i'm using the hunger for growth.
The bull has his orbit, and the bullfighter has his, and between these two orbits is a point of danger, the vertex of the terrible play.
~Lorca
duende.
~generally. . .i make art out of found objects, altarpieces, lamps *i adore making lamps*, tiny little copper birds, and melancholy ragdolls.
~also. . .i make magical realism short stories, some of which are to become a book of bedtime stories for effed up grownups like us, thanks to the illustrations of some truly brilliant artists whom i love with all my heart.
~indeed. . .there's a poem in her still.
~often. . .i'll spend hours in the kitchen with wine and lovely music, cooking for friends.
~a prelude to. . .long evenings in the rockingchairs on the porch, engrossed in lucid conversation. . .these tend to become dawn moves up the stairs to tumble like puppies into bed for delirious still more more more.
~thereby. . .it is the visceral connection, whot she craves.
i'm slowly rebuilding the myspace, have patience with me, which is a good rule of thumb in general, since this is the 'general' slot.
i'm an everyday analog babydoll.
kindred spirits of Howard Roark.
indeed.
please.
~the science of sleep, spirited away, city of god, the royal tennenbaums, city of lost children. . .there will be more.
poop.
yum.
~just finished The Fountainead(i was quite unhappy with myself for ruining it by finishing it, now there is no more Roark), currently rereading Love Thy Neighbor by Peter Maass, and dabbling in Chomsky's Understanding Power, with a side of Dershowitz's A Case for Peace. . .on the nightstand, there's a pile of secondhand Hemingway, a book called Understanding China, a collection of early Vonnegut shorts, the Miles autobio, some Marquez, and three wine glasses, devoid of sake.
war.