The Prestige is much better than I thought it would be. I had resisted seeing it when it came out two years ago because I had recently seen The Illusionist and assumed that "The Prestige" would be another silly romance with magicians. Boy, was I wrong. There are some great nuggets in this film, including David Bowie as Nicola Tesla, the Tesla/Edison side story, a decent performance from Scarlett Johansson, and the twist at the end. The writing doesn't pander to the audience too much, and the leads remain focused on portraying the determination behind their rivalry. There's no cheesy romance to side track Hugh Jackman and Christian Bale. They could take Edward Norton any day.
I regret unfairly judging such a great film based solely on a bad experience with a movie from the same genre.
It's been ages since I last wandered around Central Square at night. Tonight, as I stood at a corner on Mass Ave, who did I see? Katie. Even with my fluorescent-light abused eyes, I could recognize those legs from a mile away. She was in quite a hurry, got in her car, and scooted away. If she did spot me, I hope she wasn't in a hurry to get away from me, but I wouldn't doubt it.
I am sure that she has gotten back with the ex she was in love with when we were together, and I bet that any contact with me would dredge up unwanted memories for her. She continues to affect me, even to this day. It's odd how latent feelings about someone can linger for so long. Usually the memories that last are either very positive or very negative; with Katie, they're very positive, in spite of everything that went afoul and despite our short run together. She's the one who got away.
Que sera, sera.
Is it weird that every time I come home, before I unlock the door, I turn the doorknob to check whether the door is already unlocked, which would mean that someone broke into my apartment and may still be inside waiting for me? I don't think it's weird. I figure, it's best to be prepared to face an intruder. Am I right?
Also, sometimes when I walk down the hall in the dark, I make a sudden turn into my bedroom on the assumption that I'd catch a looming burglar off guard. Now who has the element of surprise? Hmm?
Maybe I've watched far too many movies where a character comes home and absentmindedly looks at the floor or the coat rack without noticing the rapist with the piano wire standing behind the door. Not me. No sir. Any rapist in my house is going to have to be a little more clever to violate me. And the piano wire trick might not work, either, because sometimes I walk around with my hands in front of me, ready to grab that piano wire before it gets to my neck!
I walk on my toes when I'm barefoot, not only because it's much quieter that way, but because it's better to have a forward-leaning stance if some common criminal happened to pop out of a closet or dive through the window. It's bad enough having to face a surprise attack while you're naked and drowsy – why be at a worse disadvantage by standing around on the heels of your feet? Think about it.
On second thought, I'm kind of weird.
I've been without my primary email account for the past three weeks or so, and I can't say I'm missing anything. I have a couple other accounts and considered sending an email to everyone I know informing them of my other addresses, but who am I kidding?
I look at missed connections and wonder if someone might've missed a connection with me, but then I realize that I never seem to leave the house these days, and when I do, I blend right into the sidewalk.
I've got no interest in meeting people or dating, yet I still crave the experience of knowing someone and being known in return. I want to skip the small talk and zip myself up into someone else's skin, in the best possible way. Tear down our walls and build a park out of the rubble. Run down the toilet paper roll and stare at each other through the tube.
Solitude is a hair shirt, indeed.
I've had the taste of milk in my mouth today.
The sound of my building drives me a little crazy, but hearing the T rolling underground makes me feel like a part of the machine.
I'm unworthy of the sounds my guitar makes. The cracks on the top are already getting worse. I am inadvertently killing it.
Everything will be fine.
I had several very vivid dreams last night, including an explicit one about Ali that caused me to wake up. I guess I miss the idea of her more than the reality of us, which never really developed as I'd naïvely hoped.
Man, the brain can really mess with your head...