Friday, February 20, 2004

I'm up so late, so early. Can't sleep. It's so quiet. I don't know what to think. I'm reading Gone With The Wind so I'm falling over myself for Rhett and I dislike Scarlett and I'm watching Angels In America and I'm in love with them all. The day after I saw it, I could think of nothing else. Everywhere there was Emma Thompson in eyeliner, an angel trailing wonderful gold. Afterwards it made me think of poor Smithers fantasying, Mr Burns, winged, in through his bedroom windows. And then this other person. Becoming Emma Thompson with the gold and the voice and I don't know whether to laugh or cry. The extent of this infatuation. Flying through windows.

When I think about English I think, oh no, I don't know anything again. And when I write letters I want to attach tickets and newspaper clippings and post-it notes and I would like to paint my letters, too, with the nail varnish I'm wearing.

Nothing. Anananananananananamatronic.

With this person, I have a thereisnothinglefttoloose thing going on. All I want to do is scream.