"My little studio has never been profaned by superficial, feverish, mercenary work. It’s a temple of labour, but of leisure! Art is long. If we work for ourselves, of course we must hurry. If we work for her, we must often pause. She can wait!"
-- Henry James, "The Madonna of the Future"
Since I am working for Art and not myself I shall pause objectively and with good humor, trusting in my Muse's eventual return, rather than inwardly launch invectives of bitter self-reproach (today, at least).
I have noticed this capacity for objective thinking and prudent, pruned-in action emerges in me only when my emotions and physical impulses are at a very low ebb.
Example: I read 3 of the driest Henry James novels by 10 am today, and have no desire whatsoever to jog.
Other objective thoughts:
I have noticed that every time I date someone who captivates me physically, the focus and ardent attention I usually reserve for quiet union with the Divine seems to divert itself into entirely sensual channels upon which I concentrate instead.
Psalm 42 says:
"As pants the hart for cooling streams
When heated in the chase,
So longs my soul, O God, for thee,
And thy refreshing grace..."
Yet how easily does my mind substitute an inward-seeking "heated in the chase" longing for God with an outward-searching one for pleasure with Man!
Even so, I refuse to believe any interaction rooted in true affection (on my end, at least, I can confirm) is otherwise than blessed by, as well as the essence of, true Divinity.
PS It was my little brother's birthday yesterday. He is now 15. I hope to see his dear little self very soon, and figure out some way to do it which does not involve him finding out I'm an "Off-Broadway dancer for matinee shows" as a friend recently and politely termed my occupation.
PS 2 I just realized, with the exception of art modeling, which I did for 7 years, most of my other jobs have all lasted almost precisely 6 months apiece. I wonder if this will hold true for dancing?
Monday, May 18, 2009
Sunday, May 17, 2009
So AMERICAN
"We may take the stories least like poetry as our guide to the truth"
-- Plutarch, "Parallel Lives"
The romance of poetry holds neither appeal nor ring of truth for me in these times of exhaustion. I long for plain words, comfort food, also to give and receive service impersonally and efficiently.
In fact, all I wanted/was able to do today (so far) was:
Read short stories as well as Ovid and Plutarch, clean my house, eat junk food and sleep. Again.
Around 3, feeling as gray and gloomy as the overcast sky, I shuffled slowly down the 2-block stretch of Broadway that is my particular stomping grounds for groceries and treats here in Brooklyn and bought myself a bag of vegan Doritos. A friend told me about them recently-- a new flavor blissfully produced sans milk. Since I haven't had Doritos in 14 years being able to eat them again is quite a treat-- it's a repeat of the joy I experienced a few months ago, when another helpful companion told me Oreos are now vegan also, and I devoured them on a daily basis, dunked in soy milk, for weeks. These discoveries neither aid me in my eternal quest to lose weight nor curb my bouts of binge-eating, but whatevs.
Somehow, eating this kind of food makes me feel so AMERICAN:
PS I smooshed an avocado as dip, after waking up this morning with an unbearable craving for one. The cause was a vivid dream I had last night, the gist of which involved a fellow dancer I know, recently come back to Tryst after a month in Brazil, lavishly rubbing my scalp with "avos", which may or may not be the word for avocados in Portuguese as well as Spanish. That's the word she used in my dream, anyway.
In reality, it would take more than an avocado to fix my hair woes. If my hair were a person, I'd drop 'bows on him/her. My track weave, which has undoubtedly been good for business because, surprise surprise, men generally like long hair better than short hair on strippers, has become an enormous source of annoyance. No matter how much I wash, dry and style my extensions, the sad truth is they have begun to smell musty and look ratty. Gross.
It makes me want to shave my head, give up trying to be "attractive" and get me to a nunnery.
I hate my fucking hair. 600 dollars and counting since late February and it still sucks.
PS The "Tin House" volume I'm reading was given to me by the Asian lawyer on our last date aka his birthday. That night, trumping my efforts at gift-giving (cookies I baked myself, fish I drew myself, a card, etc.) he gave *me* dozens of expensive presents, with the promise of a puppy the next day, but, truly, as wonderful as getting to know him was, it had to end. I was just not attracted to him, and he deserves a fabulous relationship with a loving woman who wants to be with him for all the right reasons. So I figured I'd just remove myself from the picture so she could show up in his life that much sooner-- his last couple of emails are still unanswered in my mailbox, ah well. God bless.
