it's 1am the day of our trip, and i'm trying a last minute attempt to hack/mod my canon powershot pro1 to remove the 30 second movie limit to make it run for 3 minutes. basically if i screw it up, my camera will die and turn into a very expensive paperweight. MD5 hashes seem okay. hopefully it'll all work out.
i still haven't started packing. for possibly one of the grandest gigs of the year... coachella, here we come!!!!!!!!!
there's always a little void that i'm looking to fill in the realm of my art, my profession, and all facets shaped by who you are. apart from the choices you make, the detail of your work underlines your reflection. apart from merely existing, you'll need to define yourself. in the same way that economies need sustained growth, our pursuits need to be supplemented by taking risks, and internalizing even more practice. by taking it up a notch, you are allowing yourself to take it up another notch higher...
double disc of black sabbath on a sunday night against an empty house. vinyl would be awesome, but beggars can't be choosers.
we made some paul and kat magnets today and stuck 'em on a few random places..
can't wait for the beginning of another weekend. as short as it may be, it's one of the perks after the weeklong doldrums of soul selling. the stakes are high, and we owe it to ourselves to risk a little, wear hearts on our sleeves, and conquer the streets that are littered with bored souls.
america wants you to think that work buys money buys happiness. my bumper sticker thinks fun buys laughter buys life.
and when you're lucky, it's for free too.
lost in the snazzy bits of reality? trying to get cohesive thoughts of reason together to fabricate an escape plan from the grind? the literal dimensions of a cube is at the mercy of the walls you can construct and deconstruct with the gray matter between your ears - space and freedom are relative. an endless faucet drips a primordial soup of incomplete thoughts, half baked feelings, and swirlpool of forgotten emotional baggage on the shoulders of the weary traveler. who stops to smell the flowers but forgot to remind the cat that the world should stop turning at 5:30 so he went home instead. heavy eyelids are my only crime, from a dusty day of cube farming. and so with quiet fingertaps on the keyboard i give the final salute to another day's dollar on the powerful all-american paycheck - thank you for allowing me to succumb to the temptations of greed, false pretensions of power, fast cars hot chicks new guitars, and to live the american dream in my new underwear.
it's weird how much effort it takes to not make sense, when you consciously understand that you probably don't during most of the day.
i started this blog four years ago, an empty slate to jog my memory and exercise my thoughts. when hundreds of thoughts run through your head during the day, so much can be kept or so much can be lost to the routines of responsibility. and so i sat myself down every couple of days to do some soul stretching of sorts. it felt like that workout when you've been dormant for awhile, and discover a few places you never knew existed because they start smarting a few days later. it's the same pain of discovery because i never really wrote.. when you're in the final throes of collegiate tomfoolery, any random outlet of expression becomes fair game. and so i kept writing. when i felt like it. what i felt like writing. to express simple sentiments. to play with conjectures of reason. to have fun. to make something. to take ownership of my lost thoughts.
life is a warm vinyl record filling the room. across walls of orange toned photographs and watercolor forests, pencil sketches and album covers. sitting on the foot of the bed. or dancing. nothing in tow but sincerity, no promises except for getting drunk on high spirits. mysteries never ready to reveal, curiosity that is never lonely. sun jars glowing on the balcony, home-made melodies that last well beyond the night's slumber.
