Sunday, October 24, 2004

EARTH TO MR. FOGGSFIELD
After receiving two calls from classmates whilst I was attempting to study in the library (one asking for clarification on an assignment, the other asking to use my kim’s underground membership) I gave up deciphering Philip Rosen (who was actually agreeing with me much more than usual) and returned home to an uncharacteristically stuffy studio. At this point, ruminating over the kid in 5th grade who loved Elvis and who lived in the hotel on Sherman that burned down and wondering about how plausible it really is to release ourselves from the weights of gravity, I am considering more and more the possibility of retreating to some idyllic community for the remainder of my days. There are so many options. Co-ops of lesbian nuns in Vermont, strange, generally ultimately destructive tropical communities of disenfranchised expatriates a la Danny Boyle’s The Beach, and the list goes on into the sunset. Do I gallop after it? Not quite yet, though I’m eyeing the piles of rubble in my room looking for the saddle blanket, to say the least.

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