pixelated.me

all i can see is beyond the make-up.
The constructed process of her captured image.
all i see is the moles that have been airbrushed away and a missing birth mark.
i remember cellulite and random body hairs.
the shear vulnerability of it all.

Behind every centerfold, porn star, erotic model, escort, hooker, stripper, or catalogue model is someone who was or is privy to their unconstructed self.

There's always a wizard pulling the levers,

truth is found in the good intentions we share even if we turn right around and turn them into falsehoods.

I spoke to my ex this evening. She'll eventually read this post which makes this feel a bit exhibitionist of me, more than a blog usually is, in any case.

"i don't feel any particular way good or bad about talking to you." i said, or something like that. I think i may have lied, because while i don't feel anything AS particular about talking to her as i did say a year ago, i do feel somewhat, stirred up. It's unprecise but there's this slight scrambled sensation in my gut/head.

So we exchanged pleasant updates about our lives, work, family, holiday plans and all is rather okay and unremarkable until she mentions she's in love and though it pains me to admit it, for it paints me as rather Neanderthal, i felt some odd sort of...discomfort at idea. It was somehow so much easier when my idea of her was of someone jumping from crush to crush with all the speediness of a tigress devouring prey, It made me feel uniquely privileged to have loved her, been loved by her, and somehow the knowledge that she's happy, settle, has found another someone to love feels bitter.
Sure i'm happy for her in some generic sense of the sensation but truely i suppose that despite my own life, my own relationships, my own loves, I liked the idea of her as not in love, but perpetually struggling through relationships.

Perhaps that is a bit petty of me or just selffish and egotistical, I may always be her first love but, in love, being first rarely means best since we tend to improve upon our ability to love the more great loves we've fucked up.

at least, like everything else in this blog, that's my opinion.

"little dark girl with
kind eyes
when it comes time to
use the knife
I won't flinch and
I won't blame
you,
as I drive along the shore alone
as the palms wave,
the ugly heavy palms,
as the living does not arrive
as the dead do not leave,
I won't blame you,
instead
I will remember the kisses
our lips raw with love
and how you gave me
everything you had
and how I
offered you what was left of
me,
and I will remember your small room
the feel of you
the light in the window
your records
your books
our morning coffee
our noons our nights
our bodies spilled together
sleeping
the tiny flowing currents
immediate and forever
your leg my leg
your arm my arm
your smile and the warmth
of you
who made me laugh
again.
little dark girl with kind eyes
you have no
knife. the knife is
mine and I won't use it
yet."

- Charles Bukowski

It's an old ritual i suppose.
watching the clock. Hoping that somehow as much time has passed as you feel has passed. It never has. This might be of little interest to anyone but typing keeps my fingers from the phone.

If only i could type something a bit more useful.

waiting can be one of the most difficult things to endure when you're trying to give yourself and someone else space.

Understanding that the minutes must go by, that decisions, thoughts, tears can't be rushed. That the silence is necessary.

every bloke i think has some part of him that wants to fix things now. Like a broken faucet or in my case a broken mac.

If i come across a problem with a computer, doesn't even need to be mine, i have a hard time not wanting to solve the puzzle then and there and fix it.

but the human heart is complex, and there is no wrench or techtool pro that you can you use on it.

So this girl that i love is crying somewhere, and the best thing i can do, even though it feels like the exact opposite of what i should do, and IS the exact opposite of what i want to do, is let her cry and wait.

which is hard.

She must have taken it with her. Some crucial part of him. the part or parts, he wasn't sure which, that allowed him be one of those 24/7 coupled pairs, the part that allowed him to think in "we" for the better part of his early 20's.....Read More

I seem to come to these small crossroads by literally crashing into them. The past two days have been reminders of my demons. Old demons i'd thought gone, or hadn't heard from in a while so i'd stopped wondering where they were.
fears, anxieties, insecurities, and that ever familiar blanket of co-dependent behaviour.

It's ironic. Thanksgiving just came and went, a holiday that isn't celebrated at all in Mexico for obvious reasons, and almost as if to remind me, to give me contrast, for what i do have, my demons have come around to prod at me.

So a day late, but here is what i AM thankful for.

My family. My sister M. without whom i would have lost my path many times a long time ago.

My father who despite his faults, tries, and has never wavered in his desire to see and help me succeed.

My home, which slowly comes together, though on some days it still feels as alien and odd as when i wrote about it a few months back. The old futon mattress, thankfully, is gone

I am grateful for the girl in my life, she has through our entirely backwards love affair given me the space to feel things i'd almost given up on. I am grateful for her courage and beauty and that she chooses to share it with me.

I am grateful for language, words, and my ability to wield them well.

I am grateful for the reminder on my right arm that despite my triangular shape i can and will learn to roll on my own.

and more than anything today nov 23rd 2007 i am humbled because i realize that even though i thought i was done, done with the therapy, healing, growth, and challenges i am reminded that i am not. I am not done, because it's not an A to B sort of thing. Like a diet junkie who's weight yo-yo's back, i realize that mine is and will always be a constant process of self awareness, discovery, growth, and truth.

I allowed myself to avoid these things for the larger part of 2007, but in falling for a girl the damn burst open and that is a good fucking thing because i can now go back to the process of learning.

i'm also greatful to those few who read this blog, a handful of you are ex girlfriends with whom i haven't for various reasons kept in touch. I'm happy to share this bit of myself, in words, with you. And to those anonymous few, thank you for your readership, your occasional comments. This blog has always existed out of a personal need to chronicle some part of myself, but if in some small way it affects someone else, i am glad for it.

and because i am a geek. Live long and prosper.

There's this end of the year thing going on in my head. This bit where i look back at '07 and realize that the whole year has just been played by ear, on impulse, and i'm a little tired of it.

I yearn to grab the metaphorical hammer and build something. Sweat and break of bits of myself into something. I've allowed myself to be entertained by the girl i'm dating or the not so new anymore flat that i've been slowly molding into a home, but i yearn for the days of over caffeinated writing to dull out the pain of the wounds made by my ex.

writing then was about surviving, about keeping my mind functioning even though it begged me to shut down, to dive into some fucking writers cliché of alcohol and drug use. To indulge my friend Artemio when he tried to convinced me that given my initials i really needed to drop acid with him.

I went to Belfast, Madrid, and Barcelona on impulse, i returned to my old stomping ground of nyc on impulse, i'm dating a stripper, on impulse.

Very little in my life has been deliberate this year and i crave a little, a lot.

I loath the idea of new year resolutions, mainly because i think its bullshit. My ex was big on them, we'd make up list and the whole nine yards.

It's now, with this mediocre bit of writing, this post on stagnation that i force new habits, that will become my new impulses.

writings a lonely fucking thing to do, which is probably why i've been putting it off.

