Anna S. (eliade) wrote,
Anna S.


I am an underachiever about so many things, but when it comes to wasting time, I really go the distance. What have I done this weekend? Nooooooothing. There was some red wine and a bad chicken experiment and some Alias and that was about it.

I'm still liking Alias. I'm up to episode seven and am warming to the actress who plays Sydney more with every passing episode. I like the woman who plays her best friend too; for many reasons, but for one she has a tummy. They don't usually let actresses have soft and cuddly tummies on TV.

In random mode--just noting; me, random here--it occurred to me this morning that icons are like postage stamps. The enthusiasm they generate is all about the delicacy of fine art captured in a tiny little square. Ahhhh.

And I had some other thought. I did. What was it about. Hmmm. No. It's gone.

In a weather update on the inside of my head, I'm here to report: my fantasies have been getting ridiculous. I've recast Milla Jovovich as Spike and she's been parading around in strappy little black dresses, seducing all the men. It was when I sent her on a date with David Nabbit that I realized I'd reached my nadir as a fantasist. My mind went there--and then it snapped back, like a yo-yo speeding back up from its apogee, but let's stick with nadir, because really. Jesus. They were trying to have meaningful conversations about software design. How *sick* is that? Good thing I don't know anything about software design.

God. My brain is like bruised and deliquescing fruit. My back hurts. All parts of my body that are organized for labor--hands, fingers, arms, wrists--are striking. I've got to get moving. Get moving. Yes. Yes, I do. For god's sake, I haven't even eaten yet today and it's nearly two o'clock.

Here's another thought. Rewatching bits of the first two LotR movies on cable this weekend, I decided again that they were overrated. Pelt me with fruit if you must. Pelt me with chunks of my own brain! (Eww.) I think I'm too old to feel the childlike wonder. All they are to me is a celebration of masculine beauty--though Elijah of Arc is kind of femme-y, in the best possible way. Androgynous.

Read cesperanza's new Due South story this weekend, Passion. Reccing Ces's fiction is like touting the Bible to True Believers. They've already read it. Twice. So I don't know who reading this might need persuading, but hey. It's amazing. It made me cry. Three times. Maybe four. It sucked me right in and spit me out again 30,000 words later, damp and sated and happy. I love all Ces's stories--I mean that; I can't think of one that doesn't tickle me in some place or another--but this feels to me like the, um, apogee of her writing. Or the apex. (Definitely not the nadir.) It's got the farthest reach to date, is what it feels like to me. Especially in the first few sections, it reads like an evolutionary spurt, writing-wise; a new growth stretch. Mature and indefinably different than the stories that lie behind it. Indefinable only because I'm lazy, perhaps.

I should probably eat. I don't know quite what else to do with myself given that I seem to be avoiding all mental exertion and I think I'm starving my brain, so I need to. Um. Get the frell up off this couch. For crying out loud.

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