I stumbled upon an N+1 review of the film "Gavagai", and its summary intrigued me. Its premise is about the indeterminacy of language - and translations. The New Yorker review is stellar, too. Netflix doesn't offer it. No luck on downloading a torrent and no chance of seeing it in my lifetime.


“For him a story is born and dies between the first and last page.”

- Colin Farrell on Lanthimos’s hatred against character back-stories.

Make it go away

I dreamt that I was inside the grandest train station in Mexico, not unlike the subway at 42nd St. There are signs pointing to Canada and Vietnam. I haven't written in months. My chest is really heavy. There's a lot of uncertainty at the moment. I also just found out that Ned Vizzini committed suicide last 2013. Then I wrote yesterday: "It's that feeling I have when playing a game I thought isn't that perfect, like I could make a really minor adjustment at the start that would magically change how the gameplay goes, so I'd quit and start anew, except now I can't really quit and start over."


Just as I was alighting the bus, I found an old woman, well into her 80s, reading a book by James Patterson. I could only manage to see the chapter title - which I forgot.


we sold all our possessions
except for a vial of the smell of hot showers in the bathroom
(metallic, warm and low sillage) with the shower head now plucked and auctioned.

we laid on the bare floors - no carpets or cords,
no scurrying roaches, all drab and dust
and footprints fading, and a bag of used clothes.

the rooms are all soaked in the natural light - the curtains
have been folded and given away to relatives in the province.
we threw the windows open to let it breathe.

there were no buzz or hums one is used to hear in a household.
you can make out the faces on the ceiling
and see slugs crawling down empty electric sockets.

soon birds chase each other as they hover and flutter around the rooms.
then the homeless, shaking from the cold. wrapping poop in newspaper.