softspoken

Sunday, November 19, 2006

today is the day that schubert died. if it were 1828 and it were today then today would be the day that schubert would be dying and soon dead. schubert, 31 year old schubert, lying in his bed possibly, and dying.

an extraordinary climax conveying madness at the realization of rejection and imminent death

friday night i went with ann and her friend laura to a show at the art shack. i met two dogs and ate two round pieces of chocolate and touched one 1900's thomas hardy edition in laura's beautiful house. at the gallery, the store, the place, i mostly felt like i was fumbling around touching chairs made from sparkleberry trees and glancing at paintings of chickens and dead trucks and batik fish pillows. ann and i went to see factotum at the nick. it was 9 o'clock and we shared a box of popcorn. i thought about the time when it was adam sitting next to me. i liked when he hit her and i liked when he gave her his shoes in the middle of the sidewalk. i liked lili taylor's barrel gut and hip bones and matt dillon beautiful even when attempting not to be. it was slow and it was depressing and it was empty and it was good. afterward we went to the whig and i liked the whig. i drank more than i should have and maybe i was a little obnoxious, i don't know, but afterward i felt a little obnoxious. i sat in ann's woven chair, drank pomegranate soda, and ate mixed nuts trying to guess each one by their taste, trying to sober up a little. the macadamia gives itself away too easily, first off on size alone.

let's face it. you don't need me, and i don't need you.

sometimes i just sit in the bath and cry and cry. palms over face.

last night i made pumpkin and yellow pepper soup soup. last night i sewed the first of many tote bags i am making for christmas presents.