i've been avoiding posting an anniversary blog for the gym notebook (it was one year ago march 25th), even though i have a great story about a gorgeous french guy named guillaume that i picked up at the cock that night. i'd worn my new camo shorts and a shirt with cutoff sleeves when i dumped this boring party i was at and went to the cock. it was crowded. he was my size, with brilliant eyes i could see through the darkness of that place. i was forward and dirty with him, and soon we got in a cab bound for his place. within minutes, we were talking about proust, and his soft, somewhat shy and sing-song voice, gently flavored by his accent, hypnotized me. we spoke at length about contre sainte-beuve (hence my association with this and french beauties). it was exceptionally warm that night (hence the shorts) and after i'd quoted proust, he quoted hemingway's line about 'false spring'. his speech was so articulate, his manner of speaking so carefully gentle, i can still hold the sonic end of one of his sentences in my head.
i also clearly remember guillaume's eyes, and the wonderful look on his face, intelligent and kind, brilliant, with his head inclined toward the taxi window while our warm legs were intertwined romantically. the sex was accordingly wonderful. we went on a few dates after that, laughed and enjoyed each other's company, fell for him, and he lost interest after a while, although he remained polite and gorgeously kind. what i miss most about not seeing him is the softness, the mature childlike sprightliness of his manner.
as the city emerges as a wild and improbably solid of turns and overlapping stories, so do i. density is the key. rem koolhaas: manhattan requires a culture of congestion. i'm forced to write about guillaume, not out of mores, nor to construct some kind of apophasis (i learned this word from dean), but because i can't--and dont want to--separate the stories.
a small moment tonight: crossing houston on my way to the gym, i passed a not-very-attractive queen with bleached (or is it frosted?) hair and a fake fur coat (two tropes i would never combine), who in turn met my indifferent glance by sneering at me over his cigarette. passing the guy on the street reminded me of guillaume, by negative example, and because i had been thinking about not-writing this entry as i approached the gym. guillaume was not shy out of modesty or insecurity. he was not gentle because he was manipulative. why don't i run into more people like that?
second reminder: after leaving the steam room out of boredom (no cuties, and i was in the mood), i was nearly toppled by a very muscular version of guillaume in boxing shorts, no shirt, sweaty, with dark hair, the same nose and eyes, speaking in the same voice and accent. ready for spring.
third reminder: walking up ninth avenue in the 50s, on my way home, i was passed by a guy who looked like second reminder, who had a nice and full behind showing through his 'didas workout pants, my mind already knowing how i'd top, he'd bottom. ready for spring 3.
a new series i'm working on. above all, almost the same.
1.1 2.1 2.1.1 2.1.2 2.1.3
1.2 2.2 2.2.1 2.2.2 2.2.3
1.3 2.3 2.3.1 2.3.2 2.3.3
i spent the morning going through old proofs from decks and old architecture projects. i spent last night avoiding a place that i didn't have fun the last time i was at, the last time i went out with david, to see someone i don't really know and who didnt seem to have much to say to david either, run by someone i made out with a couple of new years' back. avoiding a lot by going through old links, reflecting yesterday and today on a discussion i'm having with many of friends, the crux of which is the nature of blogging, and the objectives of my blog.
since he wrote it in january, i've been inspired by caotm's very brilliant points on blogging: his borges-like, elegant musing on possible writings is at once cosmic while appearing achievable. number thirteen is a particularly worthy challenge, I would like to see more blogs that are strictly formal exercises, and it has stuck with me since i read it, bothering me at amy moment i wanted to post this or that event online that could have no more interest than a page in a bad magazine. it has pushed me to record more dreams, delusions, and to begin pushing what is clearly to be the quasi-ficticious nature of this form of blogging, the online diary. paradox of telecommunications that it is, it has generated no few personal conundrum as it has lent an advantageous way to explore and connect thoughts.
the dilemma i find most troubling is the ability to freely write about the beginning of possible relationships, but a complete inability to write about their end, or more accurately non-end. i'll leave it up to you, reader, to go through the archives and count the number of times i met people who i liked, and even dated, but when it got to the point where there is some/any doubt in my head about our status, i pretty much shut up, knowing that i'm being read by those people, that some things are better left out of a blog, out of an inbox, out of a voice mail, out of a call to someone's personal home lan phoneline, and expressed through a personal face to face talk. so that you don't think that i'm merely complaining about the demands of an audience, please know that i truly believe there's no one to blame in these situations, the least of which would in any rate be the reader. of course, the hardest part is not believing that i'm to blame. as far as i can tell, with my limited, inconsistent experience, relationships either happen or they don't, and most of the time they kind-of-happen and kind-of-don't. (on the other hand, i'm perfectly open to the fact that it's, well, just me).
