Oh, still aching head. Made worse by Julie Doucet. What do you write about Julie Doucet? Framing? Fragments? Dying? Masturbation? Becoming a man? Give me Yoko Ono. I could write about her and Grapefruit. But how do I put my confusion and discomfort about Julie Doucet into a response paper?
Meanwhile, I'm having office hours right now. Still no birthday plans. Dreaming of the dream line-up coming nearby this June: Snow Patrol is opening for Coldplay. Holy cow. Okay, I'm there. My two favorite bands. Ah, love.
And that mountain getaway that I wanted to take with Jedsen over winter break didn't happen. So I wanted to go on a solo mountain getaway at the end of May to recover from the stress of the year and write and be at peace and climb mountains. But I really can't afford it, and I'm actually kind of scared to hike up a mountain for the first time--alone, and all. Oh, mountains. Why can't you be closer? Why can't I have more money? Some money will be spent on new furnishings this summer. It's all planned out. Couch, chair, coffee table, end table, desk, dining table and chairs, barstools. It's a long, costly list, but I plan on getting most at Nebraska Furniture Mart and Target.
Sleep until you're satisfied. I'm not.
I like Julie Doucet’s work. I found her to cleaver, dark, funny and damn near incorrigible. Her writing exploited our most coveted insecurities. Her illustrations mirror society’s mayhem. I agree with Mark Rothko when he states “It is a widely accepted notion among painters that it does not matter what one paints [writes] as long as it is well painted [written]. This is the essence of academicism. There is no such thing as good painting about nothing.” Doucet work critics our society. She looks to the man/woman in the mirror and illustrates the world from that perspective outward. Applause Doucet!
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