Showtime went ahead and made a series called Homeland, which is really about a crazy blonde CIA woman who believes she’s the one to save America from the grasp of terrorism. At first I admired her for the work rate, for her dedication to the job of pinning down the terrorist. But then she forgot to take her pills one morning and all hell broke loose. Read More »
A woman sat in front of me in church yesterday. I remember her because, for the entire mass, she was the one thing that distracted me from that uncomfortable pew. It painfully dug into my spine, the pew, and it made my bum numb and I couldn’t even squeeze a brief nap.Read More »
Aquitaine – a symbol of power and domination, a mighty kingdom
Meet Valerie. She’s a tall divorced woman with long dark hair living in her dream house with glass doors overlooking the sunbathed waters of Cape Ann. She’s a painter you see, and right now she’s putting the final touches to a sunset painting. As a struggling artist, her work is finally paying off. Although, not enough to pay for the house. The balance is taken care of by Joel Converse, her ex husband.
An old movie called Dead Poets Society kept me up last night. It’s the story about an eccentric poetry teacher who takes on a group of impressionable boys. But, in a sad twist, the boy that you will grow to love puts a bullet in his head, and it really puts the kibosh on the movie. It has a nice ending though, and before the credits roll you’ll want to stand on top of a table and say, “O captain My captain!”
In some ways I think I could make for a cool writing teacher. I’d wear a brown coat with candy in my pockets and bribe the students to participate. I’d give fun lectures and show these kids everything I know about writing, and eventually, they would fall in love with the art.
It’s a noble dream. But, of course, I know nothing about writing. And that’s a tragedy.
I’ve always liked Wednesday. I like the word. It’s a beautiful word to say. There’s always something I’m looking forward to on Wednesdays, and I can’t remember a point in my life where I wasn’t.
It started in primary school. Every day at 10 o’clock we were given tea, and two slices of bread that could have easily passed for a blocks of wood. Sometimes, when they were felt generous, they’d spread a smudge of jam on it. It never helped.Read More »