Saturday, July 24, 2004

I enjoyed this review of Catwoman:

"Bad Kitty! Very bad kitty"!

Thursday, July 22, 2004

Thing about your life is, you let one corner down, and the whole thing starts to go.

Monday, July 19, 2004

     A clean blackboard has been left for me this morning.
     So clean, so empty—I don't know what to say.
     I'm used to scribbles from past instructions
                    faded but still visible
                    something I can erase or write over.
     But to write on the empty cold slate.
                    is not what I had expected
                    is more than I have in me.

Tuesday, July 13, 2004

The original version of the movie Insomnia has this line in it:

"When you've been a policeman long enough, nothing's weird."

It's a good line, but outside of the immediate context, it's unnecessarily specific.

Substitute for "alive" for "a policeman."

Friday, July 09, 2004

Is it what we have in common that makes us friends and lovers,
or something indefinable?

Is it because we are in pain that we turn from others,
or because we don’t want pain?

Do we gradually become better at relating with others,
or merely more resigned?

The people around me help me answer these questions,
as I look at the closeness and the distance between us.

Thursday, July 01, 2004

     I get a little frustrated when there's no pen within reach, or at least within sight. In a friend's car—a friend who spends many hours in bookstores or reading online—I thought of something, and asked him for a pen. He said he didn't have one.
     "In here?" I said. "No pen, anywhere?" The car was littered with belongings.
     That was a strange thought. When I can't find a pen in my car, it's because they've all been scattered somewhere else, and I feel like buying $30 worth of cheap pens and scattering them in my car and my house.
     But this friend, he takes in more information than I do in a day, and doesn't need a pen for outlet. Who sets that ratio of input to output in people? God?
     I get a slight thought scarcely worth preserving, that turns into a page and a half. An itch in the shower becomes a poem.

When I've needed to write lately there hasn't been paper and pen around. Or pen with no paper. Once a dead pen and lots of paper.

Things end up on receipts, ticket stubs, owners manuals, or the palm of my hand. Once I inscribed my fading thought onto paper, hard, using a pen with dried ink.

Lately I've been wondering where all those notes go. I'm not sure they're all getting eventually channeled into the computer.

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