Because you look like John Maus
Intense
Intense like, won't brush the hair out of your eyes, even when that hair has been in your eyes for minutes.
Intense like, I want to fix your wayward hair
or possibly spot a mote of dust and remove it from your shoulder
and then you'll turn around
(we're waiting in some long line)
and smile
and 12 hairs will fall between your eyes and mine




A poem, based on a_renunciation 's most recent journal entry.

Because I am a master of procrastination.

Someone send me better brain drugs.

I just got a facebook friend request from my Israeli bodyguard.

Also,

Are playing with

At the Drunken Unicorn The EARL this Thursday night, $10. Be there.

Also p2, new Animal Collective video.

First. I'm probably going to spend more time prefacing my thoughts on anarchism than I will actually say something.

Second. I don't know what I'm talking about. My experience with political and economic systems is along the lines of your standard university education. I've read bits of all the social contract theorists, and a few of the big philosophers. Some political theory related names that spring to mind: Aristotle, Aquinas, Augustine, Marx, Kant, Khaldun, Smith, Bukinin, and Nietzsche. So I haven't really read anything about modern anarchism.

Third. I'm not a political animal. I'm an English literature major, and, I realized recently, this means that the main thing I focus on in my analysis is the meaning of an action, and that meaning's relation to a larger narrative/lack of narrative. When a person tells me they're hungry, the first thing I wonder is, "What do these words mean about the person speaking them? What are they trying to indicate about themselves with these words? What do this person's words mean to them?"

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It is my face.

The sky's been really weird over Atlanta lately. All the smog seems to have disappeared over the weekend, and been replaced by gigantic clouds that never become rain.

I was laying on the quad, reading some mad Faulkner, just waiting for rain, and it never happened.

-

I was at a party about two weeks ago, hanging out with this gal, walking around, etc. Sometimes I would take a break to shotgun beers with a violent guy named Jose, but mainly I hung out with the girl. I didn't entirely mean to - she occasionally hunted me down.

She had to leave early, and I asked for her number after escorting her out. So I got her number, and called the next evening, and it was not actually her number. I wondered if I had spent the entire party completely missing her "get the hell away from me" cues, and concluded, after consultation with a friend of hers, that I really might have been disastrously misinterpreting the night.

Then, a few weeks later, I met her roommate. The roommate was wondering why I hadn't called the girl, and I explained, and she seemed surprised. Apparently, the girl had actually meant to give me her number.

So there's a little concert happening in a few nights, and both myself and the girl will be there. It seems very awkward, and I don't know how to explain the whole thing, and I'm not sure if I was pursuing the girl out of genuine interest, or boredom. So I don't know if I should say anything at all. Additionally, I'm not sure I'd even recognize her. Sometimes I forget what even good friends look like, if they're not wearing familiar clothes/smiling in familiar ways.

Internet. Any advice would be appreciated.

An attempt at surrealist thought.  A reality of surrealist thought.

Battaile writes that each form of expression is a trap, an attempt to create meaning through a device which is less than the object it attempts to represent.  How many letters does it take to describe a raindrop?  A chair?  How many paintings?  I'm not sure if he said that exactly, that the representative object must necessarily be less than the original object, but I think he was heading there.

This is good so far.

Remember that guy with the hatchet?  I was chatting with him Sunday, and it turns out the hatchet handle and blade are made of wood.  It's just a really cool carved piece he found in the trash.  How can surrealism exist on paper, when hatchetmen walk the streets?

Voice on the TV:  Celebrity's children are becoming celebrities themselves.
Me:  [pointing at self emphatically] I'm a celebrity.
Adam:  No you're not.
Me:  Fuck you.  [And then walking away]
Adam:  [in raised voice] Come back here you little peon.

I have a process for writing papers:

1) Get assignment.
2) Say something like, "I really should write this thing"
3) Work with Zack in the computer room for a few hours, achieve nothing, go for lots of walks.
4) Decide to do the paper over the weekend, 2 days before due date.
5) Get nothing done on Saturday or Sunday. Clean my place, write random stuff, do laundry, read.
6) Don't turn in paper on due date. "Mother fucker. I really should turn in that paper". Figure out how many days I can avoid doing the paper and still get a "B".
7) Drink lotsnlots of caffeine, walk around campus/my neighborhood moping, write paper.

And that's why I won't have the Core paper tomorrow.

Also - either feminism sucks, or Herschler's reading for feminism sucks.

Also pt2 - I was trying to go to erowid.org, but I wrote "elowid" instead. I blame Japanese.

Also pt3 - I like this sleeping on blanket on grass thing. I will set something up for the future. At night. Either Oglethorpe or some park near me. Except w/ hot chocolate and foods.