and so, as i gradually become more disinterested in things that were novel to me a year ago (for instance, that i can put events online, or the self-discovery of my body through workout, sexual attraction, and pics), i am as much seeking new means of expression with this medium as ways to extend the issues i've already begun exploring. i could go into the mechanics of how these things actually happen, but that would spoil the fun.
perhaps it was the way the florescents were reflecting off his golden-red beard that caught me. i saw him across from me on the E at canal, reading, looking down, hunching big shoulders. he was dressed in a way i strive for: genericly stylish with enough old stuff, assembled with most of the attention to the slight contrasts and new correlations the stories are giving off. i remember clearly relaying this to dante a long time ago, and that i've never encountered others who do it. his brilliant reply has stayed with me all this time: "how would you notice?".
it's magnificent discovery this morning to learn via jonno that Proust's favorite painter was Vermeer. my favorite painting, the only one i've been captivated by for hours on end is his very superior 'The Astronomer', or as written in the Louvre, L'Astronome. being completely unschooled in any form of art history, i am free to discover painting completely separate of theoretical narratives, an ignorance i reserve for myself for painting, writing, and film. this painting is so precious to me that i won't even take a picture of it, knowing the very reasons for my captivation would be destroyed at seeing anything but the original. and the actual scene is so normative there is almost no use in reproducing it at all, much like proust's book in a way: if i recap the plot of the last 1500 pages i've read, i could write it precisely in lines shorter than this entry.
his head was shaved, he had a body, but not too, flannel shirt from 14th street (or old playbook banana republic, when they were still safari clothing, i have some still), stylish new jeans (but not too), black nylon long coat like everyone else on the commute, gray urban cross training hiking boots, and a not too special bag (but not horribly generic). his beard was closely trimmed, almost the length of the balding stubble on his head, with full features and quiet eyes that lie behind black plastic glasses. not fully vintage 50s hornrimmed, but too elegant to be calvin or armani eyewear. the glasses were perhaps the most attractive thing about him: they themselves embodied his deep yet soft engrossment in his book, which could have been any science fiction tract this side of dune. i was sitting on the back-cover side, where the hairy back of his hand covered the cover and spine. i was getting turned on by watching him reading, seeing what i believed to be a mysterious force made visible to me, content concentration that were part of him and his clothes.
when i look at L'Astronome, my eyes are drawn back and forth across the canvas, a sensation i can barely control, as when i wake up during rem sleep and cannot keep my eyes from shifting about the dream to concentrate on reality. the painting is almost inpenetrable, i feel like i'm not looking at it like other paintings, like i'm not looking at it at all, that my eyes are seeing something else. jocko observed some of Vermeer's surface techniques, layered painting, effects of light. perhaps what occupies my ocular attention is his ability to insert another story on top of the man looking at his globe, that of the light itself, as if the light were embodied separately from the surfaces from which it sprang: the folds of his cloak, the folds of the cloth on the table, the window, the globe, the book on the table, the books on the cabinet, the cabinet, the barely-visible map on the cabinet, the chameleol wall, the painting on the wall, the chair, his face, his eyes, his golden-brown hair. as if the painter is holding out that the perceptual effects alone could tell a story, the very act of seeing a painting would be the painting itself, but he is much too sophisticated to release you from the cojoined narrative contained in the scene.
i glanced several times at this creature. when i see people who seem unagitated by the noise of the trains or the simply unexpected nature of people on the train, see them as gentle people at peace with themselves, i take pause. or perhaps it was a delusion from thinking about the luxury of reading my book tonight, and how i left it off where Proust was talking about the impossibility of knowing what things and people really are based on what we perceive, or from reading the posts and articles on Vermeer today. or perhaps because i was relaxed and pleasant today this was all a new projection i was layering onto reality, the way light reflecting off the stainless steel surfaces in a train (i've counted four separate finishes, each with unique reflection, refraction, and diffusive properties) tells the story of the train's activity in a way that is connected to the interior and exterior of the train, it's movement, it's shaking, the riders' agitations and connections. yet the magical network of distortions caused by the flickering of hundreds of sources of light, inside the train, inside a passing or passed train, inside another station, in safety lights in the tunnels, or the shadows cast by intervening trains, intervening columns, passing people, passing newspapers, opening conductor doors, opening connecting doors, all tell additional stories, stories that pull my eyes in many directions at once, stories that spring from the multitude of light phenomena and radiate in new directions, stories that forced me to penetrate their physical being played out over the surface of the interior train, so that i might concentrate on the beautiful man across from me.
