Last night my dream was divided into three parts. The first was a chase scene that ended with me dying. I woke up and fell back asleep into the second part of my dream. It was super trippy and involved super natural and super psychic elements. As my eyes couldn't roll back any further, I opened them and jumped into the third part of my dream. It was a boring slice of normal life--I mean, my reality is more exciting. Anyways, the first section seemed to be set in the future, cause there were flying cars. It seemed like America was a prison. And I was on the run. Robots were hunting me down. I dove into a swimming pool, hoping that they couldn't follow me into the water. But they just fired their guns. Bullets slashed thru my stomach as I splashed around in my own blood. When I caught one in between my eyes I finally died.
Today me and an accompanist were comparing hands. She's got long fingers--they've got a bigger reach than mine even though she's a smaller person than me. And then we felt each others calluses. My left hand's got grooves dug into fingertips from guitar strings. My right hand's index finger's been pressing 1x1 plastic plates together. Her fingers've been hardened from playing the piano. My dreams are never so tactile.
The second section of last night's dream started off being spooky. I was held captive by a band of witches. They wore masks, so I couldn't see their faces. Nevertheless, when they applied their spells, a blue light illuminated from behind their disguises. Mostly they were trying to read my mind. I couldn't resist their probing of my thoughts, which seemed to occur in a manner beyond any physical sensation--it was like they were telepathically entering my dreams, which felt more like a mental glitch than any violation of my privacy. And then I realized how silly the scene was.
Tonight I decided to treat myself to a chili cheeseburger. As I parked my car, a bum crawled up to me and asked if I could buy him one, too. For a second there I thought that doing so would accumulate good karma, which is something I'm personally trying to avoid. But then I justified that chili cheeseburgers are horrible for one's health. I'd probably contribute to his death. So I accepted his offer. As I bought his dinner another bum noticed that I was treating and begged for his own chili cheeseburger. It made me feel happy to kill them both. Food never tastes so evil in my dreams.
The third section of last night's dream ain't worth recounting.
(3.28.08)
I considered refraining from bragging on the basis of the vernacular psychology that once I do I'd be proven otherwise, but as of this writing I think I've got an above average constitution. My assistant was sick as fuck last week--nose pouring, voice swollen, death cough, etc. She came to work nonetheless. But I didn't seem to catch her bug. As well, I'm aware of something contagious floating in the public air. It either doesn't find my body worth the bother or my immune system kicks ass. And no, I never get inoculated during the flu season. I don't eat vitamins. I don't count walking as serious exercise. I used to smoke. I have the occasional alcoholic beverage and recreational Class C drug. However, I also don't've enough stress to cause the slightest cephalalgia--my medicine cabinet doens't include any acetylsalicylic acid. My spiritual advisor, who incidentally wasn't feeling well, reminded me that when one's sick, he or she is "purifying negative karma". If that's true, then I'm depurifying my bad energy. I hope I didn't jinx myself.
I considered refraining from exposing myself to Jovie and thereby potentially crushing my compressing crush on her, but I bought her new album. This was her last chance to win me back as I've been cavorting with cohorts from other shores, namely those with names that originated on the same island as my mother's maiden name. Anyways, she didn't disappoint. Her voice, regardless of what she sings, seems to be one that rings not in my ears, but somewhere between my neck and abdomen. So hearing her take on The Beatles and Beatlesque tunes, with some good old fashioned American country and western sympathy, sprinkled with Spectorisms didn't hurt her chances. I was a goner.
I considered refraining from keeping OUT ON A LIM active during my current schedule, which seems to be booking at an unexpected rate--I've got patrons piling up projects well past June. A "sorry, I'm busy, read someone else's blog" note might've been posted if I was dishonest with myself. Cause the truth is, I don't mind being busy, especially with things that I enjoy doing. I suppose it's a stroke of fate that I happen to've found that certain enjoyment, not to mention I particularly dig overlapping my time. So I shan't go on vacation--why when I'm having too much fun already? Unless, of course, I fall seriously ill or my heart gets broken...
(4.1.08)
His madness keeps him sane.
-Delirium
Call me crazy but I've decided to on weekends stop wearing deodorant, not brush my teeth, and eat only one meal a day. Cause I don't see the point in extravagant rituals, at least if I can help it. I mean, sure I'll try not to stink, clean up my mouth, and indulge in more food than some people hope for in a week if I'm in the company of others who aren't so stingy. But left on my own, I won't care about pleasing anybody.
Call me crazy but sometimes when I look at the number "3" I see the letter "M" (rotate the number 90 degrees counterclockwise). Likewise when I see the number "1" I think of the letter "I" (they're both vertical lines). And the number "7" reminds me of an upside down "L". Thus, the number "317" appears to my mixed up mind as my last name: "LIM".
Call me crazy but in an attempt to entertain myself during LEGO building I've started to clock myself to see how fast I can finish a project. Cause I ought to be getting faster especially since I've been doing these mosaics for nearly a decade now--there are recognizeable dithering patterns that my eyes and fingers don't even think twice about anymore. Anyways, I don't wanna boast, but I finished the last 2 x 3 ft. portrait in five days. It used to take me about a month.
Call me crazy but I noticed a coincidence with this record in the UCLA Library Catalog. What caught my attention was the record ID number. It's what the library uses for internal tracking, besides the call number and any other name/title/subject info--technically speaking, catalogers call it the "bib number". And being assigned to every bibliographic record, most numbers are pretty big, given the size of the university's collection (the lastest acquisitions have seven digits). It's rare that I see one so small. Nevertheless, it's kinda an important number as it'll be forever connected with the item, or least with this incarnation of the system.
(4.3.08)
I've been playing around with three materials: bamboo, plastic, and glass.
Yesterday my tax refund arrived. It being a holiday, the closet ATM machine was located at the corner grocery store--normally I hit the tellers on campus at work. As well, I thought it was high time for me to get my car washed. So I drove the easily walkable distance. There are two ATM machines near the entrance by the produce section. An old man was using one of them and had his cart blocking the other. After a minute he noticed my patience and moved the obstruction. And as I began my transaction, I observed that these machines were new--they had more flashing lights, big keypads, and a touch screen monitor. Also, they no longer took deposit envelopes--checks were fed directly into a slot. After it ate mine, it asked me to input the amount, which I'd forgotten, I mean, previously the machine asked me to key in the value of the check before I deposited it. However, on the screen was a scan of my check with a button to zoom in on the amount. I was amused at this new technology. Unfortunately, I think the old man next to me wasn't as he continued struggling with the ATM after I left.
The Japanese use a classification system, which is based on ancient Chinese philosophy, called "Sho-Chiku-Bai". It translates to "Pine-Bamboo-Plum". Pine, or "Matsu" in Japan, represents the first level of excellence as it symbolizes long life and faithful relationships. Bamboo, or "Take", represents the second level of quality as it symbolizes honesty and loyalty. Plum, or "Ume", represents the third level of ranking as it symbolizes beauty and courage.
There's a middle aged man who seems to have a million excuses to stay in the library a good fifteen minutes after closing time. I always find myself politely reminding him that he needs to leave as he runs to the printer where he's making several copies of some lengthy manifesto that he found online. So I wait at the front door. He's the last person left--after him I can shut the lights and go home. And as he thanks me for letting him stay longer he asks for a stapler to staple the printouts that he just made. I sigh and hand him a stapler, which was a huge mistake cause apparently that's his cue to make small talk. I try to answer his endless questions about weekday hours, weekend hours, hours at other libraries, locations of other libraries, etc. Soon enough I feel like shit that he's so desperate to harass someone as inconsequential as me. But what really made me depressed was how serious he seemed about his life.
ABS is a polymericed alloy made of three materials: Acrylonitrile, Butadiene, and Styrene. It's an amorphous thermoplastic. The Acrylonitrile gives it resistance. The Butadiene gives it ductility. And the Styrene gives it gloss.
I had a dream where I was fooling around with Ami and Yumi. But when we found a love hotel they made me pick only one of them to check in with. So I chose Ami. At first it seemed like super fun finding our room, chasing each other around the furniture, and jumping on the bed. However, when it got time to have really super fun, she got all defensive. At first she'd quiz me with random questions about pop culture, to which I answered to the best of my mind's imbalanced attention to her body. Then she started to mumble. I turned off the lights in hopes of changing the mood. And in the dark, I thought about how Yumi'd probably be getting to the point by now.
The Planar lens has been referred to by three different names: the Planar, Biometar, and Biotar. Although it's basic design can be traced back to 1896, when Paul Rudolph, working for Carl Zeiss, tweaked Carl Friedrich Gauss' optical concept of positive and negative meniscus symmetry, the Biometer is the East German version of the Planar and the Biotar is sometimes an asymmetrical Planar, but ultimately the main idea is capturing a flat image.
(4.7.08)
I can't wait til my analog TV connection dies. Cause I want to kill my television. Well, to be specific, I get these violent inclinations on days when Jackie Johnson goes on holiday. I'll be tuning in during my dinner and some substitute'll be taking over her duties, be it she's on jury duty or sick or whatever lame excuse she's got, and I'll feel like shit. It's like my whole day's been a waste. Why that fuck do I wanna see someone else report the weather? No thanks. Worst of all is when some sporting event preempts her. However, rather than go thru the trouble, I'd rather not watch TV. And having no connection would be heaven.
I've never been a fan of flash photography. I'm sure there's an art in artificial light, but I can't see it. Sure, I learned about lighting in some undergraduate video production course, but I can't remember it beyond how cumbersome the extra equipement is. Well, I'm a fan of natural lighting. And my favourite lenses are designed to take advantage of such. Plus, I try to be unobtrusive on assignments. There's nothing more obnoxious than a photographer roaming around in the background, let alone one that's got a giant flash. Of course, I say this now, but I have no intention of attaching a bulb to my camera. Don't quote me on that later...
Jackie Johnson said it was gonna rain today. At first it seemed like she was wrong--it was a perfect day. The natural light was great for outdoor photos as I hiked around the campus perimeters. And I thought, geez, this little ivory tower where I spend most of my days at ain't so bad. It's like a paradise amdist the stormy surroundings. What war? What tragedies? What sickness and death? Familiar faces waved to me as they crossed my path. However, as I drove home, it began to rain.
(4.9.08)
If you want to know what a man's like, take a good look at how he treats his inferiors, not his equals.
-Sirius Black
Due to the recent media reports concerning protests against the Chinese government and their alleged human rights violations, I looked up "China" on Wikipedia. And not to suggest that I'm for or against Tibet, but all this negative attention towards a country of my ancestors got me curious as to how evil they could really be. And again, I'm not implying in any way that I’m pro-Communism, not to mention the information I gathered was from Wikipedia, so take it for what it’s worth, but I never knew that China invented paper and printing--if I remember correctly, I was taught that the Egyptians and Germans were generally responsible, respectively. And then digging further, I discovered that the camera obscura was founded in China as well, by Mozi, the founder of Mohism.
On Wednesday, when traffic should've been getting worse, I was surprised to find the commute home unobstructed. This was cool cause I had to go to the local FedEx hub to pick up my newest lens--it got delievered, but I wasn't home, so the most convenient manner of reception for me to do was to sign for it at the customer service center. Unfortunately, I waited 45 minutes for the staff to retrieve my package, which wasn't as good as the woman who waited two minutes, but not as bad as the man who waited two hours.
I'd never heard of Mohism. Apparently, it was a school of philosophy that was around during the time of Confucianism and Taoism, two more familiar Chinese ways of thinking. Now, I never was a big fan of Confucius cause I find his teachings on hierarchical relationships to be demeaning. For example, between children and parents, citizens and government, etc. Not that such ain't a tidy model for keeping social order, it's just also begging for abuses of power by those that are deemed "superior" and an uprising by those that are treated as "inferior".
On Thursday, when traffic should've been getting much worse, I was surprised to find the drive after work to my former drug dealer's house to be completely clear. This was cool cause it was also the last time I'd see my spiritual advisor before his trip to France to study with his master. We all hung out and watched The Prisoner, Carnivale, and the original 1942 version of To Be or Not To Be. Although my spiritual advisor'll be gone for five to eight months, I disagreed with my former drug dealer that that's a long time. In fact, five to eight years is nothing, at least in my book.
I've always been a big fan of Taoism, especially it's theory of balance. In a way, it's a way of dealing with Confucius' hierarchical relationships without encouraging conflict. Somehow in conceptualizing a balance of power within the structure, the inferior is tied to superior as they both contain elements of the other, as in the yin-yang symbol, a sense of harmony, or c'est la vie is achieved, if only until the next revolution or lifetime.
On Friday, when traffic should've been at its worst, I was surprised to find the freeway open as if it were Monday night. This was cool cause it was the third day in a row that there wasn't any congestion, which either was a very lucky coincidence or a sign of improved traffic conditions on the dreaded 405. Nevertheless, I'm not holding my breath either way.
Anyways, it turns out that the Mohists promoted impartial love--everyone should be treated as equals, like in heaven. Whilst I understand how such an ideal never caught on with Confucists and Taoists, I respect that it aimed higher than those other more pragmatic philiosphies. And actually, it's exactly how I see the world. We're all equal. No one is inferior or superior.
(4.11.08)
I'm not the proud owner of any programmable DVR system, so I'm not fully aware of their capabilities, such as if they're able to record portions of a newscast, say, only the weather report. So I'm doing it the old fashioned way--I'm compiling a VHS tape of Jackie Johnson's segments from KCAL news. What prompted me to perform this borderline psychopathic task was her exceptionally hot outfit the other night--she wore a see thru top. Don't worry, she's classy enough not to reveal anything, but my immediate reaction was to capture the moment for future reference. And the only technology at my disposal was to hit record on my VHS. I wish I could set it to do so whenever she came on the air so that I wouldn't've to fast forward each broadcast to her portion of the news. Anyways, whilst studying her weather report, I noticed that her sexiest attribute ain't her fashion sense, rather it's her naked ring finger on her left hand.
I've been rewatching the Desmond and Penny episodes of Lost online. I think they're romance is epic. I like how she's the daughter of a wealthy merchant who dwells in England and he's a sailor who goes away with trouble on his mind and she goes hunting for him despite her father's disapproval. Now that Charlie's dead and Kate's off the island Des and Pen are my new favourite characters. And their episodes are structured trippily--they've got a lucid feel, unlike the generic flashbacks or flashforwards, they seem to be aware of the shifts in time. It's like they're removed from the conventions of the show, yet are thematically key. They're perspectives are always in the now. It doesn't hurt that the real life actor's name is Henry and that Penelope's not bad looking.
I used to think that "Jack-A-Roe" was the weakest track on Dylan's World Gone Wrong. Well, realistically it drones on way too long in a minor key. But after playing it myself I've come to appreciate it more. Especially the legendary lyrics. Of course this song ain't the first or the last to jump around between characters' perspectives from verse to verse, but singing them I found myself inhabiting their motivations for phrasing clues--Jack the sailor and his darling love disguised as Jack-A-Roe. And somehow whilst singing the last verse, where the narrator steps away from the story and proposes to his love, I couldn't help but meditate on the meaning of the words "this couple they got married so why not you and me". I mean, I thought I understood the concept of marriage, be it from the weddings I've attended, the personal accounts from friends and family, and the cultural depictions thereof. But this particular song drove it home like nothing else before.
(4.15.08)
I was looking up Ansel Adams on Wikipedia at the reference desk when the Coughing Chick stepped into the library keeping her germs at a distance from everyone and distracted me as I waved back at her. Earlier in the day I seemed to've encountered an unusal number of detours--tree cutters were working at the edge of my driveway forcing me to find another route out of my neighbourhood, the lane leading to the freeway entrance was closed due to maintenance, and a tow truck wouldn't allow me to pass on the street that spits me into campus. Anyways, the night before I'd caught the ending of some documentary on Ansel Adams and wanted to fill in some of the details that I'd missed. Last week a coworker had mentioned over lunch how the Yosemite photos inspired him to go to the park. Honestly, I've never been keen on Ansel Adams. I mean, I don't hate his photographs and I acknowledge his technique, but they don't profoundly move me to tears, such as the portraits that Lewis Carroll took. Nevertheless, I tuned in to the documentary, partly out of boredom, partly out of curiousity as to why Ansel Adams is so overrated, and partly out happenstance. The Coughing Chick coughed.
Well, there was nothing in the Ansel Adams entry that changed my humble opinion about his work. I knew that the Coughing Chick'd seen her doctor cause she'd emailed me about going to get her cough checked out. She warned me to be careful cause there's some bug going around. I felt like going up to her to let my immune system do it's job, but I was I intrigued by what I was reading about on Lewis Carroll's Wikipedia entry. Apparently, and seemingly unbeknownst to me, the last book he wrote was something called Sylvie and Bruno. Or maybe I knew about it, but I'd never let it register--afterall, the Alice books cast a huge shadow on all his other achievements. But somehow this rediscovery mattered. And reading the blurb I wanted to check it out myself. Luckily a copy was available at the main library. So when my stint at the reference desk was up and I'd finished downing some chicken chili soup for lunch I took the elevator to the top floor of the main library and found the book near the bottom shelf of the English literature stacks. In the back of my mind I recalled the Coughing Chick from an hour ago kick her spare change from under the laptop lending desk--she'd dropped it and hilariously retrieved it with her feet. I looked at the cover of the book, which had these inviting words engraved in the shape of a heart:
SYLVIE WILL LOVE ALL
(4.17.08)
ALL WILL LOVE SYLVIE
Aw crap...I just read in Sylvie and Bruno (the online version) during my shift on the shift shift shifty circulation desk today. I'd thought it was the other way around (see OUT ON A LIM 4.17.08). Sylvie was offered a heart blued and shapened alike the engraving that's on the cover of the book. And she'd read the worded inscription scriniptioned backwardianly and sidewardianward on the blue heartened and ship shape shopped shindangle shincrangle shindigdogdiggityscrandangly. An hour before my reading of my misread blunder, I was under the influence of the fRiDaY wEaThEr and Vanessa's peer pressure paranoia to play "Pick on the New Girl" at work.
I needed a break from the depressing work that was handed to me first thing in my early noon inbox--someone "lost" our copy of Sgt. Pepper and I was asked via official dispatch from the circulation commander to order a replacement. So I cheered myself up by sitting upon deck up at the circulation desk up in the front of the library's republic. The Still Coughing Chick and I discussed possible slick solutions to the surprise element of her teacher's next's week's birthday's concert's supplementary party decorations supplied by my secret reverse thief service. She predicted that the alarm system will trigger when she leaves the library cause something in her possession set it off when she entered.
The ten year old girl followed me thru the AIDS exhibit that's currently being featured at the campus cultural museum. It's free to visit, so I like to make it a habit to visit it on behalf of a habit forming visitation habitat that I spend my breaks away from the miserably mundane paperwork that I gotta file whenever I set up a new vendor in the acquisitions module. Her mother was entranced by the politically sexual installation and didn't seem to want to be aware of her daughter's stalking on strangers. Thus, I was too distracted to get disgusted by the, I know, heartfelt creation of the dress made out of a hundred or so new and unused condoms. I'm sure that the artist put it together over a span of whatever time it takes to get inspired by such a prevision, construction, and restrictions to a sense of cleverness. Or maybe it's existence belongs to a dedicated memory of a dear friend who suffered from the "disease".
Xie scolded me for misspelling "congestion". Aw crap...I've been spelling it with a "j" instead of a "g" my whole life. Scanning the OUT ON A LIM archives proves so, at least in blogging terms. So I logged onto my account and might as well've taken down the transmission with a six thousand six hundred sixty six foot crane, zapped the "g" with my zapper gapper zigzagzapper, and replaced it with a "j". I'm too lazy to go fixing all previous instances, too dumb to program a robot to do the machine suited task, and too distrusting to hire some hot nymphot to hotbox by hand every embarrassing products of my letter arranging ignorance. Henceforth, on the condition of my remembering the correct spelling and forgetting the incorrect spelling, the correct spelling will henceforth be applied and all incorrect spellings shall remain in the archive as a dedicated memory of a dear friend who suffered from the curable "conjestion".
Xus and I don't use protection. Aw crap...that's more information than I should allow on this "Parental guidance is highly recommended," highly said high high McHigh. Nevertheless, I'm not kidding when I believe, from the most revealing removal of any critical judgement or judgemental criticism that I'd've been more impressed if instead the dress was made of old and used condoms that were consciously soiled as a testament to one's love for his infected partner. Instead, it came off with an opposite reaction. That is, until the ten year old girl caught up to me and opened her bubblegum mouth.
The new girl's name if spelled backwards and abbreviated with the last letter of her first name sequentially shifted and capitalized at the front of the left-to-right axis is "L". And she couldn't keep her mouth shut. She had to just keep talking after I finished talking to begin another topic to talk about in the middle of Vanessa's indoctrination speeches--how to prep a truck of books by arranging the randomness into irrandomness, or piled according to section in the stacks based on the call numbers, etc. I doubt anyone insanely instanely instaneously instantaneously dense enough to not go into defending her defenseless defenderbender. Besides, she's the New Girl at Work. Someone has to pretend to be her nightmare boss. Otherwise she'd quit outta boredom. Company morale needs to be represented under a near oblivious reverse thief psychology, even if means seeming to be mean, when I don't really mean such. It's a fine line, but I'm fine with lining myself up with it until the final line is crossed.
"Why did someone make a dress out of balloons?" the ten year old girl practically tugged at my sleeve.
"What would you call your empire?" "L" hypothesized in her hypnotic non-hyphenated hyaena hysterics. "Our Epoch-Era," I hyped.
"I must've been drunk," was my excuse to Xie regarding my "conjestion" confusion. "Yeah, well, if I were drunk I'd still have caught the misspelling," she bragged of her natural editing skills.
"6:30," spoke Vanessa as prompted by her misreading of the undergraduate library's hours of operation. "6:00," I interrupted her conversation with the inquisitive patron concerning the published time's true answer.
"Always looking for treasure...," whispered The Vending Machine Chick. "Yup," as I spun the carousel until it became cosmic from the carousel's cosmic connection to the Cosmic Carousel until my spaceship shipped space off into outer space and entered the atmosphere of the sphere's low fat chocolate milk, or low-fate sacred cow's liquid enhanced with chemical powders mimicking the text on the carton.
I could've told the ten year old girl the truth. I was verbal, but didn't use words. I was short and to the point, but pointedly short of anything she'd comprend until later, if she happens to put our wordless exchange into her subconsciously subsafe subvaults. I was creepy, but not as creepy as raping her in a free to the public museum with her mother in the other room. But I didn't compromise the truth, no fakery in anyway of how I handled the potentially awkward situation. Cause the first thing that came to my mind was to giggle like a sick pervert for a short second--nothing manically suppression bound, but enough to think of balloons the next time she fucks a condom. As I lexited the luseam I liked looking back, in my lack of lorrow, at the little ten year old girl as The Little Ten Year Old Girl who put a smile on my face like no other, that is, until today when I forgave the Still Coughing Chick:
"Because we are both immature, I shall speak to thee in my amateur pronounciation of our tribal communication with as much eye contact to your chest and breasts and the best in the west as impossible to anyone else other than my faux shame for the same reason as the seasonal ramification of the marification and remarification which'll trigger the alarm when you leave the library. But because you are an angel upon whom the tragedy of a temporary transformation of your voice's health has ignored the outside world during the jealous jiggle of our inner moment and convinced me especially when you pounded your heart for my devoted trust and trevoted dust to allow you passage thru the bugular detector even if it passes off patterns of returnable panic," I said in so many words and body language suggestions. "Thanks," she might've misheard.
I've yet to list my favourite book on Facebook. When I was asked to complete my profile when I joined I thought I'd input the title when I finally decide on a worthy main character to declare as my "favourite book". I thought about the Alice books, but that's such a populist opinion that I opted to push it aside for later. Some of Mann's greatest novels crossed my mind, such as the one about the magic doctor or the Faustus Mountain, I can't remember which, but if I were honestly answering the category in accordance with my accordion's accord, I'd play a chord that lays the phord, for I wouldn't be praising the muse, namely the main character's chickness. I mean, I've got mental images of morphine addicts and princesses in the asylum, but no name reverse slips off my tongue. Dolores was a candidate, but I'd rather not get arrested than wear a thinly veiled red flag during any courtroom show and tell of electronic data which may or may not convict me of illegal allegations. And as I seemed to underestimate, perhaps happenstance has happened to happen, and the real reason reappearing before me is the simple logic that I've yet to read a book worthy of deeming as my favourite--otherwise, as it reasonably stands to reason with the unreasonable and non-unreasonable, I'd've'dn't've'n't be so neurotic about something so neutral as my "favourite book". For those that aren't privy to my profile, my favourite music is Puffy, my favourite movie is Ginga Testudo Three-Nine, and my favourite television show is Trick.) However, so far, Sylvie and Bruno is miles above the rest of every book I've ever read. I'm tempted to jump the declare and gun it as my "favourite book" on Facebook, but out of respect to the obsessive compulsive desire to complete everything to their bitter end, I'm choosing to wait til I finish the book before I live by my decision. However, if I weren't such a detail oriented stickler, I'dn't hesitate to proclaim my xavourite xook xofar as xo ximply from the dream within a dream chapter where Sylvie (the main chick character) is given the choice between a blue heart-shaped locket with the engraved words ALL WILL LOVE SYLVIE and a red heart-shaped locket with the engraved words SYLVIE WILL LOVE ALL. With what she proceeded with is my most favourite passage that I've ever read in a book, imagined in real life, misunderstood as a misplaced emphasis, de-emphasized as an understood place, anyways regarded as a ways to sway away from the guarded rememory, clomped on the clamped clam, drank like a skank on crank, and furthermore agreed with more further agreement than any text or subtext I've ever reverse texted and reverse subtexted. She chose what I thought she should've chose. And that's enough to over win me.
(4.21.08)
The number three is a significant number in the scheme of LEGO. At least for me, as I deal in the 2 x 4 brick scale--some builders make miniature representations of reality, be it on a scale to accommodate the manufacturer's approved action figures, or larger, as in in the scale that's based on the size of the technical sets' wheels, or smaller, as in the nano scale models. To me the 2 x 4 brick doesn't imagine to be bigger or smaller as determined by the builder's imagination, rather it is exactly scaled to real life. No calculations are needed to convert measurements. I mean, there are a lot of numbers that go thru my head when I build--"I need a four bumped single width plate," "Where's my blue eight bumped double width bricks?", or "Damn, these sixteen bumped single length bricks are good for internal sculptural support." But they're all being counted during the moment, which resolvingly pass as soon as those pieces are put into place. However, the number three is like a guiding light thru the seemingly random stream of numbers--there aren't too many odd numbers above three used in bump distribution. For it's the height of the 2 x 4 brick, which is three plates high, and when working on the lifesize scale, that's the difference between using one brick instead of three plates. An example would be on a mosaic where a single colour occupies the height of three plates. Instead of wasting the time on three times the work, the money on the generally more expensive plates, and the, in the case of two bump thick mosaics, reinforcement which connects to the backing, I'd simplify the fraction and use a brick. So the number three is always on my mind. In contrast, I'd say that I'd be more than three times as slow had I not learned of the ratio--not that it ain't hard to eyeball if a stack of plates were next to a brick. But without it, I don't think LEGO would make any sense to me, in the sense that if they changed the size of a brick to equal any other number of plates than three, I'd be certain that the universe has shifted to a new magic number, and having been programmed to look for the old one, it'd take some effort to reset my gauges. Not that it couldn't or shouldn't be done, cause unless whatever new magic number that replaces the number three is a complete pain, I'm sure I'll be cutting a deal with the switch. But part of me rests easy at night as I guess that such a radical change of standards most likely ain't gonna happen any time soon.
(4.23.08)
The sun was still up when I opened the windows in my main studio to let in a breeze during the spring weekend's heat wave. I'd been cracking the sills in the other rooms since Saturday and the glue job that I'd procrastinated til the last six hours of Sunday night was going to occur in the main studio, where I'dn't spent any footsteps in--the boiling convinced me to open all the windows. And actually, such wasn't such a bad idea given the toxic fumes of the glue.
Warping is my enemy when I glue a mosaic. I've had several crappy looking curves find their unwanted way into the ideally straight lines. Sometimes it's an almost invisible discrepancy between two bricks that'll throw off the angles, and because the glue melts the plastic, it's kinda permanent. And sometimes it's the weather which naturally warps materials. Yeah, the windows needed to be opened.
Yesterday, I was in my bedroom reading Sylvie and Bruno as I waited for my laundry to dry. The room was roasting so I released the window from blocking the cool wind. What I can't get enough of about the book is its jumps between dreams. It's like Wonderland on drugs. Anyways, the mood was appropriately eerie as I kept turning the pages until the sun killed the light.
I find it funny when a seemingly miscellaneous overheard conversation stays hidden in my mind until later when it'll surpise me, beyond being fermented in the secret underground tunnels of my brain, of its other meanings, namely in relation to my desired interpretation. There was an audio loop playing in the museum about Japanese basket weaving.
"Mosh' mosh'," I answered my cellphone after about an hour of gluing. I heard it ring thru my Puffy Walkman headphones--I was listening to the mosaic's Chopin recording. As a habit of mine, I prefer to have music related to the project. If I were superstitious I'd believe that doing so gives me good luck against warping.
I can't quote the taped lecture, but it basically said something along the lines of "I asked the weaver how she was able to weave her baskets into perfect circles, cause I tried and found my baskets hardly circular, and she replied 'If your heart is pure, you can make a perfect circle.'"
Sometimes it's the bottom layers, which is the foundation, that's got a crooked plate, that'll destroy the perfect rectangular shape of the mosaic. I keep a close eye on this important section, making sure that the glue is securing the necessary pieces, the structural integrity isn't being compromised with reassignable parallel stacking, and nothing's inviting a warp.
Objectively, trying to decide upon a single factor to thank for an unwarped mosaic is difficult. I'd like to think that I've covered those that I perceive to be relevant, and arranged them in some sorta order befitting how I'd communicate them in English, keeping in mind that some words betray thoughts, and vice versa. However, subjectively, and I could be full of shit, but I'm suspecting that the cellphone call answered in Japanese might've been responsible for more than her share.
(4.24.08)
Today's primary task was to sneak a mosaic into my office. It was secretly commissioned by the Recovering From a Cough Chick for her teacher's 80th birthday, so I needed to uphold the surprise. I'd just finished gluing it last night and was looking around my apartment for some kinda cloth to conceal it in the event that the subject of the mosaic sees himself rendered in plastic before his party. The only one I could find was the batik I use to cover my keyboard, which I thought was sorta appropriate since the subject of the mosaic is a piano pedagogue. Anyways, I loaded it into my car, transported it, and snuck it into my office without any trouble.
I bumped into "L" in the soup line. She was getting the cream of broccoli and I was scooping a bowl of chili. We met at the checkout. "Are you eating here?" she asked from behind me as I took out my wallet from my back pocket. "Yeah," I paid the non-student price, "are you?" "Maybe," she replied as I waited for her to pay for her food. We ate outside on the terrace as some kid busked on his guitar during the noontime concert happening on the bottom floor of the student center. We discussed things espionage and suppressed--her father's a diplomat and she invited me to her concert tomorrow which'll be a program of music written by composers that were subdued sometime during their lives. I told her that I'll attend.
The Recovering From a Cough Chick called me last night to ask if I could bring the mosaic to work the following day so she could get a sense of its dimensions and figure some sorta display plan. Needless to say, this had me anticipating her appearance all day--she didn't specify when, other than sometime during the day she'd pay a visit, so I waited anxiously. Not surprisingly, the day passed by quickly, with special thanks to "L" for keeping me company during the quiz of my patience. But eventually, I had to face her.
Bless the weather for being hot, cause the girls seemed to be dressed accordingly. The Recovering From a Cough Chick was no exception--I commented on her dress in her native language. Following her into my office, I reached her skirt as she found the mosaic. She seemed pleased, I joked that I didn’t trust her, she pretended to punch me, and that was that. After she left "L" asked if she was still here, cause "L" was of the questioning perspective regarding collaborating with her on some Rachmaninoff. "No," I informed, "she's gone, hey, do wanna see a mosaic I made..."
