February 20th, 2004

abstract butterfly

absorbed by pebbles

On the interminable plane ride tonight, the woman in the row behind me loudly disparaged the kind of folks who ate a salad amid a normal diet of quarter pounders. It's "like throwing a rock in the Grand Canyon", she exclaimed. I liked her turn of phrase, but I thought to myself that so many times all the people and things I admire and respect the most are like throwing a rock in the Grand Canyon.
But rather than share this not particularly epiphanic bit of pith with her, I continued reading my "3 in one volume" Muriel Spark novels. I finished "The Girls of Slender Means" and "A Far Cry from Kensington", the latter of which had me giggling, to the wonderment of the youngish lawyer who sat beside me on the plane and perhaps had a preconceived notion that middle-aged men ought not sit in planes silently chortling, jello-like. I originally skipped "Momento Mori", because I thought I'd read it, but when I ran out of everything else, I plunged in again. I have read it before, but it seems more amusing this time.

I noted the mild asychrony when my preparation for my hearing tomorrow shifted me from the ambience of post-war London to the ambience of applying insurance policies to environmental losses. The secret to having fun in life? Make sure you're in charge of defining what is fun. I have a blast lately, on issues others might find, well, less than fun. But I live in a funhouse where others find only drab canvas.
I am not easily bored, I suppose. I love to wrap my mind around complexities that require me to juxtapose counterpointed analyses, hunting a pleasing gestalt in disparate threads.

I want to do mail art again. I must start scanning the web for calls. I also need to get the documentation done on the poetry call I did. I feel as though I'm waking up, somehow.
abstract butterfly

contemplating risk

I enjoyed my visit with my friends kenmora and his wife Heidi, as well as hip 3 year old daughter B, who toured me around her room and showed off her faux dress-up shoes. On the plane back home, I read the latest draft of Ken's screenplay, which has been placing well in awards contests and all that sort of thing. It's about one of those cool artist guys from centuries ago. I had somehow expected something kinda like a Charles Bukowski or John Fante novel, only set generations ago, replete with all sorts of mildly downer "I had my epiphany because I've been down so far" types of riffs. By the way, I am getting bored of the term "downer cow". Instead, Ken's put together a really interesting s-play about a life I had not realized was so adventurous. I hope he finds someone to film it someday. My friend the Grade Z film producer once asked me to write a film about rock n roll zombies, but I found I had virtually nothing to say about them. I am zoned out about zombies, more or less. It was a pre-Buffy era, when zombies lacked that artistic cachet they now have. So I passed on the project. Real artists--and screenplay writers--get me thinking. What would it be like to risk it all for a dream? I think I'll go swim in the Lazy River again tomorrow.