Sleep Song
I’ve always wanted to turn in my bed
And watch someone I love sleep.
I’ve always yearned to see
The seraphic look on my lover’s face.
I’ve often wondered what someone else dreams about
During that big pocket of night.
Do they dream of utopia?
Of flying with the angels?
Or running with the gazelles?
Is it swimming in an azure sea
Or scaling the walls of ecstasy
That holds my partner’s sway
As she whiles the night away?
The sweetest dreams are the best ones
With Cupids and Minotaurs and Gods.
The greatest unconscious smiles
Creased against incredible odds.
Whatever dreams may come
To my lover from above,
When I can’t sleep and I can watch,
I’ve never been so in love.
Sunday, December 28, 2008
Friday, December 26, 2008
Things I wonder…
--Concerning the college football Bowl system: Who cares? Seems to me, because most of the good colleges in this country field good football teams, that the business of determining the best one is fruitless, to say nothing of arbitrary. Like good movies, music, or works of art, who’s to say which is better? This idea grew builds on one of Woody Allen’s better ones; why can’t the writers and coaches and broadcasters involved in college football get together and just vote for the ten best, without assigning rankings? Why can’t they just get together and the lot of them agree? Why not? Because the guy who sits in the barcalounger quaffing Budweiser and eating nachos wants emotional satisfaction. He wants certainty and simplicity. Nothing is that simple, I promise you.
--I have a rule of thumb: No matter how bad a movie might be, if Meryl Streep or Diane Keaton are in it, it’s twenty times better and I’ll be at that movie in a big hurry. That being said, when is Streep going to do the Mad Moneys and Mama’s Boys and why doesn’t Keaton do films like Doubt anymore? Seems to me it’s a win-win for them. Maybe not so much the young couple making out in the back row. (Related thought: I will publicly kiss the first American screenwriter who gets Isabelle Huppert a role worthy of her crossing the pond, if I don’t do it first.)
--There are grown men in New York City who have never purchased a newspaper in their lives. Messrs. Zuckerman, Sulzberger and Murdoch had better get their shit together.
--A woman so much wiser than me once wrote, “You get what you settle for.” My advice: Sure, never settle, but never have any expectations, either. You’re less bound to be disappointed, and thus, maybe just a little more attractive.
--What exactly goes on in the skyboxes during football games? Are they really watching the game? How much red wine gets imbibed, and how much rack of lamb gets ingested? Is there a lawyer in the skybox who’s willing to sue to reverse the outcome of the game? (Believe me, we’re almost there.) Are there two people in the washroom having it off? Perhaps all of these things and more are true; never put anything past anyone who has more money than you do.
--I can count on the fingers of one hand the number of people outside the Philadelphia area who have the slightest idea how to make a Philly Cheesesteak. French bread and melted cheddar cheese do not a cheesesteak make—for the record, have yours like I do, all the way with Whiz.
More later.
--Concerning the college football Bowl system: Who cares? Seems to me, because most of the good colleges in this country field good football teams, that the business of determining the best one is fruitless, to say nothing of arbitrary. Like good movies, music, or works of art, who’s to say which is better? This idea grew builds on one of Woody Allen’s better ones; why can’t the writers and coaches and broadcasters involved in college football get together and just vote for the ten best, without assigning rankings? Why can’t they just get together and the lot of them agree? Why not? Because the guy who sits in the barcalounger quaffing Budweiser and eating nachos wants emotional satisfaction. He wants certainty and simplicity. Nothing is that simple, I promise you.
--I have a rule of thumb: No matter how bad a movie might be, if Meryl Streep or Diane Keaton are in it, it’s twenty times better and I’ll be at that movie in a big hurry. That being said, when is Streep going to do the Mad Moneys and Mama’s Boys and why doesn’t Keaton do films like Doubt anymore? Seems to me it’s a win-win for them. Maybe not so much the young couple making out in the back row. (Related thought: I will publicly kiss the first American screenwriter who gets Isabelle Huppert a role worthy of her crossing the pond, if I don’t do it first.)
--There are grown men in New York City who have never purchased a newspaper in their lives. Messrs. Zuckerman, Sulzberger and Murdoch had better get their shit together.
--A woman so much wiser than me once wrote, “You get what you settle for.” My advice: Sure, never settle, but never have any expectations, either. You’re less bound to be disappointed, and thus, maybe just a little more attractive.
