Saturday, february 23, 2002 - 12:15pm
i was afraid i would be met with darting glances and empty silence. i was afraid every thought of mine would be "so this is what he's like now" and every story from her lips would be questing "this is what he was like then?"
i fill in his stories that she has heard a thousand time before with the incriminating details he conveniently left out.
"...we drank a lot" he said i suppose it clouded my memory. it makes me forget things... apparently he has forgotten more.
and she is just a girl telling stories with a camera around her neck. i wonder if she is seeing things in frames as snap shots and story lines, color and light. unknowingly checking with me for the footnotes she didn't know existed.
i'm anxious around photographers. do they see the world in still frames angles and light?
i see things as a puzzle, a bigger picture. some how she and i fit close enough in design to speak the same language.
so we converse. snippets of him make an antecdotal accent to the stories of our lives.
i'm painting pictures with poetic tension in my brain. things that doesn't really exist. (i seem to do that a lot. left to my own devices i could create my own abstract world of only conversations in my head)
i drink more coffee and feel it go to my head. my hands attempt to tell the stories for me. my mind is clearing and i'm thinking faster than my mouth.
-alex***MICROCOSM PUBLISHING***we make 1" buttons, stickers, shirts, and patches. we also distro recrods, books, zines and more. this is how joe and i make a living
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