some more

THe Limits of Control - Jim Jarmusch
Hors de Prix - Pierre Salvadori
X-men 3: the last stand - Brett Ratner

days and nights

Millennium Mambo - Hsiao-hsien Hou
Choke - Clark Gregg

80 degrees

smell of piss. hot wind. a line at the ice cream counter.. a fat rat running down subway stairs, unafraid. more skin, every turn. some seared red, cooked. a disturbing find on the way to work. symptoms are everywhere, a growing hysteria. sun should set so we can walk in the evening light. scatter why don't you? lay down in it and you'll stew.

from recollection

Tell Tale - Michael Cuesta
Happy Go Lucky - Mike Leigh
The Edge of Love - John Maybury
The Wind that Shakes the Barley - Ken Loach
La Femme Nikita - Luc Besson
The Duchess - Saul Dibb
The Host - Joon-Ho Bong
Rise: Blood Hunter - Sebastian Gutierrez
Rachel Getting Married - Jonathan Demme
The Spiderwick Chronicles - Mark Waters
It Happened One Night - Frank Capra
Wierd Science - John Hughes
The Bourne Identity - Doug Liman

the middle of nowhere is where?

silence. heat and the smell of fertilizer. the subsistence life. the pasture of a strange type of person. one that the new yorker doesn't know in themselves. beaten bitumen, bold sandy outcrops from which jut the rows of technology. grand spinning choppers of the wind power machines. their seemingly effortless synchronized dance under the dazzling rays of the sun. something about the desert makes conspiracy theories seem tangible. the inevitability of a ufo encounter, or that you'll run into a guy who knows who killed jfk at the local row of slot machines. can we be swayed? from time to time the palm trees do - but mostly they just lean.

eggs and beans

huevos rancheros. the old man's favorite. a tall glass of oj. big diamond ring gleams at the table next to me. bed head couples in lounge clothes new york times under the arm. it feels like a bad remake of an old movie for some reason, or perhaps the waste of an opportunity to remake a classic. why should we anyway? i suppose we should make something new, it just doesn't look much sometimes.

santa monica

palm tree streets. such a shame. such a dream. the sun set's red burn, the sleeping vagrant's paradise. can't walk a mile without being asked for something. fury sits with nothing to lose in the eyes of the young forlorn ones without a home or how to be part of the world that swells around them. in the middle of the retail strips a girl rips out a few tunes with a voice that pours like smooth clear water over the rocky lives that shuffle by. valet minorities stand strapped into tight vests and fake smiles. i wonder how you see when you live in this haze of half life. perhaps you just need sunglasses.