--What exactly goes on in the skyboxes during football games? Are they really watching the game? How much red wine gets imbibed, and how much rack of lamb gets ingested? Is there a lawyer in the skybox who’s willing to sue to reverse the outcome of the game? (Believe me, we’re almost there.) Are there two people in the washroom having it off? Perhaps all of these things and more are true; never put anything past anyone who has more money than you do.
--I can count on the fingers of one hand the number of people outside the Philadelphia area who have the slightest idea how to make a Philly Cheesesteak. French bread and melted cheddar cheese do not a cheesesteak make—for the record, have yours like I do, all the way with Whiz.
More later.
Sunday, October 12, 2008
Idea for a good novel or a good book
Let me preface this by saying while this idea has been perking in my mind for a long while, it is still as half-baked as an indigestible potato. But I'll leave that for you to decide...
Okay, so I got an idea…
In this instance, all the characters will be idealized, or semi-fictitious, versions of themselves.
Let’s say you have me living in New York and I get sacked from my job—we’ll figure out the whys and wherefores of that as we go. It’s a cold, grey late afternoon in Manhattan, about 4:45 PM, which is when the streetlights take hold anyway. I’m wearing a black suit with a white shirt and red tie (I have seven copies of this suit) and a topcoat. To drown my sorrows, I walk, or rather stumble, into the W Tuscany Hotel on East 39th Street. While nursing a cup of green tea at the Audrey Café and Lounge where I’m more or less alone, I bury my face in my hands. How am I going to tell my mother, my family that I’ve been sacked. The economy is stinking, and it’s that time of the year where the only ones to be had are seasonal jobs in call centers where you’re on the receiving end of phone calls from condescending housewives who seem baffled that you don’t know what a sham is. I pick up what I think is a napkin to wipe a tear from my eye. But I notice that it’s a satin handkerchief in my hands, pink in color. Embroidered in white are the initials: IAH.
No less a personage than Isabelle Huppert, arguably the greatest actor France has ever produced, has taken the seat next to me. As it turns out, I’ve seen most of her oeuvre over the years, but rather than fall all over myself fawning and babbling about how much I love Isabelle, I’m just grateful she turned up. It’s almost as if Isabelle has materialized from the mist. She gets me talking about what we’re doing and I tell her my tale of woe. As it happens, Isabelle has only arrived in New York the previous night. She and Fanny Ardant are doing a play at Circle in the Square, beginning a nationwide tour. As it turns out, neither Mmes. Huppert nor Ardant have seen America beyond New York, Los Angeles or Chicago (Remember, these are fictitious versions of the two great French actors.) So, over dinner at the adjacent Icon Restaurant, I meet Fanny, who is as gorgeous and vivacious in person as I’ve known her from performances in Ridicule and 8 Women, among others. In the private dining room, we consummate a deal for me to drive them across country for the six months they are performing the play at various venues.
Now I have the kernel for what could be some brilliant work. So now here are a few questions:
n Should I let there be a conflict among the three of us? If so, what shape would it take? If not, will the reader want to keep reading, or the viewer keep watching?
n Do I want this to be a novel or a film? It’s one thing to read about Huppert and Ardant acting, quite another to watch them, esp. Madame Huppert.
n It would be very politic to let Huppert and Ardant at least look at a working outline and get their blessing before I allow the drafts to begin. If they disapprove of what I’m doing, I’ll change the project to suit two other actors. In theory, I could do this with Mirren and Rampling, or any number of other actresses of a certain age.
-- The plot seems naturally predisposed to be told in first person. The way I work with people is very intimate, very trusting. Judging from their work, this may go over with Fanny, maybe more so than it would with Isabelle, who has a far more scorpion temperament. If you’ve ever seen The Piano Teacher or Merci Pour la Chocolat, particularly the latter film’s final scene, you know what I mean. The point is that if I tell the story from the wrong point of view, I’m screwed. (See I Heart Huckabees).
--What sort of things would I have Isabelle and Fanny do between performances? Surely I don’t want them to merely sightsee. Maybe one thing would be to take them to a large suburban mall like the one I’m sitting in as I compose this memo. The idea would be to see how many people recognize the two titans as they take a lap around the mall. That would be interesting. I’m open to suggestions.
--If I made a film out of this, who would direct? Claude Chabrol? Francois Ozon? Patrice Leconte? It would help to have a French filmmaker.
--A good running gag would be to have Huppert in constant argument with her husband Ronald Chammah about something or other. Or maybe to have Ardant prattle on about life with Truffaut or working with Depardieu…incessantly.
