I have a pomegranate I haven't used, and am daily not interested in partaking of. It won't last forever. This thought has led me to the line
Not seldom have I wasted fruit
and to the thought that that's no sin, nor shame, but a pity. 'Tis a pity.
It's easy to go to it being a stage-of-life thing, but it needn't be one (doesn't matter why I'm this way, or even whether I consistently am, but): I'm right now out more for clarity than confession. I just want to know what I want.
I think I don't want to keep singing notes it hurts to sing. For instance. Sure, it gets easier to sing the high ones with practice, but why go for that? Why not sing ones that feel good to sing, and likely sound less like thin screeching?
Saw The Descendants last night: exquisitely sad. A subtle arc of plot in character. Differently I felt its acute moments of a child losing a parent and of a parent losing a child.
I like the combination in Payne of his ways and his subjects. He's getting up there with Woody and the Coens and Wes Anderson as a moviemaker whose new stuff I look forward to. Jim Jarmusch hardly makes movies any more, it seems. And I didn't even see his last one, which is now 3 years old.
It took me a minute just now to figure out whether this is 2011 or 2012.
Juli's cat Percy died this morning. The dreary overcast matches, for her, I imagine. Manny's curled up on the desk by my computer; he was liking my singing. Doesn't care how dumb the song. While Humphrey used to run from the guitar, Manny used to come hang out with me while I strummed it. Have I even strummed it since I've had MoMo? Hmm... A pity.
Clarity through what's-a-pity. Not the makings of a bestselling self-help tome, but could be one divining rod for finding what I want.
Thought I might get the dog to sleep outside the crate today, as I've got all day and no need to go anywhere. She's just still so loopy, when ready to sleep but allowed to wander around, grab at stuff, chomp randomly, drag herself into a jump-up at Manfred Manny-Festo. In the bit of In a Lonely Place I had on this morning there's a scene with a weary Dix, goofy-tired (I forget how Gloria Grahame describes it) (no, wait: "dopey"), but he doesn't chew things. He chews things (out) when he's awake, and mad. It's strange to ponder the violence in that film, and what was crazy and not crazy to put up with in passion and in a temperamental creative man.
A little more of the second part of the Woody documentary awaits me, as does the long-awaited disc 1 of "Treme." But I keep getting waylaid watching what's on now. The other night, in the middle of the night, I got up just as UHF was starting, and watched the whole ding-dong thing. I miss watching TV "live", with that sense that others were watching the same thing at the same time, in their boxes within boxes, on their boxes, and just something about the lay-of-the-land of it. It was what was happening now, on TV, which was sort of out there in the world. It's not worth it to watch live much now, often, sitting through so many (less regulated) minutes of commercials, or taking in some crap reality show with multiple repeats of the salacious bits, in three teasers, the "real" moment, and five flashbacks.
Ooh, hungry. Another divining rod. I want a meal. I want a meal and good TV and the rest of my lazy rainy day inside, first Sunday in a long time with nothing doing.