i wrote a poem the other day
and by my definitions, it is terrible. it is, however, unlike most things i write, & so i shall include it.
that said, this week has been a week of finally watching russell crowe movies that i hadn't seen before -- namely, the gladiator and a beautiful mind. i know! how i had gotten by for so long without seeing them is a wonder even to me, particularly considering i enjoyed both immensely.
also saw babel and memoirs of a geisha this week. babel -- i don't know, it was good, but hard to get into. i really enjoyed the costuming in memoirs, but then how can you not? i think it added a lot to the film to then be able to watch the featurettes. and tomorrow i will finally see the departed because my parents will be off doing the business dinner thing.
ah, watching movies like a beautiful mind and other such things that revolve around genius always make me so regretful and sad. i remember when i did my first serious research into giftedness and genius when i was in 9th grade -- and realized i would never be a prodigy, never be a genius. it was heartbreaking.
positively the most egotistical thing in the world to think, but it's true. that was also around the age that i considered the possibility of other things not necessarily being real but only existing in the mind, that perhaps i could be the only real thing in the world, if the world actually existed.
/end tangent
so it got me to thinking again about how i dream of actually achieving something, which the way things are going now is not apt to happen any time soon. i'm not going to change the world through any literary feat. sore and painful truth.
& now on to the poem.
Lascaux, France
We lie on our backs
in smoke-filled caves,
fingers smudged with blood
and powdered stone.
Shadow passes to daylight
passes to death. Like rock,
only our paintings remain.
that said, this week has been a week of finally watching russell crowe movies that i hadn't seen before -- namely, the gladiator and a beautiful mind. i know! how i had gotten by for so long without seeing them is a wonder even to me, particularly considering i enjoyed both immensely.
also saw babel and memoirs of a geisha this week. babel -- i don't know, it was good, but hard to get into. i really enjoyed the costuming in memoirs, but then how can you not? i think it added a lot to the film to then be able to watch the featurettes. and tomorrow i will finally see the departed because my parents will be off doing the business dinner thing.
ah, watching movies like a beautiful mind and other such things that revolve around genius always make me so regretful and sad. i remember when i did my first serious research into giftedness and genius when i was in 9th grade -- and realized i would never be a prodigy, never be a genius. it was heartbreaking.
positively the most egotistical thing in the world to think, but it's true. that was also around the age that i considered the possibility of other things not necessarily being real but only existing in the mind, that perhaps i could be the only real thing in the world, if the world actually existed.
/end tangent
so it got me to thinking again about how i dream of actually achieving something, which the way things are going now is not apt to happen any time soon. i'm not going to change the world through any literary feat. sore and painful truth.
& now on to the poem.
Lascaux, France
We lie on our backs
in smoke-filled caves,
fingers smudged with blood
and powdered stone.
Shadow passes to daylight
passes to death. Like rock,
only our paintings remain.