I can't leave anything here. If I don't get educated soon... stuff to do. Gotta go to south america to recouperate. I found my voice in a bar once staring at the whiskey bottles. I wrote through the air as if my skull was the nib of a ball point pen.
I decided to go for a walk with my note book but when I was in the queue at the co-op I realised that I'd left my fiver in my other jeans. I go home. Our deli doesn't open on Sundays. I take another longer walk and go to the wine bar to read a book on Wittgenstein, the chapter on the limitations of language. I'd got to thinking about fair trade in the shop. Why isn't their stock fairer? It's fair trade. www.chrisportal.com
I was locked out so I walked my block a few times and made friends with a massive cat. I've made notes about the paradox in my personality while drinking coffee and watching my mate Guy cook as I rolled him ciggerettes.
Grannie arrives with mum. Luckily it's been warm. The two of us put the washing out and I tell her about Andy Warhol and iconic status, ontological philosophy, keeping it right[I/]. I'm pondering if they think i'm a soviet and an infidel artist. I'm thinking about destiny and how my mum gave birth to me standing up.
My guitar teacher called me. He wants to open a studio. Maybe he should do it in Africa. It will take guitarists to get Africa onto it's feet. I'd like to be able to assure you of this. I'd like to start a publishing company there or a kind of agency or art exchange. I'm headed for Chili though. I'm actually leaving on Wednesday, probably until the 23 of april. I'll take this manuscript for re-writing but I am convinced that it is this thing that's fucking me up. Someone wants to form a band with me. That's going to be a great way of learning Spanish and getting a diplomatic vocabulary. There's a circus school there. I wish I could juggle. I didn't sit a modern language GCSE at all so I'm pretty excited about the prospect of doing private phenetic lessons and stuff.
My notebook was full of critical theory morsals. This was planned to be grand. I can't remember why my personality is paradoxical.
I decided to go for a walk with my note book but when I was in the queue at the co-op I realised that I'd left my fiver in my other jeans. I go home. Our deli doesn't open on Sundays. I take another longer walk and go to the wine bar to read a book on Wittgenstein, the chapter on the limitations of language. I'd got to thinking about fair trade in the shop. Why isn't their stock fairer? It's fair trade. www.chrisportal.com
I was locked out so I walked my block a few times and made friends with a massive cat. I've made notes about the paradox in my personality while drinking coffee and watching my mate Guy cook as I rolled him ciggerettes.
Grannie arrives with mum. Luckily it's been warm. The two of us put the washing out and I tell her about Andy Warhol and iconic status, ontological philosophy, keeping it right[I/]. I'm pondering if they think i'm a soviet and an infidel artist. I'm thinking about destiny and how my mum gave birth to me standing up.
My guitar teacher called me. He wants to open a studio. Maybe he should do it in Africa. It will take guitarists to get Africa onto it's feet. I'd like to be able to assure you of this. I'd like to start a publishing company there or a kind of agency or art exchange. I'm headed for Chili though. I'm actually leaving on Wednesday, probably until the 23 of april. I'll take this manuscript for re-writing but I am convinced that it is this thing that's fucking me up. Someone wants to form a band with me. That's going to be a great way of learning Spanish and getting a diplomatic vocabulary. There's a circus school there. I wish I could juggle. I didn't sit a modern language GCSE at all so I'm pretty excited about the prospect of doing private phenetic lessons and stuff.
My notebook was full of critical theory morsals. This was planned to be grand. I can't remember why my personality is paradoxical.