The Buzz

Let the Honey Be Your Guide

I love Honey Nut Cheerios. I mean that the way a man would love a woman enough to stand before friends, relatives, and strangers and say "I do." Possibly beyond, I love Honey Nut Cheerios to the point that its perverse. Thats right, loving a cereal as one would a woman isn't perverse enough. I could have sex in a tub full of milk and buckets of Honey Nut Cheerios falling over us like water from the shower-head. I would buy an edible blow-up doll if it was made from Honey Nut Cheerio grain. I don't even want to get into how much I love honey, that's another matter completely.

Its a pretty good cereal and I've been faithful since I was a child to these sandy rings that come alive in milk, soak up and vibrantly excite any breakfast with that first dripping spoonful. And how can you go wrong with Honey and Nuts? Its a pretty good cereal!

I don't know about that bee...the lovable honey bee with that stupid face and cheery attitude...smiling and talking. I can't remember a time when I saw a real bee and my first thought wasn't to slap the air or move out of the way; compromising my cool to whoever happens to see from a distance a grown man twisting and jerking like an apoplectic idiot. Bees don't smile and they certainly don't look like BuzzBee. And furthermore, they would never pour honey over cereal. Because Bees make honey only for themselves. BuzzBee, in real life, would not be as cooperative as the cereal box implies about sharing his/her Honey.

Bee aside, Honey Nut Cheerios is awesome. What about squirrels? Honey and bees, squirrels and nuts; I think Honey Nut Cheerios should have dual mascots. The box should show a bee on one corner making Honey, a squirrel on the opposite corner gathering nuts and then John D. Rockefeller in-between stealing from both!

I love Honey Nut Cheerios!

Remember Honey I Shrunk the Kids? Chilling on a Cheerio Lifesaver, if I were stranded out in a milk sea on a Honey Nut Cheerio, I'd drown but I'd be one full, satisfied corpse.

Readiness is All

Anonymous Love Letters to Athena

I'll hold you close. Its just you and I now, there is no world, we are enough for the universe; fully finding what it searched during its expansion and contraction. At the heart, body and brain of that point, I'll hold you. How tight? How long? Could we even notice or determine force, time, space when we become so close to each? Essentially entwined, defined into its seams, separation would be like removing hydrogen from an ocean and expecting water to remain.

Frame me with you

border me mine, woman most woman of all

look me there, eye me mine

if all we are then nothing is the goal

an erase, an elimination of one another

canceled and matched, nothing rising from us

the universe, a sheet that wraps only us within

frame me with you

pre-sent us ours, definition

completion, a known thing

No background, no mind, and thought has yet to catch up to action, as we stand there in the void fulfilled. You'll cast the one glance that can prove to me that I indeed have sight, I'll say the one word that finally proves you aren't deaf; and then, when I look at you and you speak to me, its two suns embracing into a black hole romance. Massive, central, and overwhelmingly insatiable. Queen of the half world, empress of the maiden council, and mother to the would-be elements that remember how well you fit in my arms.

I know I said I wouldn't write anymore, that this must end. Yet, I satisfy not, with a dim fading, a quiet exit with subtle shifts of tone and depth; shifts that disappear directly before the viewer, years before he even begins to notice. We have to explode, we have to crash in a frenzy and then release an energy stored within the tension and hostility we use as magnetic fields. I'll peel back the layers and it will be with Truth that you'll discern me, and I you. If only for a moment that I could fully have you in exchange for myself, in your possession, everything in its right place and nothing else having any matter whatsoever.

Universally yours,

Une Ammiratore

First Scene Dissolve

Anonymous Love Letters to Athena

I'm so tired. My legs barely stand me and there is a hunger inside that echoes tumultuously, with tempest of most concrete vigor do I move about. Hatred is my propeller; my engine, a glowing heart erupting with magma and fumes of shame. The few times I saw you today (I try to see less and less), it was as if, my hatred were offered a compromise. As if noted by my palely apparent countenance, one of deprived honor and starved dignity, a pathetic hand was extended forward with a cupcake.

My sweet tooth and all its fallen graces!

Its an insult! One perfectly visible and recognized, yet how I long to reach for you; such a waist to not have.

I took a break and on a street, under a canopy, I stood. The rain was cold but the air warmer. I had space and my lungs went to work on the early night's dew. You walked out with a colleague, speaking. I wanted some water, it was raining all around me; I was the thirsty, drowning man. It took every bit of each lung to punch my chest forward; every wattage of street lights, to keep my eyes from parking on you.

