(no subject)
Apr. 2nd, 2010 08:14 pmSo every few months i seem to get a tattoo itch. I try to resist for awhile, but in the end, i always give in.
( here it is )
( here it is )
(no subject)
Feb. 5th, 2010 12:21 amWent out to a bar with my brother and his girlfriend, pretending it was friday night in the face of the impending snowpocalypse or whatever may hit tomorrow. I actually have Thoughts about this, about my family and how they perceive me, and how that filters through my brother to me (he and his girlfriend have both said to me several times how compared with the impressions they get from my parents, i actually seem pretty normal and even cool. it's sort of an odd feeling, being told i'm 'cool' after so long being anything but). It still doesn't feel quite normal, hanging out with them and going to bars and such, but it's not bad, really.
That aside.
Say "FST me" in your comment, and I'll put together a mini-playlist (3-6 songs) of songs that remind me of you.
That aside.
Say "FST me" in your comment, and I'll put together a mini-playlist (3-6 songs) of songs that remind me of you.
(no subject)
Apr. 24th, 2009 12:49 amTrying a crosspost from Dreamwidth. We'll see how it goes.
Back in Boston for the first time in more than 20 days. It's an odd feeling. But i've had those lately. Odd feelings. Transience. Enjoying it, even, this temporariness. The places i've been haven't been my own, the mattresses narrow and old, nothing precisely home-smelling, the light never quite familiar. Nowhere has felt like anywhere mine but that hasn't made them uncomfortable. Just temporary. My own room is cluttered with me-ness, the detrius of me living in my own space with careless abandon, the sediment of myself. Nothing's changed. But then, i guess i haven't either. I'm just in that space where i feel so very much myself, conceptually solid as my body is solid. That's the thing about being away, for me. I have what i carry, which was not inconsiderable, the things considered necessary enough to lug through airports, on buses and trains, over sidewalks and up stairs. It is only those things that exist to remind me of myself. It forces the internal boundries to shore up. I cannot be nebulous, a sea of myself in a sea of unfamiliarity. One of us needs to be a rock, me or the places i am. Sometimes i am especially taurean. When i cannot have home around me, i have to be my home. Perhaps i'm not explaining it well. The feeling's odd.
Waiting for my plane, i finished Palimpsest. It is hard to recommend books, especially a book like this one, which is strange and difficult and beautiful and stylistically outside what purveyors of the less literary types of books would consider odd. It's a book about a city only accessible to the indoctrinated in the dreams after sex, a city that leaves a literal mark on anyone who can reach it, that loves and lives and destroys. It's about madness and sacrifices and settling and desperation. It's about sex, and love, and the intertwinings and gulfs between them. It's about trains and rivers of milk and bees made of the finest copper wires. It's an experience. There's nothing easy about it, not in the reading, not for the characters. I loved it. It's not for everyone.
But i think i'll go lie in my very own bed, and start it again.
Back in Boston for the first time in more than 20 days. It's an odd feeling. But i've had those lately. Odd feelings. Transience. Enjoying it, even, this temporariness. The places i've been haven't been my own, the mattresses narrow and old, nothing precisely home-smelling, the light never quite familiar. Nowhere has felt like anywhere mine but that hasn't made them uncomfortable. Just temporary. My own room is cluttered with me-ness, the detrius of me living in my own space with careless abandon, the sediment of myself. Nothing's changed. But then, i guess i haven't either. I'm just in that space where i feel so very much myself, conceptually solid as my body is solid. That's the thing about being away, for me. I have what i carry, which was not inconsiderable, the things considered necessary enough to lug through airports, on buses and trains, over sidewalks and up stairs. It is only those things that exist to remind me of myself. It forces the internal boundries to shore up. I cannot be nebulous, a sea of myself in a sea of unfamiliarity. One of us needs to be a rock, me or the places i am. Sometimes i am especially taurean. When i cannot have home around me, i have to be my home. Perhaps i'm not explaining it well. The feeling's odd.
Waiting for my plane, i finished Palimpsest. It is hard to recommend books, especially a book like this one, which is strange and difficult and beautiful and stylistically outside what purveyors of the less literary types of books would consider odd. It's a book about a city only accessible to the indoctrinated in the dreams after sex, a city that leaves a literal mark on anyone who can reach it, that loves and lives and destroys. It's about madness and sacrifices and settling and desperation. It's about sex, and love, and the intertwinings and gulfs between them. It's about trains and rivers of milk and bees made of the finest copper wires. It's an experience. There's nothing easy about it, not in the reading, not for the characters. I loved it. It's not for everyone.
But i think i'll go lie in my very own bed, and start it again.