after striking out at ciel rouge (last time i was there i was sitting next to jeanine garafolo, really!), TD and i were forced to have our drink at the unlikely saturday-night baraccuda.
after bumping into some old friends, who'd i just seen in my 'hood the night before, we ordered some drinks. somewhere in there, TD disappeared into the street. during the crush of drink-ordering, julian called the place 'purgatorial'.
our conversation had turned immediately to writing, and i began talking about its effects, the real-life effects, specifically, how i had been written to by an admirer who called me a 'celebrity'. i probably said something like "you're famous, right TD? maybe you could clue me in..." (knowing full well that julian is a favorite friend of jonno and richard's, who introduced me to the wonders of the kiki and herb christmas album TD produced). he seemed a little taken aback by that; after all, in new york, we're all important somehow, the ironic subtext of which i think was lost in my delivery. we sat next to a guy with a tshirt that said 'if you're feeling sinister'.
we soon after spoke about the people WE were starstruck by, and i told him the story of meeting james bidgood, the first person i was starstruck by (a story for another blog, reader). he told me a lovely story about him and mariah carrey and the lovely afternoon they spent in bed (i didnt ask, he didnt get into it) which basically reinforced my own notions of what to do in that situation. that is, TD suggested just talking what you really wanted to talk to them about: making. after all, the people we admired were people we took inspiration from for our own work. TD/mariah, minx/robert smithson. it's that's simple.
he knows most everyone i know. (i first heard of TD a couple of years ago from henning, then just this new years from jonno). i wanted to compare notes on so many things, and tell him about this awesome idea i had for me doing an album of pixies tunes, but there wasn't time. we didn't get around to comparing notes on henning, which i'm uncomfortable about doing in the blog format only because he's a friend and i don't really know how he feels about that. but i did get the sense that he's an incredibly sensitive, perceptive, gentle person. i left there inspired to be a kinder guy, and feeling that i'd actually talked with someone for a change.
"The piece that followed was one of those novelties which at one time I had expected, since they were not famous, to be inevitably trivial and of no general application, devoid as they were of any existence outside the performance that was being given of them at the moment. But also I did not have, as with a classic, the dissapointment of seeing the eternity of a masterpiece occupy no more space or time than the width of the floodlights and the length of a performance which would accomplish it as effectively as an occasional piece. Then at each set speech which I felt that the audience liked and which would one day be famous, in the absence of the celebrity it could not have won in the past I added the fame it would enjoy in the future, by a mental process the converse of that which consists in imagining masterpieces on the day of their first frail appearance, when it seemed inconceivable that a title which no one had ever heard before could one day be set, bathed in the same mellow light, beside those of the author's other works."
he is always present in his writing
even an unfailingly critical voice
suspended in the liquid solution of his words
perfect and cautiously chosen yet in many places wholly unedited
because there is only more to write.
a logic of always-forward writing
like the cinema, or a disk drive,
writing, rewriting, overwriting, interleaving, saturating through the recording of time.
this is the mark of his genius,
that his depth exists continuously in an ocean of recorded impressions
difficult to conceive as to achieve
the thing i strive for by immersing myself in his book,
something i eventually hope to claim for myself too,
that every introspective thought, every moment to speak of,
everything stealthily funny, uncomfortably clumsy, shockingly erotic, unabashedly romantic,
that every word will contain my voice and my world of relational meaning,
but is written warmly, quickly, en sÚries,
unfinished, undiminished, unedited, part of life.
the charette or how to look sad in pictures.
in the gym showers, the soap smells like citrus, the shampoo like mint, and the conditioner like coconut. you leave there smelling like ambrosia salad!