A note about the author: I was born in Mexico City. Yet i rarely write in spanish. the following image* is an example of why i find my native tongue frustrating to use to express myself creatively.



* for the non Spanish reader: customize translates into "modified for specific requirements." my language apparently lacks a single word to express that. if anyone knows of one please leave it as a comment.

it had occurred to me that in 12 days on nov 14th i would mark the passing of 2 years. 2 years of terrible growth, pain, joy, ache, maturing, and all the somewhat cliched stuff that people go through after a particularly bad break-up. I would have said something clever, funny, sarcastic, i would have sworn a few times and made note of how time has not so much made anything easier as just made it part of a greater whole. It stands out less after 2 years...

You see there i go writing what i would no doubt have written in 12 days time if it weren't for a list of 100 things that someone wrote that i read tonight that reminded me a little of what the things looked like just before it all came tumbling down, and you know what, (you, faceless, nameless reader) things circa oct 2005 looked pretty damn beautiful, the water was calm, to borrow a mediocre metaphor. There seemed to be a lot of good in the little house of cards that was that relationship. I'm not sure what deep insight i can gleam from that, it's a bit unsettling to realize just how subtle the foreshadowing was to both of us.

but more than looking back it makes me wonder about the present, I'm in a somewhat new relationship with many of its own pitfalls and i have to somehow convince myself to just go with it, with full knowledge of just how abrupt the end can be.

it was nice reading that list though, even though things fell apart it was nice to stop for a moment and be reminded of the good.

He should’ve hated it,
any of his ex gf’s who’d watched him with mild disgust as he picked the pickles from his McDonalds cheeseburgers would attest to that.
they would also attest to the fact that he refused to order the cheeseburger without pickles.

READ MORE

Today is Blog Action Day, The purpose of which is to bring the enviroment to the forefront of people's minds through blogs. As my blog has a rather small readership somewhere between 2 and maybe 10 it occurred to me to almost not write anything about the environment. When blogs like lifehacker, google blog, etc are writing about this what sense is their in me doing so.

but then i realized that in a way that reflects the very same attitude most people have about their environment, there is a profound sense of impotence that keeps us from acting.

I live in Mexico City a large, chaotic city of some 20,000,000+ inhabitants. It can be very frustrating to see just how little everyone else seems to care about the other 19,999,999+ people they share this metropolis with.

My sister who upon watching An Inconvenient Truth decided that amongst other things she would start separating her organic and inorganic trash was disillusioned when upon handing said separated trash to the garbage man saw him toss both bags into the same mix. She still separates her trash and perhaps one day she'll watch the trash man take note of her separation. It really is about making the little efforts that i believe will have a cumulative effect one day. It's about not letting ambivalence cloud our attitude.

Small choices can have small impacts and thats better than no impact. My sister keeps separating her trash and that reminds me to do what i can in my own life to minimize my impact on our environment.
I realize that what i have written are neither new nor revolutionary ideas but i write it because if in doing so one reader decides he or she will change her light bulbs, or shut of the water whilst brushing their teeth, then that will make a tiny dent in the problem.

and though i rarely write about technology in this blog it is very much a part of my life. Technology products sadly use materials that are horrendous for our environment. Mercury and Lead top that list. So i urge all 5 or 6 of you who read this to take a second look at that computer or cell phone you're considering tossing in the trash. Technology can be given wonderful second life's as machines dedicated to singles uses.
That 6 year old PC or Mac can't keep up for most new computing task but can still make an excellent web browsing terminal that can be set up for guest or children to use. Consider installing Ubuntu which is for most people with a decent understanding of computer a fairly painless task. It will give that old computer a a new lease and keep it from ending up in a trash dump.

on fucking too loudly: is it really that big a deal. I mean really what is it about hearing other people engage in what is essentially a fairly positive activity that gets us all rilled up? I mean do we mind if we hear the neighbors laugh? I think it bothers people because it forces us to comfront the reality that people fuck, our neighbor, our teachers, the cop, the waitress, the starbucks barista, the old woman in apartmen 4c, they all at some point or another fuck, probably, and that idea is somehow uncomfortable, so really when the downstairs neighbor yelled at the top of her lungs for us, (us being me and gf) to shut the fuck up, it was less so because of the noise of one woman moaning and more because it triggered some deep seated issue with acknowledging that you live in a big fucking city, in apts crammed side by side and yes on any given day people are having sex in your building, sometimes loudly, sometimes at 4 in the afternoon, having forgotten to shut the window that opens onto the central airshaft.

UPATED

1:30 am Mexico City
2:30 am New York City
11:30 pm Los Angeles
8:30 am Madrid

and i'm awake. somewhat bored. a mixture of sleeplessness combined with a stuborness to acknowledge the weariness in my body.
i've spent minutes that felt like more browsing my flickr contacts, a girl in brazil with a thing for posting pictures of her meals just makes me hungry, another girl who seems to post more pictures of cross proccessed film than anyone possible could just make me feel uncreative, nothing really moves me in any direction.
I contemplate porn, maybe i'll jerk off and go to sleep.
it's that peculiar non horny somewhat blase masturbation, it's a in lieu of a wam cup of milk, it almost always about as exciting as a half stiffled sneeze at best.

I point my browser to a website that is sort of like a blog that covers sex and not just porn, a site i might look at perhaps a couple of times a month, if that, since it usually such a cluster fuck of sex related news that it ends up as more "oh?" than "OH!"

tonight though at
1:35 am Mexico City
2:35 am New York City
11:35 pm Los Angeles
and 7:30 am London

i am struck by the most peculiar cluster fuck of emotion i've experienced in quite a while, there smack dab on the front page, top link, main page, front fucking headline if you will, is my ex-gf, THE ex-gf (the THE being there to emphasis the nearly 5 years we spent together) and she's half laughing as she holds onto a balloon dildo.

"oH?!?"

curiosity being the callous bitch that she is i clicked through to the link, all told by

1:40 am Mexico City
2:40 am New York City
11:40 pm Los Angeles
and 4:40 pm Sydney
time

i'd also seen the briefest but recognizable 2 sec glimpse of video of what appears to be her facial expression as she fucks or is fucked or who knows.

Having been somewhat aware of some of the choices regarding her...sexual history after we split i wasn't entirely surprised,

no, you see the shock, the big fucking holy fuck moment of it all is that a year after i stopped giving much of a shit, a year after i stopped reading her all too explicit sex blog, a year after i stopped..."looking" i stumble face or more accurately cock first into her and her NYC sex pot lifestyle,

and it occurs to me that the internet, just became a really, really , really small fucking place.

and i don't fucking like it, not one bit.

i think a fella should be able to look at porn and have about as high probability of seeing his ex-gf as that of winning the lottery? which last i checked where about 1-in-13983816.

