i just love a little poetry after supper...

What to write today…a little poetry perhaps, a song? ee cummings maybe…maybe, maybe. I’ve had too much caffeine again and now I’m up at 10:43pm writing stuff to myself.

“Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?Thou art more lovely and more temperate.”

I’ve been watching Amelie. She likes to skim stones at the Canal and has been diagnosed mistakenly with a palpitating heart, though the real reason for this condition is the nervous fluttering she suffered as a child when upon occasion she visited the doctor and experienced unusual physical contact. Her mother died when a suicidal woman jumped from Notre Dame and landed on top of her. Her mother liked to unpack her handbag, clean it out…and pack everything back again. She disliked wrinkly fingers from too long in a hot bath. Amelia’s quest is to track down the owner of a box she found in her bathroom wall containing treasures of a childhood from the 50’s. She feels the sudden need to help humanity, starting by leading a blind man to the subway while rapidly describing to him everything around them on the streets, lollipops in the bakery window, children, dogs, the smell of melons…then hastily bids him au revoir and leaves him standing perplexed at the subway entrance. Amelie works at the Le Deux Moulins (the Two Windmills) where the regulars include Gina’s unrequited lover who returns each day to sit in the same booth and jealously watch her every move. Georgette is the hypochondriac who works behind the cigarette counter. Another patron is an air hostess who leaves her cat at Amelie’s apartment when she’s away. She likes the sound of the cat’s china bowl on the tiles. The cat likes to listen to children’s stories. The man in the apartment next door is careful about who he meets. He never ventures out onto the landing for meaningless chit chat. He stays indoors and paints ‘Luncheon at the Boating House’ reproductions every year. Except, he can’t quite capture the girl drinking from the glass. She didn’t play with the other children. She’s there but not quite…I guess the loneliest place in the world is a room full of people in which you don’t know anyone. I. I like the smell of old books, the kinds with yellowing pages. I like to drink coffee with skinny spoons. His cards lay in a box. There were none from his eldest daughter there. She’d stopped writing him cards a long time ago. They speak so fast in this movie.