gone fishing

i had a dream about expatriation, which set me to thinking about all the dreaming i held inside of me and how much of them would be fulfilled. while i strongly believe that a part of my soul lies in argentina, or somewhere like it, i also know that i won't be leaving the united states anytime soon, one of the reasons being that i don't want to leave my first generation parents stranded between three continents. i think about artists like marina abramovic, who lived among migrants and spent three months walking the great wall of china, and wonder if i could ever commit to my work with such intensity. i've been bargaining for a while against the artist's lot of instability and destitution, but with the lot now thrust upon me, the life of an artist is sounding its siren's call again. looking out at it is like looking out at the pacific ocean, a profound, dangerous territory that glitters on the surface. the advent of another day finds myself staring at it with deepened longing.

weekend reading

counterclockwise from left: sweatshirt, jack kerouac, large scarf, converses, and stairwell tile. i have officially become a stereotype of disaffected youth.

mixtapes and landscapes

in a few days, i will be flying to mexico city to see radiohead. a friend just recontextualized it as thematically related to my thesis work, or, "roadtripping to a place to see a band". i never knew my intentions were so obvious.

OR. THAT. MY LIFE. HAS BECOME. AN ART PROJECT.

from the memoir

Wes. Oh Wes. Drove a fucking El Camino that handled curves with grace and verve. I watched in amusement as my second-in-command tried to get in his pants the entire year. It was understandable. He had perfect golden curls falling down to his shoulder and a devil-may-care attitude coupled with the stoicism of the Hemingway volumes he pored over while playing hooky behind the dumpsters. At night, he sat on top of his roof playing his didgeridoo. One time, he picked up and left school for a week to do heroin in Mexico. The other time, he drove out West searching for peyote--only God knows how far he went before the delirium of the drive took over and he gave up on the mythical drug. Imagine my surprise when he asked me one day to tutor him in Government. We had nothing in common except a love of old books and, for now, his goddamn graduation requirement. I think he didn't even need me there, he just wanted some company. He would tell me about nights spent sneaking wine into movie theaters, picking fights, and smooth-talking girls under the open canopy of a warm Texas night while I sat quietly and nodded, every now and then directing his pencil to the correct multiple choice answer. All of a sudden, he turned to face me with a look of absolute curiosity and bewilderment, asking, "What do you do on Friday nights?". I couldn't answer. I was a recluse. I played loud music and staged my own photo shoots. I could only dream of breaking out of my house and into the world he described. I could voice none of this to him. He shrugged, closed his book and bought me a delicious tuna sandwich before driving me home. When graduation neared, I gave him my yearbook in hopes that he would write something incredibly profound and life-changing. The only thing he wrote was, "We graduated, and that's cool, right?". The last I heard, he had shaved his head, and joined the Marines. He is set to marry an American girl he met while stationed in Japan.

to be played at maximum volume

instructions for experiencing where did you sleep last night, nirvana, within the enclosure of a moving car:
1. pull up to a stoplight. start the song.
2. start singing the lyrics, mezzoforte.
3. increase the intensity of your voice at the last stanza. by the last line, you should be screaming. you are unaware of tone. your entire body strains. you are singing from your chest cavity. you fall forward.

instructions for experiencing maps, yeah yeah yeahs, within the enclosure of a moving car:
1. merge from the on-ramp to the middle lane of a highway, late evening. start the song.
2. at the sound of the opening trill, think about leaving home.
3. press your foot against the accelerator. think more about leaving home. notice the sky slowly shifting into night. the lights beside the highway flicker on, fly past you.
4. cry.

gulf coast yearnings