the blood of a poet

A film is a petrified fountain of thought.

Style is a simple way of saying complicated things.

Art is science made clear.

Tact is knowing how far to go too far.

Everything one does in life, even love, occurs in an express train racing toward death. To smoke opium is to get out of the train while it is still moving. It is to concern oneself with something other than life or death. --cocteau

topanga tales

*** UPDATE: I GOT THE PLACE! moving in for a month or two. ***

ah, life. a series of panic-stricken bumbles staccattoed by deep
breathing and occasional crescendos of conviction. at least that's what it feels like as i rampage from one impressively orchestrated distraction to another, accented by supporting choir, all in an attempt to keep the symphony's volume at thought-drowning level.

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this is a very fancy, alliteration-filled run-on sentence (my favorite bad habits in writing) way of saying i've been procrastinating and hearing the tsk-tsking buzz of silence beneath all the clamor anyway.

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i need to run away. i'm waiting to hear from a magical doppleganger i stumbled upon in topanga, as to whether or not she will sublet her hobbit-hole on a hill to me for 2 months for dirt cheap. i'll know on sunday, and if it works out, i expect to finish hipster by the beginning of february; just in time for the scheduled call with my agent that i have put off until then.

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this is the place. too good to be true. WISH ME LUCK!!!