(the smells were only the first part of today's reaquaintance with my life, my routines, my habits. i called every friend in town to tell them i have crawled out from the rock i was under. i worked out, even though it was my off day. i shopped even though it's sale-time and every thing i want to buy hasn't arrived in stores yet.)
mentally and emotionally, i've occupied a single series of spaces for a while. my only effective verbal communication has been with the other people working on those spaces, about those spaces. it's like a peculiar form of autism that settles in during an intense design project like that, where my mind inhabits a lot of things in a very structured way, but my ability to make the most basic utterances about them is severly impaired. i'm conscious of the inability, like in a dream, unable to speak, unable to breath.
like the muscles in my shoulders, which painfully but uselessly resisted the strain i was putting them through today, my thinking about the wider world has been neglected to the point that it's been difficult to say anything at all. i could barely speak to, much less be effusive with, the sales person who was helping me pick out a new pair of workout shorts, despite my inner cheer at being fawned over by such a humpy guy in a trashy store on christopher street.
run through, run with me sister,
childlike and evergreen,
when i wake up in the morning
i'm gonna change everything
i kept at this dream state until it began to wear away. after trying on clothes at no less than 5 trashy stores downtown, i started to get a little flirty with cute salespeople. i smiled a little at a guy who was buying the same fierce pair of pumas as i, who was sitting next to me. i was all ready to write this in my favorite coffee shop, but i had a lot of packages, and it began to rain and get dark.
after finishing today, i've not much to say. it hasn't really sunk in deep that i don't have more to do. but i can say this about things you can do when you don't have to work on the weekend.
1. never go to sleep (jack kerouac moment)
2. anonymous sex.
3. internet porn before anonymous sex. related to martha stewart everyday washcloth being used in an intentionally ironic manner.
4. drunk and more drunk. related to above.
5. shop. at h&m AND conran's.
6. galleries and museums have art to see. verify that your last few months were in the right direction. pray the same.
7. start jocko-daddy's workout program again.
8. pick up proust again.
9. write more.
10. see, write, and call all of your friends, all of them, the distant and the near, the laser and the robot...
this was supposed to be monday's post.
in order to combat the view that i live the life of some kind of super-hero
artist, or glamourous anti-fashion socialite, or neo-whitman poet of the
body, or some kind of very sexually adventurous guy, i am composing this
recording of my day. it's composed by writing to myself, from work to home,
with a focus on shifting attention from impressions to the characteristics
of the day itself.
i woke up and am still dreaming. bad dream of being awake. i've been working nonstop on the
competition. troy spent his last night at my place, he stayed out of my way
when i got up; i got home at 1am, woke at 730am, arrived at work first
(after leaving last last night).
not much honeycomb left. half bowl. bought coffee at the deli downstairs,
took it with me. the guy gave me sugar; i am very specific about no sugar,
coffee is 'coffee with milk, no sugar'. didnt notice till i was well down
the block. i drink it anyway, because i can't really taste anything through
the fatigue. the sun is brilliant, temperature cold. forgot my sunglasses.
like early last night, the stupid cab driver mixed up my specific directions
several times. i got mad and made her drop me off at a corner, gave her a
twenty and asked for seventeen back and the receipt. only after i got home,
getting money from my wallet for my second cab of the evening, do i realize
that she TOOK seventeen and gave me three back. stupid fucking her, and
stupid fucking me for not counting my change.
i thought about having sex with a special friend of mine on the train this
morning. i wore a short coat, which didn't cover my hardon. i don't care.
i've ridden the morning rush hour subway enough to know that even people you
recognize and you want to meet will not be seen more than a couple of times
and you'll never have the opportunity to talk to anyway. some guy noticed
my crotch, even though i was seated. i noticed him noticing, but he wasn't
sun is out, today, i can barely see my computer monitor. the drawbacks of
working in a tribeca loft office. also, climate control sucks. the
radiators are searing, yet at my window, the draft keeps me chilled well
it's 1030, and i've had three cups of coffee already. no effect. coffee,
i'm your bitch. please save me. blinded dumb by tired and sun, i clean my
desk in an attempt to get focused on something.
later, i walk past empire diner, after taking pictures in chelsea, across the street, the usual massive crowd of gaffers and PAs and camera trucks and catering trucks surrounding the place. it's black, with blackened windows, and extras in overcoats outside. it's the shadow new york crowd; the one directors assemble for shots in the city. the actors look famous, and are sitting at the table olafur and i sat at last time we ate there. i need to call olafur.
no time to record the rest of the day. the brick and the concrete are the same underfoot as they are everyday, except that today i'm so tired i've got that state of mind where the edge perceptions, the ones i never see in my usual day in the city, are in front of everything else.
things that make me wear thin in this town in order of appearance
(or, if i vent here, i'll feel cheery tonight)
1. morning rush hour on any train.
