new england gothic

2022 (better late than never)

The day before I filed my Neurocam perception assessment I finished my first "real" piece of art. Well, I almost finished it -- the frames never quite came to fruition, as I was suddenly too busy being a neurofreak to do much of anything else.

This week I finally completed the damn thing:

(warning: these link to really hi-res versions)

 

Yeah.

(Now I just have to figure out what to do with it...)

does anybody in Portland read this blog?

I don't know.

But if you do, please come to my yard sale tomorrow and spend lots of money, so I can afford to buy a gift for my friend Steph's baby shower next weekend.

The circle of life, ay.

i love ...

... this song.

sex in the afternoon

Well, okay -- not really. But look what was waiting for me when I went home for lunch today:

We don't have much time, but let's just ...

*sigh*

I have to go back to work now, baby.

But I'll see you tonight.

come to me, baby

Oh yeah.

(No, I can't afford it. But I neeeeeed it! For school! My current laptop is a dying, 6-year-old Vaio ... )

(Yes, I got suckered into the iPod rebate deal.)

I'm still staggering from purchase shock,

but oh man I cannot wait for that shipment to arrive.

Eight years on a PC ... finally, back to Mac.

*collapses with retail-therapy overload*

summertime rolls

walk,

interuppted.

flora

this moment

fertilizer

words

crossing the bardo

Enough of this shit.

It is now time to stop falling to pieces and start putting things into boxes.

Thank you all for your indulgence and support. It has been most, most appreciated.

Now, on to more important matters: Does anybody want my two bottles of potentially lethal, possibly illegal Red Bull concentrate?

Simon, still interested? Shoot me a mailing address and they're yours.

baby thunder, dancing tree

corked

From the beginning of this I knew the day would come when I would find myself writing:

From the beginning of this I knew the day would come when I would find myself writing: "Well fuck. Today was the dividing-the-albums scene from St. Elmo's fire."

So. From the beginning of this I knew the day would come when I would find myself writing: Well fuck. Today was the dividing-the-albums scene from St. Elmo's fire. You know the one -- and if you don't I can't help you.

From the first time I saw that movie I think I knew somewhere along the swampy backroads of my circuitry that one day I would be living out this exact scene. I guess that's not such an unusual thought, though -- the people who don't ever have such an experience are the lucky ones. Right?

Mine was a solo performance, though -- which means I mostly kept whatever the hell I wanted. You're going to make me do this alone? Okay. But I'll leave you this record so some day, if you're inclined, you can read the travelogue of my lonely trip down memory lane.

Yours:

Mine:

Yours:

(You're welcome)

Mine:

Yours:

Mine:

Yours:

George is ready to go:

But I'm still in shell-shock, thinking: I just bagged up eight years of memories. Movies, stories, games, debates, arguments, out-and-out drunken brawls, and all the rest.

Somebody's going to buy these at my yard sale -- three giant ziplock baggies full of corks -- and make a fucking arts and crafts project out of them. The champagne that we drank for breakfast at Bellows on New Year's day 2000. The wine we drank when we toasted to my new job, to your new job, to graduations and good days and the end of really shitty ones. Someone's going to turn these blurry, dehydrated memories into a fucking corkboard.

I was going to save one,

but I figured, what would be the point?

Because at the end of the day, and at the end of our days, it's not the fucking corks that matter.