I used to think the reason I dragged half of my friends growing up into my den to watch My Own Private Idaho was because of the sex scenes. Being a blossoming art fag, I appreciated the stills they used to represent the sexual exploits of the movie's characters. Years later, when I would push people to watch 20 Centimetros, I thought it was the costumery and musical-meets-alleyway quality of its composition. Of course, it was obvious that part of the attraction was the validation of my own desires and realities: the ability to execute seamless hiding places outside at night, flamboyance, cavalierness, learning a construction of 'woman', and being a male hustler. But that wasn't even it. It wasn't until all these years later that I realized it was also the pass-out-dream-induced relation to reality that pulled me so obsessively towards these two films. Mike (My Own Private Idaho), Marieta (20 centimetros), and I all are queers with a particular relationship to narcolepsy. Who would have known?*(pause)
In any case, above, you will see my red-legging'ed left leg that ends in a leg warmer curled up on my comforter. It is fall at last. [And yes, this is false advertising. I still have no mattress to speak of after 'the incident'.]
Be well. Be warm. Be loving enough to invite those in who matter~
k
Current soundtrack: The xx: XX. It is something between a dream, and being consentually trapped inside an aquarium of warmed gel infused with light roughly the same color as the ring in the attached photo.
*= Most of my co-workers, a decent number of my bus drivers, the housemates that would find me asleep with a burrito in bed, and any person who put two-and-two together to realize I would only hang out in strangely brief intervals.
