I watched Star, the BMW film directed by Guy Ritchie with Madonna about 6 times at work today. It’s hilarious.
I ate lunch at the Century City Mall Food Court next to two grotesquely fat guys talking about working in the film industry. It depressed me. The industry talk.
Realization I: every artist needs a muse. And just like how we can’t choose who we love, we can’t choose who we struggle to claw out our souls for. At least I finally have one again. I’ve fallen in love with a disturbing projection. In the act of creating art, must one inherently become a narcissist?
Realization II: The area by the elliptical machines in my gym smells like penis. This is the second time I’ve gone into that area and noticed that. It’s very disconcerting.
I enjoy thinking about and talking about sex. But the real thing is too much mess and work. Is there some sort of happy compromise?
People who are oppressively pedantic and condescending to other people (ie me) make me violent.
I finished three books today: The Tommyknockers by Stephen King (bullshit reading that I got tired of taking to the gym), A Model World by Michael Chabon (witty reading that I got tired of taking to the gym), and Life of Pi (disappointingly boring reading that I got tired of taking to the gym but not wanting to read). I’ve got about 8 books from last month’s trip to the used book store in my trunk that I’d like to start. But first, I have to finish The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier and Clay, which I’ve long since gotten tired of taking to the gym and not wanting to read.