disutility function

amber mood lights & ceiling fans shadows blocking shadows all the world reflects onto the window id rather be looking out of i can feel the cold seeping into our warm womb of an art haven tortured & maimed we wander in from random predetermined suburbs speaking of art in nonspecific & incorrect terms theres nothing like the hum of traffic to help lull me to sleep youve got to believe this has got nothing to do w/ fluorescent lights & whos got the foxiest hard drive my record collection could beat up yr record collection there was something abt flashbulbs and pinky rings & so much to be said for smiles & first handshakes but forever the parking decreases until its too late to ever go home id rather be writing in the dark or in the car where its not so open not so obvious but i wont bother saying whats obvious the cameras on & people keep passing by the window & whenever the dj finally drops the fucking beat it better be in time so i dont start worrying what shit he thinks he’s pulling tonight i wont drink myself into oblivion bc i dont believe in it or bc ive got to drive home & either way ive nothing to stand beside or behind & it doesnt matter anyway which direction i face id bet those snowflakes are more or less original like these name tags we’ve got this time im running out of words im running out of ideas im running out of bra straps & window cleaner yr sense of smell reminds me of sunsets and piles of dirt in broken pavement i dont know yr name & i wouldnt remember it anyway forgive us our broken promises & unfaithful faceless lies we base our days in words we cant think of our nights in neverending worthlessness & never mending broken hearts

-> the scribbling

i wrote this a couple winters ago, and before .waitinglinetheory. existed … i was sitting along or on a windowsill in a large, open art gallery in ann arbor that featured a number of different performance artists and a dj spinning name-drop-worthy electronic music in between the performances. it was a night of hip art and hip people being, well, hip

fair enough, i guess, i was drinking a bit of red wine (my old nemesis), and casually pondering to myself abt the current state of the local art community, or lack thereof, at the time … i cant recall who else i ran into that night but i vaguely recall the shapes of ex-friends, acquaintances, co-workers and lovers in the distance; or at least a shit load of people that reminded me of them.

this was a night that certainly solidified my feelings of the real need for community in this local midwest in which we call home. and so on the near eve of a wonderful beginning to a new community here in detroit, i figure its a bit appropriate … or something