I sit here at the computer listening to Mozart's Piano Concerto No.23 In A Major, K 488 Adagio. I'm house sitting. It's a luxurious Philly apartment with an upright piano. I'm sitting at one, listening to one, but not playing one.
I'm sitting here writing what's flowing from my mind. "What will pop out?!" I think to myself. I want to start talking about myself in the third person. So I will.
Stuart is sitting at the piano, writing but not playing. He wishes he was writing music similar to Mozart. Similar to Joanna Newsom. He tried learning Baby Birch this morning. To what success who knows. One day he will sing it. And play the ukele. In drag. But not like Taylor Mac. But exactly like Taylor Mac.
The day is beautiful in it's wishy-washy grayness. Stuart has a view of the city skyline. West Philly's skyline to be precise. It's kind of boring, but gorgeous in its dullness.
What to write? What to think? What to do while listening to Mozart? Shall I repeat the song when it's over? It's always an attempt to hold onto the moment gone by. But it's gone. So there's that.
"So" is in fashion for beginning sentences. Did you know that? So "so" is really in right now. Stuart's avoided using "So" to begin sentences, but has also made an effort to consciously use the in-vogue tactic for speaking.
Articulation is key. For everything. So if you have something to say, say it with grace. And say it clearly.
What the hell is he trying to say writing these statements?? And who will read such a thing?? And is it a thing of the past to inquire these things in a self-conscious essay?? Is this even an essay?
Fuck third person.
I've been reading Tim Miller's work because I found 1001 Beds in the apartment. It's kind of brilliant. And also not. I'm into it.
(Just hit replay for Mozart's adagio. Will I do it again in 7 minutes?)
The editor talks about Miller being at the Whitney. I really like the Whitney!! I was there on Thursday, where I fell in love with Georgia O'keefe. Her work is breathtaking. I've always had something against Georgia. But it's not about Georgia. It's because when I was little, we had to mimic her work in art class. I hated drawing those fucking flowers. But Georgia didn't. I guess.
At the Whitney, I also fell in love with queer art. Again.
When I was driving home from Brooklyn, exhausted from my trip as usual, I discovered how scrunchy my face was. I noticed I was stopping and starting like crazy, partially because of traffic but also because my eyes were beady and focused solely on the car ahead.
But what if I move my eyes to the horizon? What if I soften my gaze and just look forward? So I did. And my stops and turns became smooth. And I thought of it as a metaphor for life. Heart, soften for the now and gaze into the future with wide eyes. #stream.