7/1/10

Empirical Pants

Um, Space Cadet, party of ME.

My friend Alex' opening wasn't at Yvon Lambert last night. It's at Yvon Lambert tonight. I planned my whole evening around walking over to the gallery, only to hot-foot it there after work and discover the gallery was closed for installation. What a maroon!
Tonight I can't go to Yvon Lambert because I'm going to the CTRL+W33D opening at Envoy Enterprises. My lovely room mate Ptrck has some art in it and he hasn't told me what but I am super duper excited to see it.


Went to go see I Am Love last night. Was suitably overwhelmed. It's fucking gorgeous. Totally mind-blowing. And this is coming from someone who doesn't really like movies. I don't have the attention span for films. But this movie was gorgeous, I really liked the clothes. Does it make me shallow if I liked looking at the Jil Sander clothes? I guess asking if something makes me shallow effectually neutralizes the shallowness. It deepens the question. Also, though I don't eat seafood (Fuck What You Heard, She's A Vegan), I could watch Tilda Swinton eat forever. I wish she was eating throughout the whole movie (SPOILER ALERT: she doesn't eat the whole time, unfortunately, there're some other things that happen). I've also been thinking a lot lately about how Marrying Rich might be the best solution to the problems of my life. And then thinking, further, about marrying a gay mafia heir. I know there are all kinds of flaws with this plan, but I'm just brainstorming, you guys. Get off my back. Anyways this movie made me really wanna me a mafia heir's wife, or marry into some wonderfully rich Italian family. I don't think I would do Tilda's character does in the movie though (to wit: if I were the star of this movie and god willing some day I will be, then I would eat the entire fucking time. If my mouth were full of delicious vittles then I couldn't say the wrong thing or whatever, right? Nom to the motherfucking nom. Ciao!).

Went home and got myself a really horrible case of insomnia. In a way I almost felt it coming. I thought, very consciously during the day yesterday: I wonder how I'm ever gonna get to sleep tonight. It's like I can predict it. It happened the way it always does, where I felt anxious and sleepy, and then did really fall asleep for like an hour, then wake up in some kind of strange waking anxiety dream, and once I realize I'm at least partly awake, this running loop in my head starts off with "WHY CAN'T I FALL ASLEEP?" over and over. And then THAT keeps me up. And then I'm looking at the clock and it's 3:30am and I have to get up at 9 and is that enough sleep? That's not really enough. Not the amount of sleep befitting a Mafia Widow-To-Be. Ugh.


I totally feel like the baby turtles in this photograph except instead of the ocean, it'd be "Sleep". Like, I wanna go back to there! Let me back in! I literally have miles to go before I lay my head down. It's okay. Everything will be okay. Somehow. I kinda feel like I have a date with destiny tonight. But I don't wanna get into it on here. But then I'm realizing: we all have dates with destiny, all the time. How lucky we all are. Right? Right.

This morning on the train, without having had time to have my usual morning coffee or cereal, thus adding to my already sleep-deprived Sheen of Crankiness, I noticed some Steampunk-looking guy on the L Train staring at me. I had my sunglasses on and my headphones in and I was reading. If it were more hygienic I would definitely have brought a blanket from home with which to shroud myself.

In our culture, people are so rarely shrouded. I think we should get back to the shroud.
There are a couple of people I would highly suggest shrouding today, in fact.
OK! STAYING POSITIVE!
("STAYING POSITIVE" is another word for "NOT NAMING NAMES" and I am a fucking NAMER).

Anyways so I'm on the train being as conspicuously absent as my Morning Luke allows me to be and this Steampunk-looking dude with a moderate to severely wax-enhanced mustache situation is staring at me and I notice he is drawing my portrait in a sketchbook on his lap. It's kinda fucked up in a sort of "pot vs. kettle vis-a-vis blackness" type of way. Like: are YOU really drawing a picture of ME? You're the one with the complicated Luke, dude. I'm just being me.

"Don't you know my name? It's spelled M-O-D-E-R-N-I-T-Y."

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