You are all they have to offer me, and it is true that you are indeed a great offer; but I can't--it wears me out. My fake plastic love, do you understand? It wears me out. I need this hatred and these lungs to roar, snatch, claw, and tear at the winds that so eagerly wish to pass me by. I need my tension, my open eyes that sleep and cry very little but do only absorb, greedily, everything in its path.

Its with love that I must leave you, its with further hate that the action springs awake into motion.

Universally yours,

Une Ammiratore

Let Me Know What You're Like

Anonymous Love Letters to Athena

Look there, among scatters of voices and roused audience, that by their volume and pace orbit like violent debris; a gauntlet for the cosmonaut's atmospheric departure, among this spinning tetris my queen in black speaks.

Like a death, you announce with vivid detail, words from which I am absent. I make from one end to another; beats of hearts like bullets firing through a spark, an angry, tiny spark that shoots a long way. Your body, like a continent, I the foreigner. From borders I climb and hide in the tresses of your most abandoned attentions, where no thought inhabits such barren lands. Like a thief I make for these edges and consult my stubborn friend, Humility, its with the softest caresses that she convinces me to stay while opening my back with her blade.

What do I wait for? Is it Opportunity and its grifter tricks that send parlors a-roar? Is it Amnesia, that darling little fairy of repair, who patches the wound in a band-aid, too much matching the complexion that one forgets to remove it, mistaking it later for skin.

She's a Deftones song, something like Moana, something especially like Moana. A last song, an empire desired invitation to. She so carves my heart, and the stage with all its actors and rustled anxieties, glows like trembling jellyfish in fields of gossamer bedding. The sparks of nerves, the same bullets but now firing information, sensational execution!

And Moana as she exits this stage in her creme colored winter coat, an indigo scarf noosed about her pretty neck, on an escalator my eyes say goodbye to the back of her head. Yet another day that has introduced me as, "coward".

Universally yours,

Une Ammiratore

Must've Look Like I Was Dancing with the Wall

Anonymous Love Letters to Athena

When I saw you today, in your bright red peak coat, black skirt and black leggings I had to stop reading. I wouldn't be able to continue reading if I heard you speak and I couldn't stand reading if you stood near without saying a word. And you did speak, of course not to me but all the same, for me. When you left the room, I put my book away and I had no more use for being in a room without you.

Later on, when you're on my floor, I make my way up. I time it precisely so that while I'm on my way to my room you're on your way down. As we pass, you smile at me, possibly only because I'm staring. Its a quick, automatic smile; the kind you give to a sudden, familiar stranger when you catch their eye for a moment, unexpectedly. A smile already prepped at the border of the lips, rigged to go off for any mailman, doorman, police officer, and any other insignificant variable that deems harmless enough to spare a twitched curve of kindness.

I didn't see you for the rest of the night. Purposely I remained away. I thought to myself, how fulfilling a smile a can be, regardless of its motivation. Finally when I was ready to see you again, you were already gone. And I was like that fisherman who excitedly battles the waters because finally his bait got a hold of a bite, only to reel in a disappointed reality, my hook got caught onto a boot.

Universally yours,

Une Ammiratore

Lonely Entanglements

Here is a lyric/poem collage, it contains parts of lyrics by Deftones, Lhasa, and Cage; excerpts from the film, Gilda, and a poem by Pablo Neruda. The two photos are by Grace-Kim's series of pictures entitled, Love Hotel.

I'm Her New Cool Meat

Stop I'm drunk

Got you where I want you

Got you where I want you

Luminous mind, bright Devil

of absolute clusterings, of the upright noon--:

here we are at last, alone...

Stop I'm drunk

without loneliness,

far from the savage city's delirium.

But hate can be a very exciting emotion. Very exciting. Haven't you ever noticed that?...There is heat in it, that one can feel. Didn't you feel it tonight?...I did. It warmed me. Hate is the only thing that has ever warmed me.

Just as a pure line describes a dove's curve,

as the fire honors and nourishes peace,

so you and I made this heavenly outcome.

The mind and love live naked in this house.

Now my jaw and my teeth hurt. I'm choking from gnawing on the ball. And just before I come to move to the back of the car she makes me touch the machine. New murderer.

Lovely Lady Spider loves you best

Begs you to come live in her own nest

Feed you clothes you gives her heart to you

Just as pure...fire...nourishes peace...

Hate is the only thing that has ever warmed me.

Stop I'm drunk

Got you where I want you

Its like the sky opened and God handed you directly to me!

Furious dreams, rivers of bitter certainty,

decisions harder than the dreams of a hammer

flowed into the lovers' double cup,

Lonely Spider waiting in her web

Hoping she can catch some happiness

Then who should stumble into here but you

First untie me (Stop! I'm drunk) untie me for now. You said you would, right? And you were right (stop I'm drunk!)

