the people i know solely within the descriptions of others are very weak, weak characters indeed. as soon as my view of them is changed by someone giving me a different version, the way they look in my head also transforms. sometimes they become more beautiful, other times they begin to wither and perhaps contract the pox. all that i hold in my head of them are a bizarre collection of imaginings - and yet, what about the people i have met in person? their faces are made up of memories, near transparent stills layered by the millions, a portrait of time. and they are subject to the same transformations. subjectivity makes me a mite paranoid.

In other news... Amanda Palmer has written a play - The Onion Cellar.
I have expressed my reaction in the following:

Sydney is quite nice
There are ducks and sometimes bats
Boston is better

maybe i will write a play. maybe it will be about a wizard who harnesses the ocean currents caused by global warming to conjure an unspeakable evil. maybe i will blackmail my loved ones into contributing...
probably i will not. :)

goodnight!