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June_bugs_that_fly
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Name: Mica
Birthday: 4/21/1990
Gender: Male
Interests: Violin. Music. Art. Fine dining. Literature. Psychology. Sociology. Laughing. Conversations. People. Voyeurism. You know, the usual!
Expertise: "Drowning in the ocean of pleasures." -Olive Hui
Occupation: Artist
Industry: Entertainment
Message: message me
Member Since:
4/29/2005
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| "I close my eyes and see a flock of birds. The vision lasts a second, or perhaps less; I am not sure how many birds I saw. Was the number of birds definite or indefinite? The problem involves the existence of God. If God exists, the number is definite, because God knows how many birds I saw. If God does not exist, the number is indefinite, because no one can have counted. In this case, I saw fewer than ten birds (let us say) and more than one, but did not see nine, eight, seven, six, five, four, three, or two birds. I saw a number between ten and one, which was not nine, eight, seven, six, five, etc. That integer--not-nine, not-eight, not-seven, not-six, etc.--is inconceivable. Ergo, God exists"
i am sick and i feel awful. i hate being sick. i feel personally smited by god every time i am sick and i find it ironic that there is only a god when i want to blame things on him.
i played a recital in which i got hideously nervous yesterday. i fucked everything up, but the girl i was playing for said that i should "cheer up because we are all growing in this field." this is uplifting because i try really, really hard and i'm not good yet but one day i will be. it goes back to william blake and the redemption offered by one's dreams. i am humiliated and i cry out every time i think of how i played, but someday it will be different. i'll just have to wait. . .
that's all. i wanted to let my tiny journal know that i'm under the weather and feeling blue, but that there is literature and music anyways. | | |
| i wonder what everyone is doing right now
and how in life's loom we're all weaving
either towards each other or away
and so while i know what most people are doing that i am weaving towards
as i am weaving away i think about how much i don't want to
but i have to
to make some sort of blanket
i don't know. there aren't really very many ways to explain nostalgia and defining a space by what doesn't occupy it. | | |
| http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=g3G_6_R2ObE&feature=PlayList&p=94E4F25DDE34FCFA&playnext=1&playnext_from=PL&index=47
will i ever play the first violin in carmen?
probably not, but today i'm going to go practice to ensure that i at least have a chance. what i'm thinking to myself is that i'd be lost without music, but i'm already lost anyway.
so it goes.
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| the transition from existing unsmitably (not a word) to swimming in dung is swift, and it seems as though the tumult of the shift from one to the next is wearing on my nerves. i do not know anything of any certainty, just as van gogh said, but i do know that it all runs together. i enjoy your face, and i enjoy your gladness.
possibly, the oceans churn. possibly, they are still. in a superposition of both states, i bet the answer lies, just like everything else. there was a drunk man stumbling outside my car; and the whole of it is neither bleak nor uplifting. it is still silent at night without you and silent with you.
streetlamps make me notice how empty space can be. you are particles here and there, cramping my style, screwing with the flow. yet my imagination isn't so good at unweaving you from this textile make-up--from the superstring physics of it all. regardless, i think about anything i want nowadays; there is no prison. and adjacent to that is the fact that there is no freewill. just me and not me doing what both of us do and don't do. a pair of moths fall in love and contrastingly the creation, beige and translucent like sun was parted. i'm thinking to myself, wrapped in solitude, everything will always be connected and you cannot escape, especially if you try to.
young girls and their bright wristwatches. crones and their dissolving hair. i am delving, i am delving. cordially, saying hello to this history and that. watching you sober up on tea and scones. this is not a love letter, this is not. in this i realize the control of my situation. the tendons and muscles, the adamantly disjunct. all of this could be different. argentina could not be long and swooping.
tbc | | |
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