06/22/17, 10:47pm

And suddenly I feel that art is no longer mine to appreciate, to love, and it frustrates me that art has betrayed me in this way, and yet it is still beautiful and meaningful to me; I pass statue after statue and it pains me that they are still meaningful to me, that they may be one of the few things that are meaningful to me, and that perhaps this reaction I have to art is nothing but preconditioned notions quietly inculcated in me by another entity; I feel that my solace has revealed itaelf to be nothing but manipulation and I hate that which I cannot contol and yet that which ai cannot control what I need in order to let go, process, change — 
The bike wheels are eerily smooth against the metal floor. The city is tinted in soft blue and pink roses of my jacket. I pedal slowly, slowly, so that each push exerts no effort, each push is a glide through lukewarm, thick air. A woman begs for a man carrying a suitcase to stay. She follows him into the middle of the street and pleads in the blue and pink light. She tucks a wet curl behind her ear from behind the window of a cab.

06/22/17, 9:36pm

A podcast I listened to earlier today made the hypothesis that pop music is inextricably linked to youth, and particarly the teenage youth: the definitions arose at the same time; perhaps they in fact defined each other, whittling the two into a homogeny of whirling concept to be ridiculed, looked at wistfully, pandered after and trivialized. 
Are art and wealth linked like so? It kills me that the art world is so elitist, borne of socioeconomic inequality: sculptures mounted on platforms of siphoned labor and displayed again for the oppressed to long after. But what gave me solace was that art itself is pure. But I question this. What if art is inextricable from its machine? Was there ever beauty there, or was that always nothing but a tool of the elite that even they have ceased to recognize, to see it for what it is? Are they so coddled in their bubble and is everyone else so clueless as to go along with it?

What if wealth and art are one? What if there is no democracy? What am I even doing here?

Personal expression comes from privilege. Development of the self comes from privilege.

art party

 ⁃ male, 30ish, slicked back curly hair. black long sleeve button up and a bleached denim midi skirt with a raw hem

 ⁃ slicked wet hair in a bun. oversized sports jersey emblazoned with flames and the number “32” across the front. heeled hiking boots, a thin gold chain.

 ⁃ nickel-sized sequined flowers on shawl, pale teal knee-high, creepers, pale yellow wavy hair, ombre eyebrows: thick black fading outwards to white, paisley print sequined dress. red leather mini backpack

 ⁃ off-white kimono and a french braid; pink eyeliner, white calf sicks, and round-toed black block heels

 ⁃ white leather penny loafers, baggy denim harem pants and a black baggy crop top

 ⁃ curly middle parted waves straight out of the eighties, morphed gisele-like facial structure. navy blue calf socks, navy blue loose minidress

 ⁃ crew cut, mal. flared jeans with a raw hem and a denim work shirt. indoor sunglasses.

 ⁃ close buzz cut, wide mustache. maroon t-shirt and wide-leg highwater pants. white socks.

 ⁃ green ambiguously printed pencil skirt, pleated blouse, multicolored large-jeweled block sandals, and a bike helmet

 ⁃ green christmas sweatshirt, blue faded jeans, ratty flip flops

shrink away

I suddenly feel my new life turning against me, myself becoming an endless consumer of input of books and ideas and media and experiences and it suddenly horrifies me; I feel that I am empty and hollow without this stream of input and I think: perhaps the answer is retaliating with output, but I feel wholly unprepared to do this, and otherwise I do not wish to live in, to succumb to, the reactionary mode, that which I have so often recently detected in myself —

06/21/17, 10:27pm

I have a problem with the word ‘intellectual’. I have a particular, scathing, tear-my-eyes out, secretly, passively fuming problem with an individual using the word ‘intellectual’ to describe themself, or their actions, or their pursuits, or really anything that allows for an individual to scion out the word ‘intellectual’ like sticking a hot knife into butter and twisting, luxuriating in the creaminess of the posh reputation they’ve now bludgeoned out for themselves.

I think about how a rising sense of anger and annoyance and desire to duct-tape shut his mouth completely overcame my rationality in a disastrous discussion with AM, and I think I can trace it back to AM and that word, intellectual, which he just so happened to use. I have intellectual conversations with my friends, he said. It’s fun. It’s what I do for fun. Something about it. Something about it. Did I feel like he was implying I did not do those things for fun? Maybe a little. Or did I feel like he was invalidating my conversations, even the ones I call intellectual inside my head where my despise for pretentiousness can’t whole-heartedly detect? Maybe a little. Did it push the button of insecurity that flares up in thinking that AM is more intellectual than me, or no — that’s not right, I realize now; the problem is that I hate that AM thinks he is more intellectual than me.

06/21/17 at 3:30pm

an ode to public transportation:

flopping bodies in solidarity

gleefully join the scare

of jaded sardines

visual empathy and metropolitan types

what book are you reading?

what does your tattoo mean?

where are you headed?

they do not care for me

please do not care for me

and I you