No Poem Is the Only Poem. No Story Is the Only Story. No Kings.
I got a free app to keep track of my reading. I don’t know, but I thought it might be helpful. It has a star rating system which I find absurd. Trying to co-operate, not my best thing, I decided the Bible and Shakespeare rated a 5 and anything else had to be no more than a 4.
Sonny, face deadpan, flings his ballpoint across the reflective marble of the conference table. It flies with unintended precision, hitting his older sister Maya in the center of her chest like a dart. A tentative smile twitches across her face, because he’s fifty-six and he’s never been good at anger, never had reason to be. The pen was the best he could manage.
Back from an MRI brain scan I listen to a Miles Davis album Black Hawk San Francisco 1962 Where a young Latina And I grooved on the vibes
Jodie Foster has been around a while, but unlike many (nay! the majority) of her artist predecessors, contemporaries and, indeed, imitators, Foster is both surrounded by and imbued with compelling enigma, whether it is through her private life (not so concerning for us), her choice of film as an actor, or the subject matter of her directorial material.
It was getting late. They lay in bed, Abe and Lydia, him 68 and watching Bonanza, her 57 and reading the Horoscopes in the back of Entertainment Weekly.
Today is Thanksgiving, though you wouldn’t guess it from the sterile walls and empty smells. Visiting hours here are from 1:00-2:00 PM every day. Toy Story 3 murmurs in the background as my family and I approach the main desk.