What do you think?
Okay, so I got an idea…
In this instance, all the characters will be idealized, or semi-fictitious, versions of themselves.
Let’s say you have me living in New York and I get sacked from my job—we’ll figure out the whys and wherefores of that as we go. It’s a cold, grey late afternoon in Manhattan, about 4:45 PM, which is when the streetlights take hold anyway. I’m wearing a black suit with a white shirt and red tie (I have seven copies of this suit) and a topcoat. To drown my sorrows, I walk, or rather stumble, into the W Tuscany Hotel on East 39th Street. While nursing a cup of green tea at the Audrey Café and Lounge where I’m more or less alone, I bury my face in my hands. How am I going to tell my mother, my family that I’ve been sacked. The economy is stinking, and it’s that time of the year where the only ones to be had are seasonal jobs in call centers where you’re on the receiving end of phone calls from condescending housewives who seem baffled that you don’t know what a sham is. I pick up what I think is a napkin to wipe a tear from my eye. But I notice that it’s a satin handkerchief in my hands, pink in color. Embroidered in white are the initials: IAH.
No less a personage than Isabelle Huppert, arguably the greatest actor France has ever produced, has taken the seat next to me. As it turns out, I’ve seen most of her oeuvre over the years, but rather than fall all over myself fawning and babbling about how much I love Isabelle, I’m just grateful she turned up. It’s almost as if Isabelle has materialized from the mist. She gets me talking about what we’re doing and I tell her my tale of woe. As it happens, Isabelle has only arrived in New York the previous night. She and Fanny Ardant are doing a play at Circle in the Square, beginning a nationwide tour. As it turns out, neither Mmes. Huppert nor Ardant have seen America beyond New York, Los Angeles or Chicago (Remember, these are fictitious versions of the two great French actors.) So, over dinner at the adjacent Icon Restaurant, I meet Fanny, who is as gorgeous and vivacious in person as I’ve known her from performances in Ridicule and 8 Women, among others. In the private dining room, we consummate a deal for me to drive them across country for the six months they are performing the play at various venues.
Now I have the kernel for what could be some brilliant work. So now here are a few questions:
n Should I let there be a conflict among the three of us? If so, what shape would it take? If not, will the reader want to keep reading, or the viewer keep watching?
n Do I want this to be a novel or a film? It’s one thing to read about Huppert and Ardant acting, quite another to watch them, esp. Madame Huppert.
n It would be very politic to let Huppert and Ardant at least look at a working outline and get their blessing before I allow the drafts to begin. If they disapprove of what I’m doing, I’ll change the project to suit two other actors. In theory, I could do this with Mirren and Rampling, or any number of other actresses of a certain age.
-- The plot seems naturally predisposed to be told in first person. The way I work with people is very intimate, very trusting. Judging from their work, this may go over with Fanny, maybe more so than it would with Isabelle, who has a far more scorpion temperament. If you’ve ever seen The Piano Teacher or Merci Pour la Chocolat, particularly the latter film’s final scene, you know what I mean. The point is that if I tell the story from the wrong point of view, I’m screwed. (See I Heart Huckabees).
--What sort of things would I have Isabelle and Fanny do between performances? Surely I don’t want them to merely sightsee. Maybe one thing would be to take them to a large suburban mall like the one I’m sitting in as I compose this memo. The idea would be to see how many people recognize the two titans as they take a lap around the mall. That would be interesting. I’m open to suggestions.
--If I made a film out of this, who would direct? Claude Chabrol? Francois Ozon? Patrice Leconte? It would help to have a French filmmaker.
--A good running gag would be to have Huppert in constant argument with her husband Ronald Chammah about something or other. Or maybe to have Ardant prattle on about life with Truffaut or working with Depardieu…incessantly.
What do you think?
Tuesday, September 30, 2008
My dear friends...
My dear friends...
I simply don't know what to say, or how to say it. I feel dry. Arid as the Sahara. This is not a forum for me to rant or babble like a crazy person. I swore to you that I'd make sense in this place. But not only can I not make sense of anything anymore, I can't even articulate anything. My best lines on a daily basis: "Choice Legal, Matthew speaking", and of course, the ever-popular, "Yes, your paper was served." No one is grateful really, no one cares really.
Now I really am rambling, aren't I?
