Dairy: Event Horizon or Vector?

Why does cheese just taste better when it's very thinly sliced? Is there some sort of event horizon for cheese, or some ideal cheese thinness, beyond which it woulod just be too much, of it is like always aproaching but never reaching, I think the concept I want is vector? where you keep approaching something in smaller incriments if you cut the distance in half each time but you never get there? So is there a vector for cheese, like a sub-atomic cheese slice thinness that would be more pleasurable than all other cheese experiences and is too perfect to ever be actualized? Why can I never fucking cut the cheese thin, must I always suffer through these wierd hunks that so disfigure my sandwhiches and various sampler platters?!

So happy fourth of July. Sevilla will celebrate by partying ass late on a weekday for no apparent reason. Oh wait, that's not the fourth, that's just Sevilla. Maybe Molly and I can go to that America themed restraunt, wherein they have fried green tomatoes on the apetizer platter. I stood in front of Fredricks Hollywood (named after the leingerie line?) laughing at that for a good five minuites. That'd be a party in our mouths. Or we could celebrate by doing something gauche and American, like hitting Isla Magica, theme park of incredible cheeziness built from the bones of the '92 World Expo. Funny story, America said it'd help throw the Expo, and we totaly didn't, so Sevilla was bankrupt for a while and thinks we suck for squirming out of our contracts.

T minus an indeterminate number of days 'till Piratos del Carribe, when the love that dare not slurr drunkenly between Norrington and Sparrow will be completley obscured by Spanish dubbing. I love Jack Davenport (of British tv's Coupling fame) and Johnny Depp (of your fantasy in the shower 15 min ago), and it's going to hurt to have them sound like angry 14 year old girls, as all men must in the throes of the VOA.

It's odd, Sevilla has this constant tendancy of making me feel like I'm a child upstairs in my room during one of my mother's parties, like I'm always missing out on something. When I'm out at the flamanco concert the noise of the rave outside along the river pushes through every chink of silence, sometimes cresting over the music. I leave to go to the rave and get distracted by the lights of clubs, and the next one always looks lovelier and more novel and better.

I sit at home in the evening and bands play and fireworks shoot off and I rust to the window to figure out the purpose and origin of the noise, and I stumble down the stairs into a band concert of ornately dressed children under my window at the Chapella, where the Madonna is sacred to the following: the artillery, the watch tower, the wretchedly diseased of the plague hospital next door, and the Plaza de los Torros, the source of income for the entire barrio. The barrio is so recently removed from its confirmed slumhood you can still trace the marks of it on the walls, in the greasy bars that have refused to give way, now sandwiched between chic cafes and touristy flamanco paenas.

And I can fall out of my door needing desperatley to find the origin of the noise, the restlessness, and stumble into the parades of the penitents, or a block party, or nothing, nothing at all. But every moment spent here is streched thin with attention, with the rapt conviction that I cannot do it all, take it all in, that no one but me needs to sleep here. I imagine that to really live here would be exhausting.

Dairy: Event Horizon or Vector?

Why does cheese just taste better when it's very thinly sliced? Is there some sort of event horizon for cheese, or some ideal cheese thinness, beyond which it woulod just be too much, of it is like always aproaching but never reaching, I think the concept I want is vector? where you keep approaching something in smaller incriments if you cut the distance in half each time but you never get there? So is there a vector for cheese, like a sub-atomic cheese slice thinness that would be more pleasurable than all other cheese experiences and is too perfect to ever be actualized? Why can I never fucking cut the cheese thin, must I always suffer through these wierd hunks that so disfigure my sandwhiches and various sampler platters?!

So happy fourth of July. Sevilla will celebrate by partying ass late on a weekday for no apparent reason. Oh wait, that's not the fourth, that's just Sevilla. Maybe Molly and I can go to that America themed restraunt, wherein they have fried green tomatoes on the apetizer platter. I stood in front of Fredricks Hollywood (named after the leingerie line?) laughing at that for a good five minuites. That'd be a party in our mouths. Or we could celebrate by doing something gauche and American, like hitting Isla Magica, theme park of incredible cheeziness built from the bones of the '92 World Expo. Funny story, America said it'd help throw the Expo, and we totaly didn't, so Sevilla was bankrupt for a while and thinks we suck for squirming out of our contracts.

T minus an indeterminate number of days 'till Piratos del Carribe, when the love that dare not slurr drunkenly between Norrington and Sparrow will be completley obscured by Spanish dubbing. I love Jack Davenport (of British tv's Coupling fame) and Johnny Depp (of your fantasy in the shower 15 min ago), and it's going to hurt to have them sound like angry 14 year old girls, as all men must in the throes of the VOA.

It's odd, Sevilla has this constant tendancy of making me feel like I'm a child upstairs in my room during one of my mother's parties, like I'm always missing out on something. When I'm out at the flamanco concert the noise of the rave outside along the river pushes through every chink of silence, sometimes cresting over the music. I leave to go to the rave and get distracted by the lights of clubs, and the next one always looks lovelier and more novel and better.

I sit at home in the evening and bands play and fireworks shoot off and I rust to the window to figure out the purpose and origin of the noise, and I stumble down the stairs into a band concert of ornately dressed children under my window at the Chapella, where the Madonna is sacred to the following: the artillery, the watch tower, the wretchedly diseased of the plague hospital next door, and the Plaza de los Torros, the source of income for the entire barrio. The barrio is so recently removed from its confirmed slumhood you can still trace the marks of it on the walls, in the greasy bars that have refused to give way, now sandwiched between chic cafes and touristy flamanco paenas.

And I can fall out of my door needing desperatley to find the origin of the noise, the restlessness, and stumble into the parades of the penitents, or a block party, or nothing, nothing at all. But every moment spent here is streched thin with attention, with the rapt conviction that I cannot do it all, take it all in, that no one but me needs to sleep here. I imagine that to really live here would be exhausting.