"you can’t always rate the value of a piece of art through the short turnaround ways that we tend to assess things.”

Impatiently awaiting for it to cool from its green oven baking experience, and lacking the proper serving tools, I slice into golden brown perfection. I slide a knife underneath to remove the large triangular portion carved out, and watch as the soggy innards ooze from the still doughy crust.

A much exaggerated description to be sure, but needless to say my first pie attempt wasn't quite done yet. Of course, I still ate it, I mean, you can't go wrong with those kick ass ingredients.

--
Earlier today I opened my portfolio filled with old projects from my first studio classes. With an apartment of still empty walls, I wondered if I should put my own work up. Some do seem worthy enough to frame, but I realized I haven't done any major art work since those classes, already from a few years ago, other than small sketches and border patterns.

Within the next week I hope to set up my easel and old art supplies I haven't touched in a while. I have a few ideas I could work on anyway and possible Christmas presents...

--
Fight Club celebrates 10 years with the release of a blu-ray anniversary edition on November 17th. A psychoanalytical zeitgeist of human society and material culture is still being reviewed and researched, serving as a contradiction to commercialism itself with its highly obsessive layers. And it is, by far, one of my all-time favorites.

"I am Jack's complete lack of surprise."

"Ernest Hemmingway once said, 'The world is a fine place and worth fighting for.' I agree with the second part."

I am finished.
A hellish weekend spent completely obliterated, this empty bottle of local wine marks the end of an era. By the beginning of November, it will all be over; no more mascara stains on pillows, no more haunting memories, no more fucked up "anniversary's". I am finished.

And I already have a head start. I dug out my mini composition book scrawled with pending recipes. Today's attempt: Pumpkin Spice Latte.

Heat milk, pumpkin, and spices on stove, add vanilla extract and more spices, throw it in the blender, dump in the coffee, and -POW!- you have a sink full of dirty dishes.

But it is chock full of deliciousness. And now that I have so much pumpkin and spices leftover, my next project to bring in this November right, and perhaps to kickoff a new era: Pumpkin Pie.

Whipped cream anyone?

"...the World, the Universe."

Cigarettes burning, smoke exhaled, curling around my nostrils, stale and ashen. I breathe the spiced scent of my neighbor's addiction from the deck outside my living room windows. I adopt a second-hand habit, perhaps to distract from my own addictions, or rather withdrawals.

Facing a wall of torn, faded covers I leaf through the tattered, bent pages of scribbled notes in margins and underlined phrases.

"What was after the universe? Nothing."


Relapse. Novels, plays, short stories, epic poems; I dive into the unspoken genius of classic literature long avoided through recovery from academic exhaustion.

And I can't get enough. I want to read and reread everything, I want to study, to analyze, to write, and all without the pressure of a syllabus. Joyce, Browning, Wilde, they all beckon me, inviting me to taste each delicious page, and devour every word.

To further my craving, I was attracted by a brief article in The New York Times on a current exhibition. Steve Wolfe on Paper reproduces timeless books and vinyls to, in a sense, preserve weathered classics after generations of use... an inspiration to us all.

We Are...

Restless sleep, twisted sheets flapping madly against tireless legs. Maybe he'll be early.

I kick the blankets from my bed, stirring through the still darkness of a way too early morning. How cold is it gonna be? Will it rain? Which socks should I wear? Should I take -

Excited thoughts streaming, interrupted by light tapping on my apartment door.

...

"Here, you better hold on to these."

I hand the large, flat tickets to my dad as we trek the muddied lot of bored tailgaters pulling tight on their authentic fleeces, and past the drunken fans dressed in white and blue wigs. Up the hill to the tall silver gates, we soon enter into the greatest day of our lives.

PSU vs Eastern Illinois

EJ Row 1

touchdown pass

field goal

Blue Band

Take a hike

I woke early to a thick morning fog, threw on some torn jeans, layers of thin flannel patterned shirts, my trucker hat with the camouflage rabbits, and tossing my canvas Jeep bag over my shoulder, already packed with my own trail mix and shiny red thermos, I set out for an adventure.
Still unfamiliar with much of the area, it took awhile to find the nearly hidden back road that stretches up a steep hill to a small gravel parking lot. Mount Nittany.
I’ve been warned about these hiking trails; with several steep inclines, I was often climbing the rocky pathways at an 80 degree angle. Around the top of the mountain, the trails smoothed out, speckled with sun spots glimmering between the bending creaking trunks of soon-to-be-leafless trees, reminding me of the trails I ran in the south by the lake one year ago. Toad from Mario Bros?

I was distracted by the bursts of reds and yellows from the few leaves already changed among the still vast greens. I’ve started a project, a series of branches and leaves with pen & ink, which I now see as rather bland and 2-dimensional compared to nature itself.
I took the “road less traveled”, changing trails for the longer, farther, riskier one. It was clear not many visitors hiked this way, for the plants and bushes created a narrow corridor reaching out with their long branches as though to grab your ankles and arms and pull you apart.
I thought of the Lost Boys from Sudan who walked for weeks across their country in Africa (and not on carefully marked trails) as I’m currently reading “What is the What” told by a survivor through Dave Eggers’ clever words, describing his boyhood lost through a war unresolved.
The path seemed to change, as though I’ve crossed onto another mountain range, far from civilization. But it eventually wrapped around the mountain as I found myself slowly climbing down the familiar rock covered cliff. I hiked over 3 hours, probably covering close to 10 miles.
But the day was perfect and exactly what I needed after these recent weeks. I want to come back later next month, in the heart of fall, when the trees are all different colors, the cool air spiced by fallen leaves crunching underfoot, the scenic views clearer, better.

"Growing darkness taking dawn

I was me but now he's gone."

“Like the autumn trees that shed its orange and yellow leaves”

I dial the number one last time, determined to make it official. I knew this would be the beginning of my inevitable breakdown, but I had to make sure in the only way I could. It was now or never, and after a year, I couldn’t let myself wonder about it anymore.

It rings once, heart quickens pace… twice, hands tremble… someone picks up – “Hello.” sings a young girl’s voice.

My heart shatters, everything goes black. The floor opens up and swallows me whole.

“Helloooo?”

Smudged tears of gray streaming down my cheeks, I lay down the phone, never speaking a word. I silently listen as the confused girl utters a few more annoyed “hellos” until she finally hangs up.

And I thought it was hard when the number was disconnected before. Now it is in use by someone else. I can only think of our final conversation 6 months ago, when we decided to stay in touch; the last thing I heard him say was “I’ll call you back.” There was no goodbye, no end…

The “hard” has become impossible.

I begin to wonder if I will ever get over something as intense as this, if I will ever be able to move on. Like the autumn trees that shed its orange and yellow leaves, my world will continue to fall apart, piece by piece, until nothing is left. Just me and vast nothingness.