And Now I'm Off to Buy Envelopes...

Smita says no one likes Moby Dick. Why? It's brilliant so far. Very funny. I can imagine hating it at 14, but I was unaware of any Melville-backlash.

I'd like to refine my previous statements about Spanish moss. It's all about context. Moss coming down in curtains from a great, leafy oak, like nature's less vulgar rendition of tinsel = lovely. Moss hanging in torn rags from the zombie-esque limbs (or are they the corpses' trembling fingers?) of tall barren trees = scary.

Saw Breach. Didn't really want to, but it's of a genre to which my grandfather is surpassingly addicted, and I'm a good grandchild. Anyhow, it's quite good, and surprisingly, so is Ryan Phillippe, who I've always liked but thought was a bit aloof and extremely limited in range. But he carries the film quite well. And Chris Cooper, who is in more films than Jude Law, is, of course, excellent.

I am officially a fan of grouper. Never been one to try new foods, particularly of the formerly breathing variety, but I figured since my fish intake was limited and I'm in a place where it's hard to avoid fish, I'd better step up and do it. Grouper is great because it's not oily and doesn't have that slick, feathery texture of some popular, more expensive fish. I'm officially sold on grouper. Sold on Grouper would be a good name for a band.

"Finished" a poem called "The Shine" yesterday, which is about the contact sport of all things (touch, expand, hit a boundary, shrink, that sort of thing). Getting good feedback on my leprechaun/golfer/Devil/safari story. Florida's weather is improving, finally, and my sister flies in this evening after a botched attempt last night. Plowing slowly but surely through my beast of a novel. All is good in the world. For now.