Illegal Tender

Q: Why do I always wait until the last minute to start important projects?
A: Because I'm a no-good, lazy bum.

Look, ma! I made some money.

6000 Miles

I think I'll start blogging again, but nobody gets to know. No advertising, no visitor counts. Just the handful of people who stumble across this thing and don't mind the jumbled-up mess going on in my head.

Pack Cat Cat Pack

I am starting to worry that I won't finish packing in time.
The more I worry, the less I pack.

Questions:
1.) How does that make any sense?
2.) Do you have any idea how much I hated this cat?

Asheville

smells like hippies and the critters that grow on the bottom of boats.

Analog is Dead

Cliche Sunset, But Let Me Wax Sentimental

My last night in New York City. As I continue to put off packing until the last possible second and begin to part ways with my fleeting Brooklyn home, I find myself surprisingly content. I just finished sucking the marrow dry from this city, and I'm ready for the next big thing. If I'd left yesterday, it would have been too soon, and tomorrow afternoon would be too late... you can call me the Goldilocks of Bushwick.

Waiting for the Subway

Nostalgic for an Era I Never Knew

I handwashed three loads of laundry with a washboard and a big metal basin. The whole loft smelled like a steaming vat of synthetic mountainside springtime. I felt so bohemian, stringing clotheslines across my bedroom in my painted-up button-down, some Jimmy Hendrix album sc-sc-scratching on a record player in the background. It felt like a throwback to another era, nearly an idyllic moment, but I was wrenched from bliss by the resounding chorus in my head: should have been twenty forty years ago. That's when things were happening, man.

Peace, love, protest, drugs, rights... It's like we've got to find something to bring us together. A generation organized in twos and threes and tens and twenties will never revolutionize, and a cult of underfed Williamsburg suburbanites living off their parents' trust funds can hardly qualify as a counterculture.

...Annnnnd, We're Back.

To make a long story short: you can expect posts on a fairly regular basis once again, and this is the view from our back porch.

Trading Spaces: The Brooklyn Edition

One of my favorite things about living in the loft has been improving the space. For the first time, I have personal and communal space that I can ameliorate semi-permanently or permanently. The loft is a place where anyone who comes in has the right to change it and make it part of their own. People write on the walls when they feel like it, turn the kitchen into a jam session recording studio when they feel like it, build lofts or tree houses or skateboarding ramps when they feel like it...

So far, my favorite parts of the loft to modify have been the walls. I've painted the bedroom of a roommate blue/black/grey, the bedroom of another roommate white, my own bedroom blue and white, and the entryway to the loft bright, bright orange. I've also spent a lot of time writing on the walls, and last night I made the wall behind the sink an enormous canvas for an illustration. I've always felt a bit like a guest in my dorm room, knowing decorations will have to come down in due time and any major painting or modifications will have to be changed back. Likewise, in my family's new house, which is toured by visitors on a semi-regular basis, my creative impulses could never be made manifest as permanent installments. Even my bedroom is limited to my mother's tasteful interior decoration, since I was off at school during the move. In the loft, though, I feel an enhanced sense of ownership despite my short stay: knowing the art, thoughts, and paint I add to it will far outlast my stay makes me feel like a part of the space itself.