Jan 24 2007


Immolate Now!

Immolate now, and save!

Jan 24 2007

New Year’s Eve 2006-2007

View of the LA skyline on New Years Eve, from the loft party we attended (no tripod handy):

Blurry LA Skyline

Blurry LA Skyline

The girl:



Bonus Shot: my impression of a monkey smelling its finger (not from New Years):

Monkey Finger!

Monkey Finger!

(It’s photos like this that makes me wonder why anyone puts up with me.)

Jan 20 2007


It seems that I keep unintentionally running into reasons why A—- (as well as some other past girlfriends) and I were destined to be poor lovers. (Likewise, a reason we’re great friends.) Take these passages from Milan Kundera’s Slowness:

You’re astonished: where, in that terrain so rationally organized, mapped out, delineated, calculated, measured – where is there room for spontaneity, for “madness,” where is the delirium, where is the blindness of desire, the “mad love” that the surrealists idolized, where is the forgetting of self? Where are all those virtues of unreason that have shaped our idea of love? No, they have no place here. For Madame de T. is the queen of reason. Not the pitiless reason of the Marquise de Merteuil, but a gentle, tender reason, a reason whose supreme mission is to protect love.

She possesses the wisdom of slowness and employs the whole range of techniques for slowing things down. She demonstrates it particularly during the second stage of the night, which is spend in the pavilion: they enter, they embrace, they fall onto a couch, they make love. But “all this had been a little hurried. We understood our error…. When we are too ardent, we are less subtle. When we rush to sensual pleasure, we blur all the delights along the way.”

There is a secret bond between slowness and memory, between speed and forgetting. Consider this utterly commonplace situation: a man is walking down the street. At a certain moment, he tries to recall something, but the recollection escapes him. Automatically, he slows down. Meanwhile, a person who wants to forget a disagreeable incident he has just lived through starts unconsciously to speed up his pace, as if he were trying to distance himself from a thing still too close to him in time.

In existential mathematics, that experience takes the form of two basic equations: the degree of slowness is direction proportional to the intensity of memory; the degree of speed is directly proportional to the intensity of forgetting.

In this respect, A—- and I were definitely polarized. I’m with Kundera here, while several of my past girlfriends have been in the opposite camp. That’s not surprising, as I have a predisposition for artists, and it seems most artists have a predisposition for unbridled spontaneity. Now, A—- (and others) might contest this designation, but there was certainly a strong element of it present.

On the other hand, I also realize that, to quote Violent Acres: “Do you want to know what we [girls] really talked about when discussing the best sex we ever had? We talked about our scraped knees and the bruises on our backs where we were bitten in the throes of passion. No one even mentioned that time you filled the bathtub full of rose petals and blah, blah, blah. It was that time in the back seat of an old chevy with our faces crudely pressed up against the window that got us hot.” But I also don’t think of this is as the first step. Imagine the route to encounter, all the nights previous, all the machinations invoked to make this an unexpected surprise. The slowness is the journey. People don’t talk about the excruciating hike up to Machu Pichu, they only talk the destination – but it wouldn’t be quite the same at sea level. I enjoy the journey; I want to prolong it.

I see this in my love of chaotic and experimental music: I don’t hear it as a cacophony of dissonance, as many do, but of a canvas of highly organized, yet abstract, signposts, encouraging you to slow down, listen, and form your interpretation carefully. Isn’t that a fundamental of abstract art? To unencumber that which can’t be directly portrayed with an indication of it? If an explicit painting of “love” or “hate” or “misery” or “happiness” only serves to minimize or limit its representation, then isn’t abstract art and effort to free the concept from it’s bindings? Just as words can only outline of a concept, they are not the concept itself, and too many words only end of obscuring the message they were originally cast to convey? The paintings and words and sounds are a guide for a journey, an invitation to walk inward and experience the concept or feeling yourself – it is a map for the journey.

Then again, perhaps I’m just reminding myself to slow down.

