The sermon for Sunday, May. 12, 2002 is: anonymous sonnets for depressed strangers, with coming attractions
10:29 p.m. Before I write about my rather pleasant and unseasonably warm Sunday afternoon (trailer: fade up on palm trees and beach houses; voiceover: IT'S ABOUT A BOY--
dissolve to DUMB-JOHN, doing his damndest to smile like Hugh Grant but looking more like Hugo Gland--
voiceover: IT'S ABOUT A GIRL--
medium angle on COLLEEN HOOPER, looking simultaneously fetching and ridiculous in a baseball cap and pink "Oral Sex, Please" T-Shirt; she waves brightly and eagerly at the camera;
voiceover: IT'S ABOUT A PLEASANT AND UNSEASONABLY WARM SUNDAY AFTERNOON-- insert shot of, well, this afternoon) I suddenly have this urge to respond to a diary entry I've just read, which I shall reproduce here entirely without permission nor copyright:
2:09 a.m.
Sunday, May 12, 2002
Half of the notes I make fly out the window. Taking it all on chin, I feel like I might break. And I am tired of holding nonsense between my thumb and forefinger, tired of scribbling it on my wrists.
I am invincible. I say I know I'm going to die, but I don't believe it. A child, as I always was.
And I am sorry. Sorry I forgot how catty I'm supposed to act. How this pales in comparison to falling into you.
Should I wait, or should I do it now? What can I do when I know that time is running out?
� l'�tranger
throw all your notes out the window and break;
your chin and wrists, your body, are too frail
an archive to memorialise each of fate's mistakes,
too delicate a leaf to note how each day fails.
soon enough you will die. This architecture's divine,
why scar this brief monument with souveniers of dull care?
life is unceasing heart attack. pay the hurt no mind,
there is no lack of shit to content you for your share.
throw your notes to the wind. throw your self in as well,
for only in that wind are we contented in this Hell.
the Funny Show
agriculture poem
my life in the ghost of Bush
time-lapsed (part 1)
unreconciled
Images are taken without permission from the fine and trusting folks at Folk Arts of Poland; please purchase something from them. Background music stolen without permission from Epitonic, Basta Music, and just about everywhere else my unscrupulous hands could grab something. No rights reserved.
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