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The sermon for Aug. 25, 2002 is: apres nous, 65% le deluge, 35% le mudslide 9:56 a.m. "Man is a machine for making wine into urine." - Isak Dinesen. Life inside a Joseph Cornell box is cramped and filled with unpleasantry and incident. Before I moved here I was taking quarters inside a Faberg� egg. But that was far too fancy for me and I was asked to leave. Now I dwell with a great variety of the insect realm and a lot of coloured glass. Um, okay. I guess all that is to signify that I feel sparkly. I don't know why, particularly; I'm not especially happy. I never did see Lily yesterday, so I expect froidage from her tomorrow when ordinarily I would anticipate frottage. The dumpster I live in is a dump. For some reason I threw all my books and clothes and CDs to the floor. (Well, it's not altogether mysterious; I've just seen Agnes Varda's "Les gleaners et la glaneuse" and I was momentarily taken with taking photographs of me against backgrounds of beautiful disarray. Remind me to put the pictures I took in here someday, dear Diary.) I did glean some interesting enigmas-- for example, I found this written in Wite-Out(tm) across a telephone bill:
So do thank god I take notes, otherwise my writing would make absolutely no sense to me. What I wanted to note here, though, was that I found a cigar box that my brother-in-law gave me when his son, my nephew Anthony, was born. (It's an empty cigar box, since I obviously don't warrant an actual "it's a boy" cigar; maybe it was given to me to throw away.) Within that box I had kept every letter, every postcard, every photo, every knickknack, every tchotchke, every talisman that Clara had ever given me. In that box, knotted with a violet ribbon to keep it tidy, is a lock of Clara's hair. It's been in there for three years and it still holds a faint ghost of Clara's scent. I brushed it across my cheek and closed my eyes and tried to reconstruct, from only that faint sense data, what it must feel like to be touched. In other news: Larsen asked his long-time girlfriend Ed to marry him. Eric and Rong have a son named Max. Lisa, Tim, Young, Clara, Stephanie, Therese, Kristin, Judith, Alison and Evangeline will never talk to me again. I have lived too long, and I will never see again those extraordinary moments, nor regain that vibrancy and youth which imparts such urgency to life. In short, dear Diary, I am done, I am done, and I'm only waiting for god to complete auditing the book of life for my stolen time on earth to become discovered. Until then I wait here in my Joseph Cornell box for the next and final heartbreak . ADDENDUM 10.38 AM: Oh, I figured out what my film notes were-- I was watching Sans Soleil and I thought of doing a similar film (similar? ha!), basically a lot of blurry digital video, location shots and a sad woman reading letters on a soundtrack. It's a comedy, you see, it's a documentary, it's a suicide note at 24 frames per second. 
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