the past week i kept waking up in a strange mood at exactly 3 a.m. in this pause between sleeping, i practiced at letters. i began an elegant, passionate, honest communication. each night i edited and deliberated over its deliverance. each morning, i secured my work in my secret safe. but my letters would fade during the day. day by day, they decayed. periods and dots over i’s became pinpricks as tiny, parasitic mouths worried my words. here was a passage clinging to meaning by perilously fragile threads; within a week, the persistence of moths had frayed it into lace.

i have a sense that i’ve been remiss about the imperative of some certain missive. but i’ve lost the urgency to say anything at all. now, i can sleep well again.

…or not so well. T^T i’ve been having nightmares about zombies infected with piggy influenza and back alley decapitations (i have mexico-in-the-news to thank for these nightly delights). also, i have a reoccurring skyscraper opening its many mouths to expel exclamations in broken glass.

i have one more picture ready and uploaded to show, and it is such a good one. it is a special delivery from me to you, with friendly intentions to your well-being and happinesses!

(this picture is so enjoyable because the rabbits are bobbing earnestly yet going nowhere.)

in this handsome and tricky picture, two rabbits happen at once because i wanted to double the pleasure of the rabbit’s good looks; in the reality of his fiction, he is a single rabbit who is only one himself at a time. the rabbit’s name is monica b. lopez. the b stands for buffmallow. for breakfast he loves to eat small, dewy cabbages. for lunch, he nibbles fresh clovers and vegan hams. for dinner, he suckles at the teats of unsuspecting sheep.

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many sheep have wept.

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……..i named this ‘conejito malo’ after monica bellucci! because he has sensual lips and a soft, full body like hers.

「DEAR DIARY,
i would never date a guy named dan who calls himself “the danimal.” just, no. also, what is it about anthony? i hope it’s just (and only just) that i never got to tell him the real reason why i begged him to say, “leave the gun, take the cannoli” that one time. anyway my baby brother says i’m attracted to psychopaths, and he bought me a fake diamond encrusted scarface “pimp goblet” for christmas. it looks like movie versions of the holy grail except it’s not full of christ’s blood or pimp ambrosia; i just keep my most precious hello kitties in there. and i don’t care what he says, about al pacino and clint eastwood having LOS OJOS LOCOS, they were super dreamy back when they weren’t living fossils. you know what else is a living fossil? the goddamned coelacanth. in conclusion, i still think about anthony. it is so embarrassing and ugly–hideously horrendously horribly girly. but then again, “what have [i] lost? nothing! nothing will come from nothing, you know what they say?”」

for the past fifteen minutes, my computer’s been telling me that i only have four minutes and 45 seconds of battery life left. i have a feeling it’s going space odyssey hal on me. so before i lose all contact — and i WILL somehow get my ssbb art uploaded by deadline — here is what i already had scanned.

these two i drew to bach and chopin (and some nice audiobooks). the piano concertos are addictive, and it’s amazing how generous the music is (that is, you can listen to a piece over and over again, and it suits all moods). it’s natural to associate music with colors — sunspot whites and bright yellows mark the highest notes and deepen into indigos at the very lowest — so i dreamed paul klee was possessed by chopin and painted patterns, which could be directly translated into piano. (btw, there is no “black” note or a really “black” music, i discovered)
and then i dreamed,
one of my reoccuring characters, mandore, had a band, although more conservative critics dismissed them as “tuneless whores in feathered dresses.” papagena played panpipes and keyboards and a little metal fish; voladora played a theremin cello and tubular bells; odette played the ethereal eggshell dulcimer. had odette chosen the medium of her expression, because she’d always been inclined to suicidal madness? or did the instrument drive her insane? the dulcimer could only perform for four minutes and forty-five seconds before crumbling to brittle bits. while the rest of the band played, odette would pick up the pieces and play her part, backwards, in her head.

