I’m hoping my brain gets back home soon. One thing
I haven’t noticed this morning is the pain in my neck.
It’s working now, with one hour of sleep.
We just got off a suspicious plane. Let’s try to stop
writing for a better weekend and start screening
cheerleaders.
Auditioning cheerleaders?
I’m obsessed with taking pictures. According to the
patriarch in I Am Love,
photography isn’t a real art.
It’s an amazing movie with an overly-melodramatic
(isn’t that redundant?) ending. Until after the credits
roll and the lovers appear in one of Herzog’s caves.
I only had two glasses of champagne, but I didn’t
find the movie erotic at all. Just perfect.
Except
for the Ibsenesque finish.
I could be confusing playwrights. I can often be
confusing. I am
confused. Are you confused?
But I washed all of the dishes and now I am
reading poetry.
I didn’t leave the apartment at all today. Every
time I look out the window I’m in awe of the
city. How beautiful
is home. I even love
the uneasy sleep I’ve been getting this
week, tossing and turning in a half-
dream-state.
Last night I think it rained. When it rains
it sounds like somebody is typing very slowly
on an old typewriter out our bedroom window.
When I woke up the rooftops were glistening,
but that never proves anything here.
