on my knees, i cry into a door knob, begging it to open. someone punches the door from the other side. there is wood dust all over the ground, as if the door was crying too. i peek through the cracks and i see him, barefoot in bed with his face buried under a pillow.

when brothers grow distant, it's not like the plump drop of an orange from a tree, or the sharp sting of a pianist hitting the wrong key, it's more like the soft sadness of a shepard losing sheep, because then there wouldn't be a shepard at all.

fantastic films

lost in la mancha - hilarious/heartbreaking documentary of terry gilliam's failed potential masterpiece "the man who killed don quixote"... an insightful look into not only director gilliam's filmmaking process, but his wonderful (and insane) imagination.
nine queens - a breathtaking argentinian movie by fabi�n bielinsky about con-men, double-crosses, sex, and stamps.
genghis blues - it's about blues, throat singing, and mongolian vodka
dithers - art film featuring david choe, sam flores, shepard fairey, bigfoot, seen, and a whole army of other street artists
lost in translation - dreamy!

films i still need to see

les triplettes de belleville
21 grams
in america
amores perros
talk to her
happy together
capturing the friedmans

roaming from lipman room humming with rattering drums, swashbuckling hips, and solo saxophones, pouring onto the street while singing songs about robots all the way to the korean bbq parlor then to hold a loved one on a futon to wake up to poetry reading after poetry reading, rocking out with viet poets, painters, and freestylers and making a sister cry in the corner, boomblast to san francisco to peep sam flores and david choe on the go, spraypainting horses and cars while people pop on the dancefloor, trip over architecture models, gluegun days together, jamie turns twenty by fake-surprise cake candlelight, speak softly with heartbroken jerry, hold hands with a girl as she avoids cracks on the sidewalk, fall asleep in the dark city and wake up on an airplane, to rush into a mother's arms

after many hours of creative brouharhar, i'm now burnt out. officially burnt out... but i still got a ton of stuff for architecture due for monday. oy, i'm fucked.

in my dream last night i was lost in a beautiful book that i didn't know who wrote until i realized the writer was me, the dreamer. i woke up in a furious haze and rushed to the computer to try to type all the haunting lines i read in my dream but by the time i got there i had forgotten them all

a cheshire cat moon tumbles into clouds black like burnt bread and chokes on nitric smoke.

... a child counts the stars in a ravaged sky to keep the howl of bombs distant

why don't we ever hear about how many iraqi civilians die over there? a british report suggests that between 5000 and 7000 iraqi civilians have died during the US invasion, and 2 to 3 thousand more have died since bush's declaration of "an end to major combat in iraq." but no one can know really for sure how many have died since our white house refuses to count the number of people we've deciimated to "free" a country.

"The citizens of Iraq are coming to know what kind of people we have sent to liberate them. American forces and our allies are treating innocent civilians with kindness," declares our president.

i celebrate the triumphant return of a computer to my room with milk and cookies and some delicate hip hop just loud enough to annoy (but not wake) my roommates in their sleep.

i gave every ounce of soul i had left in me to theatre rice last weekend and architecture this past weekend and now i am just a spine and a shadow. i look forward to a week of simple poetry (i'm set to perform four times this week.) i tried writing tonight and once again i am taught that there is no trying in writing.

this is definately my last semester of theatre rice. i'd love to run another round of troupe but yeah, i got other priorities now. theatre rice has been good to me (and vice versa) and i'm glad that i'm leaving on a good note. i'll miss it like maddogs. next semester, we will fill the loudmouth asians project with a renewed strength of freestyle creativity and come together with our molotov tongues to french kiss (in theatre, poetry, music, and movie) and spit fireflies...

tonight, i want to plummet into my room so messy with papers, books, and old t-shirts, and dig through the dusty clutter until i find relief curled in a corner under a napkin. relief will be shy to speak to me but i will hum a lullaby about the chubby moon to her. she'll relent and cup my cheek with her transparent hand. "it's good to see you again," i'll think but won't say. she'll lean in close and her lip will almost touch my ear...

i have a present for you, she says, a set of eyelids so that you can close your eyes when you dream.

the rain comes down to pet me on the head and i bite back a "fuck off." not sure what day it is. if today really is saturday that means i've been awake since thursday. take one guess why i'm not sleeping.

but, by-the-by, thank you sara for staying up too.

go-go yarubi turned 22 today. she survived the massacre of the crazy 88s and escaped to a wonderful apartment dizzy with alcohol and photographs, and a cake highjacked by icing. happy birthday, lili, queen of the demons. and happy birthday, diane lin, twas fun festivities on friday... always a pleasure to hang at the cyrus crib. an is still off galloping through france. i must remember to send her a postcard.

i've got beautiful friends.