Art Born Type
posted@18:10:39 on 10/22/2009
I woke up one morning, most likely afternoon, in February earlier this year. I was lying in bed, or I could have been sitting, and I was transfixed. I think it was the way the sunlight was hitting the sheets, but it could have been the juxtaposition of all the linear shapes. The bars on the window, the shades, the wall, the shadows on the sheets, my mind. What was striking was how everything seemed black and white, although it wasn’t. In reality, the sheets were blue, the wall was a cream color, the shades were brown. I think I was sad, or I could have been bored. They’re kind of the same though, aren’t they? None of this is true though. What is true is that I know that I took this photo and I know where I took it and I know when I took it. I also know that when I look at it, I want it to have a story. A story about how I woke up one morning, most likely afternoon, in February earlier this year. I was lying in bed, or I could have been sitting, and I was transfixed.
posted@07:51:42 on 10/21/2009
If Elisha sent me this cardboard cutout of a man that she found in Brooklyn 8 years ago, then I gave him a giant mustache and named him Faraday.
He hangs on my wall via his mustache and we discuss things like my hopes and dreams and physics. I want to buy him googly eyes. I love him. And Elisha.
posted@14:10:45 on 10/20/2009
All the gays in the daily morning group things I go to really liked my outfit today so I’m archiving it. You know you did it right when the gays like it.
posted@14:03:04 on 10/20/2009
Have you ever been in a big bookstore after it closes, late at night? This scenario is currently my job situation and I think it is the closest thing to what I imagine heaven would be like if it existed.
It’s like a vivid stillness. Where you somehow feel the energy of all the words and characters and stories you’re surrounded by.
The carpets and walls distill all noise and footsteps and movement; so all you hear is the dim sound of background music playing to help keep the staff awake as we turn a day’s worth of customer browsing and disorganization into impeccable displays.
Being able to walk through the labyrinth of rows of books, no distractions or other people around. Co-workers all sort of fade into the work they’re doing so you barely notice them.
You experience a decadent mix of nostalgia from books you’ve read and authors you’ve adored, and curiosity from books that pique your interest/have cool covers.
I experienced a similar feeling when I used to work at the library. But the bookstore at night is quite different because it’s so large and commercial and empty. It feels a little like a ghost town. Also liberating. It’s comfortably eerie.
posted@07:22:00 on 10/20/2009
Googled Faraday (as in Daniel Faraday via Lost) and learned this thing I don’t understand.
posted@16:00:12 on 10/19/2009
