We need to make books cool again. If you go home with somebody and they don’t have books, don’t fuck them.
Little Richard at Jazzfest.
I am in love with someone. But he doesn’ t know it. Sometimes I even forget. and then once or twice a week I will reminded when I go to his bookstore he owns with his brother, on the way back from the video store, where I get exactly two dvds. A bookstore that is carefully handpicked by only the most seasoned reader. Occasionally I will sneak peeks in his direction but I generally just am content with the fact that he exists. Like we are rehearsing the pre meeting scene in a french movie. He reminds me of a punk rock archetype, a sort of Syd Vicious charater that now resides in an old used bookstore on Sawtelle.
I love him like one would love a modeled/molded statue. I love him in a way only a spectator can love. Without stories and histories he is perfect. He is molded in my imagination. He is my created narrative. I concoct past lives and family histories and insert myself, only to dissapear into the accordion of time and history. I imagine we would have been lovers or friends in different times. Rejumbled, renfunctioned, and refashioned time. I gaze ito my projected identity that I have created for him and I love him even more because I know he has a life outside of what I’ve created and it is far greater and less magnificent than I’d care to believe.
Over my many years of infatuation I’ve picked up inserts of reality, either by direct conversation or his interactions with others. For example today, I gave him my customary raspy and small hello and then continued on to look at the recommended shelf that he and his brother have formed. Today an old man came stumbling in with a whole stack of books. *Object of Affection proceeded to give me a sheepish smile in passing and then help the old man with the books ( he was there to sell them). It was obvious this man came often to sell whatever books of any value from thrift stores he could find. But I was very touched by this very simple scene, both because of the casual nature of *object of affection but also the familiar body language they formed at the desk. And also the tone he took when the man placed small little squeeking rabbit on the table. The man with his lopsided body, the lowers much larger that the top, and his thick but small glasses that were placed under a hat and his pocket watch that peeked from his pants was throughly content to just sit there and talk all day. And even though *object of affection always seems to adopt an distracted tone to his voice I always see a hint of latent passion for these hum drum daily interactions.
Sometimes we speak more directly and we talk about photography. He shoots Leica and collects photobooks, collectors books. Last time we spoke he told me had gone shooting in South twelve years ago. Sometimes he talks about his two kids (one newborn) and his girlfriend. One time he even mentioned he was 40, because I had commented that he looked young (i had thought he was only 30 or so) We’ve talk about documentary films, he recommended Errol Morris and says he prefers an older documentary style. I will mention where I am travelling and then he’ll show me a photographer he likes online.
I love him in a way one can love from faraway. A silent observer and unspoken spectator. Love is such a varied term with so many definitions. And mine fits in space between reality and daydreams, floating in and out of my conscious mind. Someone that exist in another place, where words are not spoken, and everything is done with paralinguistic hints. He becomes an archetype of possibilities. And I wander between the books Content in my silence.
My first blog entry. I am at work today, nine long hours in front of the internet. Ian convinced me to start a Tumblr last night, and i had been thinking about starting an alternative form of communication (other than flickr), so here I am. I have been watching The Holy Mountain today, a Jodorowsky film. It can be viewed as an absurd art film for the skeptical viewer and even Jowdorowsky said that the films are , “…limited as the viewer’s own sense of spirituality”, but I connected with it strongly even more after viewing it for the second time. In the extras Jodorowsky explains the Tarot, which is an essential part of the cohesivity of the movie. And at one point he explains, “A cellular organism is only alive when it is linked to an environment. So is the human spirit. If you don’t have links, if your don’t relate, You Die.” In some way this is very similar to blogging. It creates a connection between the subject and the viewer and creates a dialogue and offers a chance for the viewer to validate the blogger. Blogging can often become this superficial approach to expressing self and racking up popularity and is essentially a product of the new era technological connectivity and that addiction . But blogging also allows the subject to express themselves on their own terms, and that gives a certain validity to the act itself. I find it so hard to express certain things to people face to face because the often pushed superficial nature of hurried human relationships. Sometimes when I am walking around I think very hopeful things that seem to be lightened when spoken out loud. I hope blogging will allow me to connect on a level with people I dont often get to in crowded rooms and forced politeness. Human relationships obsess me and the need of stronger and more meaningful forms of communications often cloud my thoughts and judgement. I hope to be as truthful and as unpretencious as I can here and “relate” and “create links”, without talking like someone who is preaching or spewing meaningless emotional diahrea. a snapshot of my mind and my daily rituals.
