#207

Read this little sumthin or other this beautiful morning and man, my entire body is racked with pleasure. Coming from a dude who does not drink wine anymore and if he can hold the line, never will again, it was like drinking a glass of Ideal Wine, the wine you drink wine in pursuit of.

That piece of text is fucking good. If you like my prose and want a harder taste, the industrial-grade shit what needs diluting to one part in ten, this is a good thing to read. I didn't even know about this website till today! If even part of the stuff on there is to that level, it is internet treasure. Some days clicking around pays off.

*

Criticisms often leveled at pieces like the one that I have linked to today run along the lines of impenetrability, which is incredible; a painting is also technically impenetrable. You don't need to be familiar with the chemical composition of each pigment to look a the fucking picture, though, and writing like this is something that you can just read. You read it like you're being fucked by it, you let it happen to you and comprehend it later if at all. Stuff like this stays in you and occasionally pertinent revelations illuminate it further; sleeper wisdom, planted connections and reverberations. 

In this case, something like twenty wikipedia articles are conveniently embedded to increase accessibility (commendable and cool), but having all the background in the world won't protect you from how the piece is written and what it actually does, which is violent, fantastic, gorgeous, triumphant, disgusting, and super funny. Above all it is penetrative, as I mentioned; to yourself attempt to penetrate it, to conquer it, to lord over it in your ponderous bigbrain, is to miss the point, and especially, the fun.

*

Ahem-hem. I of course, understood it completely because here I am writing about it and what better proof. 

hahaha no I mean I'm not lost in a sea with a torn sail or anything, like I don't need most of the appended articles (though I have them all tabbed on my browser for later because I'm inspired to refresh myself and take it for another spin) and I knew almost all of the words, but I'll have to get houndy on some shit I have no idea about before I really feel like I have a handle on it, whereupon I might like it even more, but it won't be able to bring me the same pleasure it brought me today. A different set of pleasures will bloom, to be sure, but it's never quite what it was the first time, is it?

Anyway, anyway. Thank you, Elytron Frass, for making my morning good today. I hope you, too, had an engaging start to your day.

*

Tomorrow I will try to write about something other than what I read online before I opened up the text editor. Criminy, I used to try to mix it up around here. 

Sitting with a box of nicotine gum at my left elbow. I guess this fucking shit costs seventy-five dollars? On the basis of this expenditure, cigarettes that come near my mouth after I have consumed the gum ought to spontaneously transmogrify into one of those joints that grace the cover of glossy magazines concerned with the flagrantly conspicuous consumption of world-class cannabis products.

It should have that little horticultural arrangement of tips on the lighting end, so that it looks like it's wearing a little wig if you stand it on its filter. It should definitely stand perfectly, without coaxing, on its filter. Its paper was dipped in hash oil and smeared lightly with pressed resin. I smoke it in one long pull; preparing for the drag takes about eight seconds. I have one more for the morning, two for the afternoon, and two more for at night. Occasionally, however, I might enjoy six in a row.

*

Y'all, I hope they never build a prison for DOOFUSES

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  farts!

--JL

#206

All right folks! Here we have, in no particular order, all the tomes I have acquired since, I believe, the thirty-first of May, the hundred and seventy-seventh post. 

True North by Jim Harrison
The Nakano Thrift Shop by Kawakami Hiromi
Nothing But the Truth by Avi
Half-Human edited by Bruce Coville
Naked Lunch by William S. Burroughs
Peter Camenzind by Herman Hesse
Parzival: The Quest of the Grail Knight by Katherine Paterson
A Dragon-Lover's Treasury of the Fantastic edited by Margaret Weis
Bone by Fae Myenne Ng
Your Fathers, Where Are They? And the Prophets, Do They Live Forever? by Dave Eggers
Tiny Bubbles by James Kochalka
The Complete Multiple Warheads by Brandon Graham
Tony Millionaire's Sock Monkey: Uncle Gabby by Tony Millionaire
If Cats Disappeared From the World by Kawamura Genki
The First Two Lives of Lukas-Kasha and Gypsy Rizka by Lloyd Alexander
The Stand and Duma Key by Stephen King
Animorphs #5: The Predator by K.A. Applegate
The Telling by Ursula K. Le Guin

*

Boom! There! Did what I said I would do. I thought there might have been one more in there but I guess I was wrong. Doesn't matter. It was by Peter S. Beagle. Whatever.

