I somehow locked myself out of my fuhbuh on Friday. I don't remember my password and it won't send me the reset email, so it's been a few days without (meaning one and a half, two if you factor in that it's noon but I'll admit to sleeping for some of those hours) and the results:

-went to Swarthmore yesterday, learned that I actually forgot a bunch in my hasty packing on Wednesday. It was nice, I forgot how much I adored my neighborhood, so the walk to the station did me some good.
-started The Terminal Man by M. Crichton and White Noise by Don D.
-may have convinced SO to read White Teeth. Everyone should read White Teeth. I wish my English class was reading it next semester, but I will absolutely settle for what we are reading
-kicked ass in Astro and Theatre, wrote a fantastic final paper for Film (they were due Friday), and, of course, worried about Spanish. Still worrying. Will worry until those grades are posted.

I'd like to make a movie about the details of people, there's this great quote in Memento (what I wrote the paper on) about the details: "You can just feel the details. The bits and pieces you never bothered to put into words. And you can feel these extreme moments... even if you don't want to. You put these together, and you get the feel of a person."

Oh! And this other one by Stephen King that pretty much sums up that feeling of not wanting to tell someone something, even if you know that you trust them wholly:

"The most important things are the hardest things to say. They are the things you get ashamed of, because words diminish them - words shrink things that seemed limitless when they were in your head to no more than living size when they're brought out. But it's more than that, isn't it? The most important things lie too close to wherever your secret heart is buried, like landmarks to a treasure your enemies would love to steal away. And you may make revelations that cost you dearly only to have people look at you in a funny way, not understanding what you've said at all, or why you thought it was so important that you almost cried while you were saying it. That's the worst, I think. When the secret stays locked within not for want of a teller, but for want of an understanding ear"

Last night I realized that I only like to shoot the breeze about movies and books. Any other small talk can go to hell.

I think that there's a certain power in fiction and art and things like that, music, movies, whatever. Think of all the good that Toni Morrison novels have done for the world, or Lauryn Hill's music, or Invisible Man by Ralph Ellison over those who assume the identity of an entire group of people and take liberties that they have no right to take and assume and bash and act holier-than-thou. That does nothing for me. It doesn't change my life and really only serves to piss me off, but the unreal has a certain power because the unreal can stand for anyone in any time anywhere, nothing beats that. The most powerful real things I've ever read were the life stories of people who didn't act holier-than-thou. That's why I like Malcolm X so much, actually. Because he had his share of fuck ups, he did some dumb shit in his life and he made mistakes and had ideas that were pretty bad at times but he always admitted to all of it. He was honest with us, and honesty is so incredibly hard to come by in a public figure. He was human and will remain such so long as people remember to not assume about his person and read and discover the truth for themselves.

Samuel L Jackson is such a badass. So's Muhammad Ali. If ever you doubt your awesomeness and ability to be the greatest, just listen to Ali.