over thanksgiving i fell desperately in love with mum’s wii. mum’s boyfriend helped me to design the perfect virtual representation of myself — my “mii” — and my mii is the me i have always wanted to be. the baldness represents enlightenment by allowing divine light to penetrate easily into my thinking dome, however, the lush hairs on the sides that flow into the goatee represent my animal nature and corporeality; the eyes sparkle with clarity (the right eye) and rapacious lust for food and sex (the left eye, sinistra, the evil eye). gender: female! height: short! favorite candy: 초코송이! hates: computers, witch’s curses, tropical weather, ugg boots!

i also want to show the best present that i’ve received in ages. usually children paint bright primary-color landscapes and cheery animals, but this eight year-old dived into reds and blacks. i’m fond of him because i can tell he’ll grow into an impressive adult, a warrior poet: he’s small but already built like a bull or tank, yet he loves writing and music and art, and he always defends bullied children. so bushido! this painting is a “dragon’s eye” to protect me. i’m both amused and touched.

hello and hi and why do i read histories when i’m incapable of processing the material? how can i know what happened two centuries ago if i can’t recall what i read two minutes ago? i can never get facts straight, because they all twist anachronistically. this would be my idea of a period piece: it was the summer of the 1948 winter olympics. kurosawa ran away with van gogh’s crows in the middle of monsoon season. that very afternoon the city’s atmospheric tempo accelerated from adagio to allegro to a category six typhoon. the wind blew windows out of skyscrapers, scattering glass like confetti overhead as fleeing tycoons sped against hokusai-sized waves. hearst’s inkwells spilled and rockefeller’s petroleum wells bled blackly in the tide. tammany hall and cosa nostra fell beneath their own faulty stonemasonry. it was a black tuesday, followed by forty days and forty nights of “won’t sway, no way” type of unrelentingly shitty weather.

but from a bird’s eye view, the eye of the storm was calm.

epilogue: the murder of crows hitchcocked west past the brandywine river and wheeled above a woman with grass stains all over her pink, cheap cotton dress. one landed on her overturned wheelchair and croaked staccatissimo, and four others settled in a tree to watch her crawl through wyeth’s weed-choked fields. in the woman’s frostbitten hands the grass shattered like glass, and in the wind the shards scattered like confetti.

what’s scattered on my bed right now (besides imaginary confetti):

1.drawings, 2.books i’ll never manage to finish, 3.back issues of national geographic, which i’ll read cover to cover, again and again, 4.unresolved paper icosahedra, 5.imaginary friends

that’s right, my restlessly fidgety hands are addicted to modular origami.
if i’m not around i’m probably busy trying to crease the PERFECT valley fold.

yesterday i enjoyed moroccan mint tea and mango sorbet with rose petal preserves. today i had zongzi and hi-c. i was too lazy to visit the noguchi museum and instead loitered near 5pointz, where a graffito of rembrandt remarked upon my mood.

i listened to mozart’s piano concertos and a tribe called quest and felt defensive about being uncultured — that is, not being connoisseur of high culture, low/pop culture, or even smaller, more localized subculture. i felt self-conscious about being merely feebly conscious of my social environment. but i think a lot of people sympathize with me, especially in new york, where so many inhabitants feel like cards lost in the urban shuffle, or simply placed in the wrong deck.
a tiny parable: bored with solitaire, grace of spades decided to play a few rounds — that is, to fool around — with jack hearts. theirs was not a match made in heaven, but a duel of wild deuces. time and time and a deuce of a time again, each tried to trump the other’s poker face. 「i think we’re trying to play the same game by different rules」she observed「at this rate we’ll both end up losing」to which he snapped, “i’m not a loser.” she sighed「the stakes are getting higher」to which he replied, “that’s life. you have to gamble to win, and… fuck it. i’m not aesop.” she muttered「이솝은 누구냐?」to which he sputtered “what?” 「exactly」she said. he figured that meant she agreed with him and decided he’d won… won what exactly? neither knew.

speaking of cities-
the city is the main character in 철콘 근크리트 (uuuh i have no idea how to anglicize this title), a japanese animated film. i loved the cityscapes, i loved the character of “the rat,” and white was to black what my own little brother is to me, so i bawled over a few scenes. i ordered the original three-volume books.

animation [good]:

comic [extra excellently exceptionally…good]: