In other news, Lost in Translation is every bit the excellent film people have said it is. That loneliness it bespeaks...it's somethin'. It was wonderful the way they lampooned the ineffectual, blonde movie star and the couple's twentysomething friends, who spend their entire time in Japan sitting together and going to photo shoots and merely talking about, airing their views on Buddhism and its "centrality" to the culture.
Earlier, I decided to go out and walk in the rain again and get soaked. Last year I was cowed by the forces surrounding me in that hellhole of a corner room and I'd just talk about doing these sorts of things—this year I [attempt to] do them. Took my roommate with me this time; I'm pretty sure I'm corrupting her. She'd protest, saying "I'm already more corrupt than you could make me," but as far as doing absurd/cacophonous things is concerned, she's fairly unsullied.
So we walked around the swamp, then went swinging amidst the pouring sheets of rain and blasting thunder and lightning. Afterward, we waded in the swampy hollows next to the basketball court, while people used the hill next to the swings as a Slip 'n Slide. I laughed at people passing and loudly called them out for being pansies, much to my roommate's chagrin. That felt good. Then I came back, took a shower, and donned a disco shirt. Feeling mighty proud of myself for being such a goddamned nonconformist, I went with the suitemates to see Lost in Translation.
Aren't I just a blooming star, a bonafide original?
Sigh. I love and hate myself for doing these things. Sure, I have it in me to do them, but it's not necessarily my style, just like literary magazines aren't necessarily my style, yet still draw me in.