Slumdog Bullshit

An empty serving of kitsch and glamorized slum life with weak attempts at comic relief and dripping with sentimentality, all done in the style of a short-attention span music video. Not even to mention that the film has hardly anything in common with the beautiful book by Vikas Swarup upon which it is based. What a huge disappointment.

Moths Ate My Shirts

Laundry broken, almost got fired, moths ate my shirts, no phone, got ripped off my AT&T, the plumber... car problems, got really sick...but I'm really really happy.

Wild Geese

Our new life begins tomorrow. Space and sunshine. Expansion and exhileration. One of my favorite poems comes to mind:

You do not have to be good.
You do not have to walk on your knees
For a hundred miles through the desert, repenting.
You only have to let the soft animal of your body
love what it loves.
Tell me about your despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.
Meanwhile the world goes on.
Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain
are moving across the landscapes,
over the prairies and the deep trees,
the mountains and the rivers.
Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air,
are heading home again.
Whoever you are, no matter how lonely,
the world offers itself to your imagination,
calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting --
over and over announcing your place
in the family of things.

So long, farewell, Auf wiedersehen, goodbye

I leave and heave a sigh and say goodbye, Good bye little house on 1611 Lake Shore Ave. I loathed you at times, but you have been very good to us. I will always love you.

Gesundheit!

S. said today that every time you sneeze you have a chance for immediate enlightenment, because your heart stops, among other things. She heard it firsthand from Nityananda, I think.

Days of our Lives

A. said that this week will go down in history as the worst week of our lives. I can think of worse. A lovely sojourn in the psych ward of Glendale Memorial hospital. And seeing my bedroom fall apart into jagged shards, stabbing the side of my head, two weeks after giving birth to M.

Spooning?

I say to A., You know, all of our spoons have been disappearing. He laughs. Then he says: The last time that happened I was living with a heroin junkie. But it's just Milan, hiding his binkies, cars and plastic spoons behind the couch, in my underwear drawer and under the bed inside a shoe.