No cupcakes in sight
In the refuge of morning the streets are abandoned but for the susurration of shadows formed between leaf and brick and flickering lampposts. There is the distant dour drunk, the imagined wood nymphs, stray cats and kittens, and the high school kid in the pickup who calls out faggot, twice, helping to keep the world populated before sunrise.
Signposts chronicle late summer and early fall: The Kite Runner, The Dark Knight, Eastern Promises, A Crude Awakening/The Oil Crash, Step Brothers, War, Life after People, The House Bunny, Tropic Thunder, Traitor, Galápagos, Burn after Reading, Shoot 'Em Up, Lakeview Terrace, 8 1/2, Beverly Hills Chihuahua, Nights in Rodanthe, Come and See, the second seasons of Desperate Housewives and Roswell, and the first and second seasons of Doctor Who.
Self-definition has changed in the absence of literary aficionados. I've started studying practical things-plumbing and wiring and insulation and adhesives; the seasonal effects upon materials and the tortuous motivation in familiar tasks.
Tonight I finished reading Ender's Game for the second time. Romanced by strategy, my pulse darkens. In misanthropic moods I'll play literati against an anonymous online victim, in somber moods I'll challenge the computer in chess until I feel victimized, in movies and shows I grow ecstatic as I discover disguised threads that bind arbitrary plot points. Through the convolutions leans the effort of a remote, self-aware companion, like the kid shouting insults from his truck, crying into the night with the hope of being heard.
Signposts chronicle late summer and early fall: The Kite Runner, The Dark Knight, Eastern Promises, A Crude Awakening/The Oil Crash, Step Brothers, War, Life after People, The House Bunny, Tropic Thunder, Traitor, Galápagos, Burn after Reading, Shoot 'Em Up, Lakeview Terrace, 8 1/2, Beverly Hills Chihuahua, Nights in Rodanthe, Come and See, the second seasons of Desperate Housewives and Roswell, and the first and second seasons of Doctor Who.
Self-definition has changed in the absence of literary aficionados. I've started studying practical things-plumbing and wiring and insulation and adhesives; the seasonal effects upon materials and the tortuous motivation in familiar tasks.
Tonight I finished reading Ender's Game for the second time. Romanced by strategy, my pulse darkens. In misanthropic moods I'll play literati against an anonymous online victim, in somber moods I'll challenge the computer in chess until I feel victimized, in movies and shows I grow ecstatic as I discover disguised threads that bind arbitrary plot points. Through the convolutions leans the effort of a remote, self-aware companion, like the kid shouting insults from his truck, crying into the night with the hope of being heard.