“That was the only time, as I stood there, looking at that strange rubbish, feeling the wind coming across those empty fields, that I started to imagine just a little fantasy thing, because this was Norfolk after all, and it was only a couple of weeks since I’d lost him. I was thinking about the rubbish, the flapping plastic in the branches, the shore-line of odd stuff caught along the fencing, and I half-closed my eyes and imagined this was the spot where everything I'd ever lost since my childhood had washed up, and I was now standing here in front of it, and if I waited long enough, a tiny figure would appear on the horizon across the field, and gradually get larger until I'd see it was Tommy, and he'd wave, maybe even call. The fantasy never got beyond that --I didn't let it-- and though the tears rolled down my face, I wasn't sobbing or out of control. I just waited a bit, then turned back to the car, to drive off to wherever it was I was supposed to be.” 
― Kazuo Ishiguro, Never Let Me Go

A Terrible Play Based on Last Night's Dream: The Unknown and Unrecorded Lecture on Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone

Characters:

Benjy the Manchild
Matt
Dr. Langager, also referred here as Dr. L
Mariko
Andy
Chorus: consists of all of the MiraCosta College choir

Act I, Scene I

Setting: Dr. Langager’s car driving through La Jolla’s Prospect Street in which Mariko, Matt and Andy are discussing a brief history of San Diego's La Jolla Cove. The choir is caravanning (on their way to a venue at which they will be performing their most popular repertoire) and have pulled off the freeway to do some light shopping and eat.

Dr. Langager (driving through La Jolla): Which author lived in La Jolla when [the city] was first developing?

Matt: Novelist or poet?

Dr. L: Poet.

Benjy: (Moans loudly).

Matt: 20th century?

Dr. L: Mid-twentieth.

Matt: W.H. Auden?

Dr. L: No.

Matt: Stevie Smith?

Dr. L: No.

Matt: Gay or Straight? Man or Woman?

Dr. L: Yes, certainly yes.

Mariko: T.S. Eliot?

Dr. L: (Appearing to be distracted by a busy road). Yes, certainly yes.

Act I, Scene II

In the unknown classroom of the unknown university—Dr. L is lecturing a grad level course on Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone. Benjy the Manchild is moaning and rocking frantically back and forth. He is wearing the bottom half of Darth Vader's black mask.

Dr. L: Referring to section four of your text—the highlighted dialogue in your reference page—we encounter Harry Potter and Hagrid speaking of Voldemort’s recent actions after the shadow of the flying squirrel is cast on Harry’s arm.

Andy K: (taking copious notes) Yes.

Chorus: What is the significance?

Benjy: (Moans loudly).

Dr. L: This variation form discussed on Jan. 3, asserts itself here, in which a “theme is presented in a sequence of analogous but different settings,” to quote Frye, and Potter is no longer a metaphor of false rhetoric. This “world of false rhetoric,” Frye continues, “is a world where the imagination encounters no resistance from anything material, where the loneliness—please refrain from Benjy’s distracting moans—and alienation,” continuing ” of the mind, about which…” in this case, Potter, “speaks so eloquently [of], has consoled itself with pure solipsism.

Matt: A metaphor of false rhetoric?

Chorus: A metaphor of false rhetoric!

Dr. L: Yes.

Andy: Yes, naturally.

Dr. L: We certainly see other examples of this “pure solipsism” throughout the text.

Chorus: Throughout the text! Throughout the text!

Andy: About which?

Dr. L: Yes, about which there can be no further development.

------------End----------

Terrible heartburn today--need a Tums

I think the title says just about everything. I ate too close to sleep and too much of the fatty stuff--the perfect recipe for a night of acidic blitz.

 “L’amour Fou,” produced by French film maker Pierre Thoretton is a documentary that follows the relationship between Pierre Berge and fashion designer Yves Saint Laurent (mostly) before the designer’s death on June 1, 2008. It also follows Pierre Berge after the death of Laurent and his decision to auction off a good portion of the Paris estate. One of the common themes in the film is introduced in the beginning when Saint Laurent is reading his press release to the audience of photographers, journalists and fashionistas alike, is the theme of going through hell and back again. He references the great French poet, Arthur Rimbaud in his speech. I am including the entire English translation of his farewell speech. I’m sure that somewhere online there is a manuscript of his farewell speech in its original French language. So here it is (as far as it is translated correctly) this is not meant to be an allusion to the Mormon articles of faith (number 8) belief in the Bible “as long as it is translated correctly). The music score, although often somewhat repetitive, is very well suited for the tone of the film—often a bit nostalgic, somewhat melancholy, but always hopeful and representative of a grand and decadent lost paradise.

