I recently finished reading The Great Gatsby for the second time in 6 months. No less enamored, I consider this book to be one of my great loves. It was life-changing the first time, in that it
spoke to me in a most familiar tongue, as if I were having a conversation with my own internal monologue. I knew then that it was the template, the yardstick for my own writing & that when I came to write my own novel, I would aspire to be even a shadow of this; the absolute pinnacle, where words are elevated above mere syllables, into poetry.
As with returning to a lover, there was anticipation of the known and excitement at the prospect of discovering something new this time. Sure enough this was the case. Some of my favorite passages from last time did not hit me with the same impact, but others that had previously washed over me, seeped deeper, into the cracks of my consciousness...
"they had never been closer in their month of love nor communicated more profoundly one with another than when she brushed silent lips against his coat shoulder, or when he touched the end of her fingers gently, as if she were asleep"
"You said a bad driver was only safe until she met another bad driver. Well I met another bad driver, didn't I?"
"...I'll make you a mint julep, then you won't seem so stupid to yourself".
And one of my favourite lines:
"He looked around him wildly, as if the past were lurking here in the shadow of his house, just out of reach of his hand."
which leads into the following, molten poetry:
"...One autumn night, five years before, they had been walking down the street when the leaves were falling, and they came to a place where there were no trees and the sidewalk was white with moonlight. They stopped here and turned toward each other. Now it was a cool night with that mysterious excitement in it which comes at the two changes of the year. The quiet lights in the houses were humming out into the darkness and there was a stir and bustle among the stars. Out of the corner of his eye Gatsby saw that the blocks of the sidewalks really formed a ladder and mounted to a secret place above the trees — he could climb to it, if he climbed alone, and once there he could suck on the pap of life, gulp down the incomparable milk of wonder.
His heart beat faster and faster as Daisy’s white face came up to his own. He knew that when he kissed this girl, and forever wed his unutterable visions to her perishable breath, his mind would never romp again like the mind of God. So he waited, listening for a moment longer to the tuning-fork that had been struck upon a star. Then he kissed her. At his lips’ touch she blossomed for him like a flower and the incarnation was complete."
/a most satisfied sigh.
Once more, immediately after reading I didn't want to read anything else; purely uninterested. I will wait until the glow fades, until it's no longer fresh in mind, because as of then I will have processed the beauty in its entirety and will reflect upon it with only fond and further enlightened eyes.
I look forward to next time, Gatsby.
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Not sure why, but this song seems to fit the post:
The Black Crowes - She Talks to Angels-
Fresh from a workout, I hit a new Personal Best.
One of the most relaxed & blissful Sundays in a while. I even managed to squeeze in not one but two siestas!
I had a stark realization today of just how much power I receive from listening to music. 
Heelys. I want a pair.
6AM start, worked through the day, then an afternoon flight into Auckland - an impromptu visit to see my girl, on the back of a bunch of airpoints that were set to expire at the end of the month.
Men in cut-off jean shorts: there should be a law against it.
I recently finished reading The Great Gatsby for the second time in 6 months. No less enamored, I consider this book to be one of my great loves. It was life-changing the first time, in that it spoke to me in a most familiar tongue, as if I were having a conversation with my own internal monologue. I knew then that it was the template, the yardstick for my own writing & that when I came to write my own novel, I would aspire to be even a shadow of this; the absolute pinnacle, where words are elevated above mere syllables, into poetry.
Quite often I will lay my head at night and drift to sleep with a lecture, documentary or or audio book playing, in part to maximize my time on Earth, in part because it is the time of day when I am most receptive to knowledge absorption, and partly due to the instant dreams generated. 
As a tall lad, I grew up being unable to lift my own body weight, ever since the first time I attempted a pull-up in early high school.
This is but one of several poetic terms used in the amazing History Channel series "The Universe" now into its 5th season - a highly recommended watch for anyone with an interest in astrophysics, with up-to-date discoveries & theories. It's most astounding how alive and ever-changing the field is.
I have a soft spot for dragonflies - they never seem afraid of humans - as if they know they can get away with just about anything because they're so damn beautiful.
Lunch at Darling Harbour yesterday, enjoying myself when this slightly scary specimen came up to me with a look in his eye as if to say "gimme your wallet!". Scarier than a Bondi cockroach, I breathed relief when he wandered away to peck at another of his kind.
It looks like I've finally shaken the persistent cough I've had for the last month. It really was starting to drive me nuts, especially over the last week - I've barely exercised and stayed in as much as possible. Stir crazy and restless, I was glad for the change to come:
