scribblings

-Bulgakov's life and how it informs the novel
-First paragraph of chapter 32
-Behemoth: absurd, droll
-Why Pilate is so tortured?
-Is Azazello, or even Woland, a sympathetic, likable character?
-What happened to Hella?
-The greed of the citizens -- witness Berlioz's uncle grab for the apt.
-Absurdity of Bengalsky: symbolic of enforced institutional stupidity of Soviet life
-Kinship of Pilate and Master? Tortured brilliance
-Meaning of Mark Ratkiller
-Why did the devil come to Moscow? A lark? To teach a lesson?

Eyes of an angel

I like to lose myself in these pop songs and little poems. Remember what it feels like to be lost? Pour yourself into something bigger; that's dangerous, you might get swallowed up in another. Forget who you were when you started. Isn't that everything we do? Give ourselves away to get someone's self back in return.

strange abstractions that come out of my head from time to time

I'm not afraid to be myself. I guess that's the biggest thing. It feels like being free. It feels like I'm finally coming into my own, like I'm right where I ought to be. And maybe that means recognizing that there isn't anywhere in particular that you have to be, and that right where you are is just fine.

Feels great,

Affirmation.

She'll tell you how I suffer

Today:

-encountered ms. F. in the train station, plans to meet later, news of too many children being birthed by our high-school classmates. It would appear that at least 5 of my classmates of 2004, probably more, have already had children. What is the world coming to? To what is the world coming? snicker

-Henry Miller is an amazing writer. He says what he means, it would appear. I like that. What more can you ask? He's not afraid to be vulgar, and he has no qualms about venting his spleen about any acquaintance, friend, lover, etc. The truth is paramount, although that's only true if you believe that the narrator is perfectly honest. Obviously he's not, but it still makes for a fantastic read.

-In other news, I have a problem with believing almost everything I read. Not so much with Henry Miller, because you know from the outset that you can't trust him, but with other things, like political arguments, or most any New Yorker piece. What do we know apart from what we read? It seems like at least half the things I know I learned from reading them, therefore I believe most of what I read, because it's a way to learn things.

-Make no mistake about it, though, Miller's Tropic of Cancer is quite dirty, unapologetically so. It's about Paris, and it's full of whores, pricks, chancres, and piss. When you read it, you feel as though you have to hide what you're reading from your neighbors on the train or bus, for fear that they might catch a glimpse of a particularly filthy passage and report you to the politeness police, or the ministry of truth.

-From the Boss: Your eyes get itchy in the wee, wee hours

Sun's just a red ball risin' over them refinery towers
Radio's jammed up with gospel stations
Lost souls callin' long distance salvation
Hey, mister deejay, won'tcha hear my last prayer?
Hey, ho, rock'n'roll, deliver me from nowhere

If there were an All-Madden team for name-dropping gourmands, I tell ya, you'd be on it

Isn't Thanksgiving really about overeating, after all?

As a red-blooded American, I was worried, as anyone would be, that I wouldn't be able to overeat to my heart's content in Canada.

I was wrong. There was more than enough food, and I ate more than enough of it. And it was great. It always is. Am I supposed to apologize for eating too much? It was delicious. I'm sorry that there are people who don't have enough to eat. I would like to help them. But at Thanksgiving, you stuff yourself. It's what's done. I can't turn the tide back from the shore, and I can't help but eat too much at Thanksgiving.

Thanksgiving. Feel free to stuff yourself. And give some thanks.

Thanks.

take 'er easy

First blog post from Canadian soil

First USA Thanksgiving spent on Canadian soil

Canadian soil never tasted so good, etc. etc.

Went to the supermarket today here and saw a can of Habitant 'Soupe aux Pois'

I must explore squash. There are great possibilities in squash

I won't leave without sampling poutine, which is not spelled phonetically