Aisa Des Hai Mera.

Tower of Song.

• "I don't consider myself a pessimist. I think of a pessimist as someone who is waiting for it to rain. And I feel soaked to the skin."
• "Poetry is just the evidence of life. If your life is burning well, poetry is just the ash."
• "The last refuge of the insomniac is a sense of superiority to the sleeping world."
• "A woman watches her body uneasily, as though it were an unreliable ally in the battle for love."
• "In dreams the truth is learned that all good works are done in the absence of a caress."

- Leonard Cohen

Frosty delights.

It's possible that the sum total of my life experience thus far has been had for the purpose of moving me towards the viewing of this film.

The samba.

It's been ages since I last wrote here. Much has occurred in my absence. Despite my lengthy and unfortunate separation from this small, secret space--so well-equipped for the safe keeping of my occasional commentary--doubt not that I've thought often of it these past few months. Recently, I've been occupied with:

1) The laughable, part time pseudo-education I'm in the process of tackling at Portland State University, 2) a series of coincidentally themed movie-watching sprees, focusing on everything from the film industry's severe lack of working lady directors, to Sean Penn's immense aptitude for overwhelmingly convincing displays of tears, to Keanu Reeve's eerie, alien-like inability to display real human emotion, having elicited a series of film viewings, ranging from "The Crossing Guard" to "Point Break" to "Bad Boys (1983)" to "A Walk In the Clouds" and beyond, 3) Bonnie 'Prince' Billy, who my personal adoration for requires little to no explanation.

Aside from the occasional indulgence in these aforementioned movie marathons, I've spent a great deal of time in the living room of my mother's home in Happy Valley--long after the remainder of our sad, desolate, empty, Eckhart Tolle-reading, So You Think You Can Dance?-watching, neighborhood has stumbled into a fitful sleep of half-remembered home foreclosure-centric dreams--flipping aimlessly from station to station, parsing the airwaves desperately for some semblance of quality. I've yet to unearth anything of particular note.

The Neo-Tolstoyan Cultural Argonauts.

Anyone interested in joining me in a new decentralized anarchist collective based in and around Portland/New York, much in the same vein as the Crimethinc. Ex-Workers' Collective? Free coffee and pie will of course be available on arrival, I promise.

Things That Make Life Worth Living: Volume 2

The Toddy: curious happenstance, or modern miracle?

This cold brew coffee system (yes, you heard it, homemade iced coffees!) is a tantalizingly appropriate example of the many ways in which the scientific community has managed to improve the life of the average, contemporary consumer. It would, of course, make for a very fitting addition to any lady apartment--mine, first and foremost.

Things That Make Life Worth Living: Volume 1

Late last night, somewhere between a midnight gettucing session and the perfect almond butter-banana smoothie, I stumbled across a broadcast of Zach Galifianakis' stand up show at The Purple Onion, only to find, minutes later, my poor, delicate head caved in from the sheer force of his comic genius.

There I was, entirely alone, save my delicious smoothie, scrambling frantically to jot down each minute syllable issuing from Galifianakis' knowing mouth.

Come morning, I returned to review my written leavings, only to discover several sheets of lined paper, doused in a bevy of thoughts, quotes and earth-shattering realizations. "Zach Galifianakis is a fucking genius, and a perfect person," I had written. "I want to capture everything he says in a capsule!"

By the time I'd reached the end of the program, I had firmly concluded that Zach Galifianakis knows a great deal of important things concerning modern society and how people operate in the world. More importantly, he subverts these insights by giving them a comedic twist that is undeniably effective, without blatantly betraying the breadth of his cultural knowledge and comprehension (even the beer belly, Grizzly Adams-esque beard and complete lack of shame seem perfectly constructed to mask/complement his extensive wisdom!). It is this particular quality, I believe, that firmly establishes Mr. Galifianakis' comedy as a "thing that really makes life worth living."

Barbarous.

I've been back three weeks now. My first days and weeks were ripe with social interaction, but my many companions have since departed, and I find myself in the midst of what I hope will be a relatively short bout of self-imposed isolation.

I've taken to chores, doing the laundry and tidying odds and ends (though, in this case, not for the purpose of warding off my inevitable death and decay; that purpose which housekeeping is so often used for by depressed, Rachael Ray-watching, Joel Osteen-loving housewives), skin brushing, and a re-discovering Neutral Milk Hotel's "In the Aeroplane Over the Sea."

My laundry list for the coming weeks and months is lengthy. On top of the obligatory job and college applications there is of course my own personal, private education to attend to.

For the moment, Leo Tolstoy has filled that space. As I continue to wade through the treacherous, murky swamp of joblessness and academia, it's a comfort to know that his Levin, Katia, Anna and Count Vronsky are by my side.

From Levin, I am attempting to learn piety and discipline. From Kitty, greater kindness. From Anna and Vronsky, the values of commitment and clear thinking, and the consequence of selfishness.