Dying Skin and a Re-born Heart

My little America trip was fantastic. I was hoping I could sit down here and write about it all, but I currently find myself in a head-space that is more inrtigued by a callous-y blister on the base of my left pinky finger that any new adventure I took and the new path it showed me. It's dead-skin sort of creating, now.

I watched a movie called 'Grand Canyon' tonight that I really rooted for but disappointed me in the end. It's from around 1990, so well before they invented the DVD that they should have thought twice about formatting it onto. It features Steve Martin, Danny Glover and Kevin Kline. Now, usually, Danny Glover and Kevin Kline are enough for me to not rent whatver it is that I'm considering (except Pure Luck, that is) but this came highly recomended by a friend who won't teach me how to spell certain verbs.

It's about life and yadda, yadda, yadda. Two and a half hours of being preached a simple message that could have been condensed into ten minutes - and, should you ask, I have set the timer on this piece to 9:57. One thing did strike me, though. Steve Martin - who is my favorite non-related Martin - plays a movie producer who creates ultra-violent films. Go carnage! He's a very smart man, too. He tells his friend in the movie that films, done correctly, help to solve the little riddles of life. To me, very true. A movie like Magnolia helped me to answer many questions I had. What 'Grand Canyon' failed to solve, however, is the great debate of why I should have sat down for two and half hours of schlock (just came up with that word - understand it or fuck you) when my bed and books were 10 seconds away. Choices, they say.....

I talked to one of my roomates tonight for quite awhile - one of the two that does not do comedy (I call then human beings) and spent the night forgetting about anything outside the realm of being alive. It was nice. I found I have not really spoke too much with them. I have been absent alot, not just physically, which is odd, because I sincerely like them. It's been a learning process. Living with two beautifully wonderful women has been man-making. The role of roomate to relative stranger is diffirent relationship than most I have encountered. There is no bond other than the fact that you share the place you live in, which as you learn, is a big fucking bond. We've all been very friendly and a cohesive unit, but a unit that had boundaries, and tonight they started to come down. Funnily enough, I 'move out' (please, don't ask, I'm still figuring out myself) in 17 days, so it's a case of not-so-little, not-so-late. Most importantly of my time here is the fact that the girls opened their door to me, a complete stranger who left his house in mid-day for no definative reason, and have allowed me to blossom in their humble abode without ever making me feel like it wasn't mine, too. This house has been a man incubator for me, and all under the secure eyes of two wonderful girls who never wanted anything more from me than to be. I love them. Thanks.

OKAY - no more nicey stuff. Time to get racist. Oh, shit, the timer is up to 9:54....