30 percent of America is so sectarian ('How sectarian is it?) -- it's so sectarian that it wants my mouth shut and my genitals kept waiting for a rainy day, at 98.6 degrees in unobtrusive cotton.
Lawn mowed. DIY. Children at mental age 8 until marriage. Thoughts so repressed that repression itself seems like a love-in.
The Village Elder says: Hate thyself without knowing it.
These films, done by a dozen (or two dozen?) directors.
Plays, originally. Films now. No 'filmic' director would experiment so; these tried holding true to drama, which is to say, words and gesture and tradition of thematic depth.
Exploration, sure, not just 'stage'.
Absences, sure, audience and players years and miles apart.
Intellectual edge.
Beckett's humor. Oppressive. Pathetic. A wry reality dressed down.
Collected Poems: Phillip Larkin The Great Code: Northrup Frye A People's Tragedy: Orlando Figes
Cultural Amnesia: Clive James Selected Poems: Anna Akhmatova An Empire Of Their Own: Neil Gabler
War And Peace: Leo Tolstoy
Some of these are quite newly added, some around and pecked at/set down/resurgent for as long as almost 3 years. All of the above so fascinating as to dwarf the random occurrences of daily life which often succeed only when they're survived.
There was also a hyper-femininely-dressed woman work brought to me a few times a week whose perfume perfectly connected to her natural scent, and she was deaf.
Ads have appeared linked to this blog for sales of anti-Obama material. I have been unsuccessful in getting 'systems satisfaction' to bar such linkage.
Any clueless machine-association between any of my opinions and those of the political right wing are utterly coincidental and strenuously eschewed.