Come and Blow My Door Down

My friend Devin and I have been planning to WWOOF (Willing Workers on Organic Farms) for months now and have just over the past month started our real planning. The dream was to go to Oregon, pick fruit, grapes, make cheese, wine, design infrastructure-- it didn't matter but now every which way we look the dream gets narrower and narrower as though we are entering closets and not rooms.

We have talked with several farmers, all of which are kind, easy going, west-coasters but none of them seem to be in any rush to have workers though they all have made it clear that they need help. At this point I am not sure what to do but I know if I don't buy my plane ticket this will never happen, I will never know if farming is the kind of lifestyle I want, if even only for a temporary while.

I guess planning means planning, and it is not quick and it is not easy and being responsible and mature about the whole thing becomes even more trying. The more responsibilities I take on, the less I feel like a child, though I know that physically and cognitively I am no longer and am aware that this is not an overnight exchange--this transition has been a long process and probably an endless process.

This week I have exhausted so much effort into finding a new apartment, someone to sublease my apartment and figuring out how I am going to get home with some life in me by the middle of July but unique things have been happening, worlds are getting closer, and I am re-uniting with old friends. The other night I went to this amazing ballroom that had been converted into a venue where my friend now lives with several other wonderful people. I have also been talking with my ex-girlfriend who I have always held dearly and highly esteemed. I will get to see her and her band this week! Also, some former friends from the camp I worked at last summer (Israelis) are coming to visit on Tuesday!

What am I getting at other than despite the clouds of clutter that come thundering in, the breeze is just right when you need it. If this is too metaphorical for you...the right people come into your life at the right time and there is an energy that surrounds us and helps out when needed and one may call it god, or spirituality, or chance but I am sticking with good energy and good breezes for now.

Knuckles of glue

Cold pita bread reminds me of funerals and wakes.

I read today that "Loneliness is solitude with a problem." I am somewhere between these states.

Today, the Thai women behind the counter at Thai Spoon (which I generally admonish for lackluster food, in my head that is) giggled when I said, "Table for one please, for here," shocked to not hear me say, "To go."

Everything smells aquarium today.

A lonely New York that I am not apart of.

Yesterday I was violent and hurt nothing.

I should really not engage in arguments with children.

There is a farm that I plan to live on in Oregon.

I am reading poetry on Saturday for the the first time in a long time. I fear it could be a walk-off the stage kind of moment.

The pita bread that that has been reminding me of funerals and wakes I accidentally picked up from a concert last night thinking it was trash. Given that I am living off of change, this was a great find. Maybe that person left it there for me. Maybe they are wasteful.

Prestigious pre-school. That is the best thing I have heard all day.

No Mo Chicago

"Banning Apathy in One Week," is laying on the floor with its cover directed at me and open for the grabbing. My art teacher from high school made this book and I was looking at it the other day. Everything seems so simple, so ideal, so utopian yet I haven't done a single exercise to ban apathy this week. For example, walk around the neighborhood to the corner store, to your friend's house for a cup of tea, eat and make a dinner made from local produce and with a friend, use your hands, attend a community event, have a conversation that does not necessitate technology, and lastly make brunch and play scrabble. None of these, not one! Instead I have relegated myself to my bedroom and am brooding while men in polo shirts and women in silk summer dresses gallivant down the avenue with no suspicions and ostensibly limited brain activity. Outside my bedroom door my roommates sit side by side rehashing 1969 and are completely content with this; stoned, illuminated, lost in a hyeina yelp.

This will not stand with me much longer. The more and more I sit, the more I feel like I am missing out on the people I should be meeting, the places I should be seeing, the food I should be eating. With summer approaching so is the feeling of flight because quite honestly I am too anxious to be here. I want to be everywhere at once which, quantum theory might suggest that this is possible. With that said, I have to go to Argentina. I have to.

I am no longer Chicago.

Building Light

I have been really taken by architecture lately (mostly because I am taking a drafting class) but I have always been intrigued by space. For class I was supposed to research 3 architects and as I was entering an abyss in which I know nothing of I stumbled upon House K by Yoshichika Takagi. This house captures the way I feel about interiors, open and warm...this is my simple answer because the way the sun is coming into my room right now is not allowing for me to think that clearly.

Anyway, I want to build homes like these or furniture...bookcases, let me build you a bookcase!

Going to the Chapel; Going to the Cemetery Yard

This is love:




This is folk:

Ultra-Cognition

A month later and A Heart Breaking Work of Stagger Genius finally makes sense, too much sense. Real talk leaves you in the bathroom with everything so quiet that it is softly humming, saying "You may be okay. You may not be okay. Don't do anything about it." The part of growing up where you begin to forget and forget with intention are some of the most troubling times, the most refreshing, the most naked.

I guess I am trying to get at something life-changing without giving away the credits for the sake of being too confessional, my general state of being: two friends make a film. Only one of them edits the film. In the end of the movie, the one who did not edit slumps into his cushion and springs up and hugs everyone in that goddamn theater.




I had a dream I hugged my mother so hard, harder than in real life. She bought me rain boots.

Head Bumper

I almost walked into someone's butt on the escalator the other day.