Currently Reading Crime and Punishment (Bantam Classics) By Fyodor Dostoevsky, Constance Garnett see related

This is not a xanga entry.

The works of Rene Magritte are at the LACMA (Los Angeles County Museum of Art) right now; didn't know too much about the guy and didn't care to check it out when I was there . . . until Mike told me the exhibit was pretty fucking cool . . . and until I looked him up on Wikipedia: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Magritte

Kids have it so easy these days. When I was young, I had a hardcover encyclopedia set in alphabetical order on the top shelf of my desk. They were beige-y marble colored with blue lettering, and they were one of my prides and joys (besides this cool little dollhouse I had). Sometimes I paged through them when I wanted to escape to a different place, to peruse maps and histories of other countries . . . . . and sometimes I had to page through them when it came time for schoolwork and book reports. Not that I hated doing it when it came to that type of stuff, but it definitely took some time.

Now all people have to do is type something on Wikipedia, and voila! Instant information.

It's the same thing with porn, too. Not with the assistance of Wikipedia, of course, but with the assistance of Google (a.k.a. Skynet, as my roommate Nick likes to refer to them).

Anyway, instead of spending time at the Magritte exhibit, I found myself exploring the other exhibits. Came across a portrait of Frida Kahlo, done by Diego Rivera. The caption accompanying the painting said that the portrait bears a striking resemblance to Frida's own self-portrait . . . to which I immediately thought, awww, her husband perceives her in the same way that she perceives her own self. True love, how cute.

Either that, or he put tracing paper over her portrait and just copied it.

Plus, a unibrow is pretty easy to draw.

"The Minotauromachy" by Pablo Picasso is also at the LACMA, just until February 25 (which will be the day that Guillermo del Toro takes home the Academy Awards for Best Foreign Language Film, Best Cinematography and Best Writing, Directly for the Screen, for Pan's Labyrinth . . . hopefully). The images in this print reminded me of the garbled images in "Guernica" . . . but more that than, this print was presented in 8 phases or states, the eighth "state" being a colored, finished -- if you will -- version of the 7th state.

The first state was barely there, lightly etched and undefined. The second state of the print contained harder lines, sharp curves, with more visible figures and objects. As the phases of the print progressed . . . things became darker or lighter, more obscure or more clear. I found myself completely captivated with the process of the print . . . and being largely unimpressed with the "final" finished product. It was rather anti-climactic for me.

I wonder if this is what retirement will feel like. Sitting in some quiet house in Pebble Beach or Fill-In-The-Blank Beach, looking out the window with an iced tea in my wrinkly hand thinking . . . this is it?? I've been waiting my whole life . . . . for this?

Which is why people should stop projecting a vision of happiness in the far-flung future, stop waiting for something to happen, stop envisioning, just . . . Stop.  

I am reminded of a woman I saw on the 2nd floor, sitting on a leather cushioned bench in front of one of the largest paintings on display. She was sitting there quietly, gazing at the painting . . . and I didn't want to walk in front of her to obstruct her view. So I walked behind her and stopped to observe what she was looking at.

She wasn't looking at anything in particular, just taking in the painting with her eyes. Sitting quietly. Maybe examining different areas of the painting . . . even though the painting wasn't going to move or going to change. She just sat there. Watching it. Absorbing it. Being present to it. Stopping. To. Take. It. In. 

She was watching the painting like we should watch the moments right in front of us.        

This is not an exit.

So James told me that the guy who does the voiceover for "let's get ready to rummmmbbbllllllllle" looks like Peter North.

Also, the coffee brand in our office is called "Vanilla Nut Cream."

That is all.

I wrote a journal entry on October 18, 2006. This is how it began.

"Something about pain keeps you present to life. The right side of my face hurts. My ear. My right ear. My achilles heal."

And then I realized I wrote "heal" instead of "heel." I didn't go back and cross it out. I left it as it is. I want my scars to heal. I don't want to have surgery. I don't want incisions. Except for one. I want memory surgery. I want these childhood memories of hospitals and anaesthesia and gauze and I.V.'s extracted from my mind. I want these images, these images that weaken me, whittle me, and break me . . . .out. Cut out. Pulled out. Gone. But there is no doctor for that. Where is Lacuna, Inc. when you really need it?

I saw The Departed for the second time last night, at The Grove. As I've explained to everyone that asks me, this movie is like incredible, amazing sex --  for some reason you can't seem to get it out of your mind, long after you've left the theater. It stays with you. It lingers. It's cinematic perfection. Anybody that begs to differ . . . feel free to do so and express your opinion. But after you're done doing so, feel free to blow me.

There is a Cuban restaurant on La Cienega called Versailles, a small Havana haven. The parking lot pavement is cracked and cramped, but you can't help but notice the different kinds of cars parked there. Nice cars. Shitty cars. Waxed cars. Dented cars. In-between cars. And inside the restaurant, after you wait in the line that rolls outside of the door . . . . are different kinds of people. Black people. Brown people. Tan people. Light people. All eating at these tiny tables, all eating the same food and loving it . . . . from the mango milkshakes to the shredded beef, from the sticky rice to the fried bananas. This is what I am learning to love about Los Angeles.

Hancock Park just to the west of Koreatown. Comparing just north of Pico to just south of Pico. Little Ethiopia right next to what I like to call, Little Israel. You can go five blocks, and you find yourself in a glossy neighborhood. You can go 5 more blocks, and then you're in a grafitti neighborhood. And you keep driving, and it always changes. It's always different. And the same street can take you through both crime-infested and condo-infested areas (*cough* Wilshire Blvd. *cough*). It all exists in the same place. It's all intertwined. And I dig that. 

And so. . . I guess you could say, ever since my ear flared up again . . . I've been feeling like someone dropped me off on the shitty side of Wilshire. Guess I might as well take advantage of the 24 hour tofu houses while I'm here. And stop being scared.  

And keep telling myself that this isn't the end.     

A real estate broker just called the office and wanted me to make sure that I received her fax. I ask her how many pages it is. She says "a lotta pages." Wow. I'm not too big on math, but since when did "a lotta" become a number?

When I was a kid, I thought adults were invincible. Now, I think most adults are dolts.

A-dolts, if you will.