the distance is blurred.

Everything is softer today. The breeze sweeping through the open windows, ruffling DIY curtains and skimming my face. Grey light, black lace, bare legs. Succumbing to Salem, chopped and screwed, sipping room temperature coffee as the water hits the pavement below. A scratch on my stomach exposed by loosely hanging heathered navy cotton. Chipped nail polish and rings resting between knuckles. Vignettes of existence. I awoke before eight, questioning whether to commit to the morning. The sheet balled and twisted on the floor by dust-covered leather boots. And the hours pass.

I am here, but my head is empty. Which, at points, is a welcomed state. To fill a vase with water and place you in the back of my mind. Slowing it all down again.

insight.

...

Pitchfork: So this record feels a bit darker content-wise. Maybe moodier or even a little angrier at times. What sort of stuff do you draw upon when writing?

James Murphy: Really? I guess I don't think of it like that. But it's whatever I'm stuck thinking about usually, that's the problem. Sometimes you get stuck thinking about the same thing for four songs and there's not much you can do. Whatever seems emotionally dense or funny or stupid. More often than not, it's just whatever you're stuck with.

Pitchfork: There's a lot of self-awareness to the music. Do you consider yourself an introspective or self-critical person?

JM: I don't know that I'm introspective or self-critical. But…

Pat Mahoney: Self-obsessed.

JM: Self-obsessed, yeah. Really suck the air out of a room! We're talking about me, right?

More just like, there's a lot of erasure-- and I don't mean the band-- with how we all talk to each other, where everything's kind of balanced. In other words, there's nothing wrong with being a piece of shit or being stupid. So it's not self-deprecating in my mind to say that I'm stupid or a piece of shit because there's no judgment. It just seems normal to me because that's how we all talk to one another.

Pitchfork: But there's some analysis in there too. Are you the kind of person that spends a lot of time thinking about social interaction?

JM: Yes. Yes, I spend a lot of time thinking about social interaction. A ton of it. Always have. I find it endlessly fascinating and gross and awesome.

...

complete

red hot.

At any given point in the last few days, if I were be home, I would be in underwear sitting in front of a fan. To say that it is hot would be an understatement. As LM and I patiently await the arrival of our AC units, we've been experiencing our 4th floor, East to
West oriented apartment in ways that feel so violating. I find respite upon entering any subway (one of the few things MTA does well), as weary commuters, with despair-filled eyes, are wont to do. Glorious, excessive cold until, as with an oven, the doors open and the wafting heat hits my face as I walk out and up to a sagging city in haze.

Yesterday, as we waited through the Mexico-Argentina game and a good hour afterwards, we were convinced our pizza delivery was delayed by some Do The Right Thing shower/quickie diversion.

I wanted to write a letter, but for legitimate reasons, avoided. As you, or someone once said, you write for your audience. At points I write into the oblivion while at others I write to you and/or you, etc. Generally, even years down the line, I know to whom the letter is written. Regardless of whether I know half of who or what I was exactly referring to. I suppose in ways they are all written to me, but I imagine at times that deep down, simultaneously writing to you somewhat fools my head into believing that you will now know the ins and outs of my intimate mind. An actual letter is the same thing, for here I will freely let you inside, but only for a peek. It still feels so secret.

Many thoughts rumbled through as coursing to a beat brought upon the man who holds current status of personal sage, Mr. James Murphy and the fucking epic album This is Happening. It's problematic as I tend to get a crazed glimmer in my eyes gushing about the intricate working of the man, his skill to put to words the half-formed thoughts that cause me to wake at odd hours, and his ability to save the dance floor.

I rode into the city to find relieve in a dark, cool cave with Breathless. Reading the small gestures, diverted glances and tug as memories so familiar, but anchored away. Remember the moments as we pulled the covers over our heads, moving eyes slowly over stomach and knee, rising chest and sloping curves, skin pulled taught and the soft pulse up a delicate neck? The light muffled through closely-knit sheets, casting light as a glowing cavern where our feet touch and lips meet. Holding the sheet high enough overhead to speak or hold silence. Je veux votre visage.

"Quand nous avons parlé, j'ai parlé de moi, vous ai parlé de vous, quand nous devrions nous être parlés."

But, with you, it's not like that.

sweat.

This head of mine typically gets me in trouble due to an abundance of over analyzing as well as over thinking. In order to achieve peace of mind in this (fucking) city, I formed a future path to reach, I think, the ultimate goal. A path of any sort never seemed to be in my repertoire of tricks for coping. Au contraire! All the planning freaks me out even more. Setting points to hit in the next three years just makes me more aware of my inability to deal with anything that changes my ideal future. And this is in addition to convincing myself that I'm living too much in the future and not the present...or some hippie shit like that.

You're right. Not as usual, but when it counts.

I pull unfortunate moves in this state. In an attempt to create some day-to-day presence of life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness, I push at the boundaries and dabble in selected vices too much (which generally ends in unhealthy, cocksure posturing or the fetal position.) I guess, that at points, being so self-aware of your faults and fuck-ups is a gift (though those with said gift would agree that it is indeed also a burden.) I recognize when I'm fucking up and crossing the line. This awareness paired with an innate stubbornness to take care of myself as well as a fear of revealing "secrets" to all but a very closely held handful...

It's a mess at times.

innards and all that.

It hurts my insides sometimes. Radiating from a ball in my stomach as the butterflies sour.

Canned sound of days past and short little clips of who we were weeks ago and years ago. I shuffled through mounds of other people's photos (OPP??) yesterday between shaded eyes and dewy skin and conversing in topics that make sense or lead towards sense-making. My palms are sweaty now. I'm a mess. But only sometimes. And I miss people. But only sometimes. And I'm not there. But only sometimes.

Maybe you bring it out in me, or maybe I just look for an excuse. I dunno. In general, it feels good inside.

something to think about

"The traditional Indian stood in the center of a circle and brought everything together in that circle. Today we stand at the end of a line and work our way along that line, discarding or avoiding everything on either side of us." -Vine Deloria

on the street

Our shadows meet and divide as we rush forward at different paces. The oncoming rain, clove cigarettes and weed intermingled with the linden tree blossoms. Dusty pink nails and copper rings. And when the silence comes as the parting of the clouds, it still doesn't quite make sense.