god was totally doin' it at david cross.
lost in translation is probably the best movie i have seen in a long time. the shots were beautiful and soft. the music was subtle.
and i want to turn lez for scarlett johannson. but that's always been the case.
i arranged text on the glowing computer screen.
awake city girls and worn in sweaters.
my laundry is clean and wrinkled in a wicker basket.
the bedside table lamp is casting shadows.
we stayed up late last night with lone stars and half open eyes.
fischerspooner closed with emerge with confetti and champagne. i was there for that one song.
laissez les bon temps roulez.
b/c vagina is so passe.


news: i don't think i'm good enough.
other news: i saw way too much booty shorts.
and other news: there was a man taking a shower with his window open and i saw him b/c his window was facing the street. it forced me to be voyeuristic.


drizzle, mud and the polyphonic spree singing to the sun. i loved robed men and women that synchronize dances and jump around. if church was really like that, i'd go every day of the week. a mod forty year old v.i.p. the dancing guy had moves that haven't been seen this side of the river in years. marty crandall and his take on maximum music with the shins. i wished he was my brother or soemthing, so i too could bask in the genius. and then i ate a giant burger with brian.
and i started the filming of the totally wreck documentary with who's fucking jealous and assacre. screaming masked mike and helmeted johnny jive. and ben with his flashcards and dinosaur mask screaming at strangers. bitches make people uncomfortable b/c they can't rock as hard. oh, and cari is the next peaches. if you ain't dancing, get the fuck out of here, baby.


who likes popcorn? i like it better when it's pirate booty.
justin timberlake is perfect for getting dressed in the morning.
the clouds are out, but i'm listening to pas/cal and thinking about the beach boys. popsicle days are coming to an end.
i love the falsetto boys.
brian is cute near construction.


smeared things are pretty.
i want to go to sleep with the rain falling outside.


i've got polka dot panties with ruffles on the siiiide.
tall white limestone walls and water rippling in the wind. small waves upon brown hands and shadowed soft skin looking darker and pale blue in the light. peer through a viewfinder to capture movement and color. denim and worn suede. the sky matched the walls. and their shoes matched the pavement and the water.
i sit in front of the computer daily in a race against my temper. i hate formz.
colored jointed lines and printing in black and white.
we ate free cannoli.
low fat mint ice cream is lime green. and it bubbles when it melts.
the bus is loud and blue. out the dusty windows the road slips off into the horizon.
it smells like laundry detergent.
i made a blue crayon diagram in my sketchbook.
i like the color blue right now.


i'm walking around in an oversized white tank and men's hanes...gray with and elastic band. school doesn't start for another two hours and the morning's coolness has already slipped away. the microwave beeped. the tea bag melts away into the hot water. i add honey as my room begins to ferment with the smell of mint. i'll turn my movie back on in a second.


from last spring:
there is pastel matted into the fabric of my blue jeans. and the bed sheets are matted up into piles of gray faux ruffles. he might be leaving soon. on a plane. with boxes of clothes and cds. he might be leaving soon. i collaged patti smith onto paper. and politically oriented rap makes my hips move to the beat. fuck y’all, i’m from texas. drinking mixed drinks at a scenester party and reading choke from page one to page two ninety three. i am way cooler. earn $$ + free acrylic nails. the pictures from brussels reside on a table top somewhere in my parent’s house. you should see the pliars i drew. you should totally buy pure funk and funk it. i saw saturn, too. a little white circle with little white rings. little paper cranes in wallpaper patterns. we watched the seventies attempt to futurize in the andromeda strain.


good things i think about:
a: architecture
b: banana milkshakes
c: cellos
d: dolmas
e: emails
f: foreign films
g: game nights
h: "hit me jules"
i: images
j: "jesus, etc" wilco
k: kylie minogue
l: limeade concentrate
m: making buttons
n: "no room to bleed" ben lee
o: oranges
p: ponies
q: quickies that aren't really quickies
r: reading together
s: skirts
t: tim harrington
u: the ungame
v: vices
w: waffle making
x: x in scrabble
y: yogurt with fruit chunks
z: zilker zephyr


remind me to tell you about curtain.
the singing cashier.
now we must write her a eulogy.
peeled back the plastic lid to papya and peaches in syrup.
biscuits come out of the oven warm and waiting to be buttered. b<3 k. k <3 b.
magritte gluesticked into a sketchbook with notes in black pen.
i rack my brain to create a map of private to public.
"design is, at bottom, an abstract formal activity; text is secondary, added only after the mastery of form"
black and white women framed over the color of butter.
where are my clothes.
my book didn't come in the mail.
keith fullerton whittman performed with guitar and laptop a single song played slowly like clouds being pulled across the sky.
the evening out for the electronic kids.
moving from asphalt to a hidden bridge near the seminary building. walk up the stairs and past trees to school.