Cool I'm tired and hungry have a good rest of your day


--JL

*I did get a Peter S. Beagle book. It was A Fine and Private Place.

#205

Reading about xenofeminism, coded as "XF". This "politics of alienation" as explained by Laboria Cubotniks is... well. It sounds determined. Very bravado. Absolutely hitting all the tonal points for a document like this; I sometimes wonder if those laboring under the wide umbrella of communism are psycholinguistically vulnerable to that particular cadence. Also there are points where it all gets to be so much all at once that I have to wonder if it is a shitpost, or maybe if the author purposefully inserted absurdities in the interest of plausible deniability, i.e., "no, look, obviously a shitpost, look here, do you really think I expected anyone to take that seriously?"

Ok, I'm funning. Definitely they're onto some cool stuff.

Personally, I can really really get behind the "hyperstitional manipulation of desire's puppet-strings". That shit is poetry to me. I also especially like the embrace of terrorizing feminist linguistic tropes and the naked embrace of appropriation and unaccountability. Love the rejection of purity and melancholy; correctly identified as a moribundity in our cultural and political life. I can always get behind a little destruction. I always support strapping in and getting down to business. 

Now, I could be reading this wrong, but it seems to talk about screwing with people's hormones without their knowledge or consent. It's not explicitly stated, and the point labors on a different focus, but it's kind of in there! I am all for the creation of semiotic parasites that feed on hegemonic stability, but that kind of thing is not cool with me. I've had this fight before and I think it's just indefensible. Also I am rather against stuff that asserts the permeation of every fiber of existence with the political, but what are ya gonna do.

Overall though, really fun read. Again, cool stuff.  I'll be extremely fascinated to see what life this document will have, going forward into this wild-ass century.

*

Man, I napped for like two hours straight today. That's gonna fuck everything up pretty good. 

Oh, well! Tomorrow I'll probably make a list of all the books I've bought since last time I talked about it. That is easy to do, and fun typing. And any value this blog might have will always take a backseat to what seems fun to me.

--JL

#204

Seven days of crushing, dead silence! Flat air and misery, and no fresh words from this tiny little corner of internet. Pointless ruminations and baseless, negatively invaluable assertions were sadly lacking, and this is my fault. 

Nothing! Well, a lot of stuff, really, which translates into nothing when discussing activity within our great  cyberdelusion. But I needed nothing, required the presence of nothing in what little free time I was able to secure. Work has been beyond insane and this fool moon fucked with the whole planet; even the aftereffects have been weapons-grade total lunacy. 

Everybody's been on a weird wavelength. 

But who cares if FP isn't updating, when internet was so much fun last week, fun like it made me feel young again. What memery! What memefoolery. Thank you, person who made the Area 51 Raid. Go carefully, you are a hero.

That kind of shit is what internet is for, by the way. A bunch of monkeys having stupid fun. If this whole thing isn't a toy, I don't have any real use for it.

*

Apropos of nothing, when I moved to the U.S. for the second time with citizenship as the goal, there was no greater fear in my life than deportation. I was on the cusp of full-blown puberty at the time and George W. Bush was about to assume the mantle of his presidency; for the next eight years, my nervous system equated every single thing that my changing body and teenage brain wanted me to do as a deportation risk. 

I was a little tightly wound. Most of my friends were white, born here, and most of those would engage in the kinds of devilry that seems and is perfectly normal for scions of the ruling class, irrespective of how low your strata within that class might be. My presence among them was contingent on my occupation of a very different rung on the societal ladder, but they, being broadminded, generous, and not themselves racists, would expect me to follow along with them. Because my place in the strata of my own rung was so extremely high, and because at the end of the day my English is better than any of theirs, they honestly thought that I was as free and clear as they were, to act how I wanted. 

And it's like, dudes. No. I could get deported. It is different for me. We hang out at an intersection, but live in totally different neighborhoods. The same America, but not.  

So I insisted on airtight plans and closely thought-out situations, extreme discretion, exit strategies in place at all times, clear sightlines, etc. Got in very little trouble growing up, and my friends were none the worse for the cautions I imposed. They got me to chill out when I needed to; two-way streets and all that. Nevertheless, I have always visibly, even ostentatiously, obeyed the social contract, held down employment, payed my taxes, and minded my own business. No points on my driver's license. 