2. impossibility of meeting dreamboat you can see across the train between arms and heads and overweight people from new jersey reading the newsday and even stare at without being noticed, despite being unable to move your arms.
she was right
she was right there
she was right there all the time
3. new york city relationships.
when i was a painter i painted you out
too bad i have to die
4. weather that is too cold to be called 'brisk'. brisk enlivens. too cold does not.
5. the busiest time of the year is the least sunniest, the most weakly snowiest/rainiest.
and get lost in the moss
6. bad neighborhood bars. getting sick of schlepping to the east village when it's already cold and pay cover for a BAR, and at the least paying for a coat check and overpriced drinks. leaving those places in the winter is additional annoyance; 4am in the summer is a great time to be outdoors to get fresh air. (sometime i'll get back to my new favorite neighborhood bar, barrage, to get laid again. neighborhood bar with free entry and coat check, little attitude, and a crowd of all the hellz kitchen cats who usually have to go to the east village to get stimulated. only check against is the lame calvin klein and AF and versace jeans ads on the wall. oh well, keepin' it real, yo, as in truely trashy, or super-ironic, as the beautiful people who inhabit the bar are the ones who conceived, produced, or starred in the ads in the first place.)
you brought the essentials perversion appeal
and many lovers at one time
7. building superintendents who run their structure as a graft-oriented old-town fiefdom. usually i try to see it as a charming vernacular, despite the interference in creative acts with the need to simply skim off the top.
8. the dream of a mechanized city always impeded by its failed execution. everything is broken, not-flush, not-plumb. few are competent. the city can't really afford competent people to administrate construction. incompetent people are protected by organizations that put substandard construction techniques into trade contracts (1 of every 5 tiles in a union-contracted tile layer can be up to 1/4" out of plane. on the floor!)
9. rents strangling the creative pursuits of my friends, and a semblance of interesting nightlife. new arrivals with lots of money and no taste, not to speak of sense. related to number 6.
i spent a little time rereading my entries of the last year. i was looking for insights into good writing moments, sustained momentum, uninhibited optimism, sexual activity borne on ebulience, wandering in the city, wandering in time, tracing a dream i had last night, tracing dreams i had in the past (some unwritten), tracing ways decided before so that i might embark in that direction again, adding new directions. some of that momentum put a tiny spring in my step today, despite the fact that i'm still as much of a prisoner of my own schedule as i can get (a feeling that always wears me thin), despite the fact that i really have little time at home or alone when i'm not sleeping, despite the fact that all of my conscious, cogent thought is devoted to completing a project with such brilliance that we will advance to the next round. this entry is clandestine. the momentum came while i was reading, quietly enjoying a past voice that i think is my own, and a little bit of that stayed, a seed of a spark for tomorrow.
the weather report is in: it is going to meekly snow light and wet in new york city until april, and it will never again be DAY.
richard, my mother propitiously recorded what i wanted to be every year in grade school. listed in no particular order, followed by your rating system.
1. teacher: 8.8
in sixth grade, i wanted to be my female texan math teacher. in eighth grade, i wanted to be my wonderful english teacher. the semester after graduating from columbia, i went back and TA'ed (more like co-taught) a studio with a former professor. this last fall was the first time i haven't done that, although i'm still on review juries, critting student projects. i love teaching design, but i need a break, first to get licensed, second because i want a few more projects under my belt and get a studio on my own terms.
2. musician: 1.2
my parents discouraged me from applying to colleges with music programs, even though i'd been in bands since fifth grade. i really wasnt good enough, and it made me really think about what i wanted to do with my life. now, i just stay about three months behind what everybody else is listening to (in jocko and jonno's cases, i'm about fourteen years behind). i can sing, and i can probably play my trumpet still (i still have it, yo!), and i still feel a divine frisson when i hear prince sing "our clothes, our hair, we don't care, it's all about being there"
3. apollo on battlestar galactica: 6.9
i hesitate to put this down, but the first recording of my voice has me clearly saying that i wanted this. i still very clearly remember it, the summer after first grade, because it was the first time i was stunned by having myself reflected back at me by another media, and not liking it, wanting to modify it. i'll let my future biographer take up that thought. as for my career as a galactic warrior, i'm pretty sure i've kept my taste for good yet bombastic sci-fi, jonno and i call each other on our cel phones and talk in robot voices for the first few lines of our conversation, and i've lately taken to walking dramatically into a room and saying "i am a laser!" i'm fully confident of this one.
