For about the past month and a half, whenever I chance to look upon a digital time piece (with flitting timely concerns), it almost unfailingly reads- 1:23.
What the hell is that about? I've yet to feel so consciously preoccupied by this phenomenon as to take my quandary and embafflement to the ever-gaping, virtual chasm of information we call the Internet. Or even a book store. Would Numerological theory assist me? I suspect it must.
Speaking of books: Damn, the Harry Potter series is engaging. I've made it to the middle of the fourth one, and crave still more. I must admit I was initially quite skeptical of the quality of the stories, given their commercial success (and the fact that The Masses so frequently choose to embrace formulaic cheapness). Alas, (I could have considered the world-wide interest instead of being so damn nationalistic.) I, too, feel somewhat attached now.
I've also begun reading Renoir's biography, written by his son oh-so-many years ago and apparently quite a while following his father's death. Did you know that Renoir judged people based on their hands? Not such a bad point for observation. "Look at his hands!" Renoir would exclaim to his son, "He's a scoundrel!"
Also, read about censorship at the Oscars: http://english.aljazeera.net/NR/exeres/AA763FF7-03FC-40F4-AD8C-53A449F3CE5C.htm
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
3 comments:
I went to the Renoir museum in France once. It was his former home; enormous, huge-windowed, with wooden floors and muted light. And full of the works of his hands. My hands in their sun-exposed Irishness belie my personage a bit, perhaps they do it on purpose.
Thank you, I got the Chinese visa fine. The ship awaits me tomorrow. Once when I saw 1:23 on a digital clock I thought, "New potatoes" cause at my first waiting tables job (at the lesser known cousin to un-illustrious Dennys that I can't at the moment recall the name of--oh yeah, Carrows), we had to enter codes for various menu items.
Probably your viewing of 1:23 doesn't mean, ready, set, go! or new potatoes either. If you find out, do tell.
Sadly, Jason, the mix tape was not for you. But when i record a cd of original works you'll be one of the first I'll distribute too (I'll try, at least). And that's really all I can do: try. Try not to argue with me on that one. When I think of you right now, I imagine hanging out with you in that lady's house I used to housesit for. I loved that house. She'll never have me housesit again, though, sor some reason she always came back disgruntled as though I'd left a mess somewhere. I wondered where these mysterious messages came from. Jason?
your pally pal,
lauren
ps. do you work with kids for the moolah? or for fun?
bleh... i meant mysterious "messes" not "messages." Somehow I come off more poetic simply because i'm a goof-ball.
Post a Comment