Showing posts from November, 2005

The Subject Heading of a recently received email:


...and yet cannot.

Twenty minutes after the show you walk into the bar and she’s the only one who waves and squeals your name. And when she does this, she half stands up from her stool. Even so, this reaction to your arrival, it’s got little to do with you. She’s perky in general . You just keep reminding yourself how you’re nobody special—just another somebody she knows. And, with that much assured, you choose to reply with a single wave and a mild, lip-closed smile. You choose—because “between stimulus and response” everyone has the choice— to reply with less than half her enthusiasm. She saw you first because where she sat she was facing the door. The few others who know you and noticed your entrance, they smile, but they don’t make the Big Deal she just made...and thank God for that. You don’t trust attention for attention’s sake. If that makes sense. Hey, sure, if the joke kills, laugh; if the song and dance pleases, clap. Most curtain calls, though, you can barely ever bow. Most curtain calls, you
A thought that inspires some concern… Am I ridding myself of (nearly) all materialistic extraneousness because, on some subconscious level, I sense that the Time Is Coming? ...and I do not necessarily mean my time; nor do I necessarily mean death ...
Scrape the bottom of the creative barrel and you may find the most potent—albeit least palatable—of material.
It’s that your beauty always gets in the way of my ever having a decent conversation with you. So…get ugly. Then we’ll talk.
HIM: I want to be your biographer. HER: Why? HIM: Because you’ve got "Bestseller" written all over you.
Yes, she is fantasy made flesh. But, to you, despite her every hug Hello and hug Goodbye, she is no less a fantasy…
My life is all about the suppression of obsession.
While, at times, I may be frustrated with you, I am, at all times, most frustrated with myself.

Murdered Mystery

For three days we sat next to each other for three meals. For all of those meals, and only for those meals, to everyone else, she was my "wife." At first glance, she was: Hot. "Yeah," I thought, "I could be married to that ." However, the more I got to know her, the uglier she became. Only, she's not the one I need to find ugly... The one I need to find ugly treats me, at the very least, with too much professional courtesy. Even so, the one whose attitude sullied her beauty (because she had too much contempt for anyone more fortunate), I said to her, "Nice working with you." It was a formality, what I said. It was also a lie.