16.Dec.2003

because i always have.

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return of the king ... of run-on sentences

I'm fresh and exhausted from the sneak-preview of Return of the King, and the usual complaints apply. Despite the ending dragging onward to a point my lower back unhinged itself from my body and meandered home without me, it was a fulfilling experience. I will always have affection for Gollum, as I will always wish for my best friend to slip Aragorn my phone number surreptitiously between study periods, because I am just that simplified to a babblative, insecure frenzy over all things Viggo Mortensen.

State your reluctance to the feminine Legolas, my pets, for the strapping time of the nomadic protector is upon us.

Orlando Bloom, my heart is not with thee. I betray thee and leave thee to the riotous, ravenous women around the globe who sweat themselves into a fever over the most naked and most lithe thought of thee. Leave me at once, for there is nothing here for you!

Viggo, please come over to my house and fix my cable or clean my pool, and please, for the love of the sacred fuck, dust off your guitar. You also might want to consider brown contact lenses.

It disconcerts me Gimli's constantly portrayed as the stereotypical comic relief in this trilogy; his lines are sparse and grin-inducing, nevertheless, but his was a more dynamic character in the books.

Definite, filmatic mishaps in which one is sharply cognizant of a blue-screen effect. Arwen's devotion is admirable outside of the words. Should this store ever deign to re-open to this planet, I will point you to the one thing I covet as a material possession. So much more to discuss. It was three hours and thirty-five minutes of Orc-stomping goodness and just as stunning as the last two, though, admittedly, I wasn't very pleased with The Two Towers. I broke the "Take your J-named boyfriend to the sneak preview!" tradition via remaining privy to Terri and David's relational murmurs alone.

--

We have a winner. It is, indeed, "The darkest evening of the year." That line has maintained a haunting grip on my cerebrum as the years have built and expired, one after one after another, and I was aiming for simplistic.

Frost paused to contemplate death, though, to marvel at the allure of the dark and quiet evening, with allusions of the eternal resting place dripping from his pen, the time for reflection, embracing change, and welcoming the ineluctable, merely to shake himself from the reverie by repeating, "But I have promises to keep ..."

There is a wooded park on the East side of my house, and with the recent snow-fall and my encompassing completion, the poem slid out from beneath me and whispered me to sleep. I am sharpening my talons as I write this. There is a bloodletting to be photographed.

--

And I asked my closest phantom, my favorite ghost, and my favorite literary secret twelve hours ago, "Do you love me?"
And he paused thoughtfully to say, "Yeah, I really think I do." And I'm retiring to bed, finally, on those sentiments alone.

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time & machine