March 2011
Amelie & the Glass Man.
Glass Man: So that’s the one, there, the guy who raises his hand?
Amelie: Yes.
Glass Man: Is she in love with him?
Amelie: Yes.
Glass Man: The time has come for her to take some real risks.
Amelie: Well yes, she’s thinking about it. She’s thinking of stratagem.
Glass Man: Yes, she likes stratagems, doesn’t she?
Amelie: Yes.
Glass Man: She’s...
She was a unique constellation of attributes; she was my Hailey’s comet. But the universe is designed to break your heart, right?
A philosopher as well as an artist, yes it is we who suffer most.
You've Got Mail
What is that supposed to mean? I am so sick of that. All that means is that it wasn’t personal to you. But it was personal to me. It’s *personal* to a lot of people. And what’s so wrong with being personal, anyway?
Whatever else anything is, it ought to begin by being personal.
- Kathleen Kelly
The Jabberwocky
Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe;
All mimsy were the borogoves,
And the mome raths outgrabe.
“Beware the Jabberwock, my son
The jaws that bite, the claws that catch!
Beware the Jubjub bird, and shun
The frumious Bandersnatch!”
He took his vorpal sword in hand;
Long time the manxome foe he sought
So rested he by the Tumtum tree,
And stood...
Peter to Howard
“Do you always have to have a purpose? Do you always have to be so damn serious? Can’t you ever do things without reason, just like everybody else? You’re so serious, so old. Everything’s important with you, everything’s great, significant in some way, every minute, even when you keep still. Can’t you ever be comfortable - and unimportant?”
Linguistics and Black Lace
Two lovers laying in bed.
A pasty girl in black lace.
Chit chatting about linguitics.
Under white linens.
With a soft glowing light.
It’s about 6am.
They’ve been up all night.
Arguing about proper syntax structure.
The guy goes: Noam Chomsky?!!
Are you serious?!! The fucking anarchist guy???!!
Go back to community college…. I had Chomsky on vinyl…
{special...
it was the summer of 1993.
our feet were black from the hot asphalt.
melting too fast to eat, ice cream covered our hands.
the skies were blue and everyone was wearing the same smile.
a scraped knee, a bitten lip, sweat on our foreheads.
nothing could put an end to joy as pure as this.
i was back in montmartre during the muggy tourist season.
church bells and laughter rang with the same intensity.
art nouveau adorned the streets.
dark, thick coffee slid down my throat.
and i was amelie poulain.
i dreamt i was floating on a log in the middle of a sea.
it was peaceful, the colors were muted & the air was moist & cool.
and then i woke up.
and it was overcast outside & i was home alone.