I will admit most people don't get ex-gf's quite like mine, most break-ups feature at worst the awkward post break up "running into your gf with her new bloke on the street, or in the shop" moments. Most blokes don't have to worry about browsing for porn and seeing your ex gf face moan a silent "fuck" as she has her hair pulled back while she's on all fours.

small fucking place this internet, i miss stealing playboys when i was 14, it was much simpler.

p.s this is really one of those post where i'd LOVE to read a comment here and there. ;-)

p.s. 2: after a careful forensic analysis it appears i was mistaken, the video in question isn't of her, just one of those fucked up similarities. you know you see a face in a crowd and think it's your childhood crush and then realize it was just an emo boy with sun glaring off of him...alas it's still a small fucking internet though ;-)

dating a stripper gets harder the more you give a damn. and given enough time you do tend to give a damn. 

"it’s probably for the best” said the thief to the kleptomaniac. I never could get our roles straight.

READ MORE

 

I keep in the pockets of my brain the names and faces of the people that have shaped me. The girls that wounded me, loved me, broke me and made me. I have note after note stuffed into the corners of me filled with their inner thoughts, the secrets, the truths revealed in moments of intimacy.

I keep them, these dreams, hopes, desires, fears. I look at them sometimes and feel the palpable cruelness of irony. These girls, with their frailties and broken parts who dashed in and out of my life but left so many snapshoted  pieces of themselves with me. 

Today they live in different cities of the world. They love there and laugh there and share their newest secrets with different men, every one of them feeling like the spanish conquistador glimpsing the new world for the first time. 

They discover the way her body quivers when she comes, that odd syncopated laughter, that quiet desire to be completely dominated, the fears born from the marks of her childhood. 
and yet,
and yet i once knew them too. I once felt the discovery of them. 

In the most naive corners of my heart i still surprises me not to know them today after having known them so...intimately. 

tonight i almost called her (an ex, the ex, my ex?)
out of impulse, because she wrote that she was catching an early morning flight,
and she'd never expect a phone call from me.
because she wrote "call me an keep me awake" and she'd never expect a phone call from me

she'd be right too.

tonight i almost called because somewhere she wrote "if you don't have my number it must be for a reason huh?"

does it count if for some reason despite not having thought about her 9 digits in about a year, i discovered that even though i deleted it from my mental phone book there was a copy of it stored in my inner sim card, that was readily accessible as soon as the thought "do i remember her number number" crossed my mind
yes, yes i do in fact. I tried the numbers out on my cell phone, the quick gliding from number to number. oddly familiar,
but tonight i ALMOST called,

tonight i almost called for the same reason some people get shitty tattoos whilst drunk: impetuousness in the early morning hours

i'm not sure what i would have said beyond some trite version of bon voyage, it was mainly about knowing i could catch someone off guard, but then what if that caught me off guard...

it's a funny old business isn't it?

good writing is like vomiting. 

every hour she's there. intoning in her very particular tone the hour and minutes.
she's there when i need her, at the flick of a button she annotates my day with the time.
she's there and every hour i think i'm falling more in love with her soft familiar voice.
if only she'd grace me with more than just the time.
if only she'd tell me of her hours spent doing french things in her french voice.
if i could only smell her soft hazel nut hair as she looked at the morning sun and said il est matenain sept heur sept minute....

I have a second milder obssession/habit:
I have always been keenly aware of anniversaries, the passage of time is something i have a deep fascination with, our/my perception of it. I notice anniversaries for all sorts of things, beyond the obvious "relationships" anniversaries. Yearly anniversaries are mainly my focus. It's been a year since i moved from new york, a year since i was last in L.A.
Acknowledging this passage of time serves to remind me of how i've changed and how that lines up with what i might have expected from the time that past. I recently turned 27 and spend a good deal of thought meditating on what this past year was for me and how that differed from what i thought might transpire.
all of this serves as a somewhat long winded intro to acknowledging that it has in fact been 6 yrs since 9-11. I was in new york city on that date in 2001. I was not near enough to ground zero to see any of the truly horrific first hand suffering that occured but i will never forget the palpable sense of loss and sorrow that filled the air that day. In the days that followed there was also a beautiful sense of commonality that bonded the citizens of new york together. There was a sense of kinship that made everyone seem accessible. I look back on those days and weeks that followed with a mixture of both awe and incredulity. In the same breath that new yorkers where helping each other the united states government was concocting the seeds for manipulating the attack to their political advantage. It breaks my heart to see how the American public has been manipulated, it breaks my heart to know that instead of growing stronger and closer in tragedy the country has had a wedge of divisiveness driven into it, it breaks my heart because at the end of the day i'm not american, but i grew up in the country, i lived, loved, and lost in new york city,
many of my closest friends live in the U.S and it's with a great sense of impotence that i watched as the political events of the country unfolded. I hope that somewhere, someone, a new yorker perhaps? remembers what it felt like to feel brotherhood with a total stranger on the streets of manhattan in the weeks after September 11th 2001.

i collect email address.
as in, i seem to have an disproportionate amount of email addresses registered.
mostly it happens because i think of some cool name for some as yet not functioning, recently conceived of company that will do no end of cool things and i then rush to gmail and see if someone else has thought of _____@gmail.com usually no one has and i chalk one more email address to my list.
at present count i have:
12 email addresses of which i regularly use 4.
There's some odd, collectors bug in me that keeps wanting to come up with new and interesting email accounts.
Some technopunk, pattern recognition, wanna be hacker vibe in me that enjoys the process of signing up for a new gmail account, 7 of the 12 emails are gmail.
Somewhere in the is the idea of emails as identity, It becomes part of our personal calling card, email me @...
They are like trying out differet characters or personas,
Someone who still holds onto johnsmith0934@hotmail.com seems to me lacking in cleverness or cool.
I have a mental catalog of criteria by which i immediately judge someones email address.
people who have email address composed of their first and last name rock, i wish luis.sosa@gmail.com was available, it is not.
in second place are emails that are clever without being stupid.
people that use L33T in their email address feel cool. such as p4ola@_____.com
or h4ck@____.com
in third place are people with some variation of first name and initial,
lsosa@____.com etc,
in last place are people who still use the email address they came up with when they were 15
butterly69 or sexychica18,
anything that sounds like it could be a handle for a webcam porn service basically.

so there it is, in odd minutia filled detail.
one of my odd habits.

This summary is not available. Please click here to view the post.

