I think, probably, that when I see dead things, I prefer them to be mangled and grotesque. It just feels less sad that way.

Mike Mills, the director and artist, said this in the paper Sunday, "I grew up in not just a family but a town and a culture where sadness is something you’re taught to feel shame about. You end up chronically desiring what can be a very sentimental idea of love and connection. A lot of my work has been about trying to make a space for sadness.”

I feel that way.

He also said this in a poster I wish I could look at in a more real way, "Then I buried myself in Romantic sentiment and waited for you."

I feel that way.

I'm still looking for a job. Have you seen one lately? I think I do everyday, but I can't be sure I remember what they actually look like. You should let me look down your arm if we happen across one someday.

I appreciate direction.

Looking for a job is the absolute worst. Two months ago I was expecting full-time employment at some kind of school. Now, I'm hoping for a part-time job at the public library...and even that seems like a longshot.

In the meantime, though, here are pictures of clouds and other assorted tropospheric curio. These things often amaze me...I mean, to think that phenomenon so beautiful happen by chance, through a series of events that are particular to elemental conditions. Seriously, That shit is crazy! AND, to know that it is so fleeting, changing away from you and this moment before you're brain has even fully processed it. It's totally wicked...

I've also been thinking a lot about Mtv Party to Go CDs and Diet Mt. Dew fountain sodas. After some consideration, I've concluded that I'm always in the mood for both these things, all the time. I mean it. ALL. THE. TIME.

After months of hype, we finally drove to Plano, IL to see the Farnsworth House. I was, in all honesty, not expecting much. It’s a house. In the woods. By a river. But you walk down this path, and gradually the massive swath of green is increasingly interrupted by white lines jutting into and out of your more natural expectations. And yet, the house itself never seems out of place, or foreign from it’s environs.

Somehow, it makes sense. As though, this is the perfect house for this place. Which is particularly weird, you think, because you’ve always imagined Modernism being mankind’s ultimate departure from the wilderness, but here you are, in this house that would not work at all if it wasn’t surrounded by these trees, this river, those flowers. Mies van der Rohe, you realize, was never attempting to separate man from nature, rather, he was desiring to put us back into it.

Here too, is where, “Less is more,” suddenly makes sense, is made real. You get it. And oddly, or maybe not, it’s quite moving. This house makes its’ environment impossible to ignore, you are drawn out into it, always, and it feels quite romantic, which is also something you’d never before attributed to Modernism. Here, you are feeling a little loved and you begin to wonder where you would put all your stuff. What it would be like to wake up in this bed. To sit in this chair (of which there are only a few in the world) and read. To walk to this kitchen and make yourself a sandwich. To throw open this door and feel that breeze, smell those smells. To host BBQ’s…whoa.

You’re way ahead of yourself now, and feeling a little ridiculous. But then you see, that’s the magic of this house. That’s what makes any drive here worth it. It’s not the house you came to see, but yourself in it. The Modernists were genius, you think, and I want to remember this. So, you sadly leave the house, watching it, slowly and over your shoulder, disappear back into the trees (which is what it seemed designed to do from the get), and go and buy yourself a t-shirt, because, you guess, that is as a good way to remember things as any, and you really don’t want to forget this day.