Fact of the matter is, I didn't get citizenship until we were almost through with Barack Obama's first term. And the fact of the matter following that is that I have carried proof of that citizenship on my person every single day ever since, and I'll keep carrying it after whoever gets elected next says everything is cool. 

That's how I view the matter, without getting into too many more of the facts.

*

Existence offers only a very limited and select few guarantees. This is a thought that pops into my mind a lot, and has for most of my life. It rings like the truth to me, but no one acts like it, so I cannot be certain.

*

Been so wound up I haven't been reading much, and that not very focused. That's how you know the tides are wild and the rhythms wacky. Gotta push through the last fractions of Philosophical Fragments and Nicholas Nickleby, then what I need to do is just drop everything and read all the Stephen King I can get my hands onto, all the new stuff I haven't read, any old stuff I might have missed, all of it, except The Dark Tower. I can't really stand The Dark Tower. No, I kind of hate it. I like when Roland passes his test with his hawk as a weapon. That shit was incredible. I forced myself through the rest of that awful book and quit a few pages into The Drawing of the Three. No desire to try again. There are, liberally speaking, nine books in The Dark Tower; I have twenty-two other King books in my possession and the ability to get a ton more, so it's not as though this attitude is tremendously limiting. I knew a guy who only read Dark Tower and had no taste for the rest of the feast; now there walks a fellow with the scales tipped against him. But, to each their own.

Anyway, I just want to read Stephen King. Might leaven it with Michael Crichton and Kurt Vonnegut. The three main dudes of me reading books in high school.

Been reading a lot of internet, though, reams of the stuff. Theory. Maybe too much. Maybe even a little was too much, but the rhizomes are firmly embedded and I don't bother fighting the compulsion to expand them. I just know that I'd do better going back to the Presocratics, if I weren't such a lazy fuck.

*

The unreleased album discussed in this post dropped two days ago, though I obtained and listened to it the day after I last posted. The privileges of a swift preorder. Without further ado I lent it out to a coworker I felt should be among the first to hear the record.

A different day, a day with more bandwidth, I will talk about the album. Probably. Who can ever know the future. That shit almost fucking destroyed me.

*

Alright, that'll do. Ate like seven meals and took a long nap yesterday, so I am feeling much recuperated, but these last couple weeks really have been very demanding; experienced some extreme tiredness, the kind that warps reality. 

I shall endeavor to post busily through the end of the month, but it all starts again tomorrow, and who knows what life will ask of me. To bolster myself against the unknown, I am going to post this, then go down to the river with a good woman, where we'll string a hammock and listen to the water run.

--JL

#203

"I...am on a fact-finding mission...to the center...of my heart."

*

Sometimes a line of dialogue just pops into your head. You can't tell if it's really very good or truly bad, but you know you like it, and it demands to be written.

*

1.

"I...am on a fact-finding mission...to the center...of my heart."
"Good for you, Larry. Getcher dang coat on so we can catch the early bus for once in our lives."

2.

"I...am on a fact-finding mission...to the center...of my heart."
"Now's not the time, Larry! I don't know what you're talking about! I can't hold this marriage together on my fucking own anymore! Christ! What the fuck happened to you!"
"You know what if you're not even going to try to understand me I'll walk away from all of this swear to fucking god I will and I won't stop to get my coat I won't even get my fucking wallet I'm just gonna walk."
"Fuck you! FUCK you!"

3. 

"I...am on a fact-finding mission...to the center...of my heart."
"How 'bout a fact-finding mission to where you left my coat, Larry. Huh? Got the funding for one of those? Do you need special equipment?"
"My heart...will have the answer."
"Perfect. Awesome. Let me know when that happens, I guess. Gotta go catch the bus. In the freezing cold. Thank you. Thanks."

4.

"I...am on a fact-finding mission...to the center...of my heart."
"Why are you always so weird, Larry? Gosh!"
"He's a freak, Lauren! Don't even talk to him!"
"Yeah, don't encourage him!"
"Yeah, he's a twerp, leave him alone."
"I...will...not...be...discouraged!"
"Shutcha damn mouth Larry!"
"Fucking loser freak!" 
"Kick his ass, Todd."
"YEAH!"

...

"I...will...find...the...answer!"

5.

"I...am on a fact-finding mission...to the center...of my heart."
"Me too."


