How are we to see these characters? Are they the world Barry projects himself onto? Are other people merely imperfect copies of himself? Or do they serve to represent the overwhelming self-image, the way Barry truly sees himself, and in effect set off the main character as an idealized form of Barry, one which he sees as separate and disconnected from the crowding masses bearing his likeness?

Never gonna sleep this one off.

How I would prefer college

It's like the ending of Big Fish where Albert Finney is being carried into the river and sees everyone he has ever known, except in my version no one has ever been to Ryle and no one knows my name.

EIT

It felt like I was stuck in YouTube for two hours, just with more V-necks and pants tucked into socks.

Walton Bike Rides Be Still Ft. Janelle Monae (Produced By Royal Flush)

There is a bare lamp pole standing in the middle of this room. The fake gold skin reflects the sun's fluorescent sunlight after a summer rain. I keep looking out that window, the fences one next to the other, all manufactured the same. Everyone has a fire pit and some lawn chairs, they all love a good fire. Each fire is different though and that's dearly important. Where you get your wood, where you purchased the pit, why you're lighting the fire, the size, these are all very intricate options allowing for some originality in the mock wilderness of Brookstone. We don't have a home owners association and that's our edge.
It's this rainy day that makes me sad and reminiscent. I sit on my twin mattress next to all the posters and pictures of things I love.  I'll take them to college to have a piece of myself with me at all times.
I met my roommate and he seems like a decent guy. By met I mean we "facebooked." We're guys there isn't any reason to get overtly chatty.
I scribble some notes down for Henry Two, the act is a bit pretentious, but when I sketch out Henry's love interest on paint, she seems to be what I had envisioned and there is surely some satisfaction there. It's paint, but it is surely art. I thrust my life into this one, unlike any other story. So what, it will be viewed probably fifty times at max and probably seventy-five accidentally. Number of views will depend upon the number of people I tell in person or see on facebook. There is so much more to appreciate though, the kind of helping hands that have always been there. There's the delight my Father brings with his deep bellied chuckling laughter, which slips into discussion aloud and within his own head.  He throws analysis into the subconscious meaning I must have implanted regardless of truth or not. There is the separate showing to my mother where I thrust her into my own world and she is deeply impressed whether she entirely gets it or not. There are friends some near and some far who have grown with my you tube hits and have been subjected to the grandeur I apply to the release of a "Barry Rowen Film." Regardless of whether it is deserved or not.

Switch from Big Boi's new album to The Avett Brother's The Gleam.

I'm going to yard sale less than a month. Maybe we'll have a Winnebago, or an old 1973 Beetle, but if nothing else we'll take a Jetta and a Kia Rio. This year's Yard Sale will probably be smaller, but it's charmingly intimate. You're with the people you generally do want to share time with and not abuse on Facebook or Formspring, remnants of high school etc. You spend the day only an hour away from your subdivision in places like Owenton or Ghent, but Northern Kentucky has this bizarre transient watch of it's own, thus it is worthy of being deemed a road trip.

Union: 25 minutes one way you can see a Broadway Show, 25 minutes in the opposing direction you can be sitting in a lawn chair on the porch of the Glencoe General Store.
That's road trip enough for me this summer, 2010.

When I'm capable of love, when I'm full to the brim of my heart.

I have a style now

time to get a different camera, slow mo slow mo to the grave it would seem

The Q

I love the Subway.
It's riding the School Bus, but these are adults, thus given it's tradition I always feel that there is a tremendous amount of comradeship. We rode in this morning, about a twenty-five minute trip iinto Manhattan. Every now and then you'll get somebody crossing cars and walking into yours. You know that they're different just for the sake of moving between cars, not worried about someone stopping them or staring. Occasionally it's some homeless guy shouting in need, occasionally crazy, sometimes just desperate and embarrassed, they smell of hot dogs and body odor and they appeal to your better nature or your upscale "homeless means gross" nature (which is pretty much mine, fakers are in abundance) they reach out there hand and you toss some money into a Tropicana carton. Today it was Dancer that walked on. They warned us ahead of time, there will be dancing, we should be prepared to see some hot shit. Three of them walked on, two black, one white. The first guy started, he ran down doing flips, jumping from the pole hitting the ground with is hands. They performed back flips up and down, tied their hand together, rolled down. "Whoever said white men can't jump," one guy said about his white co-star. The guy did some flips with the other partner and hits his head on the ceiling, leaving a big red mark. White men can't jump I guess. Some people are just ignoring them and their boom box, some are staring, my family doesn't applaud, but I manage a slow and subtle clap. They hold out their flat bills for money and i wish i had broken that twenty in my pocket. It was impressive, it was impressive because they broke the ice on that subway ride, because they through themselves out there. There's a  lot of power if you can manage to entertain a subway car full of strangers, full of preconceived notions, tourists trying to be New Yorkers, New Yorkers trying to tell them apart and vice versa. I think I can dig a Hardy niche for myself here, when the time comes, and it will, even if i have to break dance.