mort mot juste

abril 10, 2009

might be the continuation of --i'm coming home-- (

a clash between  rosebud and dead cat soaking with salt water, dragged by waves to dry on the shore. i get these photos every Monday in my mailbox. i haven't really subscribed to any bizarre art project of sorts, yet i have to say i've kept all the photographs: 75 so far,  76 if you count the stiff black cat and the obviously plastic yellow rose. i'm afraid to put them up. my friends will think they're so cool and interesting, but they're actually quite terrifying. i can't seem to get rid of them.


rich was here, of course i thought am i dreaming or is this a miracle or am i dead maybe. he knocked. ignoring the doorbell is so typical of rich. when i got the door however, he just looked at my feet and said he didn't want anything. he had to go, no he couldn't stay for coffee, meeting someone important, going somewhere doing something. i told him ''make haste then, mylord'' and smiled playfully. i don't think he heard me at all.


well screw it i said i have laundry to do anyway, so as i was pouring detergent into the washer i heard the phone. walt groaned on the other side, and with almost unintelligible guttural sounds he announced we had to meet as soon as possible. a couple of hours later there we were, me in my pajamas and walt in a Devil suit; hayfork, bifurcated tail and everything. i bit my lip not to say ''lose the beard walt, you look like Santa''. we drank milkless tasteless coffee and discussed the book he was planning to get published. the title was leaves of grass- the story of getting high. i told him it was long overdue, people wouldn't read it, he had taken too long. as he didn't believe me i mentioned several musicians who had previously made the mistake of waiting years and years to release a much promised record. ''look what it's done to them, walt.''
leaving the coffee shop it occurred to me how much i hated being in New York.


maria 5:54 PM 2 vociferando estavam

ao rés da fala