--JL

#202

A friend and I noted that internet was extremely dull before the weekend. We drifted aimlessly in a gray haze and were bored, each apart from the other, of course, at our respective pumps; both dry. But that was before this weekend; this weekend was crammed full of content. The Area 51 meme has surged with such enthusiastic power that everybody and their Twilight Princess-playing grandmother came out the woodwork with their best stuff (or not best) and firehosed it all over internet.

Everything is wet, now.

That's good. Overdue. Laughed my ass off and read a ton of interesting shit. Been a long time since clicking around was stimulating enough to keep me awake later than I thought it would.

*

That was fun, I guess. I had ideas about farming the tides and how internet is like the stock market and also a shoreline. But it is so fucking noisy around here that I'm done. I'm out. I'm going to eat something, take a shower, and go to work early. Perhaps I will develop these ideas tomorrow, provided tomorrow contains moments not taken up by a grown man brusquely vacuuming the carpets as he belts repetitive fragments of extemporaneous "opera".


--JL

#201

Since yesterday, I have not listened to the Two Gallants or Gogol Bordello albums that were released while I wasn't participating in anything that was happening, but I did listen to the Caspian album that was released during that strange, deeply isolated time.

Wildly off the chain. So everfucking mothercrashing good, so far beyond superlative. These dudes continually exceed their promise, giving me everything I could want from their next record every time and an order of magnitude more. Every time! Dust and Disquiet. So beautiful I cried a tiny bit as I walked home, during the first swell of "Sad Heart of Mine". Hyperawareness of the total permeation of the complete love of God in everything before my eyes and infinitely in every direction overfilled my torso and leaked out of my eyes. That is how that was.

*

Probably tomorrow I will get to those other two or at least one. In addition oughta finish hearing  Aesop Rock's The Impossible Kid and also Malibu Ken. Whenever, though. That seems less important at this juncture.

*

Also of special note on In League With Dragons are the songs "Going Invisible 2", "Clemency for the Wizard King", and "An Antidote for Strychnine". Those four are my special favorites from the album, the fourth being "Possum By Night", as I mentioned yesterday.

*

The sunset did so many crazy things as I finished typing this post. 'Twas a magnificent time. It was a great, blazing hot day and I had tremendously great walks. My special shoes are back from the shop and the joy of walking is back to full power. It's been a lucky week and a lot of good stuff happened.

Yo. Y'all. Midsommar, written and directed by Ari Aster, is no joke flat-out one of the best movies ever made. Period. My girlfriend and I went and saw it yesterday evening, testing out the renovation on our once-crummy and hella run-down local small pre-1950 theater. Both the newly splendid theater and the film were everything anyone could possibly want from the stated purposes of the phenomena in question.

Seriously one of the best movies ever. I haven't seen anything that good in years and years, maybe more than five or even seven years. Everybody in the world (who has some confidence in the strength of their stomach and the resilience of their nerve) should watch this thing.

I should probably qualify a little more. The movie is fucked up, maybe more fucked up than any movie I've ever seen. It's funny as hell and gorgeous to look at and groundbreaking in a dozen discrete ways but yeah, this is stuff that has made people leave theaters in panics and rages and rants and have to go be sick and stuff.

Nothing gets me off more than shit like that, provided it is done artfully, to a perceptible point and purpose, but the point is if you freak out easy, this is a movie you should not watch. Even if you don't, this bad baby might push your limits. Antichrist is one of my favorite movies ever, and I think this goes considerably further in a couple key ways. If I can even compare a movie to Antichrist it's an incredible day at the office; I cannot even compare it to the rest of its director's oeuvre. Here there are ample comparisons to be made, and things that keep each work fully in itself and beyond comparison. Midsommar brings it to that level and maybe a notch or two further out.


It's a fuckin trip, check it out if you can handle a bad trip as well as a good one.


--JL

#200

Wow, the two hundredth post. The second hundred is complete, or will  be, when I smash that "post" button. When it gets smashed. When I pound that post button, grinding it hard into the surface of the world wide web, the two hundredth factually pointless post will burrow into internet's flesh and there it will fester for eternity, or however much less than that depending on how things go.

*

200.

*

There are a lot of bands and musicians that are very special to me in the kind of way that sort of defines one as a person. The hard core, you know.

