Tuesday, July 28, 2009

r = 28, σ = 10, b = 8/3

"a conversation piece they called it, but that night it dueled lazily in the foreground with the tangle of limbs and sweat and greedy thrusts beyond. her, an expert in dream-slow close-ups, curled fingers roundly about the sheets, purring rhythmically. he, dancing his mess over her, taking in god-hot flash bursts of frenzy. her mother purchased the bead curtain in spain, but this was no time for such a discussion as their physiological equiposes made waves behind the slipshod veneer. i had only wanted to grab a drink in the kitchen, but this meat-opera presented such an intriguing view-scape, something intruders should never be privy to, but then again, i've always had a thing for bead curtains."

i sat on the roofgarden flipping through old notebooks, noticing i've had too many torn out pages lately. i wondered where my days had gone. it's addictive, this narcotic of ennui that resides somewhere between wakelessness and inertia - swimming in cheap beer - this melancholy which punctuates a day that resembles the last one, and i imagine, the one to come.

i want to be that person i only read about in novels. the one with an edge and a charm and a few other things i can't quite pin down. he goes by many psychoses and many talents depending on the author's mood. he laughs deep inside himself and swings manically from flowerynight exstaties to squalid binges.

the rent's due in a few days, and i'm a bit underwater. feeling cramped, i decided to hop on my bicycle to hit the cafe. concrete. brick. traveling through my bushwick neighborhood, it was apparent this city has beaten the ever-loving crap out of nature. the backdrop: buildings that kiss the sky, vying to be the citygod of cities, the mother metropolis, where even the parks seem like a geometric afterthought devoid of secrets. i rode past the galaxy beauty shop, the endless bodegas, chinese restaurants, too; the jamaican spot hawking belt buckles, perfume, mobile phone accesories, and then there's the quick pharmacy, the park to the left, kids running, men playing dominoes on the sidewalk, two girls cooking sausage on a metal shopping cart. as i neared the factories and warehouses, and it's dark now, the concrete walls looked more sinister with their barbed wire tops. a vintage clothing store. more concrete walls and barbed wire, a closed circuit television camera situated on top, but look, a gorgeous girl in a summer dress stops to light a cigarette (cinematic pose), silhouetted by the razor wire and a self-conscious concrete wall, as i turned the corner.

the cafe was straight ahead, bounded by an organic foodstore and an art gallery, bicycles and people adorned this little haven. i grabbed a coffee and sat down to write in this converted warehouse, now renting videos and selling tea and coffee. the guy next to me was working on a silk screen of a royal foot guard. the past seemed to fluctuate in his work. i took a deep breath and dove into the black abyss.

after a couple of hours in the typehole, i left. upon returning to my building i felt that eerie feeling of serendipity. it came in the form of a german jeans phashon campaign poster. "wanted" the sign read, "workers," so i dialed "andreas," and he told me shooting would commence friday in brooklyn, and that he needed help with equipment and models, whatnot.

that busboy gig at the Chicken Shack will have to wait a couple days.

Saturday, July 25, 2009

strangers i've known on trains

hrodebert caressed the model 20 pistol in his lap. his hair hung around his face like melted butter, and his gaunt figure, covered in amish, circus inflected attire gave the impression of a cheap vibskov runway model (forgive my dime-a-dozen description, but he looked truly fukking exquisite.). he turned to look out the window of the east hollywood motel he was currently keeping and was disappointed with the lack of a corpse in the marshy pool below. instead of the fresh calm of violence, a void. the infinite thought transfer interface blinked and stared at him from across the room like wireless voodoo, but he quickly averted its temptation and turned toward the loaded syringe on the table below the window. "And jagged world had to ask favorite Drug use something wonderful things that I'm going on a bit in xscreensaver: came into the file is programatically indistinguishable, from the u. Does Have running as peer to and random crummy language. Our love Nutopia the previous step towards this is any reasonable to grab you are works well, seeded what used," he said to the syringe as she injected and felt the Drug's soft wealth infuse his moments.

thursday. a knock on the door.
upon opening, a girl in a boy's plaid shirt asked if i had any baking soda. "i don't. sorry. i do have cornmeal," i replied clumsily. she chuckled. "oh, that won't do. thanks, anyway." she left, and i retreated to my netbook to finish perusing the news and what bits i was interested in. after boiling a potato, carrots and an onion for dinner, i stepped out to grab coffee beans when i ran into the same girl in the vestibule. she looked hip and pretty and kind and smiled when i inquired as to how it turned out. "how did what turn out?" she asked. "whatever you were baking." "i'll find out soon." she said with that effusive smile. i took the opportunity to introduce myself, and she did likewise. simone. a lovely name. she told me she lived down the hall in 311 and to come by later for a drink or maybe a cupcake if i wanted to be "a good boy." (i didn't.) i thanked her and turned back, content in the realization that i was able to immobilize a fraction of her, a well-heeled pose, and i tucked her smile into my pocket for safekeeping (my pockets are overflowing with ghosts, nowadays.).

a glass
of red wine, flipping through some rem koolhaas affair i'd been meaning to read since i'd moved to new york. restlessness though began to ascend, and i decided to take simone up on her offer. i walked over, knocked. no answer. another soft knock. no answer. not feeling certain lazing books movies activities, i decided to go grab a drink (i'd be the star of loungey midnight interviews tonight. yes.), so i hit the l train, walking in the soft drizzle, noticing patchwork parchments of puddles and moats surrounding the kerb. i grabbed a seat on the train. across from me sat two girls and a guy, all tattoos, sex and ripped lace, paid-back with short-cropped hair. ah, i see the moonbeam ink, but what i'm really interested in are those vibrant memory tattoos. you! do you remember defiling that pretty young thing in the backseat at the pointe, cop flashlights pouring in like stars? and you! do you remember flirting with thich nhat hanh and stealing off to korea while in university? the ajimas (old women) getting high on charcoal chicken and soju as the hajishis (old men) drink outside bodega row, the mosquitoes making blood brothers and sisters of you. and you!

train bounded down a few stops, and i hopped off in billburg. i made way to the nearest lounge, where i plopped on a stool. pint. three more. the buzz around me drowned as the circles inside myself inside the circle of myself overlapped harmoniously. i left feeling somewhat satisfied but grabbed one more large beer on my way home. after finishing the beer, i wrestled my uncooperative limbs onto the couch with blissful abandon and fell deeply asleep.