i'm making love to two women, cross-country and Californian, in a style worthy of 19th century Janes - Eyre, Austen, or otherwise. one Angelic; teenage lust in Durham dark rooms the year before Larry Clark jumped from Tulsa to the silver screen. the other Franciscan; untouched (if not chaste) in Florida waters, 30 years to the day after Robert Lowell died. but all this is besides the point.
the point is that i have a headache, the result of too much stimulation and not enough caffeine. on the way to school i stopped at the bookstore and stumbled across a bevy of beautiful books, but as i sat in class tonight, cross-legged and taking notes on Sailor Moon, i began to worry: what if the books don't mingle? i had left Hemingway and Dostoevsky alone with Rumi and Marquez ... and i feared upon my return i would find a drunken, existential, mystical Colombian mess.
[no actual books were harmed in the process of making this blog]
Monday, September 15, 2008
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