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Jan. 7th, 2005 11:42 amAccording to my Lemony Snicket calendar, it is likely that you can have the beach to yourself today.
I bet that the beach would be spectacularly beautiful, if messy, right now with chunks of thawing ice and half-frozen sand glinting in the sun. The snow and ice are melting so quickly right now that the tree outside my window is producing a curtin of rain between me and the world. There's a metaphor in there somewhere, but my tired brain is too thick and fumbling to try to work it out. Which is probably the meaning anyway.
I dreamed last night that I had the broad strong wings of a hawk, bedecked in white feathers. I don't have flying dreams often, but this was a good one. My dreams in general were very influenced by seeing a trailer for House of the Flying Daggers right before I fell asleep. Such a gorgeous movie. We saw it with a wretched audience at the Kendall, an audience that did not understand the meaning of terms like "epic" and "suspension of disbelief" and "poetry" and "cultural conventions in movie making." The audience was pretty neatly split in half between those who laughed at characters' deaths because they were so melodramatic and those who quietly sobbed at the tragedy of it all. And unfortunately the laughers were mostly of the variety that *needs* for you to know exactly how entertained they are by the movie, your movie-watching experience be damned. It's a testimony to the beauty of the film that the rest of us were able to remain absorbed by it all.
Also, Zhang Ziyi has to be one of the most physically perfect human beings ever. Talk about your poetry.
I'm rambling now to keep myself awake. The unusual combination of the sound of melting snowdrops hitting the bay window's roof and the bright sunshine on my shoulders is amazingly soporific.
I bet that the beach would be spectacularly beautiful, if messy, right now with chunks of thawing ice and half-frozen sand glinting in the sun. The snow and ice are melting so quickly right now that the tree outside my window is producing a curtin of rain between me and the world. There's a metaphor in there somewhere, but my tired brain is too thick and fumbling to try to work it out. Which is probably the meaning anyway.
I dreamed last night that I had the broad strong wings of a hawk, bedecked in white feathers. I don't have flying dreams often, but this was a good one. My dreams in general were very influenced by seeing a trailer for House of the Flying Daggers right before I fell asleep. Such a gorgeous movie. We saw it with a wretched audience at the Kendall, an audience that did not understand the meaning of terms like "epic" and "suspension of disbelief" and "poetry" and "cultural conventions in movie making." The audience was pretty neatly split in half between those who laughed at characters' deaths because they were so melodramatic and those who quietly sobbed at the tragedy of it all. And unfortunately the laughers were mostly of the variety that *needs* for you to know exactly how entertained they are by the movie, your movie-watching experience be damned. It's a testimony to the beauty of the film that the rest of us were able to remain absorbed by it all.
Also, Zhang Ziyi has to be one of the most physically perfect human beings ever. Talk about your poetry.
I'm rambling now to keep myself awake. The unusual combination of the sound of melting snowdrops hitting the bay window's roof and the bright sunshine on my shoulders is amazingly soporific.
