I was watching Manhattan, which is an exquisite film. After having a strong cup of coffee late in the afternoon, real sleep was outsourced to the outskirts of an Indian village near a cow with big, beautiful serene eyes. I am in bed, listening to the traffic, pretending it's rain or the ocean or a giant hushing my brain and telling it to shake the caffeine out of its crevices.
Manhattan is a beautiful film and I watched it for the shadows and listened for patterns in the conversations and threads to see how one Allen film and idea is strung to another. The city as protagonist is ideal; architecture is always easily polished to remain static in its presentation and beauty -- always blithely reminding us of how much longer it will stand than us.
We become rubble and dust as tourists continue to pour out of planes and boats to examine what had once been our daily sightseeing tour. I suppose feeling melancholy at one in the morning is to be expected.
I welcome melancholia and the reminders of childhood loneliness and how loneliness led me into labyrintine worlds to people who'd kindly left behind artifacts to serve as proof of their existence and moments of acute awareness or beautifully orchestrated insanity.
My books are neatly organized on a shelf -- not too close to my bed because they might wake me up from my non-slumber if kept too close. Kafka stares at me from the cover of his diaries with his sultry eyes,
Monday was a truly magnificent day with synchronicity steering the wheel. People stepped onto my path on a continual basis as if waiting offstage reviewing their lines. And, in essence and in literal terms, we all are actors.
I thought about people who cannot bear to be alone today because I've met several of these characters lately, and I wonder what it is about being alone that shivers people's timbers so.
I fell in love with an Artist recently and climbed back out unassisted because this is pretty nice -- this quiet, false oceanic sounds and overuse of adjectives on a long summer night alone and happy to be lonely in my insomnia in my pajamas.
I can wax poetic some other time, and for now, I would ask you excuse any misintended words, inventicated language or missed spellings... I'm half asleep.
Love When You Say Love, Poetry by Odilia Rivera-Santos