggplant. I had no idea how exhilarating painting felt. I'm sure I wasn't just getting high off of the paint fumes. I felt as if I were filling in the spaces of a masterpiece, slapping the brush dripping with red paint across the door as if it were my own blood. I was painting Brandon's room-- I felt so satisfied to leave the remnants of a momentary burst of passion to dry.
A masquerade at Harvey's in the Castro, afternoon trysts with new characters, evening excursions with old ones, the Saturday evening showing of "Pandora's Box" at the Silent Film Festival at the Castro Theatre, a party at the unknown mansion of an unknown girl in Moraga, and a Sunday afternoon spent on a hill in the Mountain View graveyard overlooking the city.
I have become perfectly obsessed with recording and documenting everything from the scent of the trees at night in the stillness of heat to the silver flashes of moonlight that pour onto my passenger seat. These things I want to show and tell, but they are resigned to the vaults of memory.
My camera broke on a grave.
Brandon.
Scott and me before the masquerade.
We painted, but I suppose we did other things too.