In My Boredom, I Am Ordinary

terrence malick shot all of ‘the new world’ in the golden hour. it looks about that time of day, the sky turning gold and red, me sitting on a frontage road while cars criss-cross the highway behind me. they also call it the magic hour, possibly because they want to believe that moments of great beauty are the closest we come to touching the mythical. i hear a bird next to me, pecking at the ground for worms. it lets me pet it. its fur is rough. well, they say malick always was a bit too eccentric for his own good. the bird flies away.

lucia joyce, 'dotter of her father’s eyes.’ i imagine there were chirps i couldn’t hear in a tree somewhere; that’s where the bird flew off to. lucia joyce was supposedly capable of one day dancing better than her father could write. imagine that if you can, being so good you can float across a stage, leaving awed looks in your wake. too bad lucia got locked up in a sanitarium.

hmm. i didn’t see the bird get any worms.

"you ever consider," frank said, "the reason they call you a girl is because they’re afraid to face a woman?"

my butt hurts. raymond chandler said that talent competes with all the hosts of the living and the dead. in my boredom, i am ordinary.