Please may I have another twenty?
This morning’s dream involved Dennis Cooper telling me about the fantastic rents he was getting from a tenant on some Los Angeles industrial space.
Yesterday I stopped in at an art opening in Chinatown, too early to see D, but in time to feel hemmed in by the crowd, and thus shy.
In a way, I’m relieved that there are entire sections of the art world that I have no connection with.
Ah, Chrissie Hynde can sing “Stop Your Sobbin”, but the way she does so makes me want to sob all the more.
Clothes are still on the floor, but they at least sorted into piles, and a load of laundry is done.
The schedule doesn’t look much clearer into the foreseeable future, but I have taken some steps to getting help with it.
Little headache right now, from both the caffeine and squinting at screens through the glasses.
I’m going to break the TV embargo to watch RuPaul’s Drag race tonight.
Today i was remembering the time when my parents allowed me to join The Science Fiction Book Club.
Of course, the books piled up faster than I could send them back, which lead to my first experiences with unexpectedly high bills.
These sentences are uninspired in their construction and cadence.
I often find myself sighing over pictures of furry young men these days in a way that seems to encompass a despair of possessing them; yet this mooning isn’t coupled with any real desire to spend more time around people.
I mean, I’m kinda booked up.
When I feel dissatisfied with what I’ve got in such a generalized way, it usually means that there is some other psychological crisis going on and that I’m merely fixing on that point of dissatisfaction because I can’t or won’t look at the root cause.
I’m suddenly craving croissants with butter and raspberry preserves.
Apple’s “Genius” playlist software can’t understand the simple notion of “contrast”.
I woke feeling partly shocked at Dennis’s venality in my dream and partly ashamed at thinking ill of him, even as an unconscious symbol.
These days it’s about balancing and filtering the input.
I feel like Julianne Moore in “Safe”.
Or something else: a hypochondriac who doesn’t really want to make a fuss.
Tags: art, daily photo, emotions, music, twenty sentences
My dreams abotu Dennis are rather different than yours, Nayland. We’re in a Silverlake leather bar and Dennis is trying to talk me out of ordering a Vodka Gibson.
David Ehrenstein
4 Feb 10 at 8:26 pm