2002-03-23 - 1:11 p.m.
'Lines that bind are pure'- Beth Hirsh
I like collecting words. I don't always have to use them. Today's a gingery gold. There was a spray of magic dust, a twinkle of serendipity.
Gin and tonics by a fireplace with no fire. I much prefer them with lime not lemon. Morbid charcoal walls and armchairs that looked like someone had died in them. Polaroids of me smoking and looking very naked. We laughed. I saw cars diverting from the entrance to the freeway. I turned and saw flickering lights and without a second thought, I too, made a detour. It surprised me, my quick thinking. I drove home the way I do from work.
Streetlamps towering and hunched, cabs with drunk people. The lingering echo of someone's home party DIY music. The loudness of my own thoughts. The couple walking on the side stopped to kiss. I miss being in the passenger seat. One year, four mood changes. Japanese Moso, rooted and spectacular on its own. I stand alone.
Stayed up watching Jean-Jacques Beineix's Betty Blue for the third time. The ending was not how I remembered. Endings are never how I remember them to be. I liked the film, for all its whirlwind madness. A true love story - jejune, erotic, full of rich colours, a simple soundtrack with simple (or no) words.
I woke up to candy canes in my stocking. I talked about it last night. About having a real web page and having my own domain name. The romantic eccentricity of having strangers all over the world write to me. Definitely on the to-do list.