Discovered this wonderful site. Makes me Smile so i've decided to share it.

http://www.explodingdog.com/

Writing is such a curious bitch. There's no recipe. I've read about all these writers who force themselves to write x ammount during y time and so and so forth and i think its bullocks. I write. There are moments when things take longer to make their way to the page, screen, google blogspot server, etc and yes i am completely full of it and making excuses for the lack of updates. I wonder if there needs to be some filter, or if just the random observations of my day to day are worth sharing with the faceless more often than not commentless few who frequent this patch of internets.

observation: dating a stripper is sort of like dating a nudist or a girl who frequents the French Riviera. You sort of stop making such a big fuss about exposed breasts. I still love breasts but really sometimes we really do get a bit fixated on them as men.

vagina's on the other hand are still beautiful magnificent, delicious, mythical bits

Was it all just a dress rehearsal? Running lines to make sure we nailed our marks and hit the right notes with our “i love you’s” Cause lately, i fear, it’s all been for a performance that doesn’t exist. 
Am i the 5 year old boy dressed up as a carrot with no lines because no one cast him in the play.
Will we just keep being slightly better version of ourselves with every guy and girl we find fits a little bit? Do we keep telling ourselves they’re just another dress rehearsal when it all goes to shit? When inevitably, perfection never comes? Always the missing prop, the fumbled line, the cue we somehow missed. All for an opening night that doesn’t really come, because it’s all improv isn’t it? So who ends up with the best version of who? who gets the best version of you? did i?

antiquated romantics:

The noble concept. The Romantic. The dashing hero. Richard Gere riding in on his white limo. These are enduring images. They exist in almost mythical quantities in our literature, cinema, and music. I grew up with these concept driven into my skull by having the misfortune of reading far too much Shelly and not enough Bukowski.
Of having an awful preference for rock ballads. I also grew up frustrated by being labeled as a really nice guy, a proper gentleman, and not getting laid nearly as much as i wanted.

The thing is, the rub, the jux, of it all is that these concepts, the idea of the romantic as its presented to us is surely based on some antiquated concept of women that ceased to exist somewhere after the first bra was burned. Who is this woman who swoons at the gentlemanly courtship, at the outlandish gestures? If this was a lecture i would already see the smiles creeping across some of the female faces, i can picture the many who would say "me, me, me" but ladies, ask yourselves how many very respectful, gentlemanly nice guys you've put in your pockets as "friends"? I think the noble gent existed at some point out of some necessity. Those grand gestures needed by woman who for hundreds of years lived in secondary roles in society. Needed for assurance, comfort, to make tangible the intangible? "Prove you love me" subtext: because i'm insecure and need assurances.
and so we tried and much of our concepts of the romantic were born.

Standing for hours in the rain just to see you. CHECK
walking 500 miles just to see you smile. CHECK
giving up forever to touch you: CHECK and nicely written by the Goo Goo Dolls
Slaying the dragon, knight, evil king, to win your heart? CHECK

So we slay the dragon, walk the walk in the rain, and nod a polite no to forever when it's offered. Expecting i imagine the maiden in distress to tend to our dragon inflicted wounds or massage our tired feet after walking for so many miles, at the very least to offer us a towel to dry ourselves off and maybe wash our soaked clothes. perhaps i lived in New York City for too many years, maybe there is a very particular kind of bird that lives in that city, but somehow i can't imagine the average (and few of them are average) NYC blackberry toting, web-marketing exec, Carrie Bradshaw idolizing woman to meet those expectations. She's probably dating a drummer or a wall street exec who treats her like shit but who's GORGEOUS.
Many of them would no doubt disagree but i think romanticism needs a refresh. It needs a dose of sincerity.

I think romantic is to say yes your thighs look fat in those jeans, which is why i prefer you naked! Or i fucking hate your dog but i put up with it because i love the way you give head.

Would it hurt to say no you're not the most beautiful woman I've ever seen but I'm absolutely fucking delighted to be here with you.

Maybe it would, or maybe I'm just confused. After all I'm dating a stripper who took very good care of me when i was ill and walked to to the pharmacy for me in the rain.

It's early  morning. I'm sitting at one of the indoor tables at my favorite cafe "el cafe de la selva". It's my favorite for two reasons it takes less than 5 mins for me to get from this desk to one of their tables and it's cheap. The Cafe has outdoor seating, which offers a delightful view of the fountain in front but which also draws a larger share of smokers. 

I'm inside enjoying my breakfast when one of the other customers lights up. I turn and look at the table in front of him that reads no smoking, i then turn and look at mine and see no such sign. At my sisters suggestion i ask our waiter. Excuse me is this whole section no smoking. "oh no just that row" he replies with a smile "you can smoke at this table if you like" From the 14 inches or so seperating the non smoking row from the smoking row i deduced that the proprietors of the cafe had installed one of those cool star trek like force fields that would force smoke to adhere to their rather slim margins of seperation. FUCKING COOL. I LOVE TECHNOLOGY. I mean to have two rows side by side and have smoke completely stay within the confines of the smoking row that's fucking incre..(cough.cough.cough)

She barely had time to ask. In fact I'm not even sure if i gave her time to ask. I was wearing my headphones listening to a piano version of some radiohead song that made my walk from the supermarket through the park to my flat seem that much more cinematic.
I did manage to hear her say "disculpe la molestia" (Excuse the bother)
instinctively before my mind had finished processing who she was or what she might want i threw up a polite but firm, very well worn, no sorry don't have any. She might have been asking for directions, clever quips, hell, maybe even mac advice, all of which i would have had to confess i had plenty of.
She may have also wanted money, of which i had some.
Beggars, Pan Handlers, Bums, Street Urchins all of these are common fair in most large cities, and more so in the more affluent neighborhoods,
Sadly as i walked away i realized she was none of the above. My mind finished processing the visual clues as i reached the edge of the park.
She was dressed normally, wore some makeup, had her hair gelled back, and seemed in genuine distress. I'd seen her moments before she asked me, ask the man walking towards me and watched his reaction, his well rehearsed shrug off, and as i walked, as i in fact started thing about writing about this experiencing, slightly appalled that the writer in me would somehow profit from the moment, i realized maybe she was just like me, or you, or anyone i know who through fate and circumstanced needed to ask for 10 pesos to grab a metrobus, maybe there was genuine need of a helping hand and not merely the every day begging for a handout.
But my callousness is a coat i throw on even on the most unbearably hot days, without much thought, as i grab keys, wallet, music, callousness and head out the door.
Somewhere along the line, with the everday litany of people asking for money i became a man who wouldn't even stop to hear what that woman had to say, and for that i'm sorry because at the very least i could have let her get far enough past "excuse the bother" for it to actually be a bother.

i think it becomes a process of embracing and letting go simultenously. we all have concepts of home, built on childhood, great loves, perhaps even a dog and we look for those patterns in new places, we make those choices, to live with white walls, and not invest emotionally, it seems easier perhaps, to be a vagabond, to act like some wandering nomad with innner roots. For me ultimately i have to try, i have to find it in my selection of teas that i brew in one of my favorite cups, i find it in the familiar things i have brought with me, but some days its harder than others, some days i crave something so intangiable, so unspecific, that it feels like the noise of the mosquito buzzing past your ear at night even though you've already killed that mosquito. 

