I hate insomnia. Two nights in a row I've lost hours of sleep due to restless fidgeting and imaginative panicking. Is it time to quit coffee? To learn meditation? To join a monastery? To move to Winona?
Or maybe it's temporary.
Despite its difficult title and waves of unbelievable premises, Lucky Number Slevin is a fine film. I recommend it. But who am I? Lucy Liu is surprisingly riveting. Did I ever tell you the story of when I saw her at that movie studio next to that old government job of mine? I just did. She smiled.
A couple of nights ago I handed a relative stranger 36 printed pages of my best fiction and poetry. It felt good. So much better than e-mailing someone a link. It looked better too. Don't mean to be old-fashioned but my words look better printed. I'm not one of those people obsessed with the "smell" of the printed page though (go spend a day in Duluth and see if you like the smell of paper anymore.) I hope the relative stranger likes it. (And if you're reading this - sorry for all the death stories. 2004. What can I say? And yeah the ocean and river symbolism gets a little tired when you're hit over the head with it but again.... the 90s...what can I say?)