And then the sun itself will turn us all to sand

Spurred by a gloomy desire to know what the hell movie Spike Lee's era-defining Do the Right Thing (1989) lost Best Original Screenplay to at the 62nd Academy Awards, spatch and I just spent the last hour reading Oscar nominations and results from 1990 onward, an activity punctuated by frequent cries of "[X] was robbed!" "[Y] should have been nominated!" and "That was poop!" I had forgotten how many years I had opinions about. I've seen even more of those movies now. I have more opinions.

The answer to our original question, by the way, was Dead Poets Society. My opinion about that is: "That was poop!"

Now you've been carving tales for dummies out of live oak and out of pine

I had a hightly mixed day. Lunch with my mother was lovely. A stressful and pointless doctor's appointment—to which I would not have bothered subjecting myself if I'd known that I was going to wait forty-five minutes to see a specialist who spoke to me for five minutes at most and then told me they could do nothing to help me and referred me right back to the doctor who'd referred me to them—was not. I have spent the evening doing not much, which feels like my ground state lately. I can say without exaggeration, however, that my mood improved from reading this poem by Megan Falley. I strongly recommend reading it aloud. I also kind of want illustrations.

I haven't posted a selection of sea-songs in years. Some recent acquisitions, some old favorites, in honor of the newest Best Picture. ( Darling, I'm telling you I belong by the sea )

In other things that improve my mood, handful_ofdust quite rightly tagged this post for me: Ben Mendelsohn on the entrance of Orson Krennic.