"would you mind taking our dogs for a walk?" 
asked delightful british neighbor

that's a deceptively simple request. After all her dogs are very nice dogs, and i do like walking, but really what she was asking was,

"i'm on set all day tomorrow  and my dogs need to be walked twice, cause otherwise they might go stir crazy and possibly shit in my flat, I've got the first shift covered but not the second, so would mind taking them out at around 8pm and following them around until they both shit, then picking up the shit and hunting for one of those elusive Condesa public trash cans to dispose of it properly?"

It changes the nature of the favor doesn't it, and least for me. The truth is i love...well maybe just like, dogs. I'm certain i like them, but having lived in NYC and seen the delightful ritual that is the plastic bag crap scoop up i am convinced that to clean up dog shit, to not mind doing so must be very much like changing diapers. No parent i know of likes doing it, most of them find it a bit gross, but they all do it because they love their child, and i think those people walking around carrying their dogs shit in plastic baggies love their dogs, and their dogs love them, and its a beautiful symbiotic relationship.

But i do not love the neighbors two dogs. I have in fact only met them on two occasions. The truth is i'd be much more inclined to pick up my neighbors shit than their dogs, them at least i know. 

plainspoken truth.

somewhere just south of nowhere
near the park and a fountain and a pile of garbage waiting for its ride to the city dumps.

In there, some where, The hard floor was a shiny white something which made him think of a hospital waiting room.
It was the floor he'd wake up to in his shinny new but old apt.

The ceiling looked like the pockmarked face of a teenage Bukowski, "popcorned" was the term they so charmingly referred to it as.

It was a home, but not quite home. It lacked the little bits of memories that had filled his small avocado green living room on east 35th st or his unearned highrise apartment overlooking central park.

There'd been no great loves in this room.
No breathless "oh god's" to mask an "i love you" that's bashing to get out.
No snowy days spent in doors watching movies.
Just sex, good sex, fun sex, but..

...There'd been no arguments filled with bile and love
no promises,
no broken promises
no betrayals or reconciliations.
no hard hitting, core diving, conversations on a living room couch, no truths, no beautiful girls that would break his heart, on a beige living room couch, in fact
there was no couch here, just an old futon on the floor that didn't belong to him and didn't belong to the person that'd lent it to him.
Just an old futon that smelled of sex, and uneasy sleep, and strangers dreams.

His books and movies stood like soldiers against the wall, a cardboard box and a plastic shelf from his fridge were the extent of his coffee table,
He doesn't spend much time in this makeshift living room.
He wakes in the mornings and imagines a large wooden table that would welcome coffee stains and tea rings and nights of writing on its dark wood surface,

He wakes in the mornings and takes to the familiar confines of his music library and the people on his buddy list. To the list of movies or albums torrents he's left downloading overnight,
to the comfortable surroundings of the websites he reads, the blank "page" of a word document, the porn he knows is tucked away on his computer, that he'll rarely ever bother looking at.

To the half watched documentary on Bukowski that sits patiently paused for the last few days.

And his feet feel the cold shiny surface of that white floor in his bedroom,
and his feet walk to the living room, the slumped futon looking very much like an overnight guest asleep after a very heavy night of drinking, he opens the doors to the balcony, the tiny balcony that smells of dog piss when it rains heavily,
that overlooks the treetops and fountain and pile of trash,
He does this and thinks...this is home.
he does this and thinks...this is home?

in sleep duality disappears.
the most complex women look kind.

but i'm going a tad bit...

"Show me all the blueprints. Show me all the blueprints. Show me all the blueprints... show me all the blueprints... show me all the blueprints... show me all the blueprints..."

there something so intriguing about the way something like an american apparel advert stuck on a wall can seem to gain an ounce of truth in its decay

I just finished reading a GQ interview/profile/excuse for having someone to photograph/ on Jessica Alba.
She comes off as low key, sweet natured, trying very hard to be something more than just a tantalizingly sexy woman who seems plague by an public interest that doesn't stray far from "when is she going to do a nude scene"
The interviewer in his own description seems empathic to this, to the fact that the 'industry' keeps trying to put her into bikini's and yet the accompanying photo shoot seems to go in direct contrary to this empathy. The last photo of the piece is a medium close up of Jessica Alba in a white bikini top, holding a water bottle and dribbling water down her lower lip and onto her chest. What the fucking fuck?!?
It is a good photo, sexy, well shot, and Alba seems to nail the whole pseudo improvised, "i don't care" attitude of the shot but i still felt a mild revulsion towards it.
I'm a pretty straight shooter, i like calling things what they are and the rest be damned, so if you want Jessica Alba for a cover so you can put her in fucking bikini then for god sake don't fill an interview with empathy over her having to do the whole 'bikini thing'. Acknowledge that you too GQ are part of that 'industry'

In the end it got me thinking about the role of beauty. It's a old debate but frankly i'm getting a little bored with beautiful women who seem so aware of their beauty. I believe in the following quote that I've always heard attributed to Ingmar Bergman "beauty that is unaware of itself is the most beautiful"

and really, girls. women, any and all of you who are genetically blessed. How many times can you hear a guy tell you you're beautiful before you begin to crave something a bit more substantial, substantial even if it is still superficial, like...wow you're really elegant, or poised, or stylish, hell...even cool would seem an improvement on 'you have beautiful eyes'

Maybe i'm wrong, but i've dated very beautiful women and in most cases it wasn't me telling them they were beautiful that carried any weight, but the substance of conversation, connection, click that really gave the situation any headway. I love a pair of beautiful eyes, or a striking nose but both are really quite dull if it isn't in the context of a brilliant cackle. laugh, a witty remark, or a bit sincerity.

So while in reading this celebrity interview, a genre which gets more and more painfully predictable with each issue (notable exception of a recent GQ interview with Halle Berry)
I can't help but wonder why bother with the pretense of intimacy, why mention that Alba considers herself clumsy, or that she tugs at her shirt nervously, but that it also makes her shoulders look sexy. Why bother when the accompanying pictorial rarely ever reflects the superficial intimacy gleamed by the author for the interview?

i'm 26 years old. tonight i wore a tuxedo for the first time. These are my thoughts at 3:20 am sitting in my boxers and black socks, having careful undressed and hung up my tuxedo and its accouterments in the closet:

Tuxedos make you feel like the pimpest motherfucker in the room, unless that room is full of other equally pimp feeling motherfuckers. (or any other fuckers for that fact.)
walking down the street, stepping out of the taxi, running into your hot 19 yr old neighbor and her friends drunk in the elevator, you feel like one pimp, suave, debonair, GQing son of a bitch!
but for the most part the occasions in which one is required to wear tuxedos are those in which every bloke wears a tuxedo, and lets face it, tuxedos vary very little, trying to...differentiate the tux from others usually ends poorly, like the bloke i saw with the pink cravat.

So right now i'm thinking come tomorrow morning i should wear that tux to grab a morning cup of coffee while i read the paper, i should wear a tuxedo next time i get laid, not TO get laid, but while doing the laying, i should wear a tuxedo taking myself for a walk, because man does it feel good! Tuxedo's are wonderful things to wear just as long as you're not in a room full of other blokes wearing the same.

the average human life span is 73.43890 years. (That figure is completely made up)
We divide and subdivide our personal narrative into years, months,
relationships, cities lived, people known but almost always within a
very narrow forecast.
But in doing so we overlook the fact that some patterns will only
emerge over the course of longer units of time. Decades for example.

I've spent the last 18 months of my life trying to forecast patterns
for some of the people who are or have been in my life, trying to find
the ways that the might fit into the narrative, like an overcaffeinated
writing staff on a sitcom trying to write back in a character.

I've felt jittery, I've commented on it in various forms on this very
blog, and in the end i realized that in trying to script them into my
narrative i was just getting in the way.

sometimes you meet the love of your life a decade too soon, and
sometimes the love of your life becomes a life long friend...and
sometimes people are just momentary catalyst that poke at your insides
and remind you that you still have them.

you were 5.
every picture of you showed you pouting or frowning.
you hated being photographed.
you're on a beach and don't want your picture taken.
your father tells you that if you close your eyes you'll turn invisible and won't show up in the picture.
you told me this as i looked at a photo of you, 5 years of age, in only your swimsuit bottoms with your eyes firmly closed.
I was glad your dad lied.
it's a beautiful picture.

this is what's left behind.
talking to a woman who happened to mention what she was like when she was a baby, i found myself distracted by the memory of your childhood pictures.
i will remember you in random moments.
inopportune moments.
i will randomly remember something random from the drawer marked 2000-2005

I've recently been poor, broke, skint, strapped, impecunious, indigent, destitute (well not really)...but i had very little cash. A payment i was owed was delayed which lead to me low cash flow situation. This served to put things in an interesting perspective: the perspective of eggs.

9 days ago i was down to my last 90 pesos ($8.30 USD) The fridge was starting to look emptier and i went into what many nyu film students know as ramen noodle mode, except i fucking hate ramen noodles, they make me fat, and i'd rather be hungry than fat. no offense to hungry or fat people. I've been both.

So 90 pesos and i knew i had at least a week before i had any money coming in, what to do?
Eggs i though surely 90 pesos is enough for at least a dozen eggs, i can eat eggs twice a day for the rest of the week! Might even have some money left over for some bread or some cheese!

Well i walk over to the woman who sells fresh produce and eggs from a little hole in the wall (a block from starbucks, just to give some perspective, i hate cliched ideas about mexico having dusty roads, tequlia, and cacti, i've never seen a fucking cacti in mexico EVER.)
I ask her for a dozen eggs, she informs me they sell the eggs by the kilo and that a kilo is roughly sixteen eggs and each kilo of eggs is 13 pesos ($1.21 USD)...13 motherfucking pesos ($1.21 motherfucking USD) ! i had to ask twice. Yes 13...'cuantos quiero joven' (how many would you like young man) Fucking hell suddenly my 90 pesos no longer felt measly, i felt well off, i could feed a whole village of well...one or two people for weeks on 90 pesos worth of eggs. I asked for a kilo. 16 eggs which i've yet to finish.

ever since, everytime i pay for something i do the currency exchange.

my 36 pesos grande capuccino at starbucks = nearly 48 eggs.

the starting meter rate on a cab 20 pesos = 22 eggs give or take

an airport extreme base station 1,923 pesos = 2366 eggs!!!

puts things in perspective.

Day's slip by unnoticed and i feel I've lost my grip on the steering wheel.
It's been a straight road and I've been lucky, but i think i just saw a sign that says "dangerous curves ahead".
Deliberate-ness, choices,
'course laid in Captain'

The rest will fall into place. Gotta know where i'm rolling before i can invite someone to roll along.

Time to clean the fountain.

i want you
for me,
in whispered moments
in morning breaths
anticipation of uttered words.
of 10 am's 'i'm hungry'

want you,
damn it. with me. because.
just.

seemingly improbable, i want to be one of the great loves of your fucking life.
i think i'd be fun.

at the very least a beautiful mess.

I've decided that i like having old late 60's early 70's movies playing in the background as i do other things. There is something about those old color stocks that they used that just 'feels' cool.
as if, by osmosis. I, sitting in my blue stripped boxers and beige t-shirt, will somehow absorb some 'Cool' from Bullit or Doc, or hell Newman in...anything he did in the 70's.
they had some really great wardrobe designers back them.

I once read an article in GQ that mourned the utter lack of off-set movie star style in our present day movie stars. i.e. how many times have you seen Leo DiCaprio wearing fucking sandals and socks....anything higher than "0" is one too many.

So here's to 70's movie stars playing on the TV in the background as i write about them and feel a proximity cool

* and yes that is a black and white picture taken by peter schroeder of paul newman, i stumbled across it and thought it was cool so there it is.

'all you need is love' - the Beatles

'what the world needs now, is love, sweet love...' - the carpenters

'At last, my love has come along, my lonely days are over, and life is like a song' - Etta James

'As long, as long as i have you' - Elvis Presley

Beginning to see a pattern? The holy grail perhaps? I've been in love. truly. honest i have. We in fact loved each other. In the end that really meant fuck all. I don't mean to give the wrong impression. That in and of itself is rare, and it was a large part of the years we shared with each other, but in the end love really had nothing to do with it.

Nothing new right?, i could find and equal number of songs detailing that one fact 'love is not enough' in fact that's a nine inch nails song right there. The irony is we are fundamentally conditioned to believe the opposite. We are bombarded by happy endings, love stories, fairy tales. We place love above self. We attribute it as the reason for any number of silly things.

"you're nobody till somebody loves you...." says Dean, and Dean Martin can sound awfully convincing when he's crooning those words. But i think we can handle romanticism without the fairy tales, i think we can deal with the fact that love is only the main ingredient in a recipe as complex as Molé Poblano:

1 chicken or turkey - love is perhaps the chicken or turkey in this analogy

11 ancho chiles - sex

6 mulatto chiles - sex

3chiles chipotles adobados - sex

3tablespoons chile seeds - making love

5pasilla chiles - sex

4oz. almonds - cuddling

4oz. peanuts - sharing

8oz. sesame seeds - communication

2oz. pumpkin seeds - compromise

1bar dark chocolate - chocolate

6 allspice - humility

6 cloves - understanding

1 cinnamon stick - humor

A pinch aniseed - spontaneity/adventure

4 tomatoes - passion

10 green tomatillos - ego, self, to thine own self be true

3 cloves - joy

1 medium onion - pain

3 tortillas - self confidence

1 stale white bread roll - stability

1/2 lb.lard - all the messy misc. stuff

2tablespoons vinegar - independence

I'm sure I've left out a few things. but it gives you a rough idea of just how over simplified our ideas of relationships are. Maybe if we knew going into it how complex the recipe was we'd never attempt it?
As it stands, we clutch onto the first chicken we see and wonder why the fuck we aren't feasting on mole poblano yet?

i fear my analogy is starting to fall apart but it looks too clever to let go of, so I'm gonna hold on, Relationships are like mole poblano. OKAY? and love is just a chicken.




