I'm Telling You Now, I'm Telling You Now

Come September 12th, it's quite possible that, outside of film work, I may enter a very serious period of isolation for a few days.

Only Revolutions

A few years ago, a friend let me borrow Mark Z. Danielewski's House of Leaves. I'll spare you the details of our sappy love story but just know that I don't think I'd ever been that consumed by a book since James and the Giant Peach, the first book I ever read in one sitting. I still remember how just one word at the end of a chapter gave me genuine chills, the slow, nauseating horror that crept over me as I decoded an encrypted letter contained in the book's text, and turning off the bedside lamp as the sunlight gradually filtered in through the curtains of my cousin's room in Bangladesh on the morning I read the last page.

Unfortunately, the book (along with the rest of my luggage) was lost en route to The States somewhere in depths of the Charles de Gaulle International Airport. Telling my friend I had lost his (and, for a time, my) prized book was one of the more embarrassing things I had to endure during my college years. Occasionally, I'll mentally revisit this incident and slap my forehead, remembering that, over two years later, I still have yet to replace it.

Perhaps I'll grab a copy when I pick up Only Revolutions.