Look, if you're looking for a present for Perfect Me and are thinking Oh, gee, I bet she'd LOVE that Lennon busybook that came out I think you'd be onto something. It's kind of burdensome with its hoakiness of interactive envelopes that are to make us feel like we're snooping through John's undies drawer. Maybe I'd prefer that you send me $40 towards a plane ticket for my own special voyage back to Strawberry Fields, which, last time I was there, was disturbingly undisturbed under a few inches of snow. Where were the candles? The flowers? The glow of undying love. I kicked away the snow in the night despite my frozen and wet feet. Minding my own business, as is my wont, tonight and driving I had this amazing revelation:
thermal sleeves from javas to go when removed and inverted and slipped over hands become super-bitchin' superhero cuffs. I know, I was wearing two of them, hands secretly off the wheel and outstretched to practice the Michael Stipe-like gesture.
I just posted a rambunctious post for grad school. T(r)ying together some doodly essay I won't name by Barthes, my artwork and the practice of looking on the fly/tourism.
Pastel plaid is what I saw when I restarted my troubled iMac DV tonight. Then a plaid of grays and blacks. Then I shot it in the head to put it out of its misery. Actual fantasy: shooting a handgun at a television set in the ON position, à la 70s rock star.
Far-flung be-cuffed Love.