there is joy in being barred from the temple.
So I guess it's the actual movie and not the making of Fitzcarraldo where someone learned to love again, because tonight I randomly caught "Burden of Dreams" on Sundance and there were mostly just a lot of jungle insults on Herzog's part. ("Klaus sees everything as erotic, but it's not. It's fornication!" said with such a nice accent as the filmmakers offer us a fine shot of butterflies copulating, which tends to remind me more of the Discovery Channel of my youth than either of the above.) But any film that revolves around the metaphor of hauling a big steamboat up a hill is appealing to me for no reason whatsoever.
I think I finally like my middle name.
(It's not that I hate Santa Fe so much as I resent myself living here for all the thoughts about how much better X or Y would be, when really the issue is that I've never felt like I can connect this idealized notion of what home ought to be with sans serif and the corresponding dot on a map that has become obsolete by the time I point at my next destination. It will be nice to see Colorado next month. It'll be nicer if it teaches me to appreciate all the good here: restaurants mediocre at the very worst, open-minded people who give a shit except when they're shopping at the health food store, at which point they mutate into self-absorbed consumers of eighteen kinds of vitamin and thirty-two root vegetables with hard-to-pronounce names and correspondingly mythical price tags, but for all of my lip-biting at the notion of public protest I'm glad to find that so many here fill the plaza grounds with their catchy slogans. I will never hate the way views out of every window are worthy of photographs, or rating movies with chili peppers or eccentric old women walking down the street in clothes Orange County's homeless (hidden away) wouldn't be caught dead in. But I miss familiar faces and I'm so tired of this transitional period because I'll never not care enough not to feel my stomach turn at the prospect of solitude. And I'm too goddamn fond of it even to want you around all the time; it's just important to know that you're here and not hundreds or thousands of miles away. It's not enough to appreciate the narrowness of the streets or the obscurity of the bookstores or waking up in the morning with sunlit eyelids and Bug's wet nose on my cheek. It should be, but it isn't. It wouldn't be until long after I hope to be elsewhere, if only I can narrow the possibilities down. As though what I really need is less freedom from my own ability to repress everything that matters. This is why I close my eyes in frustrated disbelief at the thought of anyone being intimidated by my intelligence. I have enough trouble remembering to feed myself.)
burningblack, cardigansmile, holdyourspin and presquevu should watch their mailboxes.
I think I finally like my middle name.
(It's not that I hate Santa Fe so much as I resent myself living here for all the thoughts about how much better X or Y would be, when really the issue is that I've never felt like I can connect this idealized notion of what home ought to be with sans serif and the corresponding dot on a map that has become obsolete by the time I point at my next destination. It will be nice to see Colorado next month. It'll be nicer if it teaches me to appreciate all the good here: restaurants mediocre at the very worst, open-minded people who give a shit except when they're shopping at the health food store, at which point they mutate into self-absorbed consumers of eighteen kinds of vitamin and thirty-two root vegetables with hard-to-pronounce names and correspondingly mythical price tags, but for all of my lip-biting at the notion of public protest I'm glad to find that so many here fill the plaza grounds with their catchy slogans. I will never hate the way views out of every window are worthy of photographs, or rating movies with chili peppers or eccentric old women walking down the street in clothes Orange County's homeless (hidden away) wouldn't be caught dead in. But I miss familiar faces and I'm so tired of this transitional period because I'll never not care enough not to feel my stomach turn at the prospect of solitude. And I'm too goddamn fond of it even to want you around all the time; it's just important to know that you're here and not hundreds or thousands of miles away. It's not enough to appreciate the narrowness of the streets or the obscurity of the bookstores or waking up in the morning with sunlit eyelids and Bug's wet nose on my cheek. It should be, but it isn't. It wouldn't be until long after I hope to be elsewhere, if only I can narrow the possibilities down. As though what I really need is less freedom from my own ability to repress everything that matters. This is why I close my eyes in frustrated disbelief at the thought of anyone being intimidated by my intelligence. I have enough trouble remembering to feed myself.)
burningblack, cardigansmile, holdyourspin and presquevu should watch their mailboxes.