Thisis an extremely cool website, which is actually a scultureblog, and therefore the best thing I have seen since In Bruges.
Said film is of course brilliant, and every bit of time I spend thinking about it makes me humbled as a lowly, worthless writer. Martin McDonagh (said film's writer director) wrote 7 plays in 9 months at the age of 23, and then spent 15 years getting each and everyone one of them produced. What the hell have I done?
Good eclipse tonight, excellent really, and the shadow remained for some time, casting a red haze across the surface, causing me to pine hopelessly for a telephoto lens, which didn't heed my pining. I managed to stand by the window in the kitchen with all the lights off and watch it, feeling the cold that pressed itself just past the window into my apartment. Kind of wish I was someplace else besides a city on a night like tonight, someplace where there wasn't planes and helicopters and lots of light pollution, but I have gotten better at focusing on the sky, and I can start to pick out stars among all those streetlights and tall buildings if I take the time to make it happen.
Re-reading The Crying of Lot 49, and loving it more than ever. It is one of those books that I just let myself drift through, like floating in the water and feeling the ocean waves crash into you. Just finished Brandon Sanderson's Mistborn, which was also quite good, and something I was not thinking I would like so much. I managed to nab a copy of the sequel, Well of Ascension, for well, nothing. Happy happy. The third book in the series is being published in October. Bully!
Tomorrow I meet with an artist looking for a writer for his graphic novel-eque idea. This is good, because I need someone's else's work to inspire my own from time to time. Thankfully my workshop is winding down so I should have more time to work on my own material more, and I've managed to post some of it on the goodreads. I do like that site.
ah gypsies, tramps, and thieves, aren't we all.
Said film is of course brilliant, and every bit of time I spend thinking about it makes me humbled as a lowly, worthless writer. Martin McDonagh (said film's writer director) wrote 7 plays in 9 months at the age of 23, and then spent 15 years getting each and everyone one of them produced. What the hell have I done?
Good eclipse tonight, excellent really, and the shadow remained for some time, casting a red haze across the surface, causing me to pine hopelessly for a telephoto lens, which didn't heed my pining. I managed to stand by the window in the kitchen with all the lights off and watch it, feeling the cold that pressed itself just past the window into my apartment. Kind of wish I was someplace else besides a city on a night like tonight, someplace where there wasn't planes and helicopters and lots of light pollution, but I have gotten better at focusing on the sky, and I can start to pick out stars among all those streetlights and tall buildings if I take the time to make it happen.
Re-reading The Crying of Lot 49, and loving it more than ever. It is one of those books that I just let myself drift through, like floating in the water and feeling the ocean waves crash into you. Just finished Brandon Sanderson's Mistborn, which was also quite good, and something I was not thinking I would like so much. I managed to nab a copy of the sequel, Well of Ascension, for well, nothing. Happy happy. The third book in the series is being published in October. Bully!
Tomorrow I meet with an artist looking for a writer for his graphic novel-eque idea. This is good, because I need someone's else's work to inspire my own from time to time. Thankfully my workshop is winding down so I should have more time to work on my own material more, and I've managed to post some of it on the goodreads. I do like that site.
ah gypsies, tramps, and thieves, aren't we all.
annisa:
