schroedingrscat

Walking home from Roncesvalles through High Park in the state of mind that I've been in - lately - was interesting. A man seen from a distance through slitted eyes became a wobbling T-rexian nightmare, eyes glowing as streelight glared off of his blocky glasses. A man reaching (naked) for a glass of amber liquid glimpsed briefly through his windows on High Park avenue lets the light from his drink patter onto his face. In my sketchbook, he becomes an alien - the light on his face, eyespots. It sounds strange to describe in text, but I'm glad I did it. Silence is something that finds you or that you wander into, not something you can create (genuinely) spontaneously. Furthermore, I feel some modicum of control over my emotions return. I don't modify my experiences for cataloguing, so that I can draw them like this. That would be cheating, that's why I catalogue them by the trail of refuse they leave. It provides distance from events for me. Which is part of what makes me a bad person, I suppose.

I viewed the room I might get to rent today, and that was good. Conversely, sometimes you can be with people, listen to them talk (often about you) and wonder if they understand how easy it is to play another person like a harp, and how easy it is to play that person discordantly. I need to stop looking for the person who plays the right music: the analogy is internally flawed and infinitely recursive - an impossible goal. Nuances of smile are a funny thing, though. There's "yeah, yeah, I can be stupid, and you made a funny joke about it, good one" and then there's "I'm weird enough to be amused by how thoroughly you just fucked up my day". Yeah. I'm a jerk.