breaking down the alienation of mass culture, one personal story at a time.
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history
- 01/01/2004 - 02/01/2004
- 02/01/2004 - 03/01/2004
- 03/01/2004 - 04/01/2004
- 04/01/2004 - 05/01/2004
- 05/01/2004 - 06/01/2004
- 06/01/2004 - 07/01/2004
- 07/01/2004 - 08/01/2004
- 08/01/2004 - 09/01/2004
- 09/01/2004 - 10/01/2004
- 10/01/2004 - 11/01/2004
- 11/01/2004 - 12/01/2004
- 12/01/2004 - 01/01/2005
- 01/01/2005 - 02/01/2005
- 02/01/2005 - 03/01/2005
- 03/01/2005 - 04/01/2005
- 04/01/2005 - 05/01/2005
- 05/01/2005 - 06/01/2005
- 06/01/2005 - 07/01/2005
- 07/01/2005 - 08/01/2005
- 08/01/2005 - 09/01/2005
- 09/01/2005 - 10/01/2005
- 10/01/2005 - 11/01/2005
- 11/01/2005 - 12/01/2005
- 12/01/2005 - 01/01/2006
- 01/01/2006 - 02/01/2006
- 02/01/2006 - 03/01/2006
- 03/01/2006 - 04/01/2006
- 04/01/2006 - 05/01/2006
- 05/01/2006 - 06/01/2006
- 06/01/2006 - 07/01/2006
- 07/01/2006 - 08/01/2006
- 08/01/2006 - 09/01/2006
- 09/01/2006 - 10/01/2006
Cinematic
Donald: I loved Sarah,Charles. It was mine, that love. I owned it. Sarah didn't have the right to take it away. I can love whoever I want.
Charlie:But...she thought you were pathetic.
Donald:That was her business, not mine. You are what you love, not what loves you. That's something I figured out a long time ago.
-- Adaptation, 2001
Miss me? I thought so. I've been having a little trouble sharing with you lately. I wrote about feeling drained and empty in the theatre last week, deleted. I wrote a poem just before I passed out after a drunken binge one day last Tuesday, discarded. Three manic emails, one after the other, composed, deleted, revised, and again deleted, until finally abandoning the whole idea after the third and final attempt. It was good material too, you would have liked it. But you'll never know now, and really, I don't care to remember.
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