"How's your hair?"
"It's super cute, dude. It's kinda short and stacked in the back."
"You know what else is short and stacked in the back? Your mom."
sometimes these are like thoughtful little gifts that I'm sure I don't deserve.
yes.
I am expected to begin my quarter-life crisis this November. instead, I am having a 6-year-old's renaissance. on days when LA isn't choked with clots of brown cloud cover, I think about bending at the knee and launching myself into the upper atmosphere. the space through which I imagine my own movement expands in all directions; ricochets off the ozone like radio waves; touches down again and spreads slowly and inexorably around to the nighttime places of the earth. I have a recurring mental image of herds of buffalo and of fields of barley and hills and unbroken horizon lines, and know that I can go wherever I like and stay as long as I need and move on again. I feel unlimited potential rushing in torrents underground, carving out its massive subterranean arteries. I dreamed that the aurora borealis appeared over Los Angeles and that a shift in gravity caused the brownstone apartments along the street to break up, hunks of brick and mortar settling into planetary orbits around dumbstruck nuclear families. I drove to the beach and took digital photos of an ethereal fog settling over the water, winding in curlicues around the roots of mangrove trees. partygoers along the shore tapped a keg that exploded like a water plug and knocked me backwards into the pretzel tent. ...I'm not sure about that last part.
I want to be, in no particular order:
- a commercial airline pilot
- a published writer
- a professional photographer
- a travel journalist
- a cartographer
- the owner of a curio shop, book store, or international food mart on the beach, specializing in only exactly what people are looking for. the shop is small, but everyone leaves happy.
- a teacher of British literature, theater, and local history at the FSU study center in London.
- the proprietor of an American biergarten, comparable to the Englischer Garten in Munich.
- a pirate.
I am ready to be those things. the first movement of Mendelssohn's "Italian" Symphony No.4 in A takes an optimistic view of my life. it tells me that these and all other things are possible.
I entrust to this long dead musician the fullness of my ambition.
"It's super cute, dude. It's kinda short and stacked in the back."
"You know what else is short and stacked in the back? Your mom."
sometimes these are like thoughtful little gifts that I'm sure I don't deserve.
yes.
I am expected to begin my quarter-life crisis this November. instead, I am having a 6-year-old's renaissance. on days when LA isn't choked with clots of brown cloud cover, I think about bending at the knee and launching myself into the upper atmosphere. the space through which I imagine my own movement expands in all directions; ricochets off the ozone like radio waves; touches down again and spreads slowly and inexorably around to the nighttime places of the earth. I have a recurring mental image of herds of buffalo and of fields of barley and hills and unbroken horizon lines, and know that I can go wherever I like and stay as long as I need and move on again. I feel unlimited potential rushing in torrents underground, carving out its massive subterranean arteries. I dreamed that the aurora borealis appeared over Los Angeles and that a shift in gravity caused the brownstone apartments along the street to break up, hunks of brick and mortar settling into planetary orbits around dumbstruck nuclear families. I drove to the beach and took digital photos of an ethereal fog settling over the water, winding in curlicues around the roots of mangrove trees. partygoers along the shore tapped a keg that exploded like a water plug and knocked me backwards into the pretzel tent. ...I'm not sure about that last part.
I want to be, in no particular order:
- a commercial airline pilot
- a published writer
- a professional photographer
- a travel journalist
- a cartographer
- the owner of a curio shop, book store, or international food mart on the beach, specializing in only exactly what people are looking for. the shop is small, but everyone leaves happy.
- a teacher of British literature, theater, and local history at the FSU study center in London.
- the proprietor of an American biergarten, comparable to the Englischer Garten in Munich.
- a pirate.
I am ready to be those things. the first movement of Mendelssohn's "Italian" Symphony No.4 in A takes an optimistic view of my life. it tells me that these and all other things are possible.
I entrust to this long dead musician the fullness of my ambition.
VIEW 5 of 5 COMMENTS
sticks:
Merry birthday!
tarts:
it is now the end of november. how did your quarterly crisis go? how are those anyway, I haven't had one. Do you ride around on a skooter in an attempt to feel twelve again? i think you're pretty