*the original text of this asterix was here for the wrong reasons, now it is gone.

http://incubator.quasimondo.com/flash/flickeur.php

this is beautiful.
this is tapping into the dreams of an emerging artificial intelligence based on the stuffs of our digital selfs.

i see such beautiful random images, they are fleeting and i wish i could keep them.

this also works really well if you're listening to "how it ends" by Devotchka

so easily become a blog meditating on loss.
It is the narrative of everything that came after "us"
i wonder how many blogs don't liter the blogspehere with the same seemingly singularly felt emotions.

thousands of years of human evolution and we are still all reduced to the most predictable patterns of broken heartedness.

and yet every single one of us believes at some point that they have in fact found the 'one' as i did.

and a great many find themselves re-evaluating the filtering software used to make the original assessment, as have.

none the less today at this hour i do miss something*








* nothing specific. in some ways what i miss is that nothing.

If i don't write something i'm liable to stick my finger in my ear
and start pulling the by now atrophied pieces of my brain out little
by little.
My days have started to blend into a gray fuzz of listening to music,
drinking tea, and fucking around on my computer.
i adore my friends...that is the preface to me saying that lately i
don't seem to feel very connected to any of them. They are pleasant
sensory patterns my brain recognizes as familiar.
I need someone who understands words the way i do. Who can spend the
stuffs of days making chocolate chip pancakes out of words. In this
city there is one person who does that. She does that in spanish
though and i don't play as well in spanish. I want to feel
challenged, confronted by someone's wordering, comforted by it.
Comfronted*

"Because everyone else is boring. And because you are different." -
Stéphane Miroux

Vibrant, organic, chaotic, clusterfuck,
that´s Mexico City. It is a little bit of what nyc was in the 1960´s and a little bit of what Soho is now. Half pretentions, half genuine cesspool of creativity and creation.
I think i am slowly falling in love with the city of my birth. I`m wary of her, i dont really trust her, but i am intrigued by what her energy does to me, by a city of contradictions. It is a country unto itself, our 20 plus million people.

It is a primarily catholic, somewhat conservative city where it is not uncommon for people to live at home all through their college education and only move out when they are ready to start their own families. Its a city of great economic inequality that bore one of the most voracious billionaires. Mexico City is also a place where nearly twenty thousand people stripped naked in the historical center for a new york photographer. It set a record turnout. eclipsing even the most liberal european cities. We have legalized abortion, same sex marriage, and will have free wifi throughout the cities public spaces by next year.

This is a city of the most beautiful dichotomy and in a way it seems perfectly suited to be the place i was born. I too am a hybrid, I am neither here nor there, i feel somewhat at home in Houston, New York City, Los Angeles, and Mexico City. I am a wandering nomad with a hermits habits. I grew up on a mix between Shel Silversteen books and my moms Mafalda comics (i always prefered Garfield as a kid, and now Calvin and Hobbes) my two earliest memories of LP´s are a Cri Cri album of kids songs and a Twisted Sister record which i would play adnaseum because i loved ´were not gonna take it´ I speak both English and Spanish almost wholy independantly of eachother. In english i sound american, perhaps east coast. In spanish i sound chilango though perhaps a slight wattered down version.

The more time i spend in this city the more i realize that it is me. Full of conflict and texture. A place where we all carve out the bits that best feed the hungry beasts of creation we carry wrapped around our intestines.
I will always love New York. she was good to me. she taught me about dreaming and loss. i met my first great love there. i hit rock bottom there. I confronted my demons there. I broke there. When New York finally unwrapped me from her bosom it was to say ¨goodbye¨.

I hope my years here in Mexico City prove as fruitful.

eyb she typed.
i didn't know what she meant and when i don't know what she means i often reverse the letters.
and it was then that i realized.
she'd said 'bye'

a muse is defined as a source of inspiration.
that intangible addictive thing that most creatives come across, ones in a while.
It is unlike anything else I've ever known. Inspired i can feel, in the way words flow from me, the very idea of god.

it's astonishing that such potent stuffs can lay in the hands of a muse. To think that she, with her many ways, can stick her fingers in the liquid mush of my creativity and stir things up. It's only occasionally pleasurable, more often terrifying, and always irresistible

alas the problem with muses is that they are always innately human. The Greeks had it right. The muses of Greek myth were the nine daughters of Mnemosyne and Zeus. They were the offspring of GODS! That makes sense, entrust the power to incite creation into the hands of the offspring of gods.
Sadly that is no longer the case and every single one of the women that have been muses to me have all been human, flawed, at times broken, and every one of them has left me, with the scars of where all the stuffs she inspired blasted out of me like the fragments of a grenade.

In the end the trouble with muses is that they can disappear.

i don't sleep much lately.

We live in a society of voyeurs.
everyone likes to look but few to choose to interact.
Which ultimately just means that no one comments on this blog,
and on some level i think i'd enjoy the idea of a dialog.
or perhaps it's just ego.
in all fairness i think it's a bit of both.

things are slowly dying.
connections whithering.
static of time.
irony is prevailing.

i miss your hands, your courageous hands, that weave worlds together carefully,
i miss that intoxicating scent of you, that human scent, of waking up together in the morning, of unfolding ourselves from each other.
i miss the noises you can't help but make when i make you cum, when you let me make you cum,
i miss waltzing with you on the tops of undulating beds in all the places we go when we travel.
i miss running my fingers through your tiny hair as you make tea in the mornings, in the middles, in the evenings, or even in your sleep.
i miss long afternoons we'd spend talking about all the little things and the not so big things as you held your purple pen like a wand.
i miss pretending not to watch you draw with the fascination of a little boy seeing his mother undress for the first time.
i miss your self conscious breasts and the way your thighs frame the soft whisper of your pubic hair,
i miss feeling terrified at the possibility, the danger, of almost, maybe, kinda could, if only, when there's time, and room, and courage, falling in love, with each other.
i miss it and I've never met you.

Like a monkey loves bananas!

noticeable, dull ache, somewhat more bearable than i thought it'd be.
it still sucks.

