All I can think about is the distance between this truck and myself, the distance between our bodies. And the reverberations, invisible studying my skin, from the truck. Is it desperate to want to feel the space between? Theory feels like a measurement of this distance, or something quantifiable, but I want to do this space, feel it together, pause in it, pace. (This is starting to sound like a shadow manifesto.) Overtime this blog is beginning to say more and more about me, and im guiding it in this direction: Last night we watched a documentary on Earl Strickland and I had the greatest desire to scour queens for him, and play a game of pool--the most vogue new york has sounded since reading an edie sedgewick biography in high school (I wonder if my mother still has it?).
My bag of dirt has been returned to me. 1) reminding me of the unwavering love and tenderness of my friends and 2) restoring a sense of the rhythm to my kitchen, where it sits in the corner.
My mobile phone is always taking pictures and not telling me. I think the distance between me and this machine is closing. It is antithetical, but I kind of like it ... 
(my desk was messy yesterday morning! I cleaned it to write an essay!) 
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