So another year is starting, and it feels like I've gotten really old this summer.
I don't really know what else to say.
love always,
jim.
Monday, September 21, 2009
Friday, September 18, 2009
Day 2065 - My Discovery
Being the Box Office Manager is pretty much the same as being the Defense Against the Dark Arts Teacher.
Wednesday, September 9, 2009
Day 2025 - Another Generation Gap
I'm feeling whatever that feeling is again. Not quite nostalgia, but not really close to anything else.
It's a sort of slow movie montage sort of feeling. The movie montage towards the end of the story where you see what all the characters are doing by themselves before the ending brings them all back together. There's always some sort of mellow music playing--Nick Drake or Colin Hay or The Smiths. The fades are really slow. It's the sort of montage that emphasizes the moral of the story I guess. Even though it doesn't use words or significant actions. It's like this:
He's floating on an inner tube in the pool, looking straight up at the clouds while wearing sunglasses. He spins in clockwise circles as the water moves outward in tiny ripples. Not frowning, but not smiling either. He is a floating gargoyle--not in the Gothic sense, but simply in the fact that he is solid--an unmeltable iceberg in the deep-end of the backyard pool.
And she's staring at the ceiling fan, her feet hanging off the end of the bed, the light flickering with each pass of the fan blades. She's holding a pillow in her arms. The one with the green and purple stripes and the frayed tag that tickles her face when she goes to sleep.
The middle aged man is sitting at the breakfast table reading the news paper while a thin cloud of steam rises from above a waffle, and he sips his coffee.
The little boy is riding his bicycle down a street with large trees, because it is always appropriate for little boys to ride their bikes down streets with large trees--especially in Autumn when the montage takes place. He doesn't do wheelies or pedal backwards or bunny hop. He just stands on the pedals and coasts.
It's that sort of feeling.
A sort of stand still--waiting for what will happen next. Eagerly anticipating movement but seeming permanently static. Full of potential energy, like stones mounted at the edge of a cliff waiting for the slightest breeze to send them careening--down, down, down to the valley below.
They are all in that in between sort of time.
Well, so am I. And that description may have made it sound like I'm sad about it, but I don't think I am. I think I'm just somehow in the middle. In the gap between time periods and actions and feelings and everything. On the brink of something new, but also completely engaged with all the things that have passed.
I don't know what that means. Perhaps its too metaphorical.
So, in order to keep some bearing on reality I'll just say--
I am living in a new house, with a new job, and new classes, and new people, new responsibilities, new engagements, new feelings, and a new desk with 4 drawers and one dent in the side.
Love always,
-jim.
Also, provolone cheese is very expensive.
It's a sort of slow movie montage sort of feeling. The movie montage towards the end of the story where you see what all the characters are doing by themselves before the ending brings them all back together. There's always some sort of mellow music playing--Nick Drake or Colin Hay or The Smiths. The fades are really slow. It's the sort of montage that emphasizes the moral of the story I guess. Even though it doesn't use words or significant actions. It's like this:
He's floating on an inner tube in the pool, looking straight up at the clouds while wearing sunglasses. He spins in clockwise circles as the water moves outward in tiny ripples. Not frowning, but not smiling either. He is a floating gargoyle--not in the Gothic sense, but simply in the fact that he is solid--an unmeltable iceberg in the deep-end of the backyard pool.
And she's staring at the ceiling fan, her feet hanging off the end of the bed, the light flickering with each pass of the fan blades. She's holding a pillow in her arms. The one with the green and purple stripes and the frayed tag that tickles her face when she goes to sleep.
The middle aged man is sitting at the breakfast table reading the news paper while a thin cloud of steam rises from above a waffle, and he sips his coffee.
The little boy is riding his bicycle down a street with large trees, because it is always appropriate for little boys to ride their bikes down streets with large trees--especially in Autumn when the montage takes place. He doesn't do wheelies or pedal backwards or bunny hop. He just stands on the pedals and coasts.
It's that sort of feeling.
A sort of stand still--waiting for what will happen next. Eagerly anticipating movement but seeming permanently static. Full of potential energy, like stones mounted at the edge of a cliff waiting for the slightest breeze to send them careening--down, down, down to the valley below.
They are all in that in between sort of time.
Well, so am I. And that description may have made it sound like I'm sad about it, but I don't think I am. I think I'm just somehow in the middle. In the gap between time periods and actions and feelings and everything. On the brink of something new, but also completely engaged with all the things that have passed.
I don't know what that means. Perhaps its too metaphorical.
So, in order to keep some bearing on reality I'll just say--
I am living in a new house, with a new job, and new classes, and new people, new responsibilities, new engagements, new feelings, and a new desk with 4 drawers and one dent in the side.
Love always,
-jim.
Also, provolone cheese is very expensive.
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