i used to have a crush on this guy.
he was tall and lanky and had a mess of wild curly hair that sprayed out from his head like some giant fern. we would spend hours and hours and hours talking about movies. making movies, watching movies, making movies about watching movies.
i think i was crazy for him because of his books. he didn't have any money to buy furniture, but he had more books than he really knew what to do with, so he used those as furniture. they would hold up tables, act as chairs, and line the walls like wallpaper. piles and piles of books would litter the floor and he always had to clear little pathways to the kitchen so that visitors could wend their way through all the words.
every few days i would stop by his house and be too embarrassed to flirt. i would lay around on his books, absorbing nietzsche, godot and the tao te ching through osmosis, talking with him about hitchcock or kurosawa or eisenstein. eisenstein was definitely a madman. his wild hair and his wild eyes, looking like the character from eraserhead and forever changing how filmmakers would put images together.
no boy had ever talked to me like this before and it made me giddy. one day i came over and lounged around on his books to see a pair of panties thrown from the side of his bed, resting on a copy of the filmmaker's handbook. he had met her in the library. i was too floored to ask anything else. i can't really remember what else we talked about that night. <4.19.00>
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