|Your days are numbered, numerically
||[Sep. 25th, 2006|07:01 pm]
I do not wish to concede that I am, perhaps, one of those people who is happier when he is with ("with", for purposes herein, may be replaced with "seeing") someone, but after five dates and with a sixth on the horizon .. I must say. Yeah, there's been an extra step in my step.|
Walked passed a gas station (irony?) on my way downtown. $2.29/gallon. A friend recently forwarded me a correspondence from years past, at which time I took opportunity to vent on the "superfluous" gas prices out West, at a time when I was shelling to Shell $2.05/gallon. So things are going down, you see, while still going up. Deceptive, yes.
This piece, when I leave it, leaves me mentally exhausted. Or, I leave it because of this. Yes. I have not put so much work into a single work in some, some time. Infuses Warhol, and of course he just emanates sex, with Toronto, and a stranger (me?) fresh off the ViaRail, the escape of something tragic (haven't decided just what yet). So there's sex with numerous degrees of armored separation from this horrible thing that's happened to him, and he just leaves. He can't deal and he hops the fucking train and he's in the city, and then there are some things around Warhol. His main attraction exhibit is featured there, you see, (and it is, yes, I saw it), and that's going to run parallel with another part of the work. Oh, and he's staying at a hostel, just because I'd like to think that dirty things can happen there.
Dirty things can happen anywhere.