I found myself at the circulation desk with "L" for the rest of the day. She was taking a training test that taught her the logic of call numbers. Penny entered the library, waved, and checked out a book. I noticed that "L" and her avoiding eye contact. "Are you friends?" I interrogated "L". The answer I received ain't worth documenting, other than I think both girls are decent human beings and I'd rather not cast either them in what might be perceived as unfavourable light.
"L" was coincidentally leaving work when I was. The thought of asking her to dinner crossed my possibilities. But as the hour of departure hit, I noticed the Recovering From a Cough Chick's skirt at the nearby computer terminal. "Do you hang around after work?" "L" wondered as she clocked out. "Uh," I stalled, "I don't practice in the practice rooms cause I don't feel like paying for a practice card." I changed the subject, which incidentally is true--ever since the administration started charging for practice room privileges, I've stopped practicing at school, except on holidays, of course. "Well," "L" hinted, "I'm going to eat dinner right now." "See you later," I waved.
Immediately after "L" left the library the Recovering From a Cough Chick turned around from the computer terminal and intentionally missed my face with a punch. After a scolding she extended a welcome to ther teacher's birthday party at his house. "Really?" I couldn't believe my ears. "Yeah," she confirmed. I was honoured. She had to be at a rehearsal so we skipped getting dinner. I left my office later than I'd planned. And as I exited the building I bumped into Penny who was hanging around the vicinity.
(4.25.08)
My mom never caught on with email. To this day, I've yet to receive any correspondence with her via computer. Supposedly, she's got an email address, but she never accesses it, or rather, I don't think she knows how to, and if my dad tried to teach her, I'm sure her technophobia refused to allow her to retain such information. So if she can't use email in 2008, she sure couldn't in 1990, when the internet was still underground and personal computers were only for nerds. So when I was in college, 18 years ago, she used to send me old fashioned handwritten letters. Since I graduated, however, she's resorted to the telephone as our main method of long distance communication.
My camera's shutter is loud. If I can hear it with my half deaf ears, I'm sure others can as well, and louder. There was a somber concert tonight and I had my camera ready, but I was cooking ideas to solve my loud shutter--if I sat in the audience, no matter where in the small theatre, I'm sure my clicking'll be distracting. Fortunately, I know the stage manager, and arranged a seat in the lighting booth. So I set up gear in the enclosed box at the rear of the room, attaching my farthest zoom lens, and did some test shots to calibrate my settings. Ironically, as no one in the audience could hear my loud shutter from behind the lighting booth's glass window, I couldn't hear the concert.
My shoulder got tapped as I was browsing an online Ringo Shiina gallery. I turned around to see the Recovered From a Cough Chick and someone I'dn't met before in my office. "Can we see the mosaic?" they asked as I was introduced to the subject of the mosaic's daughter. They both walked up to it and touched it with their hands, which seems to be the normal reaction amongst those who catch a view of it--the new girl, the UPS delivery guy, and coworkers. As well, everyone seems to want to know "How long did it take you to make it?" Then again, I guess that's the burning question that the mosaic begs of anyone who gazes upon it.
My former drug dealer related a story about Ingmar Bergman, which he'd culled from interviews that he's been reading. Accordingly, the director sometimes closed his eyes on the sets of his movies and listened to the sound of the take. And trusting only his ears, he'd declare whether or not the scene needed to be reshot. I thought about that anecdote as I took photos in silence from the lighting booth. I couldn't hear the music, but I waited for facial expressions that were musical. It seemed like the musicians who'd memorized the music closed their eyes more often, and thus appeared, at least to my loud shutter, to be more musical.
My mailbox had the usual bullshit inducing advertisements, with the exception of a letter from my mom. This was odd, given that she's never written anything to me since college. I thought it'd be hilarious if she'd mailed me her suicide note, but wiped the laughter from my face after I slit the envelope with a knife. She'd written a short note about Japanese cherry blossoms. Included was an accompanying newspaper clipping that was related to her topic. It seemed more desperate for attention than weirdly phrased. And I thought about the increasing levels of lonely souls floating around in the world. I don't first handedly feel it, but second handedly, the doubled amount of sad arms reaching out for reassurance has overflopped off the shoulders of the professional caretakers and has spilled onto my incapable fingers. Am I the only one who doesn't give a fuck about being totally and insignificantly alone?
(4.29.08)
She was like an eBay sniper when she entered the after concert party, you know, the kinda chick that pops into the auction at the very last second with the winning bid. It's like I gun jumped a bid at the moment eye contact was made with my item of desire. And I don't see any moral deviation concerning the practice, cause I admit borrowing sniper tactics for photography, but it is sorta a bummer when you don't get what you want.
Anyways, her hair wasn't blonde, and neither was her personality, which got my attention.
Not to upset any of my hot blonde fans, but to be fair, historically, I've often distributed my attention in favour of blondes that noticing other follicle possibilities seemed like a luck stroke on behalf of my good fortune to've unsupressed whatever negative feelings I had for non-blondes which has placed them in some judged ladder of super fish and fool characteristics. In other words, this hot non-blonde wasn't bad looking, not to mention trapped in the corners of my glasses like a dirty blinking distraction.
"Maybe it's cause you weren't buying the tickets for yourself," my former drug dealer theorized.
It was my failure to procure tickets to see the Pixies open for U2 that scarred me for life in terms of my confidence in automated ticket booth races. Back then it was done by phone, but the concept remains the same--at noon I had to refresh the vendor's screen and see if my mouse clicked faster than the capacity of the venue, plus or minus whatever scams the scalpers pull. However, none of my friends' other connections beat the rush.
I got two tickets to the Flight of the Conchords concert for my former drug dealer and his girlfriend.
All night I tried to shake her off my trail, especially with others, who spoke praisingly of the gifted world class performers in the other room, were in attendance. And then I thought I lost her as I tried to be as politely oblivious to the temptations of a lifetime that were looking thru my unworthy soul from the scolding perspective of a jealous prankster.
But I'll never deny a woman, blonde or not, an after concert party conversation.
The following day, during the standard day after blocking of all her ego strokes as she read her email, namely mine which was a link to the photos that I stole from the concert and party, I found myself thinking about the artist I met last night and how I should've given her a better chance--I might've missed all my opportunistic dreams when I pretended to not fully appreciate the background from which she sniped.
I wasn't gonna fall for that social trap.
