October 8, 2006 9:47 PM

If you ever get the chance to see live music with silent films, look into it. I just saw The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari with the Devil Music Ensemble. Vibraphone, pedal slide guitar, violin, synthesizers, and all manner of percussion, to an already intense film. Thoroughly brilliant stuff! The English black tea and popcorn were perfect.

I've come down with a cold. Mucus rebounds out of my throat like muddy basketballs from hoops. My bicycle's making strange noises. I've taken the 4th Ave. hill more times than I can count, it's become a symbol of accomplishment for me. The clouds have darkened, so I got wash-in waterproofing for my parallel-lines jacket and gloves. A pretty girl put a bubbling pot of warm remarks atop my head, and I've been balancing and stoking it carefully all week. It was one of those nights that seep from the back of your head towards the front, creeping into a weird realism more vivid than the doing of the night itself, that drips behind your eyes and throat as a most expensive and flattering filter. It's hard to believe it happened as it did: imminently consoling, but its whole, satisfying elegance makes me scared and doubtful. There's been some joking on tattoos, and the abrupt and exciting notion of actually striking it to skin. I'm going to wait a week first, on recommendation. It feels like the way things should always be -- blurred, in steady motion, full of sympathy for the world around me. I'm not trying for omniscience or objectivity, or rather, the face of it, but I also feel as if my subjective awareness is in some way more vital and true to my circumstances. It's more risky, but not life-threatening; towards treating my existence and circumstances as a most gracious favor.