I realized that the writing at the park idea is juvenile when my glam-idealist acquaintance proposed I do it.

My trip to Miami was as expected minus the obvious photograph in front of Versace's home. My camera did not go far beyond the hotel in which I stayed. This is the third time I photographed myself shadowed inside a beach-front hotel room. The other two times were in Hawaii, different islands.

South Beach, Miami, can be discussed later. It seems nobody from California visits Miami. My travels seem to be family or friend-related in which I have a grandmother down there. I might visit NY/NJ for a cousin's wedding next year.

I understand how you feel about becoming romantically involved and I am quite humbled, as I have always been, that you talk to me. You inspire me in a way which I can never fully dedicate a poem for you because it wouldn't be sufficient. I can't articulate well how I see you because what I perceive is entrenched in speculation. Romantic speculation, though different, like the beauty of chaos and public decay. It's flawed and semi-reflective. Physical attraction is innate because I like how you look. Everything will be platonic and as awkward and yet I truly believe we'll get along.

The trajectory of my footsteps is often itinerant. I am at a library writing to you next to tan French kids looking at MySpace while me editing poems that are due for a thesis/book proposal for a press that might be based in Providence, I hope. My thoughts on the book are as romantically speculative and I might just post the whole book online.

I leave to Santa Cruz in three weeks and one week is spent in Portland to see friends.

When you're beat up and strangled, there is no pain. When you live your life in adrenaline, there is no pain. I haven't felt pain in a while, only emptiness where the pain might linger if it can get there. It can't.

I more acutely understand why I wouldn't get along with another me.

The multimedia and photo section is long needed for this website shows only a minimal amount of my work.

As a sidenote, I must figure out a way to get ahold of Final Cut Pro. The last job I had at OTIS was a nightmare and I had to revert to undisclosed ways to get ahold of Dreamweaver and Photoshop for Mac when I got a new computer. This was needed for a job a year ago.

I am worried about my TA job at Santa Cruz. I don't need another Peter Gadol to talk down to me like a high school principal. I don't want to deal with politics. I just want to grade Intro to Fine Arts term papers. Haha. I think the way I have handled this best is when I get minimally involved with affairs at work. Yet work and I usually leave on bad terms and so this is a character flaw. I don't like working with people and I am okay with that. Je ne regrette rien.

I will never get fired from a job. I quit too soon.

I smell a reefer.

The blog will soon have comments enabled, once I figure it out!

My camera is at the photo shop/bookstore whose name passes my mind at the moment in Laguna Beach. I realized, as I see friends who have become routinely published in magazines I read, that I could never be a portrait photographer or at least a good portrait photographer. I'm too self-serving in a way that I put way too much effort in self-portraits and personal projects; and notice in others that I noticed in my own work. Their own self-portraits are so much better than the photographs they take of other people. The connection, the empathy is missing.

I do find team Christoph and team BB comments enlightening though the whole intent of posting the note is to raise awareness of how loud I am at 2 a.m.! Enjoy.

www.passiveaggressivenotes.com/2008/07/17/

In reality I don't fear dying lonely. I simply fear not living to an expectation. I want to die for a specific reason or a cause like a hunger strike but not until I fulfill what I feel like I'm missing in myself. Maybe that's attributed to loneliness? I feel defective and I've given up a budding relationship one year ago and sometimes I think it was the biggest mistake I made. I don't feel lonely though. I tell myself this. I think my issue has evolved to how to utilize my life as a solitary entity and somehow learn to bring in the people in my life who do matter; the people who count on me and likewise. The person who sends me circular postcards I skim through the air and text messages me about how her falafels taste best. I make steel-cut oatmeal at night to compensate for waking in the later a.m. twice so far. It tastes delicious. Maybe I'll make oatmeal for somebody one day.

The rapper backed down and now doesn't talk to me and now I'm leaving town to get my second master's degree in life. I'm writing poems until well after September and getting paid to give college lectures about the representation of text and trying to make people interested in texts longer than the comment I leave you and get paid for something I do finally instead of guerilla art installations and leaving zines at libraries in London and French record shops. I remember you writing something along the lines of: "if I think about it too much, I don't like it." I think we all take what is written/said out of context to make it fit with a personal credo. I overthink and dislike what I connect to which is usually something I'm working on. I simply enjoy the process and the outcome becomes a detached entity that I feel repellant to be near it. I admire people with wandering thoughts because connections seem so simple so nihilistic. My eyes just wander while my thoughts target. The craft is the equilibrium. I sort of wonder whether you're still writing your book. It would be fun to reference you in a dissertation one day. MFA #2, ridiculous. I love it.