I rented Solaris on my way home yesterday, and watched it last night. This is one of the most hypnotic and gorgeous films I have seen in a long time. I can see why it never made a smash at the box office, though, despite the big names (George Clooney, James Cameron, Steven Soderbergh). It's one of those rare films that defies any neat catagorization. It's science fiction, sort of, by not really. It's a love story, sort of. This is a DVD I want to own. I'd like to have the soundtrack CD, too.

The bus home wasn't very crowded this afternoon. One of my favorite seats, above the center wheels, was vacant. It was behind a shabby-looking (possibly street) man. I hate to admit this, but even as open-minded as I try to be, there was a moment when I considered choosing one of the seats farther back, away from the undesirable man. But, as I walked down the aisle, I heard that the shabby man was singing.

It was the African singer again! (See June 5)

I sat behind him, listening to his non-stop songs, until 23rd & Thomas. He pulled the cord, and I leaned forward and said, "I've been enjoying your singing. Thank you." He turned in his seat, smiled a shy smile, and thanked me repeatedly. He shook my hand. The woman in the seat ahead of him turned to look at us. I wasn't sure what she was thinking about my encouraging him, at first.

The African singer spoke with a very heavy accent, and I wasn't always sure what he was saying. I think he said his name is Soloman. He asked me my name. He told me he's from South Africa. He said something about growing up in Apartheid. He told me his mother was the choir director of his church, and that she used to sing to him when he was a child. She's dead now, and he misses her very much. He honors her memory by singing her songs, but he's not sure if he's doing them the right way. I told him the songs sounded beautiful, that I'd heard him singing on the bus before, and I asked him to please keep on singing. He shook my hand, chuckled, and said, "Tank you. Tank you." The woman in the seat ahead of him turned and told him she had enjoyed his songs, too. As he exited the center door, the girl seated across the aisle voiced her approval, too. He stood on the sidewalk and bowed to us.

Nothing like that could every happen to me if I commuted alone.

I was a jerk for thinking I didn't want to sit behind a man in dirty, holey clothes.

This is bugging me. Why do such obscure songs get stuck in my head? What makes me think about them? This morning, it's "I'm Just A Singer (In A Rock And Roll Band)" by The Moody Blues.

I spent an hour and a half this evening writing a 376-word piece for "Out Of Reach." I like what I've written, but I'm not sure if my writing will ever sell.

I should visit Charles tomorrow.

Last night, reading The Sun in the dark, I came up with a great idea for the Readers Write theme of "Size," which, unfortunately, is this month's theme. (My idea: How I dealt with the scale of the World Trade Center destruction.) What bad timing that was. But then I had a good idea, I think, for the future theme of "Out Of Reach."

I was playing SimCity 3000 on the laptop, planning for the baseball stadium I have not yet been offered, when the electricity went out last night. I had enough battery power left to save the game and shut down. I unplugged the PC, just in case the surge protector isn't enough. I fumbled in the dark with a failing flashlight, until I found the candles, but I couldn't remember if we had any matches. I thought about going downstairs to the car, to get the flashlight out of the glove compartment, but the hallway was completely black. (Our manager claims that the building is protected by a grandfather clause, and that the exit signs aren't required to work in a power failure. Why are they there, then?) The power seemed to be out in the whole neighborhood, but I could see that downtown had lights. Phillip woke up, and asked me how long the power had been out, and I realized I had no sense of time. He reminded me about the lighter on my dresser. I practiced my djembe by candlelight. I read part of The Sun magazine by candlelight. I read some more of Changing Planes by candlelight. (I started reading it yesterday, after Phillip was done with it.)

We rarely use our cell phone. It comes in handy, though, as a portable and accurate source of time when power comes back on, and I have to reset the microwave, the VCR, and the alarm clock. The TV cable is still out, so I have no word on what caused last night's power outage.

In the commentary track for Bleu, Annette Insdorf talks about the differences between "a Hollywood movie and a Kieslowski film." I thought it was interesting, because I often think about the difference between a movie and a film. A movie is there to entertain us and to comfort us. Even in a horror movie, we are comforted by the elements of familiarity and formula. We may be shocked and surprised at moments, but somehow everything turns out the way we expect it to. A film tells us a story. In a film, people do not always act the way we would want them to. The good guys do not always win. In a film, there is an element of artistry that comes from the knowledge of what to leave out and still get the point across. As Annette Insdorf's commentary pointed out, a scene can be shocking with just the sound of a door slamming. A Hollywood movie, she noted, would have felt the need to add loud music in order to tell us that the scene is shocking. Two women can have a confrontation, and the antagonism is obvious in the words they use, the expressions on their faces, and the fact that the camera shows them in two different shots. There is no need for shouting or, as Annette Insdorf put it, a "cat fight."