Pessoa Rules

Stayed up late last night watching movies--seemed a good thing to do with a three day weekend starting today. I was up, in fact, until after 4am, and finished the first disc of



which I enjoyed fine--and that says a lot because I don't typically like miniseries based on fave novels.

Then, I watched



(perhaps not a good idea given the upcoming trip to Honduras). The film holds up well, largely on the strength of its performances (particularly a hyper Jim Woods); of course there's some awkward, preachy dialogue--it is an Oliver Stone flick, after all.

I was awakened this morning by a screaming, banging fight next door. Our neighbor and his live-in lady were telling each other to fuck off loudly enough to get me out of bed before 7am (I'd signed off less than 3 hours before). This hasn't happened since the fucking rednecks who rented it before moved out.

Even writing has lost its sweetness for me. So banal: both the act of giving expression to emotions and that of polishing sentences, that I write the way someone else eats or drinks, with more or less attention, but half-mad and disinterested, half-attentive and without enthusiasm or brilliance.

Fernando Pessoa The Book of Disquiet

Went to Borders today for the first time since I quit. The store actually looks good, and I got to see lots of folks I used to see on a daily basis--the only loss keenly felt upon leaving that shithole. I bought BroJ a gift, but couldn't muster the energy to do any more shopping. Returned home, took a four-hour nap. Now we're gearing up to head down to Mick O'Shea's. Cha is leading a children's choir around the neighborhood for the Community Association caroling shindig. Too much! We don't even have a tree or a single holiday decoration up!