PS 2 Re: me reading a lot of Plutarch and Ovid lately-- I know I'm really in the doldrums when I start resorting to my comforting childhood refuge of snuggling under a blanket in the pouring rain and reading Greek/Roman mythology/history. When I also start making Cream of Wheat I know a sad call to my mother is inevitable. But I shouldn't worry her. I'm just a depressed person sometimes. She can't solve that one for me.
-- Plutarch, "Parallel Lives"
The romance of poetry holds neither appeal nor ring of truth for me in these times of exhaustion. I long for plain words, comfort food, also to give and receive service impersonally and efficiently.
In fact, all I wanted/was able to do today (so far) was:
Read short stories as well as Ovid and Plutarch, clean my house, eat junk food and sleep. Again.
Around 3, feeling as gray and gloomy as the overcast sky, I shuffled slowly down the 2-block stretch of Broadway that is my particular stomping grounds for groceries and treats here in Brooklyn and bought myself a bag of vegan Doritos. A friend told me about them recently-- a new flavor blissfully produced sans milk. Since I haven't had Doritos in 14 years being able to eat them again is quite a treat-- it's a repeat of the joy I experienced a few months ago, when another helpful companion told me Oreos are now vegan also, and I devoured them on a daily basis, dunked in soy milk, for weeks. These discoveries neither aid me in my eternal quest to lose weight nor curb my bouts of binge-eating, but whatevs.
Somehow, eating this kind of food makes me feel so AMERICAN:
PS I smooshed an avocado as dip, after waking up this morning with an unbearable craving for one. The cause was a vivid dream I had last night, the gist of which involved a fellow dancer I know, recently come back to Tryst after a month in Brazil, lavishly rubbing my scalp with "avos", which may or may not be the word for avocados in Portuguese as well as Spanish. That's the word she used in my dream, anyway.
In reality, it would take more than an avocado to fix my hair woes. If my hair were a person, I'd drop 'bows on him/her. My track weave, which has undoubtedly been good for business because, surprise surprise, men generally like long hair better than short hair on strippers, has become an enormous source of annoyance. No matter how much I wash, dry and style my extensions, the sad truth is they have begun to smell musty and look ratty. Gross.
It makes me want to shave my head, give up trying to be "attractive" and get me to a nunnery.
I hate my fucking hair. 600 dollars and counting since late February and it still sucks.
PS The "Tin House" volume I'm reading was given to me by the Asian lawyer on our last date aka his birthday. That night, trumping my efforts at gift-giving (cookies I baked myself, fish I drew myself, a card, etc.) he gave *me* dozens of expensive presents, with the promise of a puppy the next day, but, truly, as wonderful as getting to know him was, it had to end. I was just not attracted to him, and he deserves a fabulous relationship with a loving woman who wants to be with him for all the right reasons. So I figured I'd just remove myself from the picture so she could show up in his life that much sooner-- his last couple of emails are still unanswered in my mailbox, ah well. God bless.
PS 2 Re: me reading a lot of Plutarch and Ovid lately-- I know I'm really in the doldrums when I start resorting to my comforting childhood refuge of snuggling under a blanket in the pouring rain and reading Greek/Roman mythology/history. When I also start making Cream of Wheat I know a sad call to my mother is inevitable. But I shouldn't worry her. I'm just a depressed person sometimes. She can't solve that one for me.
Saturday, May 16, 2009
Solitude/Sleep Hallucinations/Narcolepsy/Champagne Room
"Dreams are jealous of being remembered; they dissipate instantly and angrily if you try to hold them. When newly awaked from lively dreams, we are so near them, still agitated by them, still in their sphere..."
--Emerson
This week my sleep disorder became almost unbearable. I felt so totally spent I could barely breathe. The advent of spring itself may have triggered it, for in my experience the spring rain is more soporific than any poppy. Dancing so much and dealing with the overload stemming from so much time spent in the ever-chaotic, sexually charged atmosphere of Tryst are also factors. Truly, it seemed my body was worn as thin as ancient, tattered lace, and, in a fit of active self-abandonment, I longed to clandestinely fold myself into a forgotten steamer trunk in our attic, thereafter to enjoy a few dusty decades (at least!) of delicious, sleepy solitude.
In short I wanted to dream and be alone.
