Words, Carravaggio, they have a power...

I recently made myself sit through the movie "The English Patient" for the first time after absolutely loving the novel. While my reaction wasn't quite as Seinfeld-esqe as expected, the experience only emphasized the fact that, even when well done, a film can never stand up to a good book.

Going back over my copy of the novel I noticed that I had dog-eared the page containing this passage:


I sank to my knees in the mosaic-tiled hall, my face in the curtain of her gown, the salt taste of these fingers in her mouth. We were a strange statue, the two of us, before we began to unlock our hunger. Her fingers scratching against the sand in my thinning hair. Cairo and all her deserts around us.

Was it desire for her youth, for her thin adept boyishness? Her gardens were the gardens I spoke of when I spoke to you about gardens.


These few lines are infinitely more powerful and erotic than the simulated sexual acts of two actors on a screen. Desire so strong that it becomes a garden, an oasis for a man dying in a desert cannot be imitated or affected. It's seems to be a contradiction, but often, something as physical and tactile as love can only be recreated through language.

So, in a roundabout way, I get to my point. While I find blogging to be somewhat self-indulgent and even distasteful, there are some things that can only be said with the written word. There are things that can't be shared on a myspace page or on the phone or over drinks. I'll try to put those things here while making a solid effort not to bore you with the minute details of my daily life. If you really must know- at any given moment I'm either answering the phones, myspacing, reading, staring into space or drinking.