shannon, my partner for this dk pol danish film paper, wrote up 6 pages and left for an indie-music fest in scotland last week, entrusting a bag of books she thought i'd find helpful for my half with the dis front desk. i finally got a chance (dis having been closed friday-sunday) to pick them up, along with a half-full jar of peanut butter and a note ("don't ask about the peanut butter.") my heart sank: six paperbacks and a solid oak's worth of xerox pages. would she expect me to use it all?
the first of the books i pulled out, richard kelly's the name of this book is dogme 95, has the four dogme Brothers with their fists solemnly raised on the cover. i began to read, pencil in hand; and two hours later, i've finished the damn thing. little clusters of my hair surround my feet and my head fizzes the way it does whenever i've spent two hours absently yanking out curls. it's an unfortunate habit, as is getting so sucked into words that i lose sense of the proper goal. i should have skimmed, like a professional, dammittohell. but, just like white teeth this morning, it was so good ... i am my father's child. and i am hopeless.

oh, and is "doing it dogme-style" too racy a title?