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Spring Forward

It is time to change the clocks. I could write about insomnia, or I could write about The Inside Man. That is, I could write about how going to the 10:30 showing of a movie kept me up all night. It is, after all, just past four in the morning (EDT), and here I am, typing away - the very last thing that someone mindful of sleep ought to be doing. Thank heaven for martinis.

My idea for sleep was to read Elizabeth Bishop, a poet with whom I'm really rather unacquainted. Or was until this evening. I kept reading poem after poem, tucking in bookmarks, feeling dumb. No! Not dumb! I got the poems! All the while musing on Bishop's face: so "classic" in three-quarter, but so almost idiotic, imbecilic, touched, face on. Such a round face, with such small eyes. Face on, she convinces me that she was right to ask Robert Lowell to make sure that her headstone pronounced her to be the loneliest person in the world.

Does anybody remember how Ned Rorem's setting of "Visit to St Elizabeth's" goes? (It's about Ezra Pound.) Let's sing it!

The previews before The Inside Man were terrifying. First, Poseidon. I know the original as well as I know my own face, which is why I don't think I can cope with the remake, in which lappers get tossed into the sea (and don't they deserve it, the yuppies!) . And then the trailer for United 93. I had to make a trip to the men's room for that one - my heart was killing me. At least the last preview was a trailer for The Break Up, a comedy with Jennifer Aniston and Vince Vaughn that just may turn them into our template for modern lovers. There's a wicked scene about bowling shirts that got cut from the first trailer that I saw. Gimme!

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