K Sublime

I've gone underground.

Not unlike a worm.
Or perhaps a caterpillar.
We shall see.
I am working on the book, at any rate.
The megalomania has me wondering just which pen name sounds the best.
Interestingly, the best is one I couldn't possibly use.

People would think things...What the fuck do I care, sure. But I would get lots of stupidass questions. And as I age I realize I hate answering stupidass questions, I hate explaining my motivations, and I hate justifying myself. Nevertheless, I do it a lot.

The second best pen name ends in Brody. Same difficulty.
My mind is just full of trash.

Oh conservatives.
Just what are they conserving?
Change may hurt you, change may crush your skull on the ground, and it may kill you. It may not. But it is coming.
Your grandparents' way of life is over. It's not coming back.
Hey there, Mr. "scary gay people can't get married because then...guh...duh...er...". You'd best be giving up that Blackberry and that iPod, to talk that crap. It's all related. Things move forward.You pays your money you takes your chances.
Conservatives are so afraid.

Now my leg's asleep.
That's what I get for writing someone else's paper.

Charles Bukowski's Dogs from Hell couldn't have stopped me from fiendishly typing away on the compelling subject of 'People No One Cares About' until this!

Ooh!

Some have commented on the lack of posting lately/the rampant megalomania and me-me-me-ism, and I bet they're sorry now!

Who can analyze dreams around here?
Two nights ago I dreamt about some stuff that would really suck.
Manhattan went up in powder smoke and I found myself afloat with Pastor B. on the Atlantic.

Two things:
1- I motherfuckin' hate to be afloat. Water = Death Trap. I do enjoy canoes and ferries, though. And also sandless beaches. Hmm.

2-This is now the fourth apocalyptic dream I've had this month. I never do 'current event' dreaming, except for the time Bono turned into a pig....

That is why they call it falling.
I suffered through a million hours of my second Godard film yesterday. I used to think I was all cultured and stuff; that was before. I am all about foreign films, Wim Wenders particularly (thank you Bono), but he's German and apparently on a different planet than Godard. (With the rest of us normal people).

Yesterday's film is called "Eloge D' Amor", or "In Praise of Love". There was no love in it. Honest. Unless you count Godard's love affair with Godard. But while I swung from mild annoyance to complete bewilderment, I thought about it, anyway. It seems that love is one of those things like air; always there but invisible like. Until you breathe it in. And of course once you're breathing you can't not breathe again. Love is more stealthy though; you can be sitting on a bus somewhere and step right into it. Of course, you will then break several bones in your foot and people will call you stupid and laugh at you.

I really wish I'd never read Gibran, but much better than Godard on the subject.

I talk a lot.
That is a good sign. I am huge on adjectives and wave my hands around a lot. When I am very quiet, things are very bad. It means I'm in a hole, or under the bed or something.

Is everyone as self-absorbed as I am? Frightening. Where are the grownups and shepherds and otherwise mentally hyperhealthy personnel for all of us exhausted beat-ourselves-up-daily types?

Oh do handle others with care, for pete's sake. I plan on doing that once I get all the trash out of my brain.

I am trying to avoid another paper. Due in 8 hours.

I'm back; Clive Owen will never be my boyfriend.
And, as you may have expected, that makes me grumpy.
Good goobeline, I canna even bear the sight of Jude Law anymore.
They're in a movie together in December, and I may self-destruct.

Not that I care about boyfriends; the laws of physics and finance which rule our world make romance inconsequential and somewhat neanderthalian. To say nothing of the inevitable excruciating pain.

It is less about them than that I didn't go into acting; had I been an actor, the thrill wouldn't be there. As the chance to date them would increase, my interest would go in the inverse direction.

Similar to craving an apple when there are none but letting one go rotten when it is in your kitchen.

(note to Mr. Brody: All of the above relates to non-American actors, worlds, and kitchens. You are from Queens, no?)