Got you where I want you

Soon I'll let you go

Got you where I want you

Soon I'll let you go

until those twins were lifted into balance

on a scale: the mind and love, like two wings.

--So this transparency was built

Feeling like your heart is beating, its only for me!

Stop I'm drunk

There Will Be Love

Anonymous Love Letters to Athena

Day by day, you are that thought which has been spanning throughout my mind. Yes, darling to me you are like an imperialist, who's power and ambition recognizes not any limits or boundaries. The thought of you in my mind, steals land, kills or cheats landlords, marries memories and all their fortunes; yes dear, the thought of you in my mind is doing quite well for itself.

Today -

I pass you by and pretend to not notice you, betraying my every instinct to stand directly before you and into your eyes, stare until sight or its focus, expires from me. In your department with your girls, your voice heard here then there, how it travels and so faithfully is it, how I follow. Its perfume to the ears, and then when coursed with a visual accompaniment, it becomes flavor to the eyes--an aromatic, gourmet cuisine. As fine as you are yet you starve me, or more so to the point, I starve myself from you. I chase myself away, the perfume I treat as a stench and the flavor, like an acrid taste, which I then dry heave with perfect disgust.

Am I like the beggar who pretends the banquet is nothing more than a culinary compilation of vile slop, simply because he isn't invited to any access of it?

O love of mine-not-yet-mine, if only that you could see through the facade; perhaps I reveal as much, when distanced from my countenance. Know that my disgust is the darkness from which I invite light to evolve. I want to hate you, despise and detest you so that I may savor every subtle dissolution that transforms, slowly, that enmity into love. Experiencing every atom of love that gradually collects until a planet results, and hatred becomes an atmosphere that shields that love and all of Life within it.

To you, all this love and further, all its future.

Universally yours,

Une Ammiratore

To Not Know so We May Know

On the Occasion Where We May Exchange True Words

For the way you smile and the way your voice sounds in my mind, I'll hope for the day when we no longer see one another so that by chance, one day we'll have a casual reintroduction. On a day when we have no occasion to think about one another; on a setting foreign to the association of either you to me or I to you. Taking a second to even recognize our faces, and then scurrying into the archives of our memories for each other's names that do not arrive immediately to the grasp of our tongues.

You'll smile and your dark, wide eyes will hold me in place for a second. We'll talk when we remember who we are; we'll talk as if we were more than just a brevity of familiarity, as if we were friends. You'll tell me what's new in your life, even though its all new to me, since I never knew anything personal about you. Likewise, you'll listen and update my profile as I anchor the news. We'll see one another out of context and as a result, for the first time. Its as if it was only through costumes at a ball that we experienced one another, until finally an opportunity has randomly placed us side by side without our masks; and the surprise of what lies beneath somewhat interests us both.

Put the Blame on Mame

Gilda - (1946) Directed by Charles Vidor

Starring Rita Hayworth, Glenn Ford, George Macready,

Joseph Calleia

Gilda, are you decent?

Rita Hayworth stunningly stings as the title character in this 1946 film noir classic. Gilda is the type of girl you hear about in a Deftones song, an Rx Queen. In fact, White Pony would make an interesting soundtrack for the constant knife party between Rita Hayworth's Gilda and Glenn Ford's Johnny Farrell.

I hate you so much that I would destroy myself to take you down with me.

Hate is a powerful and, as the film states, "exciting" emotion. To have hate is to have love, the line between both is thin and translucent. To hold something to such an esteem as hate or love is to extremely wind up your feelings to a heightened sensitivity, so tightly pressured that at any sudden relief the hold snaps. This is why the slightest disappointment with a lover can easily slip into hate or why in contrast, the obsession of hatred becomes as consuming as love until it is warped into love, a harsh, violent explosion of love.

I hate you so much I think I'm going to die from it. Darling...I think I'm going to die from it.

The Love Sequential

I'm pretty sure there is only one woman for me. I've had the fortunate plaisir of not only meeting her but enjoying a brief accumulation of time with her that might not sum to much but given the quality, has lasted.

There is comfort but there is also tension, understanding trailed by confusion, surrender but also dominance, pride, and conceit...The likes of which only Selfish Lovers may know. For now, we're to make due as friends, which apparently we can't stop being, regardless of sabotage from either party. Not to portray myself as hopeful but there is that little human habit of assumption through pattern recognition and conditioning, it tells me, "its far from over." Thats not a good thing but I keep it to myself (I guess not anymore).

