The old leather box containing the 1930's typewriter grazes my knee, as i bang away and the ungrateful pang of these plastic keys. The door to the toliet is open and the resedue of sourdough pretzels lines the pink insides of my mouth. Its a summers day, i am silent because I feel as though there is no noise needed. The sun is shaded by the murky sky outside, toning the ivy behind me in varing layers of illuminated greens. A list of phone numbers lay beside me, next to the krazy Glue i used to glue my bosses broken plate together. Phone numbers range from Pasadena, Van Nuys, New Jersy, West Los Angeles and Brooklyn area codes, beyond the list of estranged numbers associated with my list of friends lies a list of phone numbers of Psychics. That was my job today, psychics, finding ones good enough that would cure a writers block. This hasn't been glanced at yet, which is most of my feats here, only looked upon after the editors meetings, or the soundtrack teastings ecetera. Its nicer that way, because i hate when people read something i wrote infront of me, its the feeling of being mortally naked. As thier faces expand and wither with each word or concept you conveived and the perpetual neuroses of what you THINK they're thinking. I put on a Sylvia Plath outfit today, as i walk around in it i feel uncomparativly fashionably backward than anyone on the streets of Williamsburg. Was Sylvia Plath gone with that Gwenith Paltro film? Must i only wear gladiator sandals and jumpers? It is common in a Plath reader that you take upon her characteristics, I suppose in this moment of noise absence i have. Which is quite funny because im not really all that depressed. So the sun moved lighting this small apartment differently, allowing me to hide from its rays.
Im off to a studio..(i like when brits say with a linering j. Studjio: sort of like that)
anyways.
my rant.
thank you.
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