Old City Coffee

Here I am writing in Old City, watching the rain out of the open plank doors. A couple sits outside smoking, exhaling into the late-April wind. I’m trying to finish a story but am struggling with an ending. It’s your standard obscure stuff, possesing a motif of utter absurdity and a protagonist with a canker sore, and love for the slums of Naples. I really don’t know where my writing will take me, but it’s worth the endeavor. For some years now I’ve been wrapped up in the cold slush of Dostoevsky’s characters, and I’ve failed to make my own life worth writing about. That’s what scares me the most. The sheerness of my roots, the blatant misdirection, absurdness, and lack of spontaneous decision-making. I’m writing not merely to sate an unfullfilled, literary saliciousness but an overall tendency to make the life I envisage become real, on paper at least. And believe me, it’s a tendency. I hate knowing that I can be socially awkward when my mind drifts to unexplored places. I create lives and dialogue for my peers and am thus thrown off guard when I find out the barista’s name is Ashley not Inaniel, and is from Scranton not Chicago. These pointless, socially awry proclivities need a gatewway. Hence, I write.

I’m so ready for the semester to be over. Being jobless, in a major northeastern city hardly de-stresses me. I’ve had to switch my cigarette brand to Marbolo to save myself some money. If you’re wondering how much am I really squirreling away by switching from Parliament to Marbolo, know that I live with a Korean, fresh off the boat, who imports me a carton of smokes from Korea for thirty dollars less than what I’d pay here. Only probem being this manufactuer lacks P-Funks. It’s whatever, right? I’m still getting my box-a-day.

I’m leaving for New York tomorrow morning. I’ll be attending a Garden Reading in Washington Square for the PEN World Voices literary festival. Among the speakers are Laila Lalami, Pete Weber, and more. I’m really anxious. This should be a pleasurable break from finals. Knowing that I must come back, put my nose to the grindstone of essay-writing, and knock out an Italian oral presentation, really sucks. But I need this cursory relief, for all it’s worth.

Django, oh Django

In lieu of this revolutionistic bull, turn your attention to Django Reinhardt. One of the first influential jazz figures to emerge from Europe, Reinhardt remains to be one of the most prominent Gypsy jazz guitarists to this day. Known for his unorthodox style, he played alongside the likes of Duke Elligton and Coleman Hawkins, and influenced a wide variety of musicians from Miles Davis to Jimi Hendrix.

Django Reinhardt at Last.fm

Lies, Lies, Lies

No, I’m not transforming my blog into a haven for American (specifically residing in Philadelphia) socialists. Although it would certainly substantiate the “Apocrypha” in my blog’s title.

I was going through a phase–watching Pasolini films religiously, reading Slavoj Zizek….all the same, I remain a half-dormant literary geek, not a political reformist. In fact, someone mentioned the name Robert Owen to me earlier. I had no idea who they were referring to. If that’s not evidence enough, I don’t know what is.