Hey - been trying to meet you

The desk at FAS tonight was my-life-is-art, look at what I've chosen to have lying about half-opened and turned to the casual page. I love being able to present what I want my Candid Shot to look like, right down to the last detail of chocolate wrapper and strategic book open to strategic page; I have been reading Hunter Thompson and I have underlined this passage here. I am that sort of person. This sort. Defined by my books and music and mess, by the papers I choose to keep and the ones I burn in disgust (note ashes in wastecan, corner left unburnt to show former contents). I can appreciate only too well the unmade-bed art as an expression of self. It makes me sad sometimes, to see that this is where we find ourselves; in our papertextile trail.

I am not this sort of Juxtapoz and photo collage lens. As some part of my self I've always wanted to be, to cut paste and overglue, to paint in swaths - tear up sentences - rip and reassemble into a fuller whole. Not me. I line up with a ruler, measure twice cut once. I'm drawn to squares in different colors, my walls are covered in rectangles and text, I doodle in evenly spaced circles. I refuse to crop photos or alter letters. I drive exactly fifteen miles over the speed limit. All of my risks are safer than my map-routes.

My head and heart, having sensed the possibility of honest examination of life culture religion and personal tribulation, have sent up the panic alarm and made me go find tea. If I put this off too long it'll be gone for another few weeks. Should there be no more for the next twelve hours, somebody call me. Seriously.