Thursday, July 31, 2014
Bye

Bye

Tonight is my last night in an apartment I do not like. I have, as I suspect most people do, underestimated how much work moving is. Even taking it room by room, I am not sure if I will sleep tonight. 

I’m passing the time by organizing my things, as I am long past moving them into boxes. Chief of my frustrations was my aquarium, which is hard to clean, because things live in it. The last time I moved, my fish survived a cross country road trip in four cereal containers that are just big enough to keep three or four of them alive, if not happy, for a limited period. The bettas, I have two, get their own containers; Snoopy (who we call the pup) and Tywin (he’s red with silver scales and he’s cagey; the name is oddly appropriate) are the fish I love the most, yes, but they’re also the most likely to eat my other fish. So they get their own mobile homes, as they get their own tanks. 

I do not like this apartment, although I don’t quite hate it. It has its baggage. I will be happy to be living alone, again. Still, I’m intermittently stopping to wonder if I am going to miss it, something which, even a few hours ago, seemed impossible. I’m listening to old episodes of This American Life as I organize, and in particular I’ve reached out two old favorites; “20 Acts in 60 Minutes” and “Our Friend David,” both of which remind me of the places I first heard them. I have a weirdly clear memory of hearing “20 Acts” while on an elliptical machine at Bard’s gym, pre-renovation. I was in my last apartment, in New York, when I first heard “Our Friend David.” I loved that apartment. I cannot shake the feeling that everything will be alright, if I just manage to bring my fish and my own self back to the house next to the church, with its peeling blue paint and its unfortunate tendency to wake me up with its bell on Sunday morning. I do not know if I will ever love a place as much as I loved that one. 

Wednesday, July 30, 2014

kettle-o-fish:

maze drawings in progress

Tuesday, July 29, 2014

Somedays I want to build Snoopy’s dog house, so I can lie on the top and look at the sky.

Sunday, July 27, 2014
Thursday, July 24, 2014
Over at Frontier Psychiatrist, I wrote a thing about Perfect Pussy’s set at last weekend’s Pitchfork Festival:

Here’s what I know: The kids in the mosh pit had a great time. A couple of them lost their glasses, or a water bottle, but everyone seemed to recover the things that were most important. A few of them got up on top of the crowd, and stayed up. On the edge of the pit, where I was, the energy was jolting, if not violent; people kept revolving through the collapsable pocket of empty space that separated the two groups, stomping in, stricken with determination, stumbling out, catching their breath, and plastered with enormous smiles. Perfect Pussy was the engine of all of this, and they played tight music that was filthy with fuzz. Their combustion had to come from somewhere else—the stage was quiet before they showed up, and it was quiet again when they left—but wherever they found it, it was draining. It was hot out, and the set was short. At one point, lead singer Meredith Graves, who spent most of the show throwing all of herself into her microphone, seemed to cry. We were moving, and then we were still. Only as we turned to go did I realize that I couldn’t remember, or simply, never actually heard a single one of the words that Graves had put out into the world. 

Over at Frontier Psychiatrist, I wrote a thing about Perfect Pussy’s set at last weekend’s Pitchfork Festival:

Here’s what I know: The kids in the mosh pit had a great time. A couple of them lost their glasses, or a water bottle, but everyone seemed to recover the things that were most important. A few of them got up on top of the crowd, and stayed up. On the edge of the pit, where I was, the energy was jolting, if not violent; people kept revolving through the collapsable pocket of empty space that separated the two groups, stomping in, stricken with determination, stumbling out, catching their breath, and plastered with enormous smiles. Perfect Pussy was the engine of all of this, and they played tight music that was filthy with fuzz. Their combustion had to come from somewhere else—the stage was quiet before they showed up, and it was quiet again when they left—but wherever they found it, it was draining. It was hot out, and the set was short. At one point, lead singer Meredith Graves, who spent most of the show throwing all of herself into her microphone, seemed to cry. We were moving, and then we were still. Only as we turned to go did I realize that I couldn’t remember, or simply, never actually heard a single one of the words that Graves had put out into the world. 

Tuesday, July 22, 2014

(Source: cazuiyo)

Monday, July 21, 2014
voxsart:

Yuhei Yamamoto.
Tailor Caid.

voxsart:

Yuhei Yamamoto.

Tailor Caid.

Saturday, July 19, 2014
I see you, too.

I see you, too.

Friday, July 18, 2014

likeafieldmouse:

Rembrandt van Rijn - The Three Trees (1643)