it's 3:57 a.m., on 2001-05-22 - moonlight and van helsing.

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I just re-read 'Gonzo Sunset' and 'Van Helsing'; also, the Chasing Amy fic I have bookmarked. I'm thinking, there are certain things you could broach with friends, certain conversations, that just shouldn't ever happen. Ever.

They're the kinds of things that Banky's terrified of, and for a damned good reason. The same thing that makes Stuart upset-- the things that people just don't understand. It's like Izzy and Ricky, with someone in between them. It's like all those people that have friends that matter more than lovers-- and that's the way it should be, at least to some of them. It's, that way.

I don't know. I want to re-watch that movie, because it's been a while since I've seen Jason Leigh and Ben Affleck.

Vince teaches us that unrequited love is perfect-- it never has to withstand the hard parts of a relationship, it never has to fade, and it never has to die. Susan Ivanova teaches us that all love in unrequited.

I don't know where I'm going with this. It's three twenty in the morning and I'm hungry, so let's eat.

And now I have an urge to listen to the Barenaked ladies. I'm laying here, on my single bed with the light blue sheet, listening to a freight train out there, and wondering about a lot of things. I wonder. Did Ginsberg ever know that his life would become public record, that thousands of people would read the letters him and Neal Cassady sent between each other? I wonder if he had the unmistakeable attitude of writing for an audience, even when he was alone.

These are the things I'm thinking, and it's three twenty six in the morning.

~*~

It's impossible to take 'Van Helsing' and quote one or two lines in order to sum up the whole thing, because it's so much more than just lines. The three I like the best are Oz, watching japanese cartoons in bed; Devon and his charm bracelet; and Giles, the little drummer boy.

From Gonzo Sunset, I will never forget the comparison between Jenny and Cordelia: proud, showy. Direct. Young.

I'm feeling a quiet sense of-- something. Perhaps it's that three thirty mood, the one that's best shared on the open road or in a dirty place, sheets that smell like sex. A diner with bad lighting and greasy food. On the road. It's not sad, but neither is it entirely content. Less melacholic than simply-- small.

I feel the weight of everything, in comparison to my weight, and find that I am lacking.

I am lacking. It's an interesting thing, what language tells you about a person. I am a firm believer that everyone has their own form of code-- those phrases that you use when you're lonely and don't want to say it. Those phrases when you're angry. When you're amazed. When things don't make sense.

All those words, round in their forms and unyielding in definitions, even if it's just for you.

I'm thinking about bedouin fires, and the terrible thing Holden did to Alyssa and Banky. I'm thinking of diners. I'm thinking of y'all.

~*~

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