the self is where the breath turns around at the bottom of the breath. PLAY OUT OF THERE.

get upset, start walking.
walk until you're not upset anymore. keep walking.
walk until you're upset again. keep walking.
walk until you're not upset anymore, again. keep walking.
walk until you get mad you're walking. keep walking.
walk until you hurt. keep walking.
walk until you feel like you can walk forever. plan a route home.
make it just a little bit longer.

portrait of a friend from this afternoon.

i want more subjects as soon as school is out. let me know if you want pictures.

substance

every time i make pasta i think of my father.

or, to be more specific:
every time i strain out the water after cooking pasta and the steam rises to fill in my glasses, i think of my father. (now that i'm dependent on my glasses i am beginning to understand what a pain it is.)

it is the essential recurring memory of my childhood. pasta. dad. glasses like white cartoon eyes suspended in front of his face. i am watching him from the living room and he's the strongest man in the world, carrying that massive bowl of pasta, pouring out the terrifyingly hot water. plaid button-up shirt with the sleeves rolled up and beard still mostly black. i set the knives blades-facing-in:

my father is brave and blind; i am a child. he sent me this picture of home:



these days, his beard is mostly white, when he wears it. i'm not carrying any foxtails, in my hair or my socks or my boots. i was talking to carrot-boy last week and he didnt know what foxtails were.

in the meantime:
pasta. wine. supervillian regenerate! back to work!

summer is at the edge of my brain and i cant wait to fall of into it.

Our unrelenting

Summer, 1933.
Your hat on a post,
and my --

a most exquisite exchange overheard this afternoon
amidst the soft falling
of almond blossoms
(the palesoft brush of spring,
that Tease):

"ey, dude."
"ey-dude."
"dude, we were gonna meet up last night --"
"ugkh, dude!"
"you get in trouble or something?"
"ugkh, dude."

in spite of everything, you got:

sweet-ass, mostly functional light fixtures,

neighbors who dont find you too creepy,

and people in your life who get mad for you,

let you eat most of the pizza,

help fix a flat in the rain

and are generally composed

of pure rock-and-roll.

from barry stone's good times bad times project. more of his work can be found here.

i've Saved up my money and i'm Buying a Camera on tuesday when i go back home.

i am not going to pretend to understand this shit; but it feels good, it feels so fucking good and i'm going to follow that feeling. i keep making lists of projects, of series i want to work on, and goddamn if that isnt going to be taking up a wonderful chunk of things.

totally excited.

last tuesday, my teacher passed away.

she'd beat the 4 month prognosis by a year and a half. i'm stunned that she fought that long and equally stunned that she is gone.

she was the kind of person who fundamentally changed everything. she was the first person to ever grab me -- to say, this is what you'll do because you have to do it and i am going to help you in every way that i can.

which is exactly what proceeded to happen for the next four years. the tuesday just prior, she got out of bed and gave me a lesson and for the first time in a long time i didnt wonder if it would be the last.

the fact of the matter is that i feel obligated to post something about this but at the moment i just dont understand.

the best explanation for anything at this point would be mompou's canciones y danzas.

whenever he leaves a room, it takes on the stickiest possible smell of fish. my teacher once referred to him as "the scuzzy violin guy" so i call him "scuzzy fish guy" and people seem to know who i'm talking about. he likes the way i play bach.

the first time i learned this was one night over the summer, when i was farting around with the f minor keyboard concerto. he walked in with his violin and mysteriously omnipresent grocery bag and began exclaiming. he talked with a vacant enthusiasm about the mysterious "ancient minors" and it was strictly upon his exit that the room took on the smell of fish.

several weeks ago, i was practicing again and heard the crackling of a paper bag outside the practice room door. i finish the second fugue from the e minor toccata. he walks in and exclaims, questions, declares. he leaves and the fish come in.

last night, i'm having break-throughs. i get it, this, these things, how it should swell and prick and that strong is not heavy and all of these things and the world just scintillates. i'm feeling totally brilliant. i've caught the spirit. he walks in.

"what is that? e minor?"
"second fugue."
"yeah. interesting."

and then he leaves. interesting? where are the exclamations?

i thought i was playing really well! he leaves me with the fish and a general perplexion.