Ladies And Gentlemen We Are Floating In Space

I have started to make a soundtrack to my own disappearance. Constructing in my head and semi-actively on a tape songs and albums I would take with me when I run away. Not that I plan on disappearing, because I don't. But the thought interests me. My decaying green cd case holds thirty discs. What goes in it? My tape, ninty minnutes. And I think, you know, it has been a wile since the Beatles graced the interior of my opitical drive, the stones, much much longer. These days I trafic in Lighning Bolt and Holy Miranda and Ride, but, they would not make it in. Had I a twelve hour bus trip to a place where once again I knew no one I would revert back to the timeless I think. Arctic Monkeys, Cat Power, The Shins, I think. Music to keep me alive.

Somehow I feel like... I'm at an end. or, more that I'm at The end. That my story is closing. "And after the hardship and the struggle and the unrestrained joy, stuart came to pratt to die."

I don't plan on dying. Its just a feeling.

I don't know why I'm feeling like this right now. I'll snap out of it.

all i want in life



I have been thinking a bit about the concept of transience. Last saturday (thats how long I've been meaning to write this post. Its been a fucking busy week)...Last saturday I saw so many amazing things, so many incredible little happenings that I experienced one by one by accident. All by my self, without my camera. And I think - I have to tell someone about this. I have to let someone know of all the small magical insignificant moments that occurred. And then I thought that no. How brilliant it is that there is no evidence. How amazing that I would be the only one to experience this day just as I experienced it and it would never happen again. How amazing that these things were here and gone. And if noone else could have the day like I did then why try to give them that experience, knowing that your attempts are futile. And so I didn't talk about it, except to tell people that saturday was good, and I didn't talk about it again, and I didn't talk about it again.

And I think, art, in itself, is a lie. Sure its a lie to tell the truth but why should it hold up next to the unadulterated truth? Yes a photograph can be beautiful, and movies intoxicating, and paintings and sculpture and music and so on. But my eyes see in billions of colors with gigantic resolution and infinite color depth. My ears here crystal clear uncompressed audio in ten thousand point surround sound. My skin feels the wind and the pavement and the rush of this city pulsing through my vains. I am the perfect entertainment system with beautiful experiences displayed through it eighteen hours a day, every day I live, and if I payed a bit more attention to it then I would perfect the art of living.

but that burden's not on you