Lot of art lately. Saw the Klimt at the Neue Galerie two weekends ago. New Museum soon. Some other gallery opening that was underwhelming. Didn't go to Art Basel but actually, for a half-second, considered it. The AL was having a lavish-sounding event to which I RSVP'd before realizing it was in Miami, too. I replaced my old moleskine with a new one without lines, so I can sketch more assuredly. Sketching helps me write. I feel like I just started strangelets but I can't believe how much I've written. Still at least a year to eighteen months from completion. Home sick from work today. Seeing Atonement soon. Listening to Clint Mansell's score for The Fountain. A flawed movie with a terrific soundtrack. On the subject of films, the San Francisco Film Critics Circle is the first (and will probably turn out to be the only) critics organization to name as their favorite film of the year The Assassination of Jesse James by the Coward Robert Ford. As anybody who's had a conversation with me in the last three months knows, I think Assassination is pretty much the best film I've seen so far this century. The only other one I loved as much is Park Chan-wook's Oldboy.
A strange weekend with regard to sleep. Little patches here and there. (Writing this on Sunday afternoon.) I've become convinced of the value of moments of self-enforced mental isolation. At work or in crowds now I force myself to not speak for periods of time and shut out external sensory stimuli as completely as possible. Then I try to populate the spaces around me with people and things of my own imagining. (Usually they turn out to be large humanoid insects.) I find this calms me and I get ideas. fuerzabruta is a fascinating thing. P. took me. In one setpiece, a transparent ceiling is lowered to head-height (the audience stands for the entire show) and covered in water, and then lightly-clad, nymph-like women cavort on it. Friday I went to a program where I volunteer twice a week with little kids who are doing creative writing; I'm helping a kid named Vincent write a story about a killer plant. He's a startlingly good storyteller; he's nine years old. Yesterday I remained supine in my apartment. In the evening, dinner with Tom, birthday party of coworker, palm-reading and night-long conversation session with E. Didn't sleep til almost dawn. For today: isolation, silence, pomegranate juice, and pastries.