It is the plight of my book-reading film-nerd soul that an improperly resolved storyline hurts me in my anger place.
Bad ending make Keri cry hurt!
Heh. There’s so much to talk about, so many words that I need to squeeze out...but jumpstarting my pen is hard this morning.
suppose because all of the hallways and staircases in this house of
mine are shifting again, and, as usual, I am helpless to do anything but
stumble blindly into the uncertainty before me. Wandering and, in a
practiced dance with futility, wondering where everything will be once
the dust settles.
Family of souls, tangled, eternally resonant.
It strikes me as interesting, the mild draw that humans feel to a descent into madness.
As if, ever present in all of us, there is a voice that speaks to us of chaos and absurdity.
not-talked-about relationships between movies (all of American culture
really) and violence-versus-sex have been on my mind a good amount
lately, and the ways they directly affect me have been directing my
trains of thought. For instance, the idea (and vivid accompanying mental
image) that I, along with my fellow humans, accept that asphalt and
concrete and buildings all around us are normal things, silently
rejecting the truth and facts of sizzling pavement glop being poured
over the face of the Earth. Scorching and burning and melting.
may sound like a stretch to connect these two thoughts, stretching a
thread between violence in movies and parking lots, but as I was
pondering the gnarled and marred flesh of the ground underneath the
sidewalk I walk on, I couldn’t help but think of Harvey Dent’s open and
pitted jawline. Of Gustavo Fring’s bare cheekbones laid visible beneath
I see these things as congruous.
(Congruently gruesome, the cruel some pay
no mind to what’s on mine.)
for incongruent...watch me now as I put on a skirt and some good
sensible shoes to go help make someone else’s fortune. Watch me as the
steam slides up out of my coffee cup and up into the air, my mouth open
and brain absent.