A prophetic afterthought

I've still not recovered from my cold but at least I'm not feverish tonight. Wednesday was a good cinematic day for me, maybe thanks to the fever. Besides Californication I watched Akira Kurosawa's Rashomon and later One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest. Hard to say which was the best. Or maybe not. You've gotta love Jack Nicholson. However, Rashomon was a great film and it made me think what an impact one single day, one event, can have on your life. And I loved the music.

Tonight I'm gonna watch The Road, starring Viggo Mortensen, and I'm looking forward to it because I like Cormac McCarthy's stories. I hope we'll soon se an adaptation of Blood Meridian.

Last night I was up watching the Penguins-Maple Leafs game and to my disappointment the Pens lost a tight battle. But I also got a few ideas. Somehow it seems that the best ideas always comes late at night, drunk or not. For some time I've nourished an idea of a science fiction story and last night I've got a breakthrough, or whatever you wanna call it. I don't know about science fiction really, but if you'd call 1984 science fiction then you'll file my story under that label too. Anyway, you might see it someday, if I manage to piss the entire story out of my ass.

I'm starting to feel like when I blogged before, like I don't have anything to write about half the time, but now I see that that's alright because the truth about blogs is that you don't have to have anything to write about. You just type and hope for the best (i.e. some dumb schmuck reads it and thinks it's important). Well good luck to me and all the schmucks out there looking for something.

I'll just finish off with a poem that was featured in an anthology that the write club in England published. Don't worry if you don't understand it, it's nonsense and a lot of bullshit wordvomiting:

A prophetic afterthought,

a visionary past:

she can see herself

on top of the Universe,

while jellyfish are painting dreams

and the arduous raspberry

with clouded judgement

perceives a blue motion

in a mirrored eye;

jabberwocks may scream

in the midday moonlight

as counted innumerable fairies

live their death

and a sinking piece of grass

reflects the mischievous minds

of mawkish connoisseurs;

trumpets chime in

the chatter of a silent wood

and as the charred image

make a feint

before it melts like whiskey

in a wooden pond,

she is slowly transcended back

into our chimerical reality.