Sunday, November 21, 2004

Dig! and my dream, loooong books, hairy older brother, sexy Neruda poem

Listening to Jem's Maybe I'm Amazed. Unfortunately the copy I downloaded is one taken directly from an episode of The OC, which means it's interspersed with soapy whispered fragments of a bittersweet romantic conversation. Egads. I really like the song, though, so I suppose I'll eventually have to re-download a DIFFERENT copy of it.

Incidentally, I really want to see the documentary Dig! about the Brian Jonestown Massacre and the Dandy Warhols. It looks pretty awesome, and it was filmed over the course of seven years as the bands rose to fame. Unfortunately, I can't find any movie theaters that are playing it--I guess I'll just have to Netflix-it. Funnily enough, I had a dream recently about seeing Dig!, and it was awfully strange. My dreams tend to be very anti-climactic, and this one was no different: I dreamed I was in this ramsackle old town (like one of those very spare sets of a town center in an old western) and I came across a very tiny theater in a shed, with ten or so lawn chairs that people could sit in to watch the movie. And lo and behold! what was playing but Dig! So I settled down in a lawn chair, watched the movie, and liked it very much. Hm.

Listening to Death Cab for Cutie's A Lack of Color. It's one of those cool indie bands that sold out to MTV and pseudo-rebellious high-schoolers. Grr.

Anyway, I've decided what's next on my reading list: The Crying of Lot 49, by Thomas Pynchon. I actually wanted to read Gravity's Rainbow more, but the past few books I've read are Strange & Norrell (850 pages), American Gods (650), and The Scar (750). And next (BEFORE Lot 49) is Kavalier and Clay (750 pages or sommat). So when I saw that Rainbow was 850 or 900 pages I decided to instead read the under-200-page Pynchon. I know, I'm such a wimp. But coming up is the Baroque Cycle by Neal Stephenson, so I have to take a little break to steel myself for some serious long-book-ness.

Hm...well, Thanksgiving break is coming up (hooray!). My brother T. is coming home this Tuesday, which I'm quite excited about; I haven't seen him for a few months, and really (since he's a freshman) I've never been away from him before. Not that we were best buds or anything; mostly we were on amicable terms while he and my sister B. fought tooth-and-nail. And so I have to admit that the house is a lot less contentious without him around. But nevertheless, I think absense makes the heart grow fonder, and I'll be happy to see him for a few days.

And I'm sure he misses me, too, because my inimitable (THAT's not a lie) conversation skills provide him with something that I'm sure his roommate cannot: a running commentary on how scruffy and Grizzly-bear-ish is his stubble. His beard literally grows faster than grass; he shaves every morning and he has a serious five o'clock shadow by noon. It's madness.

And for something completely different, I'd like to post another little poem. I'm sorry if I'm driving some of you mad, because I've been posting a few poems lately (though thank God NOT written by me. I KNOW how awful angsty teen poetry is, don't worry). But though they might be far and few between, there is once in a while a great poem that just AFFECTS you. So here's one--if it even qualifies as a poem. The sexiest poem I've ever read, and I don't know why:

I want to do to you
What Spring does to the cherry trees.

--Pablo Neruda

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