Thursday, December 8, 2011

Olga, from Spain, and her Chinese boyfriend's apartment off-campus.
There are acres and acres of these 3-story, abandoned buildings, made entirely from crumbling brick, with irregularly sized doors, and tiny rooms filled ankle-deep in rat turds and dead bats. I get different stories depending on who I ask: it's new and for sale; the developer went bankrupt and committed suicide; they're waiting to be finished. In America you would see graffiti and signs of squatters and teen parties, but here they erode ignored and unmolested.

Too rainy again to go outside.
My doodles get more myopic each day. I'm starting to feel like Martin Sheen in the beginning of Apocalypse Now in the Saigon hotel. My "ivory tower" is a 4th floor dorm, inland China, where I spend my days drawing and scribbling in my journal to streaming radio. The cliché could only be more complete if I drank, but a 5th of vodka has sat untouched on my fridge for months (though a bag of to-be-rationed mini-Snickers disappears in one night). Will I last two more months without disappearing inside my own navel?
Coffee and book bar. 

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