A few hours ago, I paused the music I was listening to ("Beat Your Drum" by David Bowie) to focus on an article I was reading but I noticed I was still hearing music, "Lover Man" on saxophone, and I wondered if I had another copy of Winamp running with one of the versions of that song I have on my hard drive playing. But walking around my apartment I finally figured out it was an actual saxophone, not a recording, coming from outside. I briefly fantasised about a girl outside my apartment performing it for me or at least holding up a boombox with it playing. I guess the latter's more likely, I haven't heard of many women who play the saxophone. There's the woman who wrote the theme to Touch of Frost. And Lisa Simpson. I guess Lisa Simpson would be nearly thirty now. But it ended up being a guy who lives a couple doors down from me. He was pretty good. I actually went out planning to give a dollar or two if it was a busker on the corner but he was just practising in his apartment.
Who did I want it to be? Maybe Jean Peters. I was watching Cutthroat Island last night, a movie that's so much worse than I remembered. I got about halfway through and I realised I didn't want to go sleep with it being the last thing on my mind and I decided I'd rather be watching Anne of the Indies again, starring Jean Peters. So I did.
It's not a perfect film but at least it didn't make me feel oppressed under the massive weight of high budget mediocrity. Maybe I'll be able to finish Cutthroat Island to-night, I don't know. I wish there was a RiffTrax for it, I need something to help me get it down. Maybe I should try alcohol.
Twitter Sonnet #884
When trouble blocks the curtain's climb to feats,
Then theatre resumes the thwarted goals
In sights unseen by seemly calloused Geats
Who call the college cracked for sinking shoals.
Delayed for sauce too cold to grant the nood
Olfact'ry crashed across the beach in dreams
Infused with languor garnished gowns, a brood
Of lazy lounging sequins cut at seams.
A burning heart inside the cherry pill
Dispersed along the path 'twas picked from out
The normal cut of dirt we call to fill
The empty spots between the trees: a route.
A fossilised black tumble weed was ground
To make the counterfeit black coffee mound.