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2003-11-18 || 10:18 a.m. || soundtrack and pause || the solitude of friend displacement is manifesting itself in funny ways. listening to the papercuts while folding laundry = the backs of pick-up trucks whistling in wind along east-bound highways, sleeping limbs from being folded up between amps and spare tires. spin the bottle. bedroom walls flecked with glitter and stacks of black-and-white photographs immortalizing a me with boy hair and old man high-watery pants. painting portraits of boys bearing an uncanny resemblance to mister bland, marveling at how i finally finally got the bespectacled eyes just right after having memorized them from seven years' reference. calling owen on the fly to catch him in georgia and new york and along highways and sleeping on old friends' couches. putting his records on just to hear his voice (would this be a good time to tell you to buy his albums? the new one is out and is so fucking good i could cry. i'm not just saying. go to your record store and by this: twinkle echo by casiotone for the painfully alone.) unearthing video tapes with titles written on masking tape: us in the blue room in berkeley with nothing to do and absolutely nothing entertaining to present on camera, film class rough cuts of luke cooking soup and dancing, michael's roommates in sonoma before michael was my michael. looking through photos and letters, all those polaroids, chanting birthdates and allergies and phone numbers long invalid, considering making some sort of manual to keep everything in place. to stop the steady expansion of inevitable displacement. guestbook || notes || archives || profile || photos || d-land |