My favorite music to listen to while working with anything Adobe CS3.

2:04 No hay muerte, hay mudanza... y del otro lado te esperan gente maravillosa : Ghandi, Miguel Angel, Whitman, San Agustin, la madre Teresa, TU abuela y mi madre...
En las palabras mismas de TU madre, a los estilos foneticos de una favorita mia...holy foq moderfoqer...
Que coños hacen en el mismo lugar, al mismo tiempo, ese grupo de personajes y MI abuela y TU madre? En serio, que hacen? Mi abuela, que señora, por dios!
YO AMO YOUTUBE.

Wakey, wakey, eggs n' bakey! Feliz Domingo a todos.

Amo a Miranda July,
por que es graciosa e inteligente y perfecta.
Si hubiera mas mujeres en el mundo como Miranda July yo seria lesbiana.

Doug: You think you're so much better then me Botwin, 'cus your van has no windows?
Andy: Doug, that is a window.
Doug: A window to what Andy, a window to what?

WEEDS S04E04

This was a really lame yet heartfelt post I have decided to erase. Anyway, thank you to whom it is due and all that corny shit.

I tilt my head back.
The swift steps of prostitutes and early joggers are easily confused
with an intoxicated notion of a sea breeze gone bad.
Too bad you don't think about me because I wish you did.
I wish I knew how to make you want me.
I wish, of all the tricks I know, I had that one up my sleeve.
But I don't, and I know.

There are these constant reminders of you.
Common, ordinary, everyday things.
Items: toaster ovens, coffee makers, garbage bags.
They make their way off the shelves and into my bed.
There are toiletries, tampons, and toilet paper. The towels we bought, the toothpaste you picked out for me at the supermarket. The smell of you still, the fruit that rots in that bowl I can't bear to throw out.
I no longer love you, not like before.
In fact I oscillate between nausea and nostalgia .
I'm such a sucker for nostalgia.
With what love I have left I want to get rid of you.

I'm recovering what makes sense in my sexuality. I am aware now, not only of moments, but also of body parts. I am over-cum with it.

The sticky sweaty moistness of it all, remember that?

The way the room smells after we fool around, remember that?

Your tiny dark latino hands on my fat white ass, remember that?

Ella es mi lesbiana favorita del momento. No le pedi permiso de subir su foto como ella no me pidio permiso de convertirme en una letra del abecedario.
La conoci un dia cuando la vi en un bar, y dije mira, la cholilla.
Si la ven por la calle gritenle, OJITOS! Te manda saludos chica D.
Soy chica D, lo cual resulta apropiado, por que antes ese era el tamaño de mis tetas. Aunque eso ella no lo podia saber.
Tengo personas favoritas en cada categoria, mi puto favorito, mi cogida favorita, mi cita favorita, mi familiar favorito, mi perro chihuahueño favorito, mi compañero del trabajo favorito. Las personas categorizadas me tranquilizan.
Friendships are fickle, le dije a otra de mis personas favoritas que no he querido categorizar, hablabamos de otras cosas, pero yo me referia a todo esto.
Este es su blog.

Explanicación.

A brief explanation: This is a new blog, but some of the stuff I've just published is old, I didn't have anywhere to publish it.
Una breve explicacion: Este blog es nuevo, algunas de las cosas que estoy publicando son viejas, no tenia donde publicarlas.

Graphic Analogies I is a series of drawings that explore possible interpretations provoked by the interplay of common relationships between everyday objects, stripped of their "quality" as "things" , decontextualized and represented graphically, and popular collocations and phrases. Forced into an analogy, the sock and the clothespin adquire characteristics and connotations not pertaining to their material essence,that which makes them things, nor to the lines used to portray them, that which makes them representation of things, a new thing within itself. Drawn and composed in a way that suggests a metaphoric imitation of the phrase "you complete me", where one object (you/clothespin/sock) completes another (me/clothespin/sock).

Esta foto la tomo Andres Garay, el fue mi maestro.
Mexico City will kill me.
I live in an earthquake prone, earthquake bound city . Bound to and for mass destruction and chaos and upheaval.I am as sound minded as the next one, except there is no sound, just rocking back and forth and right down the middle.I get up from my bed and the ground bellow me trembles, I head for the bathroom and the lights are still on. They sway side to side.The earth might shake and I might die.
I disassociate I disappear I evaporate I fall through the cracks because solid earth is nothing more then melting rocks and stagnant water.
There is no ground to stand on, no sound to be minded by, no next one, not forward just slipping, swallowed by cracks too big to tie together. Too big for rubber bands and strands of hair and pieces and strips of other sorts and things.
Too big for me, much too complicated and much too loud.

I'd forgotten about Julie Andrews, I'd forgotten about the Sound of Music...
There's this one girl, she asks me all kinds of questions I should have the answers to. I did, I used to, after all they're all about me.

Things I used to know before I degenerated, before the system failure, are now all blank answers, generic responses, clichés to end all clichés.
Before I believed myself to be extraordinary, now I know myself to be nothing but average.
I am uninteresting and lame, I am severed at the head: lost all connection between my mind and other parts of me I might need, my groin, my hands, my stupid clumsy feet.

When I was little, my mom would ground me months at a time with no tv, we had only a couple of kids movies, so I read, all day, all the time, and then when I wanted the fantasies to play out, I watched the Sound of Music over and over again.
I could sing along, except I didn't because I can't.

I can't tell my favorite movie from a hole in the ground.
I'd have to separate, be fully aware, record, acknowledge.
Time to think about myself, requires time. I haven't got any.
But I sure do fucking love Julie Andrews.

The loneliness I once believed to be irrefutably overwhelming has proved to be bearable. I have become, as before, ever-doting companion to myself. On the bad days it is the physicality of it all that sidetracks me, the upset stomach, rapidly beating heart, difficulty breathing... I often wake up with a sort of solid tear building right under my eyes, tearing at the flesh, eager to drip drop all over everything. Crying is thoroughly annoying.
It has dawned on me that solitude has allowed me, through a desperate and constant narration and often documentation of my actions, to recover a certain sense, though fleeting, of meaningfulness. Perhaps more like purposefulness accompanied by an outstanding awareness, I am aware of smaller, less important things, I am aware of moments. Purposefulness is also annoying.
I walked in the rain today, I have always said I like walking in the rain, I say a lot of things about myself, things I probably can't assert with certainty. A woman walked past me and I saw her face and remembered I'd once fallen in love with her, more than a decade ago, I would've called out to her, except I knew she couldn't see me on account of the gray saturated shit filled smog filled Sunday sky and I couldn't for the life of me , remember her name.

I could’ve bought some pills to help me sleep, but I just stood there in the pharmacy staring at a wide array of feminine hygiene products.

Just another, new, stupid lonely Sunday. It's been awhile.