If a person's hard core is made up of, say, early-nineties gangster rap, a few particular strains of what the record companies call rhythm and blues from the early and middle aughts, and the Frank Ocean wave, it will have some bearing on how the person carries and dresses themselves, and how they parse their cultural world and move through society. You might have formed a picture of this person in your mind; you may be able to form various pictures of various persons that might fit this bill. How this is done is dependent on the lenses you view this person through, your own hard core; perhaps this person stands very close to you, or perhaps your fascination with honky-tonk, bluegrass, and country music recorded before the year nineteen-sixty places a few lenses of refraction in between the place where you stand and they do. Perhaps you mainly listen to Sibelius and Debussy, or are completely consumed by surf-infused third-wave riot grrl shriekpunk. Maybe you used to be very into hardcore but now it's groovy 80's synthpop and the return of the electronic organ aesthetic.

'Sall good, folks. Music is just math you can hear. Patterns and iterations. All of it unique and exactly the same. The rest is coats of paint and personality. Intent and reception.

* 

Selectively--keeping it after 1900, avoiding incidental music, and omitting artists for whom only spare tracks reach this level (one fine day perhaps I shall generate a tracklist), and relegating The Red Hot Chili Peppers to "honorable mention" status--my own hard core is comprised of the following artists:

Gogol Bordello, Caspian, Rubén Blades, Robert Johnson, Quinteto Contrapunto, Two Gallants, Simón Díaz, Muddy Waters, John Frusciante, Serenata Guayanesa, Aesop Rock, Modest Mouse, Louis Armstrong, Santana, Ensemble Gurrufío, and Nina Simone.

There was no particular order, there. There is no truly ranking the hard core, you need it all to be who you are, totally separate from art that you can talk rationally or dispassionately about. There is art you can fully compass and bind within your ideas, and there is art for which though your ideas are bigger and more important and more fully  developed than perhaps any other ideas you have, they fall short, and don't matter, in the face of the indescribable feeling, the duende, the grace.

Beyond the hard core, though, residing in an innerspace even more vast and intimate than the place where your favorite music lives, there's the stuff that transcends even the ranks of the first and best. To analogize, in bookworld, Lord of the Rings is, as I have stated in no uncertain terms, beyond human reproach and the greatest extant literary achievement. On this matter, I will brook no argument because there is not one to be had; people who care less than I do about Lord of the Rings can have those arguments. To me, those people, when they are talking about Lord of the Rings, might as well not exist. Easier to understand people who actively hate Lord of the Rings or cannot so much as begin it than people who read it, maybe even more than once, and don't "get" it.

Even though there's nothing to get because what is actually happening is that this work warps the space around it (my psyche) and fundamentally changed its reality. My subjective position is both integral to my being-in-the-world and at odds with how the world actually is, for in this world, no work of hand or human symbol reigns supreme, and in mine, a miracle took place. In the end, of course, it's just a story. But everybody has their Story.

Coming back to music, it's Queen, and The Mountain Goats.

*

This year, The Mountain Goats dropped their seventeenth studio album.

Yes. Seventeen. Kind of an important number in this blog. 

After the way Goths was received and popularized, I felt pretty sick in myself about where things were in general, and not long afterwards a lot of life happened, so I was caught off guard by In League With Dragons because I had stopped reading about music, stopped looking at places that hype and criticize music. And I didn't listen to it for a few months after it dropped because I wasn't acquiring anything new either, hadn't heard the new Two Gallants or the new Gogol Bordello, nothing. I was icy with music, frozen in place.

Things are thawing now, though, and I've given it a few spins. Every Mountain Goats album is at one time or another my favorite, it never stops, always something is happening, and right now In League With Dragons is it, their best work and best writing so far, absolutely beautiful, a comfort and a clarion call and an incredible pleasure.

"Possum By Night". What a fucking track. How does something like this even happen.

*

When you were born only a few years before somebody started putting their music out on cassette tapes, there is a disadvantage when it comes to being on board for the early days. I didn't hear The Mountain Goats till I was sixteen and they were starting to become quite popular--Heretic Pride, an album which was pretty big, dropped a little while after I started listening; my first new Mountain Goats. Heady, halcyon days.

The track that got me good, the hook, was "Up the Wolves". 

*

Feels good to be listening to music again. I may write more about The Mountain Goats tomorrow, and I may not. 

I have also been listening to a lot of Jimmy Cliff, Toots and The Maytals, The Animals, and Emerson, Lake & Palmer. Also all the other music I have mentioned today.


