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Maxilla
I never get on the computer anymore. Being on it now for more than an hour is tiring, almost dizzying. So this feels weird again.

I'm in Memphis visiting my Aunt and Uncle, and occasionally a cousin. Erin's here, and we've been O.K. at not tearing out each other's throats. No, we've been just fine. I've been reading and sketching a lot when we haven't (and sometimes when we have) been on the road visiting my cousin Taylor in Murphysboro.

I bought some cool cigar boxes from some bar there last night, while Erin bought five. Rooted through the yuppy uptown part of town before we skittered off back onto the road this afternoon back towards Memphis. Not the shit district; just the new shit district.

It's funny how the Tennessee accent differs so much from the Floridian Southern (arguable just the South Georgia) accent.

I wrote a letter home today, the first in many many many months written longhand. Old cramping letters crumpled into clean white envelopes, hoping squinting into the sun to spot a photograph, flower, check inside.

I'm actually compiling a list of albums I must look for tomorrow in Memphis. I won't get my hopes up; Taylor warned me that I'm actually not too likely to find anything too rare. Maybe I'm just thinking that my tastes aren't too rare. Failing this, we'll plan a trip to the zoo. Aunt Suzanne says go early; the animals get up at dawn, and bored, nap by noon. I'll bring a sketchbook just in case. Sleeping animals, at least, hold still, and hold their figures better than dead ones.

The plane ride was surreal. I had thought I had only ridden a plane once before, hopping from the Bahamas to Miami, but Erin pointed out: "How did you get here years ago?" Oh my. I had completely forgotten, I came here before 9th grade, with my juggling torches to show off in the yard, my uncle shitting his pants in anxiety. I had flown, and completely wiped the memory from my mind. I remember, at least, being alone, being dropped off in one time zone, and picked up in another. By one twin (mother), for the other (Suzanne).

This is the longest I've ever grown my beard out. That is, about a week and a half, though you would hardly guess that from looking at it. It's not nearly as thick as I would hope. Sorry to dissappoint the hopeful with my previous pics.

I'm reading a book of Charles Bukowski's poetry published by his wife 10 years after he died. I looked in the library for "Post Office" and walked out with that instead. I'm enjoying it tremendously; yet it's no surpise to find out that his tombstone reads "Don't Try."

My father had suggested to me to read Nelson Algren, so I picked up "Man with the Golden Arm". It takes place right after the War, in Chicago, and all the dialogue is written in cryptic '40s slang (noteworthy diction: fingers = "lunch hooks"), so it's a little hard to follow at first. I wonder, if like A Clockwork Orange, I'll find myself slipping phrases into normal conversation. Like a twit.




There is a pattern.
  • Bukowski makes me laugh, in a sad/defeated sort of way. You should read some of Leonard Cohen's poetry if you haven't already.
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