Have you heard the story of this one: he sings under his breath multiple melodies that together seem like a cacophony, not because of disharmony, but rather, the inability to carry a tune with both blunt surfaces of his shoulders. For this inability to project a beautiful clean and clear sound from his throat, he immerses himself in the artefacts of culture, examination of social norms, and library books. On his fingertips lies the scent of a copy of Letters to a Young Poet that had been sitting on the shelf in the storehouse of books in the middle of the city, a ten minute subway ride from his home. No, it is not merely inertia that is responsible for human relationships repeating themselves, but rather, the soft hand of Rilke, and the sharp wit of a vehicle like a book of poetry, which was so instrumental in burning a relevant quote in his mind. He speaks in third person, a strategy to cope with the self-glorification that goes with writing about himself. Sometimes unabashed, but most of the time not, he fancies himself an iconoclast, not on moral stance or day-to-day life, but as a kind of rationale to justify his introspective nature, hushed criticisms that he voices only on mediums ensuring at least some degree of anonymity (by which he can call himself "Elliot" or "George," so long as no one has to know that his real name is Andrew). The whole gestalt of living in this city plays like some capitalistic dream written by Rand, the flowing banners of harder, faster, stronger, more beautiful, all eschewed and rejected by his penchant for second-hand clothing, cultural goulash (not commodified in the form of haute couture and/or exoticism), and dirt beneath the fingernails.He prides himself on his fantastical fascination with alliteration, a device that renders him almost completely sing-song (a perfect match for a perfectly straightened grin, thanks to Invisalign). And if the poetics of a conversational narrative were not enough, he gestures his words maniacally, a testament to his insecurity regarding his ability to effectively articulate and convey an idea, as if motioning with his curiously small hands and his strangely stubby fingers would aid the flow of conversation. There is a red star that he pins to his chest, right above his heart, flanked by a Takashi Murakami pin and a Hello Kitty pin, altogether an ensemble that speaks of his loves and joys, the things that makes his heart swell and burst like a snow bauble stuck in a pressure cooker.He is shy, hardly one to make the first move, always the one to hide behind the pages of his pen and his notebook while peering with a sideways glance until the focus of his gaze takes notice and moves toward him with initiative. Perhaps a bit of a coward, he does not fancy himself above human social interaction...merely slightly frightened by it.Check out my music at http://www.myspace.com/lepetit and at http://lepetit.ajlau.com
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