Go see The Ring. Not only is it the scariest, most original film I've seen in way too long a time, you seeing it means I don't have to die in seven days.
I can't explain. It would ruin everything.
My mind is a gaping maw - something about staring into the abyss, and the abyss staring back into you.
threefour computer cards on my desk - two AGP, onetwo PCI. Tomorrow I may find them a home.
Something inside me is fearing the inevitable retribution.
Sometimes sparrows are just sparrows.
I need to remove the boxes of stuff in my room - some of it I should keep, and some of it I should throw away. More to throw away than keep.
I need a journal I can burn.
What poetry in passion #
What a piece of work is man @
PCMCIA = People Can't Memorize Computer Industry Acronyms
Twitch, twitch, sleep.
Fruit Flies Like an Apple.
Drum. Drummer. Drummest.
The uncluttering of my room is like the organization of the soul. My soul is full of books, and papers, and random notes, articles, magazines, half-finished journals, essays, poems, stories, and aborted novels. CD's full of who knows what, storage discs labelled "1, 2, 3, . . . , A, B, . . . , 11, 1A, . . . "
I am almost finished with the book. House of Leaves. Maybe I'll feel a little more centered when it's over. I only have the Pelican Poems and Truant's mother's letters left.
There's something odd about a journal - a place to investigate yourself. Why would anybody write a journal? Even one they keep to themselves, they hope that someday somebody might read it, or they wish only to sort out their thoughts. Me, it's a combination of both.
Once again, Chi-Mas presents this year will be books that I think you should read. I have about two cubic feet of them awaiting allocation.