Mark Sink is a deity with lens

Thanks to , I’ve discovered an artist I want to threaten my love at.

His pictures look like the most exquisite paintings. His name is Mark Sink.

His nudes make me catch my breath and his landscapes wake a desire in me to go to New York simply to find the trees he’s captured so perfectly. He photographs Andy Warhol as if he’s been nothing more than a person on the street his life and makes me miss people I’ve never met and will never know. Go look, go see. I am captivated. I may require a Diana camera in my world. Sleep won’t happen until I find as much of his work as I can. This is Nostaligia caught on treated paper and Art in polaroid. A window into global perfect moments. The world trapped and shared.

Ever want to write someone a letter to say only “thank you for existing. What you do made me happy today”?

on a good day I average two hours from one end to the other

It is perfect somehow that I arrive home at one in the morning to a dinner of a carrot muffin.

I took Robin to the slam tonight but left halfway through the second round. Shane was pleasant company, (though I thought somehow he wanted to say something and couldn’t bring himself to it), but I was too tired and too hungry. Over the edge slipping slowly into exhaustion. Regular physics need not apply, lying down on the slope would only hasten my fall. So I walked. To the shop for food and then onwards down the Drive. I planned a cream mushroom soup with braised shallots and garlic in butter. Simple spinach noodles. My tummy grumbled simply at the thought of it, my mouth watering in reply. At the pizza shop just past Bukowski’s, someone knocked on the window at seeing me. I stopped and failed to recognize them, but with my eyes maybe I could be wrong. Stepping inside I had to face the person dead on a few minutes into conversation to confirm. Coffee skin and a crooked nose. Average young man. Perhaps Marissa had introduced me to this boy? His name was Hakim. No, they said I looked familiar, but wasn’t who they thought. Then they said it was a fiction. They didn’t know me at all, but to see me, (he holds his heart), he felt a “sympatique feeling”. He didn’t know what he was trying to convey in “the english”, but I understood. He asked me to come with him for a drink with his friends at Buckowski’s and after a moments wavering I decided Yes. I wouldn’t properly be me otherwise. It’s not like I had anything else to do. The icky vibe wasn’t there, he was genuinely nice and I had to oddly respect using such a ploy to meet someone without blushing. I would have blushed or attempted to. Hakem, dressed as an average boy gone out for the evening. He didn’t offer to carry my bags, which was both good and bad. Groceries were tucked away in the darkness on the little stairs to nowhere at the foot of the cascading floors. He bought me an orange juice and I was briefly introduced to his friends. Rakim with the baseball cap was attempting to roll a joint but hadn’t any papers. I was sorry not to have any to give him and the other fellow, the one with the bling, I never was given a name for. Both were friendly and I suspected far more sober than the one who’d found me on the street. I stood by the bar attempting to explain to Hakim that I wasn’t very interesting at all and really not anyone he should be fascinated with. He was quick to flatter and I’m sure a Nice Boy. Grew up mostly in Nigeria to well-off parents. I made up a childhood for him once I found he wouldn’t tell me anything. I had his father run off with a woman from the circus and his mother take him to Africa at age three to throw herself broken-heartedly off of Victoria Falls. He thought I was hyper. I was surrounded by friendly people who I sort of liked but the tired feeling began to catch up to me again. A signal to escape. I felt somehow I’d wandered into the wrong novel and decided to leave when my drink was done. Rakim caught me on the way out though and I’m glad. He was terribly interesting. A document translator for a living, he knows english, arabic, and french. A geek, but one with style. First person I met all night I felt I could talk for hours with. We hid on the useless stairs and agreed to meet for coffee, 2pm Wednesday at the Roma. I’ll go too. Always wanted an excuse to go there and new friends are always welcome. I don’t imagine his friend will be terribly impressed with him. Seemed young to me, very territory. Random chance strangers, the pick of the draw. I may have started with the short straw, but I’m not that dumb.

Farther down was the leavings of the Carnival Band night outside El Cocal. Stopped caught and talked with Bryan and exchanged friendly words with Dan. A boy named Ryan asked if he could walk with me and I said yes on the condition that it was his direction to begin with. A friendly young musician, blonde and hopeful to the world, I’ll say hallo to him if I meet him on the Drive. He lives over on Odlum, one down from Venables. Fairly sure he’s not aware of it, but we have enough people in common that I wouldn’t be surprised if I ran into him at a party 6 months from now. I left him at the other end of the park from home. Bid him goodnight and said he’d always be welcome for tea while being careful not to mention any contact information.

Now home.