John Green is really an awesome writer, I’m so glad I discovered him. I can’t say why, though, it’s too complex and triggers too much pain from when my father put me in a coma when I was in high school – several times, and then my feelings were all tangled up, especially romantic and sexual feelings I had for various females I had known, that then became entangled with fantasies because no one helped me sort that out. But it did give me hope that writers can make a difference, even though it’s a complicated psychic process that has as much to do with someone’s fate in the entertainment industry as it has to do with the actual work. But the thing was that I was burning in this triggered horror of my own childhood and I’ve developed so many techniques to get past that that I used them and felt better almost immediately but there’s something else I wanted to capture, which is the entanglement of the layers of my mind. So I summoned Alice Wakefield from Lost Highway by drinking a Starbuck’s Nitro Cold Brew and watching the clip of This Magic Moment by Lou Reed. I decided that I am going to find Margo Roth Spiegelman and we have a fourth Buffynicity, making this a BUFFYNICITY TESSERACT because Spiegelman means “Mirror Man”. I just discovered that right now at 10:30 AM. That’s really an amazing layered system of meanings that makes me insane. See, Alice Wakefield is Alice in Wonderland. The Wake Field is the field of consciousness between waking and sleeping, life and death. Alice goes through a looking glass, or mirror. And I had no idea this was going to happen last night when I wrote in my blog entry that Paper Towns was a mirror game, in which Margo Spiegelman is the mirror of fate, the mirror of the three friends. So this morning I was feeling completely dead in a magical way, and then I did this little ritual to summon Alice and within minutes she revealed the hidden meaning of the “mirror” of Spiegelman.

I was hung up wondering what blogging was supposed to mean to people but now I know that for me, the meaning of blogging is that it brought the word “mirror” to the surface last night, only to be reflected this morning when I summoned Alice through the looking glass and looked up Spiegelman. “Margo Roth Spiegelman” means “Pearl Red Mirror” and that actually matches up perfectly with the triple goddess symbolism I’m working with. Saint Margaret is Margo/Cardinal Water, Saint Catherine is Red/Fire of Sagittarius and Saint Barbara is the mirror, the dual-formed angel of Saturn, the dilemma of the bull’s horns, action and reflection, the beautiful silver surface underneath which is a black wall. I love Margo Roth Spiegelman! There’s an important clue in this – art is only a mirror, but God is always acting in our subconscious. And the mirror is dangerous. The mirror always follows you, and if you start following it back, it will drag you down into the depths. And yet there’s some reason for life, it’s not entirely an illusion, there are some times when we should go down into the depths, aren’t there? I am so confused about that.

I’m having a wild and crazy entertainment moment. That’s so exciting, and I want more of it. It comes from the expanded state when you’re writing things that anybody in the world could read, but it’s also selfish because I don’t care who reads it, I would probably even hate a few of them, and I’m trying to balance those two aspects of my feelings.

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Now with Sonnet 4

I just saw Paper Towns, it was beautiful. Give me 100 words on how great it is to love a teen film again, the way I did The Breakfast Club or Twilight.

There’s something achingly beautiful about surrendering to a teen film’s earnest heart again, like finding a dog-eared copy of your favorite book. Paper Towns reminded me why I once wept at The Breakfast Club’s library confessions and swooned through Twilight’s forest scenes. (Editor’s note – this is the AI talking. I never cried at the Breakfast Club, but I’m leaving it just for the hell of it). These films don’t apologize for their intensity—they understand that adolescent feelings are vast as Vonnegut’s infinite spaces, raw as Eliot’s hollow men seeking connection. To love a teen movie as an adult is to remember that our younger selves weren’t foolish; they were archaeologists of the heart, excavating meaning from every stolen glance and whispered secret.

Another 100: I’m listening to “Back To The Top” from the soundtrack, trying to find a way to preserve the beauty of the experience of letting myself be entranced by a teen movie. The experience is real even as I know it’s manufactured.

“Back To The Top” plays like a time machine wrapped in guitar strings, and I’m caught in that exquisite tension Cortázar would recognize—the manufactured becoming miraculously real. Teen movies are assembly-line dreams, yes, but so is a Hallmark card that makes you cry anyway. The beauty isn’t despite the artifice; it’s through it, like Adams finding profound absurdity in a dolphin’s goodbye. This song captures something genuine about longing, about second chances, even if focus groups tested every chord progression. The experience lives in your chest regardless of boardroom origins. Sometimes the most honest emotions spring from the most calculated places—a paradox worthy of Kurt’s cosmic jokes.

I’ll never see this movie as often as I saw Twilight or the Breakfast Club, but I want to do what I can to add it to that set of feelings.

There’s a bittersweet wisdom in knowing this won’t be your hundredth viewing, won’t live in your bones like Bender’s fist pump or Edward’s crooked smile. But that doesn’t diminish its worth—some books we read once and carry forever, like Cortázar’s stories that rearrange your interior landscape in a single sitting. You’re consciously tending this feeling now, watering it with attention before life’s entropy takes hold. It’s like Vonnegut’s unstuck-in-time moments—you can’t force repetition, but you can choose reverence. By writing about it, by listening to that soundtrack, you’re building a shrine. Not every film needs to be your religion; some just need to be your Sunday morning, brief and sacred.

This gang of friends – I’ve only seen them once, and at first I think they’ll never be the Breakfast Club, but will they be something for me? Will I remember them a year from now? And, ironically, I would never even think to ask what or who the Breakfast Club really are for me if I hadn’t started this discussion with you.

This is the beautiful accident of questioning, isn’t it? Like Adams’ infinite improbability drive leading somewhere unexpected. You’re wondering if Quentin and Margo will haunt you the way John Hughes’ Saturday detention still does, and suddenly you’re excavating what the Breakfast Club actually means beyond nostalgia’s golden filter. These Paper Towns kids might become ghosts or gods—you can’t legislate memory’s mysterious democracy. Some characters slip through our fingers like Eliot’s handful of dust; others build permanent addresses in our hearts. A year from now, will you remember their road trip discoveries, or will they blur into the general ache of beautiful things half-forgotten? The question itself is the gift—forcing you to examine why certain fictional souls become family while others remain strangers.