Hear the memories come in waves.

A beautiful day. Full, really, with things good and bad, pleasant and un-. Walked in the park and talked, instead of eating lunch, with an old friend of mine about Dag Hammarskjöld, martyr for the good guys. This would fall under "pleasant". Vlindinhauer Haverhast, the old friend in mention, himself also a sort of martyr for the good guys, was enviably on the Cape as we spoke. Fuck, how I want to be on the Cape. I've been homeless for too long. Cape Cod, if you're lost. Keep up. But don't ask me anything else about it. I don't want to talk about it. Fuck.

Placing that aside, I watched The Pope of Greenwich Village last night for the 1st time since 1984 or 5. I'm all about Mickey Rourke right now. Motherfucker quits acting to resume his relationship with boxing in '91 - at 35 - this time as a professional and doesn't lose a single fight (though he drew against both Fransisco Harris and Thomas McCoy). His acting is spot on. Between him and Eric Roberts, the method is dropping thick.

My dreams have taken on a new direction the past two nights. Are they waving or drowning? I can't tell. There seems to be an upheaval in the works; I'm generally in favor and my concern is mostly with facilitation.

Oh, and I watched Zeitgeist over the last 21 hours, in installments. My inner conspiracy theorist wants me to tell you he's giving it two thumbs up. Rashid turned me on to this film a few weeks ago. And speaking of installments, Ken Burns, who I can never mention without reminding everyfuckingbody that he went to Hampshire, has a new documentary on WWII premiering this Sunday on PBS. I don't care if I'm the only person I know who finds this even remotely interesting. Ken Burns is a gem of a man.

And David Sylvian serenades with Orpheus.

Vlin, I can see your entries now.