omg u r iar !!!

lmao. txts i dream abt from the bff concerning fb and the bf. oh, internet.

also, all this formal writing about coquettes and rakes and aesthetic effects is driving me crazy… hence the non-caps, the stupid text message acronyms, and all other grammatical rules i’m breaking.

a few days ago i had a thought to write about autumn/green street at dusk/homecoming/lights reflected on wet concrete (one of my favorite things, really)… but now i’m just frustrated at 225 and work and cramming and not having the time/drive to write creatively about fantastic moments anymore.

(my moleskine is dying from neglect… speaking of which, “only” ~73 pages till im done! at the rate i’m going, in 2011 i can crack a new one… ugh)

someone needs to send me some C₁₈H₂₈N₂O₄S to power through the semester……….. at least by tomorrow at noon i can take the first breather in two weeks. man i need a cigarette.

AWESOME SHIT

BEST FRIDAY OF THE SEMESTER (SO FAR). Why?

• 100 on my Eng 200 exam (we’ll see about that paper though…)
• 102 on my Eng 225 exam
• delicious elote on the quad
• fall weather is here! <3
• Chi did not get the bid for the Olympics (I know this is an unpopular opinion, but don’t listen to the suburb kids who were rooting for it… they don’t know about or don’t have to deal with the problems that would have come…)

Why this weekend will be awesome:

• Beerfest is tomorrow. Team Asia Team Yellow Peril is not going to win, per se, but how does one really “lose” at beerfest?
• Tomorrow will be full of debauchery, togas, and hilarity
• There is a frying vat at beerfest tomorrow.
• We are I am attempting to whip up some fried ice cream or donuts or beignets or something delicious and sweet (because I have a wicked sweet tooth)

Awesome events. Awesome people. Awesome food. Awesome shit.

Crew Portraits: mench

Like I promised earlier… some work I did for my viz culture of hip hop class (not very hip hop, I know… *sigh* baby steps, okay?) Click for fullsize.

I did the Alice in Wonderland version on the right first, went to go upload, realized that I totally misinterpreted the prompt, panicked, debated whether I wanted to spend more time on this or not, and ended up sketching the second one. lol.

But only kinda funny because I did end up staying really late (still sick, not good for my cold…) and not really learning much other than THE PEN TOOL IS YOUR FRIEND. Despite, or probably because of, this epiphany, I’m still sick as a dog and will be staying home in case I do have SARS or something (coughh1n1cough).

SICK

Ugh, I have a massive cough… not good :/ Plus its rainy and gross, the aphids have descended on Chambana, I miss a certain someone (I’m so lame- it’s been less than 24 hours), I really need to do laundry but I don’t want to get everything germy, and I’m still freaking out about some maja issues… ugh ANGST.

But at least I’m sitting in a bright room here listening to Shins, getting ready to bust out the Photoshop skills (maybe I’ll post the final product later?), and thinking about Ezra Pound.

In a Station of the Metro
The apparition of these faces in the crowd;
Petals on a wet, black bough.

^ the only reason I wanted to post anything at all today haha. What a beautiful image.

this is probably illegal but

I love this poem by Thylias Moss.

Tornados

Truth is, I envy them
not because they dance; I out jitterbug them
as I’m shuttled through and through legs
strong as looms, weaving time. They
do black more justice than I, frenzy
of conductor of philharmonic and electricity, hair
on end, result of the charge when horns and strings release
the pent up Beethoven and Mozart. Ions played

instead of notes. The movement
is not wrath, not hormone swarm because
I saw my first forming above the church a surrogate
steeple. The morning of my first baptism and
salvation already tangible, funnel for the spirit
coming into me without losing a drop, my black
guardian angel come to rescue me before all the words

get out, I looked over Jordan and what did I see coming for
to carry me home. Regardez, it all comes back, even the first
grade French, when the tornado stirs up the past, bewitched spoon
lost in its own spin, like a roulette wheel that won’t
be steered, like the world. They drove me underground,
tornado watched and warnings, atomic bomb drills. Adult
storms so I had to leave the room. Truth is

the tornado is a perfect nappy curl, tightly wound,
spinning wildy when I try to tamper with its nature, shunning
the hot comb and pressing oil even though is absolutely straight
I’d have the longest hair in the world. Bouffant tornadic
crown taking the royal path on a trip to town, stroll down
Tornado Alley where it intersects Memory Lane. Smoky spirit-
clouds, shadows searching for what cast them.