mauvelilacroselemon

Andrei Tarkovsky took these resplendent polaroids. They sure are something else.






http://film.guardian.co.uk/gall/0,8544,1226197,00.html

machine-pricking done here

the days are vessels

I am continuously encountering ideas of questionable quality. I started writing a play about Ayn Rand's doppelganger; a woman who, because of her devotion to selfless behavior, is condemned to a life of suffering. Unlike the real Ayn Rand, who was able to surround herself with lavish Art Deco opulence despite her complete lack of talent, this woman is an exceptionally brilliant individual. The project mocks Rand's treatment of the doppelganger myth in her own work. I feel as though it is falling apart. Perhaps it is turning into a story. Or just a series of images. Or, ideally, nothing at all.

My Childhood, in a Shakily Recorded Nutshell

Language is the mother of thought, not its handmaiden.

These days, I consider myself lucky if I am able to maintain a sleep-schedule consisting of two nights of slumber per week. If PBS released a miniseries based on the present state of my life, it would be called (in Allison Foley's words) "Three Months, No Bed". The dark, scurrying creatures that I tend to see out of the corners of my eyes when I have missed a night of rest are now in my line of vision at all times, even when my sleep-deficit manages to reach something reminiscent of a lull. Adorn one of the aforementioned beings with a Noh mask and, well, you would quite possibly end up with this:



The trivial aspects of my life have acquired a novel significance. I don't know if that has anything to do with a general lack of sleep. I'd like to think that the two are somehow related; I really need to unearth a reason to justify my refusal to go to bed, as I must continue to do so in order to survive this semester. I have been gleaning mirth from simple things, such as the notion that I can watch "Stripes" online, for free, over and over again, until I pass out.

kryhe