--JL

#199

I'll say this about twatter, as a piece of user wisdom: if I find myself about to tag someone in a tweet or otherwise directly engage another account, I know I'm not in the correct frame of mind to be on twatter, delete what I was about to post, and seriously consider shutting down the account. 

Don't like to be entirely without twatter; it delivers a very distinct flavor of data in a very particular way, but it is bad, Bad, not as Bad as facebook but closer than people like to imagine and worse in a couple key ways. Like, Bad for your Health. Best to dip in very briefly only once a day at most, prune your follows often, and for the love of decency never, ever interact.

*

If you see someone that is human interacting with a robot, assume that they are trying to trick you by interacting with the robot. The way they do it usually telegraphs how. It's like instead of using a strawman argument, they're bravely punching a robot in the face to impress you, or cowering* in the shadow of a big paper cutout of a monster held up by robot that should be visible to the person cowering, as the cutout shakes spasmodically due to the robot's inability to properly grip it, often revealing the robot's extremities as it clumsily wrestles with the illusion.  

*

It is recommended that one learn how to identify robots. It's not actually getting harder. Robots can only trick you because you want to be tricked. Stop wanting that and robots are transparent.

Also helpful is being up-to date on advances, trends, and happening in the worlds of computing, artificial intelligence, and robotics. These things are as important as knowing the weather, I think. Knowing what something can do and what people like to use things for makes things easier to parse out in the wild. 

Arm yourselves with knowledge, they say, and while the proposition is risky, there is value in this line of thinking.


*

PEACE THE FUCK OUT GODDAMMIT


--JL

*in their bottomless lack of shame and barefaced guile, sometimes these goblins will attempt the performance of cowering bravely.

#198

Finished up Stranger Things 3 (basically perfect, it is crazy what good writing happens in Stranger Things and knowing how much this kind of artwork pisses a certain kind of person off is just extra sugar) and also watched My Neighbor Totoro for the second time ever. The thing about that movie is how plausible and correct I find the yokai element* contrasted to how unbelievable I am forced to consider the actual human characters. Well, just one character. Everything is real in My Neighbor Totoro except for the father, who is a fantasy. Too good of a dude. 

Not saying dudes like this don't exist, or that their existence is not desirable. No, if you asked me, I would tell you that to be like him is everything I want; to be in that place in life and be the sort of man who acts and speaks as he does when faced with what he faced with and blessed with what he is blessed with ought be the aim and hope of every honest dude. But have I ever met anyone like that dude? I have not. Never.

I suppose, though, that most fathers have something in common with him. Mine does, different as they are. It's something in how they stand on their feet to balance the load. And other common mysteries whose answers lie bare to the sunshine, for all eyes to see, while somehow remaining secret.

*

One can't really spell these things out. It's why show and don't tell is the one short rule of writing I consider absolutely indispensable. It's why the character works, and works better than a "real" man; a character can be an emblem, a sigil; can emerge less formed from the collective unconscious and by its vagueness be more truthful. 

*

Beneath the heart and the head, oft-forgotten, lies the gut, without whom neither serve any purpose and could not even exist.** 

The gut does not think or feel. It cannot rule, and must make do with what it is given. It only tells the truth, and without it, we are lost.

*

God isn't in any detail, any explanation, any bloodline or object. 

God was only ever and can only ever be in the gut.

--JL

*to restate a position, I unequivocally believe in ghosts, fairies, monsters, gods. Everything is literally real.

**see Aesop's fable concerning the Belly and the Members. 

#197

One plus nine plus seven? Seventeen. Hell yes. It's one of those posts.

*

Since last I wrote, I have worked a whole week of hours in three days and a fourth shift so far, floated on a lake and smoked spliffs in the water, been blessed by three hawks, said a prayer for each and a fourth for good measure, listened to a lot of good old reggae, started watching the new season of Stranger Things (the third), and calmed down considerably. 

Who cares about stuff that makes me angry. Fuck that hassle. I shove it away from my mind like I hip-check some sweaty motherfucker out my way on the court to go for the lay-up, missing completely, running on without missing a step, out of the gym, away from the building, out into a brighter world, palms up to the beautiful sunshine.

*

July! July! Let's get it done.


--JL

#196

Welcome to July! I am in a terrible mood.


--JL