It doesn't matter since she doesn't read this blog. She shouldn't be surprised, its not a crush, we both know the deal. Over the years I've made a myth of her, only recently have I returned to those first eyes of mine that originally saw her.

here's a video that says it better than me.

Rock the Boat

Titanic - (1953) Directed by Jean Negulesco

Starring Clifton Webb, Barbara Stanwyck,

Robert Wagner, Audrey Dalton

This summer or spring, the last survivor of the Titanic passed away. I was at the World Financial Center. Inside the WFC, there's a Winter Garden Theatre thats occasionally used as a rather impressive music hall. I forgot the composer but I believe the piece was called Requiem for The Titanic and it was then followed by the news of the last survivor passing away that same day.

I can't help but compare the two films. After all, in 1997 I was 15--In 1953, well, I think my mother was born in 1953. Naturally, I saw the 1997 version first. I don't think either film was bad and keep in mind it would be unfair to call James Cameron's film a remake of Jean Negulesco's film of the same title. That would be like saying Roman Polanski's The Pianist is a remake of George Steven's Diary of Ann Frank. Yes, they both take place during the same event and yes, both follow characters trying to survive the unfortunate catastrophe of said event but the stories are different, as are the protagonists whom each story occurs to. So not only would it be unfair to call the latter a remake of the earlier, it would also prove untrue. However, if your imagination is just as vivid a playground as mine, you'd also enjoy noting that as Clifton Webb and Barbara Stanwyck argue over custody of their children and the current state of ruins that was once a successful marriage; at the very same time this is occurring, Leonardo Dicaprio is running around with Kate Winslet on the same sinking ship. The two stories run parallel. Just like Wladyslaw Szpilman and Ann Frank, as one was hiding in an attic in Nazi occupied Amsterdam, the other was in an abandoned Warsaw ghetto, both during World War II.

Like I said I like them both, its just I like each at different parts. I like the central story from '53 slightly more than the story from '97. The romance between Leo and Kate is just not for me I don't care about their love, I'm a cold iceberg myself, in fact that was my favorite character in that film. I enjoyed the failed marriage, the father's relationship with his children, as well as the fact that Clifton Webb is just so great to listen to in the 1953 film. Its a good central story and could easily have been a film on its own if it took place on land with a resolution that did not involve sinking, separation, and death. However, the rest of the cast and their smaller stories don't seem to do much other than remind you, The Sturges aren't the only people on the Titanic. An underdeveloped love interest between a student (a young Robert Wagner) and daughter Sturges (Audrey Dalton) and a lush ex-priest nearly come close to interesting at first but then are interrupted by the iceberg before anything useful to the film can happen.

And there lies the difference, the 1953 film is itself sunk by the iceberg while the 1997 film gets snapped in half and the remainder stands straight and high with great momentum, suspense, passion, and panic. As much as I don't care for the love story it is effective in investing interest in the characters so to enhance the action after the ice cube pokes the boat. 1997 also has subplots involving class division; not to mention the special effects and set designs that fully bring to life the last hours of The RMS Titanic. The film is huge, its Titanic, which was probably what James Cameron had in mind.

Another fun thing my imagination likes to do during 1953 Titanic is imagine Leonardo DiCaprio and Kate Winslet as the Sturges, it would be like Revolutionary Road onboard The Titanic. I'll stop now.

An Affair to Remember - (1957) Directed by Leo McCarey

Starring Cary Grant and Deborah Kerr

Wow! This was far more romantic than I was ready for. Its probably one of the most romantic films I've ever seen and I watched it alone, late at night on Columbus Day.

October has wasted no time in getting cold, no formalities or subtleties, just straight down and forward into business. My hands are gloved in a thin atmosphere of cool air, leaving my fingertips with a most strange sensation whenever I move them across the keypad of my laptop. Getting into bed is the worst, it takes so long to warm up under the sheets, especially my feet.

I thought about how one could not know the full story when something set to happen suddenly doesn't; how the most natural idea is often a greedy and selfish one. And then one day, you realize this about yourself and immediately everything inside shifts and rearranges once again as it was before, like an involuntary reaction. I haven't found the right quotes for certain events of my life, I haven't read that many books and I haven't had that many events. I do know I've had a Terry McKay and a skyscraper to meet her on, I was there but she was too busy rushing into her own accident.

At night I eventually fall asleep despite the cold feet and hands.

At the Height of it All

J is in the hospital, A made this for her. A also made this for Ms. Mosshart who is 60 feet tall. If any other girl were like J, she'd have to be 60 feet tall; if any other girl could take J's trouble she'd not last long, were she not 60 feet tall.

For the cold, shameless, and dangerous A, there is no alternative.