"focus on something else."
anything else.
it's hard to ignore rain on your glasses when you're trying to see past it.

i miss her.

traditionally when one is broken up with the first steps are closure and separation of things. sweaters are returned, toothbrushes, photos are put away into shoe boxes that will remain untouched for many years to come. The neccesary steps to pretend that the other person doesn't really exist anymore. You try and forget and move on.

but what happens to those barriers when suddenly we live in a world of twitter feeds, myspace pages, blogs, flickr, youtube....

suddenly there is an overwhelming sea of information about the very person you are trying to forget. In all likelihood a sea of things that once brought a sense of sharing and connectedness; reading the twitter update of the girl you're involved with, or her blog can be delightful, but when that blog or twitter feed is the feed of the girl you are no longer seeing the very same thing becomes an accursed thorn in your side which you have to try overwhelmingly to avoid. Except that we don't. or at least i don't. Call it morbid curiosity, masochism, who knows, but it does kill the cat. So you check the blog, you look at the myspace page, you browse her flickr and wonder who the fuck that dude in the picture with her is, your inside turn into the angry tentacles of a mythological beast and you wish there was someway to forget, forget the urls, forget the twitter feed. Sure you can unfriend someone, but for those of us with good to decent memory, you remember and so you check, because somehow it tricks you into thinking them still a part of your life, even if only for the half second before evidence of their new life smacks you across the face like a hard rain.

they are hot, and sticky, and they make me feel lethargic and for some odd reason for the past two years my love life takes a dive in the summer months, i fare so much better when it's cold out. maybe I'm more charming in the cold or less foolish

or i could just look sexier in cashmere...

this post really has nothing to do with summers and everything to do with June.

everything occurred in the space between

Flight attendant: if newark is not in your travel plans please inform a flight attendant at this time

Oops. lol

Back to nyc. First time since i broke up with her. I wonder what my old city will feel like. It's been a tumultuous last 3 days. Saw a review of hot fuzz, thought of her, i wonder how long it takes to fly to patagonia. 2 months at the very least. (can you do inside jokes via a blog) ? Questions:
Would it help me if i dug a hole? Answer:
Depends on how cozy the hole is.

The sun will shine a little less today.
Colors are a little duller.
And i will miss her sound.

intimacy is a strange fruit.

image taken from postsecret.com

I think it's a nice idea. today i'm trying to remind myself that it doesn't always happen neatly tied in beautiful orange yarn. sometimes it hurts, ...

!!!

It seems the world is full of duality. We are as people prone to it. We employ white lies, we laugh at the bosses joke or praise something mediocre our children do. We fall in love, multiple times and with multiple people sometimes simultaneously and it seems the only thing that matter is to embrace the concept of the deliberate. We can grit our teeth, pretend it won't be the case, but sometimes we will be presented with choices when we don't want any. That is the very nature of our existence, and sometimes over the mere possibility of something we will choose to allow duality into our lives, to be vulnerable to the impractical, the possibly complex, to be deliberate. lives are full of variables, choices; do i turn left or right. or shoud i climb up the tree instead. I think it requires courage to acknowledge that and to come to a fork in the road and stop and make a choice, again, every time you can, even if you chose to remain on your previous path.

I realize these post can at times seem vague but if you stop and think you'll realize that even though i might be writing about conclusion drawn from my own life, there are your own truths to back this up.

So we make choices. and i choose to believe in the holy trinity of love, creativity, passion
that that can all co-exist. That i can connect with that in one person.
I believe that and i think i may have just seen the trailer.

Coming soon....Summer of 2007?
Possibly June

and i was suprised to find that everything was okay. one thing did not negate the other but rather seemed to highlight. it continues, inspite of, perhaps, unswayed by a change in current.

there seems to be an odd fascination with the idea of uniqueness. odd because i both understand it and at times wonder why it and the concept of exclusivity seem so important to us.
somewhere in there is our own concepts of monogamy as an exclusivity club.
I'm not saying i disagree, but i do wonder about it.
if someone shares something with me, something that feels intimate and unique, yet something tangible, a secret, a story, a photo, a truth, and then choses to share that same thing with someone else or a group of people, does it make it any less special that he or she shared it with me? what is the implications of exclusivity when it comes to sharing?
i don't really have any answer, mostly just the question born out of my own experience.


i suppose we all want to feel like we are special to someone for something.

Beautiful Broken Thing.

That i love.
that i tried to fix.
that broke me.
that showed me i was broken.

today i read a tag. a few words adhered to an image and i realized in about 3 maybe 2 seconds that logic and emotion are comparatively speaking not even related. they wouldn't even pass for distant cousin thrice removed. It seems an utterly pedestrian realization, but in those 3 maybe 1 second i "felt" it. It was visceral and i was surprised by just how visceral something that made no sense to me could be. Imagine if you will waking up one day and for 2 seconds "feeling" sad about pancakes. Your brain might think...wait it's pancakes i love pancakes why do i feel sad about pancakes that makes no sense, but somewhere in there for some illogical but none the less true reason, you "felt" sad about pancakes.

it's funny in a peculiar sort of way

i'm finished, this barely makes sense as it is.

Expresso americano! Loving it.

Drinking coffee.
11pm.
two sisters, a boyfriend. and i
debating the relative merits of the rolling stones 500 greatest albums of all time.
4 beatles albums take up the top 10.
have we seriously not managed to top albums that where recorded before the 1980's?
or does nostalgia play a heavy part?

I'd like to say that u2's all that we can't leave behind is definitely in my own top 10.
i will attempt to finish my top 10 list before albums feel like relics from a pre-downloadable music past.

my favorite month is november.
i think fall feels like magic.
and the air is crisp and full of possibilities.
my favorite month is june.

that's not actually a contradiction.

Where can we find a baby mexican wrestling mask?, originally uploaded by <3 KB.

i came across this picture on flickr. it's not mine, taken by Ray Zimmerman, but it made me smile and i had to share it.

Elvis Presley - She's Not You

Her hair is soft and her eyes are oh so blue
She’s all the things a girl should be,
But she’s not you.

She knows just how to make me laugh when I feel blue
She’s ev’rything a man could want,
But she’s not you.

And when we’re dancing
It almost feels the same
I’ve got to stop myself from
Whisp’ring your name

She even kisses me like you used to do.
And it’s just breaking my heart
’cause she’s not you.

brautigan, originally uploaded by "life is in the details".



MAP SHOWER



For Marcia



I want your hair

to cover me with maps

of new places,



so everywhere I go

will be as beautiful

as your hair.

Mobile blogging, originally uploaded by "life is in the details".

For two nights in a row i fall asleep at 5am and wake up at 9:30. My bones ache. I have aslo developed a fondness for small individual serving size bottles of pellegrino mineral water. I could buy the larger bottle and pour it in a glass but somehow the sheer ease of grabing a tiny bottle and drinking it appeals to me immensly.