A lot of people have a lot to say about Roger Ebert. Some rad folk are telling of some rad things about him.
Back when he was on PBS with Gene Siskel, I thought he was Gene and the other guy was Roger. He just looked a lot more like a Gene Siskel to me than a Roger Ebert, and the other guy seemed like a Roger, if not necessarily so much an Ebert, I didn't have much sense of an Ebert. Then when Gene Siskel died I thought Roger Ebert had died. It was a while before I figured out he hadn't. Still, when I look at his picture, he doesn't look like "Roger" to me.
Right now both "Gene" and "Roger" look really funny to me. It's that thing when words that are (spelled) right just look wrong, particularly when you're looking at them too much, too long. I could blame one Pavel of Linz, whose long and syntactically disastrous review I've just finally made it through (and am putting off the re-read of). But it's not Pavel. It's the looking at the words thing. It happens sometimes.
Tracy had a paper this morning with the title "Carrots, sticks and fog during insurgencies". Turned out, in dramatic contrast to the scent of whimsy in its title, it's about mathematical modeling of behaviors of insurgents, and that is some depressing shit to be looking at. I've just paused to think about the flavors of "insurgency", but I gotta stop that. I gotta get out of the individual word thing. It's taking me too far away, too long, from my heartbeat, from walking around with cool air and sunshine taking turns with my face, even from the sentence-long ideas my head can enjoy (especially when bounced back and forth with someone else). I'm at the level of syllables, which is close to just letters, which is way too small. Too small now. Too small and a threat to swallow me up into a lonely timelessness I don't want right now.
I want person connection. Gimme a weekend--- a weekend in my whole body. Gimme both.