Eventually, for good or ill, like a shipwrecked passenger tossed too long on battering waves I simply surrendered, allowing my miserable sense of gravity to sink me like a stone till, translucent with exhaustion, my ghost lay dark fathoms below, on the cold sand with all the other bottom-dwellers unable to get in the swim of life... life which I am nonetheless grateful to possess, in as much as a vessel of water can be said to possess the greater seas..
Though I tried to still my mind and listen to my inner voice, no great inspirations seized me; however, when I meditated with Megan Tuesday night, we both feel strange, helpful forces stirring immediately afterward.
So I've also been having my annual/sometimes-seasonal spate of weird sleep-related hallucinations, which are symptoms of the aforementioned low-grade narcolepsy that is, apparently, my endless cross to bear in this lifetime... what happens is the split second I wake from my dream I retain the image of a figure or object which last appeared in it to such a vivid degree that I believe it actually exists for a moment-- much like the imprint of the sun one gets after a bold, unwise glance skyward on a bright day. Monday night I awakened in alarm, quite sure my dream's star figure-- a strange monsieur (rotund, fatuous-- a plushly outfitted gentleman I felt I had seen in a Monet canvas that probably does not exist who was holding a canary in an ornate cage identical to the ceramic bird my mother sent, which I decided to display in a little metal lantern I bought at Pearl River Market, one of my favorite stores in New York) was in the room with me, demanding a sexual service of some sort I was unwilling to perform.
At least I didn't scream aloud this time, and was fortunately spared, also, the ordeal of waking a boy sharing my bed with my sleep issues, which make me seem insane at times, though I am not. Yet.
Insanity is a family tradition that hits most of my relatives at age 29 or so, after all...
This week I felt, indeed, so worn out and overwhelmed that I could not bear to work at the strip club for the first four days of the week. I decided to call in for a personal day, a first since I started working at Tryst nearly two months ago (the bout of laryngitis that rendered me genuinely unfit for two shifts awhile back was a different matter entirely).
Using manual labor and color therapy-- the only remotely effective measures for managing my narcolepsy of which I am aware, since pills rob me of all my creativity and are therefore off limits-- I painted my home, frustratingly-vexing-to-tape wainscoting and all, for two days straight. By the end of my second 12 hour day I was calling it "The Bataan Death March of painting" to myself, which just proves-- months of regular meditation aside-- that I have an extravagant amount of disgusting self- pity in reserve yet.
After more meditation and prayer I am absolutely sure such unwholesome tendencies/expressions of ego-based sentiment will eventually be shed from me in the manner of, say, toxins held deep in pockets of fatty tissue which, poisonous though they may be, do come to the surface and dissolve after faithful adherence to a fitness regiment.
When I went in Thursday I made a grand total of 75 dollars, due to my 50 dollar fine for skipping work Monday as well as the pouring rain, which always spells a miserable vibe and lack of customers at Tryst. Friday I was also doing poorly until five minutes before my shift was over, upon which a ridiculously drunken heating/air conditioning apprentice who deemed me "way too good-looking and sweet for this place" whisked me up to the champagne room for 3 hours, which meant I made about 750 instead of merely 300 for the day, and therefore the week, not counting that pathetic 75 from the day before.... he told me to get dressed for the last hour and offered to "get me out of this place".
I told him I wanted to be a stripper for a little while longer, but if he wanted to really do me a favor he could buy me a p-o-m-e-r-a-n-i-a-n (spelled for the benefit of the reminder text he was sending himself) puppy in red or blue... however, I doubt he'll be coming anywhere near the club after he sobers up enough to cringe over that 1500 credit card bill...
PS I'm not over it yet. I am spending a large portion of my Saturday afternoon napping, or would be if my downstairs neighbor's banda music wasn't ridiculously loud today.
--Emerson
This week my sleep disorder became almost unbearable. I felt so totally spent I could barely breathe. The advent of spring itself may have triggered it, for in my experience the spring rain is more soporific than any poppy. Dancing so much and dealing with the overload stemming from so much time spent in the ever-chaotic, sexually charged atmosphere of Tryst are also factors. Truly, it seemed my body was worn as thin as ancient, tattered lace, and, in a fit of active self-abandonment, I longed to clandestinely fold myself into a forgotten steamer trunk in our attic, thereafter to enjoy a few dusty decades (at least!) of delicious, sleepy solitude.
In short I wanted to dream and be alone.
