here first. until we are there.

it seems that all i really want to do is stay home and sleep. i don’t like the gym, i don’t want to watch a movie. i just want to stay home and discover that if i open a door, there’s another house inside.

i like baboushka dolls.

and this music is conjuring images in my mind that i wish i had the capabilities to draw. i just saw in a magazine that a sketchpad is a more ‘private diary’ than a written journal because of course, your images are encrypted ( a thousand words per image di ba?) so anyone picking them up wouldn’t know what you meant by that graying street in East Germany where they’re leading all these scared Jews and in the line is a gorilla waiting to give you a banana. they’re also cutting up metal stars using these diamond cutter which for some reason doesn’t emit sparks but paint flecks and you see soldiers walking past — goosestepping — until they finally whirlwind away in a flurry of white feathers that smell like someone’s brain is being fried — all popcorn-y and protein-y. there is a commentator of some sort who is speaking in esperanto and suddenly everything fades …the way you wipe steam off a car window….into an orchard of cherry trees where the trees are crying as a young woman waits in the snow all made up and obi-d.

something tells me that a diary wouldn’t be that dangerous after all. words are slippery too, like eels in a crystal bowl hiding in the closet of an abusive father.


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