I just reread this entry and it's, I don't know, all over the place maybe. I came in here to do my finances, but that hasn't happened. My feet are cold, I am tired.
Sunday, Apr. 24, 2005 - 18:02

So today, being a lovely day, I betook myself into the town of Ballard, where I bought a latte (it being Seattle) and where I was forced to rescue some used CDs from a fate worse than death.

Pleased with myself, and my purchases, and the day, I decided to walk down Ballard Avenue past the farmer's market, where They were shooting a scene for a movie, hindering geographical progress on one side of the street, so I went to the other side of the street and continued on my way to Fred Meyer. Fred Meyer is quite the distance. Well, like a mile or something, but remember, I was already a mile from my house, so, like, it's real far.

To get to said store I had to pass under a bridge, the famed Ballard Bridge, and I chose the shadiest part of the city in which to pass under this bridge. This particular part of the underbridge is inhabited by bags of garbage and innumerable dead pigeons. DEAD PIGEONS, MANY OF THEM, LYING THERE ALL PSYCHO DEAD AND GROSS. If there's one thing I hate more than fucking pigeons, it's dead pigeons! Barf, man, it makes me want to barf and squirm just thinking about it.

Did I ever post that poem I wrote about the pigeons? Or, I can't remember if it was about pigeons or if they were only mentioned briefly. I- I have no idea. When was the last time I posted a poem? It was a long time ago. And, I also lost the one about the high heels. I didn't know writing a poem every day would turn into such a LOGISTICAL NIGHTMARE. IT IS SO HARD BEING AN ARTIST.

And so I was walking and thinking, when I wasn't being attacked by psycho fat dead pigeon corpses, and I was thinki

(I had to start a new paragraph because those pigeons were so fucking gross, ick.) ng about art and, I've been starting to think that everyone's an artist, or, more people are artists than those who call themselves artists. And popular art is only popular because of the packaging and promotion. You have guys who can't even do simple arithmetic designing and creating these crazy-amazing things that are not only artistically amazing but also mathematically amazing, but those guys aren't going to start walking around wearing black turtlenecks thinking they're terribly important, because their art is in their backyard.

Well, if you don't know what I'm trying to say, never mind. I'm not done thinking about it, I'll get back to you, maybe.

Also, after I went back to the record store and bought another CD, which I was lured into buying by the sneaky slip of the CD into the store's sound system, I should sue them! - I realized that small record labels are actually surreptitious genius clubs. They're just very focused.

Also, I'm now reading a book called Woman's Waist. No that's not it. No that's not it at all. It's Portrait of a Lady by Henry James. And it's my second stab at it, I see from this boarding pass. Apparently some August I got to page 87 and I sat in seat 17A on United flight 2118 San Francisco to Seattle and I have no idea what year that was and why, why? My biographer will have to figure this out on his own because I simply cannot recall ever flying from San Francisco to Seattle in August.

("Regina Toowomba's pathetic inability to enjoy even the simple pleasure of reading - although she constantly made claims of being 'a writer' - is made all the more apparent when we see that in August of that year she managed to read only to page 87 of Henry James's novel, and then, some years later, in the middle of another failed attempt at reading the book, she could not even remember the title. This, of course, foreshadowed the tragedies of her later years, although she was unaware of this at the time. But anyway, she was flying from San Francisco to Seattle that August to begin her apprenticeship with that legendary pirate godfather, Black Stu.")

Anyway, I'm looking at this book, it's 544 pages and there's so much description, and now I realize that this book was written before there were movies and all this description and background... it's all okay, that's what they had, that was their entertainment.

One of the things that really bugged me about the Da Vinci Code and its sister book Angels and Demons was that they were written like they were describing a movie. Almost like a screenplay but not quite. But there's a big difference between the description from these newer books and the older books. The newer ones really describe nothing. They describe how things look, the expressions on people's faces, the way their brows are like the prows of ships, the way a movie would look. But in this Woman book - there's background and thoughts and all this other kind of description.

Anyway, I'm hungry. What is there to eat? Seriously! I'm wailing with hunger!

Also, my writing class starts tomorrow, and, and I'm trying to order a new bag online but I don't think the site is secure.

Carrots, bah, maybe I'll go get a taco.