I think several series of images capture Berge walking out of darkened, empty rooms or spaces where once the belongings of he and his partner—the glorious statues paintings vases decorated the walls and marbled floors—where he is left with the only the glorious world around him. The opening shows footage of YSL sitting behind a table with what appear to be the microphones and recording devices of the press. I think it’s worth including the text in its entirety. A light stack of paper in front of him, notes scribbled or typed from his head, Saint Laurent delivers a final goodbye: 

Ladies and Gentlemen,

I have brought you here today with a great deal of emotion to tell you some important news concerning my personal life and my work. At 18, I was lucky enough to become assistant to Christian Dior, to succeed him at 21, and to meet with success my very first collection in 1958, 44 years ago in just a few days. Since then, I have lived for my work and through my work. I am very proud that women around the world wear trouser suits, tuxedos, car coats and trench coats. I tell myself that I have created the modern woman's {wordrobe. (pun on wardrobe)}, that I have taken part in the transformation of my times. Forgive me for drawing any vanity from this since I have for a long time believed that fashion's role is not simply to make women more beautiful but also to reassure them, give them confidence and allow them to assert themselves. Every man needs aesthetic ghosts in order to live. I have pursued them, sought them, hunted them down. I have experienced many forms of anxiety, many forms of hell. I have known fear and terrible solitude, the false friendship of tranquilizers and drugs, the prison of depression and mental homes. I emerged from all that one day dazzled but sober. Marcel Proust has taught me that "the magnificent and pathetic family of the neurotic is the salt of the earth." I did not choose this fatal lineage yet it is what allowed me to rise up in the heaven of artistic creation, frequent what Rimbaud called "the makers of fire," find myself, and understand that the most important encounter in life is the encounter with oneself. Even so, I have chosen today to bid farewell to this profession that I have loved so much.

What follows is a visit to the past—a time of excitement, blossoming love, a skyrocketing career (following the death of French icon Christian Dior). And then later we see the period of time in which Saint Laurent is affected by drugs, sex, and rock ‘n’ roll. Although I would have to mention that opera also plays a large part of lives of these men. There are several pictures Berge brings attention to featuring Saint Laurent and the incredibly misunderstood (and prima diva) Callas.

The first reverence we have to the well-known French poet Rimbaud is in YSL’s speech in the beginning of the film. He quotes him directly:

I have been through fire and and the gates of hell..” only to come out again blah blah blah

One of the elements that creates a mood of melancholgy, loss, or wh what have you, is the combination of the archival footage of Laurent and the beautiful music of Côme Aguiar who also composed for movie title  and 2002Primitifs. Whose soundtrack is  a lovely dedication hors d’ vouers. Lovely port o’ prince to the infamous jane dough Eileen rombinson….

A critic on imdb.com believes that Laurent is, beyond the genius, just a “snob with kind eyes”. I disagree. I think he was an ambitious, motivated talent who rose to the top because, in part, where he was at the time of Christian Dior’s death, and an eye for aesthetic bliss. I don’t think any of these qualties identify one as a snob. Besides that, I think the snob is self-conscious, fully aware of their own greatness (or perceived greatness). And carries with them a degree of the attitude, “I’m better than the rest of you, so I automatically deserve to be adored,” which of course typically leads to the opposite or the former. Such is the case with editor in chief of Vogue Ana Wintour, who’s presence is often sensationalized and revered, or just as often if not more, oozing of pretentious snobbery. I prefer, however, the term pompous elitist. Far from Wintour, I think, is Laurent. At least on the surface (and during a certain part of his life) there was an air of humility, “pathological” shyness, and less austere, more playful kind of personality. He is often seen smiling with a boyish chuckle that comes with insecurity or awkwardness. He was kind of a little geek when you think about it—until the later years when he had achieved so much success and developed friendships with a plethora of celebrities including Bob Dylan, Andy Warhol, and LouLou De La Falaise. Maybe that is when the music started to change. But I digress here somewhat. Editing is a bitch and a half.

