March 13th, 2002

full life

(no subject)

So today is my one-year LiveJournal anniversary. This is my 517th entry.

I had originally intended to do a Then and Now comparison, a la Blerg, but I've become overrun with incredibly stupid crap that absolutely can not wait. Perhaps later.
full life

(no subject)

While the new office was intended to convey a lighter, happier atmosphere (especially when compared to the drab and dreary digs we used to inhabit), I've spent the last 2 days in a nearly unbearable funk. Perhaps it's the lack of office supplies; perhaps it's my continuing writer's block; perhaps it's that my headphones got tangled up in the subway turnstile this morning and have ceased to function. Anyway, for reasons I cannot account for, I'm depressed again, which is wierd especially since I had such a fun night with the woman last night, renting the Zoolander DVD and even spending a couple minutes on her roof checking out the "Towers Of Light", which is a wierd thing to look at.

Regarding the "Towers Of Light": Surely you all have heard about this by now, where two sets of powerful lights are shining up into infinity, as a temporary 9/11 memorial. They are quite impressive. But they're also wierdly festive. I mean, usually, whenever you look out onto the cityscape at night and you see searchlights, it more or less indicates that there's something incredibly fun going on. And that's sort of my gut reaction when I see the towers; I mean, obviously, when you look at 'em, and you see that there's 2 of them, and they're not moving, and you know why they're there, that initial reaction changes pretty quickly.
full life

(no subject)

'The last time I saw [Richard Brautigan],
we were walking past the middle room of his house. There was a table
in there with a typewriter on it. "Quiet", he whispered, pushing me
ahead of him into the kitchen. "My new novels's in there. I kind of
stroll in occasionally, write a few quick paragraphs, and get out
before the novel knows what I'm doing. If novels ever find out
you're writing them, you're done for."'