(4.30.08)
The last things I remember about "E" were her perky breasts pointing east in the afternoon, the monitors were buzzing, and the keys were clacking.
"Well," I played a drum fill in the silence, "uh, I'm gonna leave you..."
"Yeah," she momentarily ducked her head out of her email reading trance to quack, "see you later..."
The first things I remember about "L" were her chummy film fun facts repartee with my engineer, that is until he hooked up with "X", and then both "L" was curb kicked. But I gotta admit, even if I'm cast in some revenge plot, I don't mind "L" being far more chummy with me than she previously pretended.
"How was your day?" she asked as she zapped the barcode reader.
"Uh," I corrected, "it's just begun, so I don't really know yet. How was yours?"
"Horrible," she horrified, blinked, and winked with a weird accent, "well, not really--I lied..."
"Why would you lie?" I boringly implored.
The last things I remember about "L" were her wanderings around my office with "A" as they searched for fire extinguishers. Her hair's always banded and her eyes are always raccooned.
"Is there one back here?" they giggled.
"Uh," I scoped my walls, "no, none that I know about."
"Oh, here's one," I heard them yell from yonder cubicle.
The first things I remember about "Y" were, in no particular order, her eyes and her voice. She can kill with both. I've been exclusiviely listening to her album in anticipation of her concert towards the end of the month. There ain't much that I look forward to in this here life, but seeing and hearing "Y" ranks up there as one of my top sights to hope for with blissful blessings. I should've know better with a liberated actress of her caliber--but then again, anyone with those eyes and voice ought to be nothing short of a heroine mixed with muse juice to tickle my tolerance. It's been a while since I've paid to see and hear music performed live. I mean, I've gotten photography assignments that've placed me in zoom lens length of musicians playing before an audience, but because of my connections with the campus' stage manger, via my engineer, and other underneath table deals, I'm fortunate enough to have access to free tickets. If my memory ain't fucked, then the last concert that I billed to my credit card was Dylan's, comming upon two years ago. I would've gone to see Puffy's last Los Angeles gig, but "E" was all "I don't know any of their songs." However, she was somewhat pointy fingered when she correctly identifiied them whilst riding and randomly listening to their music in my car. Anyways, as I wait for Puffy's next single next month, I've been focusing on "Y". I didn't bother asking any crazy chicks to accompany me as I'll probably be all geeking off on the moment that I'd might as well ignore whoever was suckered into being my date forever afterwards.
Today, I shot a woodwind concert in the rotunda of the main library. The flutist, according to my assistant, works at the music library's circulation desk. I've yet to see her on the clock, but I recognized her face as I've seen her before as a patron. My camera noticed her body, but it's a pervert, and no one should pay any attention to its primitive opinions. And the clarinetist wasn't bad looking either. Anyways, as I was roaming around the behind the scenes of the concert, I suspected that the main library's ceiling would look cool from the perspective of a wide angle. So with the cute woodwinds echoing from the rotunda, I switched my lens and snapped the photo that I posted yesterday (see OUT ON A LIM 5.1.08).
Today, I showed "L" the other photos that I took from her concert on Tuesday (see OUT ON A LIM 4.28.08)--she already saw hers cause the librarian in charge of the event forwarded my pictures to the participating musicians.
"What do you look for when you take your photos?" she lured me into a conversation even though she claimed to've only wanted to call my name a minute ago.
Now, what I like about photography is the nonverbalness about the medium. Moreso, at least thesedays, than music. Cause my eyes are following the light, rather than any of my other sensory organs. I've heard it before, but am too lazy to represent it, so am exploring the visualization of my fascination with light. So I replied:
"Some of it is in the composition," I motioned, "like the position of your bow, is it in frame, or is it unpleasantly shaped, it's hard to explain, well, I guess I sorta just 'know' when I think a photo looks OK."
There's something about "L". I don't know what it is exactly, but when I shot her, I thought about her diplomatic lifestyle--all the countries she's lived in, all the new schools she had to enroll in, all the friends she had to leave, all the music she heard, all the time she spent with her cello. That's what I tried to find in her photo.
I've been feasting on instant Indian cuisine lately. I bought a bag of the appropriate rice and've been sampling the flavours offered by convenient packets. So far I've tried two varieties of the curry and can't complain of their undeliciousness. But then again, I usually gorge on a certain food for a few weeks until I overkill my familiarity with the oversensationalized taste and move onto whatever's next on the menu.
I've also been revisiting my pasta phase. Back nearly a decade ago, I went thru a nightly pasta meal. Nothing fancy, just the cheapest brands. Regardless, I believe it lasted almost a year or so. And then I couldn't stand instant pasta.
But next to the instant Indian cusine, I've noticed some new examples of pasta, at least nothing that I remember from my old days' phase. They're kinda ridiciulously priced ($8.99 for a bottle of sauce). Nevertheless, it's gotten me back into another pasta phase.
I should've'd dinner with "L" instead of saving face with "E".
(5.2.08)
It's been some time since anyone's cashed in on Larry McFeurdy's free CD offer. I figured that the kids've forced the music industry to lower audio quality standards in favour of convenience and so anyone who'd want to hear Hacienda Heights can simply download the MP3s rather than get the WAVs thru the mail only to rip and dump them into their portable media player. Personally, I've been conditioned to appreciate, on some consumer ownership level, the physical dimensions of music packaging--the cover art, the plastic case, the art on the back, and the back of the disc where the laser hits. However, given that I ran out of CDs since the last request, I was sorta glad that no one needed a copy, otherwise I'd've to do a second printing of the album.
But really, the whole scam should be mocking me for thinking that that CD meant more than it was, namely a collection of tunes, give or take the aftermath of its public release. Yeah, the more I depend on it as a dependable dead end, in the end it'll only make less sense than it already scrapes between my fingernails in the institutional cell. Or perhaps it was my shoddy documentation that betrayed my intentions of an intended betrayal of fate. Surely, there are those who can successively bet on the future, with or without luck, but more often than not, I often am not more aware of any temporal visions coursing behind my eyes, that is until it's too late.
For the sake of old time kicks, I gave the album a spin in the dark with inhaled illumination--something I've neglected after other ways of wasting time divided my attention. It certainly sounds like the past, as my voice is more fucked up ever since I quit smoking. But it still makes me smile with defeated pride of the ambition I had back then, cause there's no way I can picture myself painting poor poetry over instrumental tracks that need to be inspired, written, arranged, performed, recorded, edited, mixed, and mastered. That's just way too much work. Maybe I'm older, maybe I funneled all the fun I gather from composing pop music into those ten tracks, and maybe I can't project the point in appointing myself to such a project anymore.
