Oh quickly disappearing photograph in my more slowly disappearing hand

A good representation of me skipping over every Rilke poem about childhood

The drunken boat

This week has gotten off to a odd start - thinking Mondays are Thursdays and Tuesdays are Sundays, writing reviews for a garage rock 'zine, ocean night vistas, Fat Tire, half-eaten Taco Bell burritos, talks about not-so-secret desires, reading about pre-WWI Austria-Hungary, phone calls from lonely friends, eating at Coldstone's even though their ice cream makes me feel like I'm going to have a heart attack, getting taught a lesson by an angry arcade parking lot attendant, witnessing road head, drinking in the park, hanging out with people I haven't seen since middle school, all L.A. Noire everything, attempting to smoke a cigar, stumble bummin', cab rides across the city, buying hair spray and cigarettes in the lobby of the Beverly Hills Plaza, hotel robes, early morning Italian food, trying to convince Reid to walk to the 76 gas station at 4 in the morning, instant coffee, forever bemoaning the lack of hair product, schemin' cab drivers, cottage potatoes at Nick's, thinking "I need a fucking nap," a lot. I feel like I am in transition, but from what to what?

I'm smoking a Camel Light and thinking about wedge heels and The Cultural Studies Reader. The other day at a coffee shop a man asked me what I thought of it (I mean, isn't it basically a textbook?) and wrote down the title. A few minutes later, another man insisted that I show my handwriting to a table full of people, including the owner of the cafe. Being on display is such an awkward thing for me. When I was a child, I was always on display, reciting poetry, playing the violin for my parent's friends, showing someone a story I wrote, a comic I drew, a paper I spent hours on. In a way, it was fine. I was comfortable with it, but I didn't seek the attention and was happier without it. Now, when showing something I've done, I am bashful, confused, and slightly embarrassed. There's a fine line between being proud of what one produces and does and being a pompous ass about it, and I'm terrified of crossing into asshole territory.

Anyway, I'm offended:

Nina Simone covering "Rich Girl" by Hall & Oates

Frank O'Hara, "To The Harbormaster"

I wanted to be sure to reach you;
though my ship was on the way it got caught
in some moorings. I am always tying up
and then deciding to depart. In storms and
at sunset, with the metallic coils of the tide
around my fathomless arms, I am unable
to understand the forms of my vanity
or I am hard alee with my Polish rudder
in my hand and the sun sinking. To
you I offer my hull and the tattered cordage
of my will. The terrible channels where
the wind drives me against the brown lips
of the reeds are not all behind me. Yet
I trust the sanity of my vessel; and
if it sinks, it may well be in answer
to the reasoning of the eternal voices,
the waves which have kept me from reaching you.