Eventually, for good or ill, like a shipwrecked passenger tossed too long on battering waves I simply surrendered, allowing my miserable sense of gravity to sink me like a stone till, translucent with exhaustion, my ghost lay dark fathoms below, on the cold sand with all the other bottom-dwellers unable to get in the swim of life... life which I am nonetheless grateful to possess, in as much as a vessel of water can be said to possess the greater seas..
Though I tried to still my mind and listen to my inner voice, no great inspirations seized me; however, when I meditated with Megan Tuesday night, we both feel strange, helpful forces stirring immediately afterward.
So I've also been having my annual/sometimes-seasonal spate of weird sleep-related hallucinations, which are symptoms of the aforementioned low-grade narcolepsy that is, apparently, my endless cross to bear in this lifetime... what happens is the split second I wake from my dream I retain the image of a figure or object which last appeared in it to such a vivid degree that I believe it actually exists for a moment-- much like the imprint of the sun one gets after a bold, unwise glance skyward on a bright day. Monday night I awakened in alarm, quite sure my dream's star figure-- a strange monsieur (rotund, fatuous-- a plushly outfitted gentleman I felt I had seen in a Monet canvas that probably does not exist who was holding a canary in an ornate cage identical to the ceramic bird my mother sent, which I decided to display in a little metal lantern I bought at Pearl River Market, one of my favorite stores in New York) was in the room with me, demanding a sexual service of some sort I was unwilling to perform.
At least I didn't scream aloud this time, and was fortunately spared, also, the ordeal of waking a boy sharing my bed with my sleep issues, which make me seem insane at times, though I am not. Yet.
Insanity is a family tradition that hits most of my relatives at age 29 or so, after all...
This week I felt, indeed, so worn out and overwhelmed that I could not bear to work at the strip club for the first four days of the week. I decided to call in for a personal day, a first since I started working at Tryst nearly two months ago (the bout of laryngitis that rendered me genuinely unfit for two shifts awhile back was a different matter entirely).
Using manual labor and color therapy-- the only remotely effective measures for managing my narcolepsy of which I am aware, since pills rob me of all my creativity and are therefore off limits-- I painted my home, frustratingly-vexing-to-tape wainscoting and all, for two days straight. By the end of my second 12 hour day I was calling it "The Bataan Death March of painting" to myself, which just proves-- months of regular meditation aside-- that I have an extravagant amount of disgusting self- pity in reserve yet.
After more meditation and prayer I am absolutely sure such unwholesome tendencies/expressions of ego-based sentiment will eventually be shed from me in the manner of, say, toxins held deep in pockets of fatty tissue which, poisonous though they may be, do come to the surface and dissolve after faithful adherence to a fitness regiment.
When I went in Thursday I made a grand total of 75 dollars, due to my 50 dollar fine for skipping work Monday as well as the pouring rain, which always spells a miserable vibe and lack of customers at Tryst. Friday I was also doing poorly until five minutes before my shift was over, upon which a ridiculously drunken heating/air conditioning apprentice who deemed me "way too good-looking and sweet for this place" whisked me up to the champagne room for 3 hours, which meant I made about 750 instead of merely 300 for the day, and therefore the week, not counting that pathetic 75 from the day before.... he told me to get dressed for the last hour and offered to "get me out of this place".
I told him I wanted to be a stripper for a little while longer, but if he wanted to really do me a favor he could buy me a p-o-m-e-r-a-n-i-a-n (spelled for the benefit of the reminder text he was sending himself) puppy in red or blue... however, I doubt he'll be coming anywhere near the club after he sobers up enough to cringe over that 1500 credit card bill...
PS I'm not over it yet. I am spending a large portion of my Saturday afternoon napping, or would be if my downstairs neighbor's banda music wasn't ridiculously loud today.
Saturday, May 9, 2009
Money
I counted up the profits for the last couple of weeks of diligent, single-minded labor and laid them in hundred dollar piles on my floor last night:
My goal is to have enough saved for the plastic surgery procedures and veneers I want by June 1st, After that I must plan for my little brother's extended visit, which means getting myself nipped, tucked and reasonably healed before he shows up. It probably means taking a hiatus from dancing, too, which could be a great thing by then, considering I'm getting a little burned out working four long shifts a week, and may be downright crispy a few weeks from now.