Nevertheless, I enjoyed listening to Hacienda Heights again, especially in the context of my overestimating its relevance to my life. Those are some songs that I'll stand behind as symbols of my tried and true values of organizing words and music--the number of verses, the trails to and from the choruses, the efficency of the riffs, and the bridges that keep the balls rolling. As well, "Jovie" remains as a prime pick on the tracklist, mainly cause I've been scribbling out calendar boxes in anticipation of applauding her in person. Ain't she the coolest recursive muse.
After the last fade, I turned on the lights, and for a nano moment, I questioned the negativite results from my calculated postulations of the locations of junctions whereby the culminations of my life seem to collect in correspondence with my hellish desires. Cause it would be even more of a mockery if, in the hour of darkestness, the convinced conviction of the convict's conversion'll've a slight glitch in its systematic confusion between falling from or towards grace, such that anything kinda sorta resembling the unexpected becomes expected and therefore neglected via cancellation of all hope. Wouldn't that be nice and neat. Or so I keep telling myself.
(5.5.08)
The corner windows of the print shop were filled with fast moving traffic as I waited in line. Ordinarily, I get my album artwork done after midnight, but today I wanted to get it over with the sooner preferably than the later. And so the afternoon sun reflected off the hub caps as they rolled along the street, bouncing light into the room, hitting my glasses, and landing on the Print Shop Chick.
She was a distance away, handling machinery behind the front counter, but an impression inducing chick nonetheless. Unfortunately, she seemed to be stuck in the back, as those serving the line handled all interactions with the customers. That is until it was suggested that she fucked up on a batch and was called to the front counter. Up closer she wasn't worse looking.
I wanna say she reminded me of Jovie, but with longer and darker hair. Although, her voice sounded, superficially guessing, like she wasn't as cool, but I would allow that slight. I mean, the Print Shop Chick was exactly who I needed to encounter, however without any acknowledgement other than visually, to remind me of the task at hand, namely making more copies of Hacienda Heights per someone's request.
Last night I dreaded looking for the original files, driving over to the print shop, waiting in line, explaining what type of paper to use, cutting and folding the CD jackets, and mass burning the album. It's too much work, man. It's Sunday, for God's sake. But I figure I should finish off a batch in the possible event that someone'll ask for a copy in the future--nothing as overwhelming as the initial run, but nothing that would get me to the print shop sooner.
A way to tell the difference between the first and second printings is the latter has a slightly higher contrast and a slightly lower saturation level than the former. I guess the machines and inks have been changed. Or even the paper, cause it doesn't've the same creasing strength. Also, the actual discs have different designs due to the brand altering its name's size and placement upon the surface.
Somehow the Print Shop Chick reminded me of how lucky my life is. I mean, if my only complaint is reprinting my album, I've got it pretty good by almost every standard of living. I'm not fighting for food, eating my rights, or killing anyone who doesn't follow the herd. Somewhere someone's so disconnected from themselves that they can't even remember what it's like to have stupid complaints.
(5.6.08)
Now I rolled and I tumbled and I cried the whole night long
Ah, I rolled and I tumbled, I cried the whole night long
I woke up this morning, I think I must be travelin' wrong
-Bob Dylan
I teased myself with a chopstick dip into the half empty jar of spicy tomato pasta sauce. Originally, I'd planned to heat some up for dinner atop some rigatoni that claims to be made with bronze plates. However, my former drug dealer paid a visit to my office today to conduct some drug dealer photocopying, during which I gave him free access to a government owned photocopy machine as I became Facebook friends with "L" at the circulation desk, just as "X" waved "hi" on her way thru the security gate. The rest of the spicy tomato pasta sauce'll've wait til tomorrow. Cause after losing track of what page he'd just photocopied, he gave up on the illegal on several levels usuage of the government owned photocopy machine, and got me stoned on pizza and supreme whatever medical supply he pilfered from whatever marijuana clinic. My assistant gave me the lowdown on a bassoonists' boycott of a certain woodwind duo--supposedly, the clarinetist and flutist have bad rehearsal etiquette, such as the promise of dinner, but the delivery of a veggie platter, which is technically NOT dinner, according to a bassoonist who's a good friend of my assistant. What's the world comming to when even university musicians draw political lines?
"Have you heard from our spiritual advisor?" I asked my former drug dealer at the pizza joint after the parking structure puff.
"Only about the Conchords concert," he rolled his slice.
"Well," I storied, "I heard from my lawyer that he lost his luggage at Heathrow, coincidentally after they specifically had a discussion during their goodbyes about the high percentage of lost luggage at that airport."
"Fuck," my former drug dealer cursed, "your lawyer cursed our spiritual advisor."
"You think?" I didn't think so.
"Of course," he blamed, of course I didn't see the point of such overreacting accusations.
"tHiS Is SoMe GoOd ShIt..." I thought as I saw the middle lane of the freeway ride home thru drugged up eyes.
"Is he using you?" "L" accused with her overreacting point.
"Who?" I didn't think so. "My former drug dealer? Haha, no, it's totally the other way around--I'm using him."
"Well," she cursed, "if there's anyone who'll win the game of using others, it's gonna be me."
"Really?" I storied.
"No, not really," she sliced her roll.
"I can't place your accent," I asked her again in my mind between the parking structure puff and the pizza joint.
By the time this entry gets posted, I'll'ven't've'd a cigarette in nine months. And although I've kept true to my kicking nicotine, I've sadly fallen off the wagon with digital manipulation of photographs. In my defense, though, I'm not doing anything as radical as before--no fake blurs or psychedelic tints. True, I can't keep from playing with the brightness and contrast, but that and a tiny bit of sharpening is all I've been fiddling with, honest. Well, to be extra honest, I bought a new lens that's prime for portraits, and since no opportunity has yet presented itself since I got this new portrait prime lens, I've been testing its boundaries, which seem to hide under a layer only diggable after digital manipulation. However, I try to keep the fakery at a minimum. My goal, whether my camera chops are underdeveloped or my digital manipulation addiction overkicks, is always to at least make an effort to shoot the perfect photograph without any electronic darkroom tricks. Yeah, sometimes the temptation to save an image that's easily saveable, be it a tiny angle rotation or a minor contrast adjustment in the shadows, is hard to skip on, especially when such a composition'll never play again before my eyes, let alone my camera. But really, does it, on some meta-absolute level, matter either way?
And I rolled and I tumbled and I cried the whole night long
And I rolled and I tumbled and I cried the whole night long
Boy, I woke up this mornin' my biscuit roller gone
-Robert Johnson
(5.8.08)
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