Alright, this is kinda sick, kids. I came down with a case of moleskine fever... and besides being trendy or something, it feels so damn corporate. Nevertheless, i love this damned, blank book. I carry it everywhere, thoughts of what to fill it with consume my waking and sleeping hours, this is a diurnal and nocturnal obsession (emission?). I told myself In was going to limit it to 1 post per day. it's been like only10 hours, but it is technically nearing the next day. Breaking my own rules so soon after making them... pretty typical in my experience really.
This is what i wanted to introduce you to. it is a page from my moleskine. This is the good stuff, the current stuff. little or no thought involved...straight from the big rusty pipe. Ahem... look at that picnic scene. To me, in a word, it is terrifying... breakfast foods at a picnic! whoever heard of such a thing? A breakfast picnic? It doesn't exist, unless you're camping, but that's not really a picnic because you were already outside anyway. what, are you gonna go inside to eat when you're camping? of course not.
Get used to this format. I don't think i'm getting over it any time soon. I want to fill up a billion of these things. i think they put readily absorbable (i don't think this is really a word. and if it is it is definitely spelled incorrectly) methadone in the paper. I want them to last at least a thousand years.
At least.
This is so good. Why on earth do i love this small blank book. Screw it. Oh well, i've never been good at withholding pleasure, so like i said, you'll be seeing more of this type of stuff, if you stick around... if you're reading in the first place... oh god. what if i'm typing to myself? does everybody feel this anxiety?
What the Hell is going on?
Hey I have a grand ol' plan... listen to some Arcade Fire while admiring the art. Those folks are top notch.
Can I get a witness?
W.
1 comment:
Moments, life is made up of mere moments
each one here for just a fraction, a glimpse
collectively they compose time
And though it often appears to race
There are still many intervals to fill
when everything thing seems still
and your thoughts shove to be spilled
What better place to set them free than within the skine of a modest mole
Who was once empty and had no soul
Now a companion of sorts a cohort into a realm known only
To him and the mind that has him life
He is not really a mole
But he doesn’t know that
And the picnic he witnessed has made him think too much
He is hungry
Expression
through an art identifiable only to itself
Imagination formulates the creation of a perception not yet perceived
And the actual realization that there exists more behind it all
becomes a muse.
And so the pages continue to soak the mindlessly sketched ink of which
his world is comprised
And the mole smiles.
revere he who builds dimensions
I enjoy wandering through them
the sun is on his way and I must sleep
nothing makes sense right now….
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