Actually, I wonder if I'll finally have the desire to strip out of my system entirely by then. Lord knows I cannot-- seemingly-- be a writer and a stripper at the same time. All of the finer artistic impulses which require me to concentrate for more than an hour have gone by the wayside since I started earning my living selling lap dances in a nightclub. I'm ok with that, because I still enjoy being a stripper, but I will need a free mind and schedule again soon.
PS Sharita, a street-wise veteran stripper who broke up with her boyfriend of six years recently, gave me some sound advice about money and men the other night:
"Don't tell anyone you date you're a dancer right away. And afterward, NEVER give your man ANY of your money. A man who won't treat you on a date because he assumes you have a lot of cash from dancing-- or any other reason-- is not worth your time."
I find her permanently-dilated pupils sad, but she does have a lot of sage insight to share about the perils of stripping.
I do know I have reached a stage in my life that totally precludes me from ever going dutch or picking up the tab for my date. The occasional dessert, cab ride, etc. for which I insist upon paying is a totally different matter, of course, because it's MY initiative, rather than his expectation that dictates my actions. This does not conflict with my feminist sensibilities whatsoever. In my opinion, the fact that I no longer wrangle with my dates to pay my half of the check simply means I've learned how to receive kindness with grace. Although most men I've dated typically spend a couple of hundred dollar per date on me, mas o menos, it's the thought, not the amount that counts.
A couple of months ago I witnessed a pathetic exchange which solidified my disgust for men who expect women to pay for their half of a given date. I was at a cafe in Williamburg, when a boy and girl in some sort of unfortunate relationship began arguing. Shockingly, he began berating her for having to pay for their coffee.
"I bought dinner AND drinks last night," he said, unashamed of his cheapness and horrible manners. He truly thought he had a valid point. It was horrendous.
"What an asshole." I thought at the time, 100% sure he did not love her, and that no man who truly loves his lady as such would ever expect her to pick up the tab, let alone bring it up in public in such a humiliating way.
"The mortgage lender I'm dating won't even let me buy him a bottle of water." I added to myself, sure I had-- at least!-- assurance of his civility, if not his love. Our relationship was brief, but would have been a lot briefer if he had ever suggested I pay for dinner.
My goal is to have enough saved for the plastic surgery procedures and veneers I want by June 1st, After that I must plan for my little brother's extended visit, which means getting myself nipped, tucked and reasonably healed before he shows up. It probably means taking a hiatus from dancing, too, which could be a great thing by then, considering I'm getting a little burned out working four long shifts a week, and may be downright crispy a few weeks from now.
Actually, I wonder if I'll finally have the desire to strip out of my system entirely by then. Lord knows I cannot-- seemingly-- be a writer and a stripper at the same time. All of the finer artistic impulses which require me to concentrate for more than an hour have gone by the wayside since I started earning my living selling lap dances in a nightclub. I'm ok with that, because I still enjoy being a stripper, but I will need a free mind and schedule again soon.
PS Sharita, a street-wise veteran stripper who broke up with her boyfriend of six years recently, gave me some sound advice about money and men the other night:
"Don't tell anyone you date you're a dancer right away. And afterward, NEVER give your man ANY of your money. A man who won't treat you on a date because he assumes you have a lot of cash from dancing-- or any other reason-- is not worth your time."
I find her permanently-dilated pupils sad, but she does have a lot of sage insight to share about the perils of stripping.
I do know I have reached a stage in my life that totally precludes me from ever going dutch or picking up the tab for my date. The occasional dessert, cab ride, etc. for which I insist upon paying is a totally different matter, of course, because it's MY initiative, rather than his expectation that dictates my actions. This does not conflict with my feminist sensibilities whatsoever. In my opinion, the fact that I no longer wrangle with my dates to pay my half of the check simply means I've learned how to receive kindness with grace. Although most men I've dated typically spend a couple of hundred dollar per date on me, mas o menos, it's the thought, not the amount that counts.
A couple of months ago I witnessed a pathetic exchange which solidified my disgust for men who expect women to pay for their half of a given date. I was at a cafe in Williamburg, when a boy and girl in some sort of unfortunate relationship began arguing. Shockingly, he began berating her for having to pay for their coffee.
"I bought dinner AND drinks last night," he said, unashamed of his cheapness and horrible manners. He truly thought he had a valid point. It was horrendous.
