…it’s not what’s applied but what’s removed, it’s not what’s removed but what’s indulged. bob hicok.

yes to drinks c.

i’ve been busy moving — left jeneh for a large studio in brooklyn heights. i feel rich and privileged and take long walks on the promenade. the frenchman spends a lot of time at my place because it is bright, and spacious and free. “you’re like an adult,” he says. tis true, i have my own microwave, rice cooker, foreman grill, and cookie cooling rack. next thing on my list is one of those nifty vegetable choppers.

sort of reading bad books. finished fitzgerald’s “the beautiful and the damned” and am a third of the way through “les liaisons dangereuses.” mediocre and mildly entertaining reads. i wanted a happy read and i looked through my unread bookshelf and found…none. i thought, all these books will only add to the cancerous black hole inside of me. and for the first time, i thought, why read? 

i don’t know what it is, even the newest, hippest music bores my ears. it’s weird because i’ve never been that aurally sensitive — i can listen to all kinds of music over and over again; but now i have a visceral reaction to shit that i play too much. like i am a hardcore decemberists fan, but listening to their newest album, all i could think was, “oh it’s them again.”  different ho, same trick but in reverse. 

i feel restless. don’t know what it is, i’m turning 26 in about two weeks. i’ve been in new york for a year and a half. when i think about my future, it unfolds predictably, scene by scene. does my life hold no surprise? that must be it. do i write? no, not very much, but when i do, i do it seriously. and anytime i start thinking too hard/warping my original intent, i give myself a mental slap because i must write as i am. 

pulitzers were announced yesterday. a woman i’ve never heard of won but louise erdrich was a finalist. weird, i’ve been trying to buy her “plague of doves” forever. two months ago after a hard recommendation from schang, i got the impulse to walk into borders and just buy it at full price (the doctor gave me a gift card that someone gave him) and of course they didn’t have it in stock. what the fuck though right, what are the chances of that. the kind of people who buy books at borders, probably don’t buy literary fiction. because anyone who reads compulsively + has good tastes buys shit on amazon or at used bookstores. anyways, i thought it was a sign that i should wait and then of course, months later she’s a finalist for the pulitzer. i don’t know if this makes any sense but i feel this is one of the many ways the universe fucks with me.

also going to paris in june for 10 days. two objectives so far: find an antique bookstore and purchase an “unopened” book. which is a book whose pages are still folded together, it’s like how 20th century publishers made their books. anyways, you actually need a pen knife to open each page as you read it. i excite.

that and visit joseph roth’s grave.