onsleep
my eyes are so mad at me. there is beautiful winter sun outside, longing for a pond to reflect off of, and i’m a basement with coffee and moutain dew and 2pm and saturday. my friend frolick free sinmigo. luckily gutteral voices are coming out my computer, and guitar finger rolls. my mind wants to do my homework but it also wants a rest like my the muscles under my forehead working overtime to keep my eyes awake with no benefits.
i’ve been wondering what this grad school thing is all about. if i go into filmmaking, folksinging, philosophizing, or interculturaling will the masters help. will i ever feel masterful and would any such-feeling be too cocky or non self-critical enough?
john spencer died last night. his leo on west wing made me believe in subtle acting, humanity and the relative distance between a scowl and a smile. what is attachment that i need to feel to artists who unveil emotion for our benefit? i don’t really know them and i always imagine that i couldn’t handle their real selves when their public (performative) vulnerability is what i like.
it’s hard to imagine that soon i might actually read the books i check out of the library and not solely scour them for quote to make my papers fuller in pretending that i know what i think i’m saying.
last night i dreamed about someone i just saw in a new light, and they cried while we loved. i then had to teach a cooking class! to people i didn’t know. i don’t cook well. i fry
then the smoke detector awakes