"What an asshole." I thought at the time, 100% sure he did not love her, and that no man who truly loves his lady as such would ever expect her to pick up the tab, let alone bring it up in public in such a humiliating way.
"The mortgage lender I'm dating won't even let me buy him a bottle of water." I added to myself, sure I had-- at least!-- assurance of his civility, if not his love. Our relationship was brief, but would have been a lot briefer if he had ever suggested I pay for dinner.
Friday, May 8, 2009
Deradoorian Review from BUST Blog
I reviewed the new (Angel) Deradoorian EP for the BUST blog the other day (May 5th-- am I ever on my game...). She's the singer from Dirty Projectors FYI... scroll down to read it there:
http://www.bust.com/index.php?option=com_mojo&Itemid=31&paged=2
Mind Raft
Lovepump United
While ostensibly a record made ‘for you to do drugs to, or something,’ Mind Raft, the debut EP from Dirty Projectors singer/bassist Angel Deradoorian, comes across just as easily as a study in deliberate deconstruction. Deradoorian, who uses only her surname as her solo moniker, diffuses the occasional New Age tang by singing with a slightly more mannered, downward-spiraling inflection here than we’re used to, creating a self-described ‘gothed out’ vibe. Highlights include ‘Weed Jam,’ with it’s multilayered vocals that consist exclusively of an evolving ‘ooh, ahh’ and sounds like a cross between a Gregorian chant and an undiscovered Andrews Sisters snippet from the vault, and the sweet, pastoral interludes of ‘You Carry The Deed.’ New Yorkers should catch the Deradoorian CD release tonight at Cake Shop to witness the superhip spitfire live. Also, stream the 5 song ep here for free all week. -Robin Holly
http://www.bust.com/index.php?option=com_mojo&Itemid=31&paged=2
Mind Raft
Lovepump United
While ostensibly a record made ‘for you to do drugs to, or something,’ Mind Raft, the debut EP from Dirty Projectors singer/bassist Angel Deradoorian, comes across just as easily as a study in deliberate deconstruction. Deradoorian, who uses only her surname as her solo moniker, diffuses the occasional New Age tang by singing with a slightly more mannered, downward-spiraling inflection here than we’re used to, creating a self-described ‘gothed out’ vibe. Highlights include ‘Weed Jam,’ with it’s multilayered vocals that consist exclusively of an evolving ‘ooh, ahh’ and sounds like a cross between a Gregorian chant and an undiscovered Andrews Sisters snippet from the vault, and the sweet, pastoral interludes of ‘You Carry The Deed.’ New Yorkers should catch the Deradoorian CD release tonight at Cake Shop to witness the superhip spitfire live. Also, stream the 5 song ep here for free all week. -Robin Holly
Tuesday, May 5, 2009
Swine Flu Is Not Sexy
My mother sent a care package with anti-swine flu supplies (God bless her alarmist Midwestern sensibilities) and a little yellow ceramic bird with a matching vase and egg as well as a few other small presents, including seeds for poppies of the same gorgeous saffron hue... I believe I will try to grow them indoors.
In return I sent her some pretty tea towels, a hand-made card, a movie and drawings of fish for Mother's Day. I hope she likes the things I chose. If she knew what an ordeal mailing anything from the Bushwick post office can be, she would probably appreciate my efforts much more. At least it isn't as bad as the one on 125h street in Harlem, where I used to spend-- literally-- hours.
As much as I enjoy living in Brooklyn, I've been missing Harlem lately. I wish I had the funds to buy a brownstone for myself in West Harlem, where I would ideally hole up for the next five years or so, enjoying a blissfully insular existence and eating vegan Rastafarian food to my heart's content.
PS At work yesterday a fellow dancer sneezed onstage.
"Swine flu!!!" immediately yelled Rose, a crass punk-rock Russian girl.
"Stop it, Rose!" I exclaimed in horror, looking at the collective cringe appear instantly on the customer's faces, adding:
"Swine flu is not sexy."
If swine flu does appear at Tryst, I imagine we'll all get it. There is little ventilation in the club, and if my time working at a Dungeon with a similar lack of fresh air is any indicator, no amount of personal hygiene can really spare one being infected with-- oh, anything and everything-- in such an environment.
Saturday, May 2, 2009
Semiotics and Love
I was thinking about semiotics and love today, and drew this:
I'll be painting the picture frame white and cutting a mat soon...
I'll be painting the picture frame white and cutting a mat soon...
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