I simply don't know what to say, or how to say it. I feel dry. Arid as the Sahara. This is not a forum for me to rant or babble like a crazy person. I swore to you that I'd make sense in this place. But not only can I not make sense of anything anymore, I can't even articulate anything. My best lines on a daily basis: "Choice Legal, Matthew speaking", and of course, the ever-popular, "Yes, your paper was served." No one is grateful really, no one cares really.
Now I really am rambling, aren't I?
Sunday, September 14, 2008
ISABEL
I S A B E L
The first time I met Isabel, I was entranced.
I couldn’t see her, but I knew I was in love.
Neither of us could see the other
But I knew what I was feeling was sent from above.
Isabel lives in a hotel, in the coldest room.
Isabel’s spirit, however, is like a flower’s bloom.
And the first time I saw her, I felt her spirit too.
It moved through me like lightning from the blue.
Isabel excites me and makes my heart feel big.
Isabel calms me and soothes my soul.
Isabel is the most beguiling woman I know.
And whenever I think of her, I feel such a warm glow.
I think I’m the only one who can see her.
And one of these days I’ll give her a kiss.
But I’ll have to wait until I die to do it.
For now, her spirit is all there is.
Others think that Isabel is a gray old lady.
If they only knew what I know.
A spirit is whatever you want it to be.
And Isabel’s is as young and as fresh as snow.
Isabel moves through me every hour of the day.
And she makes me feel powerful, more than I can say.
I can feel her electricity move through my insides.
It’s not the kind of thing I feel I need to hide.
I see Isabel in my mind’s eye
And I’ll make love to her in my dreams.
Her spirit lives in my heart and soul
And she’s just the kind of angel that she seems.
The first time I met Isabel, I was entranced.
I couldn’t see her, but I knew I was in love.
Neither of us could see the other
But I knew what I was feeling was sent from above.
Isabel lives in a hotel, in the coldest room.
Isabel’s spirit, however, is like a flower’s bloom.
And the first time I saw her, I felt her spirit too.
It moved through me like lightning from the blue.
Isabel excites me and makes my heart feel big.
Isabel calms me and soothes my soul.
Isabel is the most beguiling woman I know.
And whenever I think of her, I feel such a warm glow.
I think I’m the only one who can see her.
And one of these days I’ll give her a kiss.
But I’ll have to wait until I die to do it.
For now, her spirit is all there is.
Others think that Isabel is a gray old lady.
If they only knew what I know.
A spirit is whatever you want it to be.
And Isabel’s is as young and as fresh as snow.
Isabel moves through me every hour of the day.
And she makes me feel powerful, more than I can say.
I can feel her electricity move through my insides.
It’s not the kind of thing I feel I need to hide.
I see Isabel in my mind’s eye
And I’ll make love to her in my dreams.
Her spirit lives in my heart and soul
And she’s just the kind of angel that she seems.
Fearless
F e a r l e s s
There is nothing for you to fear.
You are in my loving arms.
My face is serene, my heart is brave.
I am bulletproof.
I am invincible.
We can face the fires of hell
And the demons of earth
So long as we are together.
Nothing can hurt me.
I am fearless.
I am not ashamed.
I am ready to face it all
With you.
Take a little of
My brave, beautiful heart
And make it
Yours.
There is nothing for you to fear.
You are in my loving arms.
My face is serene, my heart is brave.
I am bulletproof.
I am invincible.
We can face the fires of hell
And the demons of earth
So long as we are together.
Nothing can hurt me.
I am fearless.
I am not ashamed.
I am ready to face it all
With you.
Take a little of
My brave, beautiful heart
And make it
Yours.
An Imprint
AN IMPRINT
With one touch
You make an imprint
On my heart.
One look at your eyes
Brands your face
In my mind.
The first time you smile
Is the only time that matters.
It’s the one I’ll always remember.
The first time you hug me
The first time I kiss you
Nothing else comes close.
Your hands make imprints
On my back, on my bones
And on my soul.
The deep breaths we take
As our eyes close
And our spirits melt into each other.
No words can do justice
No poem can truly describe
The imprint made by the one you love.
With one touch
You make an imprint
On my heart.
One look at your eyes
Brands your face
In my mind.
The first time you smile
Is the only time that matters.
It’s the one I’ll always remember.
The first time you hug me
The first time I kiss you
Nothing else comes close.
Your hands make imprints
On my back, on my bones
And on my soul.
The deep breaths we take
As our eyes close
And our spirits melt into each other.
No words can do justice
No poem can truly describe
The imprint made by the one you love.
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