and

and so it goes. that i am awake at half past midnight, having just viewed a movie (Sideways) that made me think. not really, more made me feel. something. which is nice, to be able to feel something. i wonder, on a sidenote, sometimes at the phrase, "i don't feel anything.
we all know that not to feel is an indication of absence, which, by definition, should render a person silent and blank. what makes us say something about nothing?
yet again, can't touch my depth.

there are vices much worse, i think, than dropping $8.50 on a movie. i go to some movies alone, you know. and there are those that think this is strange. but there are some movies (the above included), that i want to see alone. it's a private affair.
there is a character in Sideways, a man who loves wine, has a passion for it. he is a little fat, a little sad, a little bit alone, an english teacher whose book has failed to publish. his ex-wife remarries, and it stuns him. he is lost. he runs down a hill with a wine bottle in his fist.
i sometimes want to run through a bookstore with books at my fingertips. skim, the surfaces of the bindings in the literature section (starting with A and ending with Rusdie) and cry a good cry. to what end, i don't know. something about dousing pain in what brings you the most pleasure. it's one of those pictures in my head; i am alone, with no one to question the sideways wish attached to such an action. in my head, the books would know that running down the aisles pays a broken tribute to the writing i myself cannot accomplish. it would, somehow, say that loving a thing can be enough--that it is not necessary to create it or critique it or discuss it or even know of every thing listed in the holy realms of the critic's inner sanctum in order say that yes, we love and are changed by those things we love.
how i would communicate this by running around an empty bookstore, i do not know. i must be magic.

we wished (and wish) to exist, this character and i. we had hoped writing ourselves onto paper would validate our realities. not so, it seems.
there is a scene in which he stares off into the horizon as he confides to a friend, "I am insignficant. Too insignificant to even kill myself...You can't kill yourself before you publish! Look at Sylvia Plath, Hemingway..."
i am not going to kill myself, by the way.
nor do i want to, i only want to say: yes. i understood. and it left me wondering (more with this wondering!) how many more people discovered one day they were ordinary and got sad, because they did not know how to go about being, ordinary.

fortunately (being) ordinary fascinates me. if anyone out there has made any recent progress, any at all, please, let me know.