4. product designer/industrial designer: 5.5
i didnt have a name for it in 7th grade, and no one in my little town did either. i was constantly designing hand-held computers (when i wasn't drawing space agro-farms and cavernous space-bases) and even did a design for my dad's editorial desk, envisioning the desk surface itself as a drag-and-drop computer screen. oh, and i did a voice-activated typwriter. there always must be a lemon in the bunch, eh? i was obsessed by the design of the interior of our gold 1980 mazda 626, convinced of its design superiority (we got shit for driving a japanese car while living in a ford-factory town). back to today: i've done some cd covers, some press kit packaging, and a lot of graphic work that troy is currently putting onto t-shirts in italy and japan. i have designed fixtures for retail locations, including very small table-top fixtures. i've also done quite a bit of furniture. someday, i'll have my own line of stuff. someday meaning 'long time from now'. so i've got a lot of peripheral experience, but no actual products yet.
5. architect: 10
it's written as my KINDERGARTEN career choice. brady bunch influence, no doubt, which incidentally was the first memory trigger when i was discouraged by the music thing. it's difficult to convey how hard it was for me to even conceive of this profession. there were no architects in town. the one on tv had been on a canceled show from the 70s. (this is something like my gay experience in ohio, aporia of knowledge and names for things, but you already know about that). but once i had arrived at the idea, everything i'd ever done, all the notebooks of drawings, all the time spent in my grandpa's shop working wood (something i did today, btw), all the time spent planting flowers, all the endless fascination with how things were actually made, all the fantasies about the interior of materials, all of this fell into place.
it snowed again today. disappointed because it wasn't the blizzard they thought it would be, but a measly two inches. tried buying lucky charms cereal, frankenberry cereal, pokemon special edition cereal, and honeycomb cereal. nothing works when my life is consumed by work, long days that permit nothing else. long day of my making. the project is even looking wonderful, and i'm still gray inside.
jocko, i have a lot to say about greg lynn. i will not be cogent enough to make even a fuzzy argument come forth, but the germ of the idea is this. all architecture is formed in reaction to forces; it's called internal organization. what lynn is proposing, in an act pre-emtive theoretical validation, that by letting the computer do its thing, he's doubly releasing himself from the responsibilities of beauty (kudos on that metropolis article, it made me feel good about myself), and the precision of what those forces he talks about actually are.
on one hand, his designs are quasi-mimitive of people's movements, a computer 'force' his studio FORM models. however, they are terribly imprecise about how people actually move; experince one of borromini's, carlo scarpa's or aalto's or miralles' buildings will show you that those architects were so good at visualizing organization and movement that they almost anticipate every step, every eye movement you make. san carlo is exceptionally brilliant in this respect (and one of my favorite buildings, i'll show you my slides when you come to new york).
on the other hand, the designs seem to be making crazy shapes with nothing inside them. the crazy, expensive, and blobby moment of his korean church project is the fire escape/terrace. er, what force does that blob require?
i'll let you know that i'm usually the one defending greg lynn; he's not popular with people in my office, other columbia graduates included. if anyone can pull this computer-force thing off, it's him, if only because he's omnivorous about the scale he works in (he's not solely interested in infrastructure, like the frightening RUR studio), and he'll figure out that computers are more effective at illustration and producing media effects for architecture. also, his neo-utopian houses are beautiful enough dreams that they can stand on their own as that. my only, large criticism, is the continued denial of the desire to make something beautiful, the denial of design decisions apart from those that are merely generated by the (crappy) software: the thinking that i treasure as key to my survival is that which allows me to think outside my media and short-circuit the process, add to what i can see.
all that is visible must grow out of itself, and extend into the realm of the invisible
someday, some morning, sometime,
sometime, i'd like to hold your hand in mine,
someday, some morning, sometime
i'd like to tell you you're pretty and fine. Your
face will smile and your eyes will shine
someday, some morning, sometime
i'll build you a house all covered in vines, i'll
bring you a nickel, i'll bring you a dime,
someday, some morning, sometime
five six seven and eight oh nine i'll take you
down where the birds fly by
someday, some morning, sometime.
ps all work in this domain is copyright chad the minx.