I'm at the old Broadcaster offices. I am shooting puppet-related high-definition video for Andy. To illustrate my point, I have provided some high-resolution images, which follow:
Wednesday, November 19, 2008
Friday, November 14, 2008
Sunday, November 2, 2008
O spiteful and sour abstractions!
I am temporarily losing it. It happens time to time. Where have I put myself this time?
I think I am in North Hollywood. I can't sleep. I am consumed by hatred. I think I am the only person who's really accountable to anybody for anything. Everybody else is just kind of pretending, I'm afraid. It all seems very serious to me, except that when I look to everybody else they don't appear to share my concern. They phase in and out of reality. Then one moment maybe they are more concerned. I can't tell. What am I concerned about? Then maybe they are less concerned. One moment and then another and another. An inconsistent mathematical theorem, never learned or even memorized, traces invisible tactile synesthesias like plastic draperies over every thought, over every perception, received or transmitted or fed backward, withinward, or otherwise over and over, suffocating the wonder that is the truth of our condition... I am lost and all I know is that I have given far more than I should ever expect to receive. O spiteful and sour abstractions! Shall I compare thee to a bummer's rain? Nay! Just lie! Lay! The sun rises o'er another day! Die! Stay! Go away! The heavens cry, abruptly, and quiet agayne. Ain't that November? Ain't that just what they say? Aye! And sweet, sweet summer such a long ways away...
I think I am in North Hollywood. I can't sleep. I am consumed by hatred. I think I am the only person who's really accountable to anybody for anything. Everybody else is just kind of pretending, I'm afraid. It all seems very serious to me, except that when I look to everybody else they don't appear to share my concern. They phase in and out of reality. Then one moment maybe they are more concerned. I can't tell. What am I concerned about? Then maybe they are less concerned. One moment and then another and another. An inconsistent mathematical theorem, never learned or even memorized, traces invisible tactile synesthesias like plastic draperies over every thought, over every perception, received or transmitted or fed backward, withinward, or otherwise over and over, suffocating the wonder that is the truth of our condition... I am lost and all I know is that I have given far more than I should ever expect to receive. O spiteful and sour abstractions! Shall I compare thee to a bummer's rain? Nay! Just lie! Lay! The sun rises o'er another day! Die! Stay! Go away! The heavens cry, abruptly, and quiet agayne. Ain't that November? Ain't that just what they say? Aye! And sweet, sweet summer such a long ways away...
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