...but for posterity, Tragic Magic of the Gothic Tropic, my journal from 2008-2009ish. The tile of this journal was based partly on a NatGeo documentary on the Queenslander that is quite charming if you can ignore the narrator's overacting as the house.
some Gangi poster sketches, all rejected. Matt likes Dada.
early draft of "Runnintil You Fall" / Text from gorgeous Robby
DON'T RAISE THE ROOF, BREAK THE CEILING
more Robby texts, and words from other boys/manz
writing in A B C D E F / "Didn't know well enough to think of less suggest how easy it is to tell a lie when high when the water of the night sweetens to wine"
ant hill as analogy for love, sick love / sketch of my cuttle fish squirt gun that i used to control the loveable demonic cats in my apartment.
the 60s had free love, we have free attention. / this is me but you must rsvp and get a hand stamp if you plan on getting stoned by the toll booth in illegal zonage - and there's the task. / early draft of 1-800-NOW-DONT
an origin myth / "in many ways there is still nothing more harrowing than a woman who misjudges her bronzer requirements" = subway thoughts.
drafts that would be broken up into a few poems. are these even poems?
thoughts on seeing my first dead body / quote on the top right is from Strangers with Candy
a little art criticism of the Martin Kippenberger MoMA show, and some Sol Lewit paper works: "how much can you do to paper without ever making art"
art criticism continued / and the definition of my existence.
if the hilltops were convexed, and we calmed them down, would we have lakes instead? this is the nonsense that plagues me.
she does it for the shivers on the way home / scenarios that follow #1 are far more obscene
sloppy anatomy of a party table at Ojay's (aka Zebra Fucking Katz) apartment in the West Village
"happy and disgusted by my happiness or miserable and enchanted by my misery." - more definitions of life
in which i pine like christmas.
poem "no or every - know or envy - direction" / handwriting analysis on the subway
that love sick again
dancing to the light spots behind my eyes.
minimalism may have overtaken this goal.
the end, punctuated by the heart from Tom's dumpling menu. he was so fucking reluctant to give me the menu, classic dickhead.