ned smith the third.

[jacktellslies]

i just had a really lovely night; it involved frida kahlo, making brownies in a hotel room, and playing a game with words during which everyone squished together on a bed that was only just slightly too small. we all had our own secret rooms, and we filled them with whatever we wished.

i wrote a letter to my father today in my head, because i'm reading ulysses. i'm really enjoying it, and it's eating my life a little, as good books should. i'd like to tell him, though, because it is something about which i've always wanted to talk to him. james joyce reminds me of him, perhaps a bit more than he should. quests for identities and fathers are circular things, probably because they've been mythologized to the point of cliche. such paths are too well worn for my tastes. would that it were not so.

i'd like to read a book filled with your marginal notes. i'm sure i'd fall in love with you then.

if i'm slightly (or completely) nonsensical, i blame the hour.

Comments

[earlofgrey.livejournal.com]

you aren't at all, silly! goodness!

[schizometric.livejournal.com]

I won't hear a word of it! This is one thing I won't budge on, though believe me people have tried to convince me otherwise. I am a disease.

There is no arguing with the truth, you see. So you may as well accept it & hope you aren't infected!

[earlofgrey.livejournal.com]

le sigh.

[schizometric.livejournal.com]

It's true! I promise!