Sara: That gets me off.
Sam: You're easy.
Sara: No. With you I am.

Who wouldn't be with Christian Bale?

OK movie. Good soundtrack. Lots of good-looking people. Promising plot. Disappointing ending. More and more movies have come to my attention with the same apparent deficiency. Maybe I'm the problem; I'm looking for something that isn't there. Closure? Perhaps when one is watching/reading a story one already has a bias on how things should turn out. With art, we're not merely waiting for things to unravel like we do with life; with art, we're expecting to be moved. To be jolted. Right now, my senses are only willing to resonate with awakenings that don't make you want to go back to the way things were, with stories of letting go and never looking back to fix what is broken. Tomorrow, I'll want the complete opposite. As Wilde pointed out, art is about the spectator. If I could rewrite the ending, I'll let Sam be with Sara, but that's probably only because I think I'm like her.

It baffles me that I can't write when I'm happier. On the phone all day, online when not - in constant contact with friends. I only want to write when I'm sad. I talk when I'm happy. Based on the minutes I've consumed on my phone (thousands), compared to how little I've blogged, it's pretty clear than I'm more happy than not.

Happiness: Ings, Ji and Yna. Blockmates and summer babies' quasi-surprise party. Sisters. Unlimited Nights & Weekends. Rollover minutes. YM emoticons. iPod. Oscar Wilde.
Sadness: the habit of reveling in sadness