I’ve been blessed with friends who paint, sculpt, carve, design, sing, and compose, and I’ve been fortunate enough to find a printer and framer who are artists themselves in what they do. Even though they have different mediums and ways of expressing themselves, they’re all driven by a sense of passion. Some can explain where it comes from, some can’t, but you can tell it’s rooted deep within their beings.
Passionate people have always attracted me. When you talk to them, you become filled with ebullient energy. You feed off each other, like a dialogue of ideas and inspiration.
It’s warming. It’s moving.
Together, you become something that’s greater than you are by yourself.
The first thing I notice about a girl is her face, but the eyes are what hold my attention.
Big, round, and pure. They’re the ultimate sign of femininity, because they convey innocence, youth, vitality.
Sometimes, the most intimate and personal thing you can do — from having a conversation to making love — is make eye-contact.
It became painfully obvious that my turn-on of girls crying is related to my own penchant for sad lovemaking.
I’ve always liked the idea of bringing someone from tears to blissful physical pleasure. Like make-up sex without the fighting.
A girl was able to do that for me once, so I’ve always wanted to be able to do it for someone else.
Either that, or my sadness is mingling with my lust.
I’m sitting on my chaise in the dark, Macbook Pro in lap, curtains open to the snow outside. Every now and then, the wind catches a loose patch of snow, and it sounds like sand dragging along the ground outside. If you close your eyes, it’s like you’re sitting on a beach at low-tide under a night sky.
I haven’t done this in a while.
The show is over. There’s supposed to be one more interview next week, but at least I can breathe now. I’ve finally had time to clean the house, which is probably why I feel comfortable enough to write.
There are icons for movies on my desktop, ones I’ve started watching but haven’t finished, because I haven’t been able to emotionally invest in them. I did, however, get a chance to watch Cidade de Deus which is the best movie I’ve seen in months, and Constantine, purely for the Tilda-Swinton-as-angel factor.
I realized that I like girls who look like boys. I hope this doesn’t mean I’m gay.
On a sticky, I seem to have written “a small pair of skis”. I don’t remember doing this, or what for. There’s also a phone number there with no name. I want to call the number to find out who it is, but I’d just hang up if someone answered and that’d be rude.
I should call Dan. I should reorganize my photos for appropriate backup. I should be practicing Tai Chi. I should be having more fun. I should be filling out my thought record worksheets.
But right now, I should really be in bed.