valentino da budapesti

the 19th cookbook
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2001-11-20 19:13:26 (UTC)

It rains. It is a dark wet grey..

It rains. It is a dark wet grey gray concrete day.
At school I am forced to listen to the quaint ambitions of
students to produce mediocre art projects. This slows down
a potentially satisfactory day by one or two steps. Later,
I try to print my first attempts at 360 degree colour
pinhole photography. And it is no good....not enough
contrast, the images don't work, and and and. This kicks
any of the remaining good feelings possibly remaining in
the day right in the balls. Miserable weather, work not
going at all well...and now I feel shitty. In this
situation the most sensible thing to do is to acknowledge
defeat and head for home. Maybe working on a film for
Bruce Elder's experimental film class will rescue my day.
And I scratch, and I paint, and I splice, experimenting
with film. For hours. And my disposition improves.
Until; The cure arrives. Natasha saw that I was miserable
at school, and she comes over to make me feel better. She
gives my tired back a long massage, and she gives me her
fabulous sex. And ofcourse I am immediately much better;
Beautiful women as Anti-depressants.
But, and...we lie in bed and Natasha insists on seeing
my latest books. She wants to read the things I have
written about her lately. Oh shit. And I refuse. And I
get deffensive. I don't want to give her uncensored access
to my thoughts because some of those thoughts would offend
and hurt. She rightly thinks that I wouldn't lie in the
words I write here, and that by reading them she would
learn of things that I don't tell her.
Natasha knows that I wouldn't lie to her (and I really
wouldn't lie to her), but she also knows that I wouldn't
necessarily tell her everything. I say "no." And I even
get offended. But not really offended, more like a
defensive strategic reaction to stop her requests. I tell
her that she can't just demand to see my books anytime she
feels like it. I will only show them to her when I feel
comforatble.


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