Jan 16 2007


I suppose it’s a long way past “official,” but I have a girlfriend now. It’s a little strange – I believe I’d gotten used to the serial dating, no-commitment sort of scenarios I experienced after A—-. Considering my future adventure number two, I wasn’t really looking for anything serious. (I know I haven’t disclosed exactly what that adventure entails yet, but my quote regarding it is, “if I end up the same person as when I start, I did something wrong.” Should give you idea enough.) Of course, the start date of those adventures keeps getting pushed back further and further – most likely staring in 2008 now – but I find that I’m curiously comfortable with the whole relationship. I wasn’t expecting a it, but I’m glad I’m in it.

It helps that she lives a couple hours away. Right now I’m swamped with other activities, namely, “adventure number one,” and if she lived in town, I believe she’d either get sick of me not being around enough when I could be, or alternately, I’d feel bad for the same reason. As it stands, we really don’t have much choice in the matter. So, we have great every-other-weekends, but I still have just enough time to dedicate to my other passion. Yes, sometimes it sucks not having someone to curl up with at night, and the droughts of sex definitely suck, but those are also elements of “serial dating” that I’d gotten used to.

The most recent question that’s cropped up is regarding how the two of us handle my absence during the second adventure. Truthfully, I don’t know. I haven’t thought that far ahead yet. I didn’t think we’d already be talking about it. But there’s three things for sure: the adventure is definitely non-negotiable, I feel I must do it (or at least the majority of it) alone, and I don’t want to hurt her. Glancing back above, I hope – and assume – that part of me won’t change. But other aspects certainly will. It’d hard to predicate the future when you don’t even know your own role.

In short, ‘Nae is totally awesome – she gives me space to do my thing, she’s sexy and funny and all that good stuff – I just don’t quite know how my future education will affect me. I suppose the plan right is to enjoy what I have right now, and see what develops.

And that, in and of itself, could prove to be yet another adventure.

P.S.: In terms of the locals, I have to apologize to many of my friends that I haven’t seen for quite some time. You’re still in my thoughts.

Jan 9 2007


Remember this? Well, I’m smack in it. Which is why you haven’t seen me much, for those of you local to SD. I’m surprised I’ve been able to post as much as I have.

Have I stopped my Japanese language classes? Yes. Are photography exibitions on hold? Yes. Do my blog posts generally suck? You betcha. Am I dating? Well, not really – I have a girlfriend who, miraculously, puts up with my schedule. Has it been worth it?


But it ends in Feb sometime. Which means I have a lot to do before then, and I’m maintaining my AWOL status until then. What happens after Feb? I don’t know. There may be another evolution, another opportunity I can’t pass up. I’m going to try my damndest to make that happen. But if it doesn’t, well, hopefully I’ll be out and about a little more often.

And then, as soon as I can, my other adventure.

Jan 2 2007


‘Nae and I wandered the aisles of BevMo, the candy store of alcoholics, pondering drinks to bring to the potluck New Years loft party in downtown LA. As we browsed the spirits section, I point to a small bottle of tequila that would look decidedly more at home in an adult boutique:

Asombroso Tequila

Asombroso Tequila

“Whoa, that’s totally a butt-plug!” I exclaim a little too loudly.

“Well, if you want it, I’ll get it for you, but after you drink it, I get to stick it up your butt.”

“Hmm … I might need a little more than 50ml of tequila to prep for that. But then you’d have a larger bottle, and I’m pretty sure that’d be even more uncomfortable. So, yeah, if you’re going to stick booze up my ass, let’s make it the little tequila. Or perhaps we should check out the bourbons.”

It’s about then that we notice an older man has been standing behind us throughout the exchange, and he proceeds to shuffle away a little too quickly, conspicuously avoiding any eye contact. We break out into insuppressible laughter, and I wonder if we’ve corrupted his concept of BevMo forever. If, every time he wanders in to pick up his bottle of gin or vodka or whiskey, he’ll think, “I wonder if anyone’s ever stuck this up an ass?”