i love. love love love. freckles. red bottles of wine all poised for the fall onto white carpet. i'll spend hours lapping it up, cleaning the white, as long as this moment lasts, this fact that i love. no doubt, i am an ass. ass. that's it, the sweet inarticulation of where i imagined i didn't belong, but i do. because the night is drunken and people throw grapes. i eat the chocolate from the cup on the table and discuss what it means to blog. why it is i don't want to share, and realize it is because i'm a judgmental... wrong wrong wrong... ass. i love. freckles. all night long, the stories. good ones. story startings. wine. fights between new work at love. smoking pot (as a topic, not a wine night pastime). learning where they are coming from. fights. love fights with foot in the groin and broken wrists. Lane looks like young Hercules, or so the stranger says. i win the three dollar bet about who will gain the way home first, but i really don't mind. don't mind at all. i will probably lose the bet about the astros making their way to the series, at least i hope so. because, everyone here is interesting. everyone here is real. i love. and the spread is celery and bree and backlava (not dry), and some lime chips, and soon i will give a party, and it is all my imagination about not fitting, becuase i fit like myself, i fit like the piece that i am, that everyone is. and this is positive energy. everything around me is optimism and gentle. i think. wine is spilled on the white rug, and i will scrub it as long as it takes because i want. i want to be here. i want to. and they are funny and c asks me whether i'd break up a flirtation (never, never), and there are words about halloween and redemption and pagan and finding the outfit, i start. ahh. and a pool and mass temporary exodus to the third floor, past the indoor swimming pool, and off the balconey lights of a city with moon next to mars, mars bright in the night. deluze would say: "a cliche is a sensory-motor image of the thing. Bergson says, we do not perceive the thing or the image in its entirety, we always perceive less of it, we perceive only what we are interested in perceiving, or rather what is in our interest to perceive, by virtue of our economic interest, ideological beliefs and psychological demands. We therefore normally perceive only cliches. But, if our sensory-motor schemata jam or break, then a different type of image can appear: a pure optical-sound image, the whole image without metaphor, brings out the things in itself, literally, in its excess of horror or beauty, in its radical or unjustifiable character, because it no longer has to be 'justified' for better or for worse" (time-image 20). i am an ass. i have seen only cliche, not the thing. not the strive, or attempt. freckles. i love. it doesn't matter if i fit, because everything does; home is the temporary moment, the fleeting. joy. lights in a night, walking down the street. a train approaching with all its noise and the changing music around. radiohead through the headphones. this will work and i take it all back. i am an ass. but now i hear. will be an ass again, but also will hear again, see.