Anastasia is on fire. Sears. Steak. The burning /smoking of shit piles. What is left but the stuff of manuer. Tell it to my heart, tell me I'm the only one. Is it love or just a game ? Tell it to my heart, tell me I'm the only one. Every time you call my name!! Sweet Amber Woods. We don't know what hapeened to her, but the last time we saw h
she is was in the back seat of the car waiting in the parking lot for her mom and adad to come back out of the
chick-fil-a during the counter-attack movemetn of the gays trying to defame the property with rainbow taileywakers and
dildo rainbow pie graffiti. but of course, but of course, when they returned to see the car emtypy who were they going to blame?
Not the jews. Not the arabs. Not the taliban. Not even the tv anchor who sleeps during the monochromoati applause
 applause but that tiny little lizard that screems screaming for attaention in that horrific ly appostryphy australian accent th e"Geico " Ceigo!!!! we will save you hundreds the
subliminal messages say over and over again. Why won/'t they get to somthing substantial everything its ok to be mispelled but there are rules of the game
that you have to fooloow if you're to win. What are the rules of teh game that one is supposed to follow if he is supposzsed to win the game ?
I don't know what the frules of the game are so why deon't you read them to me mr. smarty pants in the red jeans that you've purchesed from a bum in the northern parts of ssanta fe new mexico.
Santa fe new mexico? Where did that come from? I'll tell you where that come from? What was I sayint the other day about the reeds?
 I don't think you were saying much of anything about t the reeds. Yeah i was. It was abou tht e stone and the soup . The soup stone thikn off
thin of the ducks think of the ducks tno that's can't be ritht it wa thinkk of all the bunnies the bunny rabbits thiknk of the bunny rabits and the farm and the haves and have s nots.
Thats why I believe the gretatesty choice for the article couldn't be any tother than the great modern author who is readily unregc=nzied mr
orsen wells. shit that's not the right name. it was wass the tha tower wells. or Wells tower, That's it wells towdr. Too hard to type with dry fingers
after swimming the lapps in the pool watching on the back floating in black rubbery gear the stars or that is,
the one star that seems direcetlyu overhead a sil er punchline stuck in teh black paper of the foreverness
that splinter of creation a piercing faraway candlight that could, at any moment burst to eruption to blackness where
the sound and smurfs and hollahockadays are spun to inward bounds inward sucked to oblivian and
this is the star ... the elstrian marigold round. spinning little orb that rotates round and round
flinging its light as far from itself like the orcs and jaw=-breakers in the summer you suck on that jack-breaker until the tooth
breaks out that little operaticismsm is there such a thing wavering? That scould scout coult not take but the bend of the turn
where one is likelyto  bump the noggin or two or three two two three two two three two two
one or two?
How do you like your beans cooked, mrs? do you like them with lard or without lard/ I prefer them without says the dutchess in the royal purple
holiday suit with the cown nose looking down at the cancer patient with a bald head. that was when I remember
that sweeat amber woods is no longer in the back seat of the truck a doodle doo that crazy ass clown is not another pantomine
On July

FilmTalk

Kongen av Bastoy
Translates to "The King of Devil's Island"

My favorite quote (short but sweet):

"Escape is only a fantasy here."
--- Governor Bestyreren

Is he a hero or the anti-hero?

Started physical thereapy in the pool at the YMCA in Encinitas . I worked with a lassie by the name of November who is six and a half months pregnant –about t22 weeks, I think . Sometimes she holds the bottom part of her baby bump belly in the water as we walk across the bottom of the shallow end of the pool . She is freckled and has a raspisih low voice that makes me think she’s a lesbian mermaid. Will her newborn daughter sport a pair of gills and a couple tiny fins? You can imagine my anticipation. Imagine that, Imagination. She reminds me for whatever reason of a softball player—despite the obvious fact that she is more under water than above. In fact, far from dirt is she, though I know there’s a scoop somewhere to pick up her shit. Tight and compact, November tends to be a little rough around the edges. Her eyes have developed a distinguished set of crow’s feet—the words … you were supposed to be here at 9:00. Yeah, I’m late. Surprise surprise. Ad the mannerisms. The way she grabs hold o fthe side of the pool with whie knuckles but oh lord, the mighty dazzling ring on her finger the cut.. the rectangle cut with decorated by a peremeter of diamons dould those rocks all be real? HUGE giant colossal mammoth Blong. Reflection of the light above us, through the adjustable rotating moving sliding canoby aove us, se the kind of person who doesn’t show any theeth. I don’t think she smiled once. Not evem a hint of a smile—no conrers slightly moving upwards . Thisis the perfectionists showing thgouuh I think. Just don’t think about the odds of success you You don’t think about it when your’e in the studio wondering / working with Enrique.  Youre just doing it. And doing it well because you absolutely love it even when it gets difficult. When he says over and over and over open up , not quite. Give a true ‘oh’  Now was that a true ‘oh”? Ar you distoring the vowel? Look in the mirrowr and watch your jaw moving  DRAG QUEEN mouth he says. Saty away from the drag queen mouth, as I like to call it. But in the end its good work today, Matt. The entire hour is rewarding if not for anything else (thogh there are lots of something eles’s) for that moment of encouragement. That after the screaming and yelling and trilling and barking., that someone else recognizes my work—how how great it is, not how incredible it sounds, or how perhaps in the Met awaits  ( though it would be fabulously exciting and terrifying simultaneously that I have worked and dedicated myself for that hour to the best that I can. And focused are the task at hand. Good work today. There’s no you need to work harder you need to file thinaway . Just good work . the world words of encouragement are so desperately needed when feeling so incredibly insecure.  Confidence comes with experience of success and time again  are comes from the feedback of others too. The reinforcement of the mirror image. I project what I want you to see and what is frelected back to me from friends framily and loved ones idols , strangers and aquantances, that is relection the self of the projected image. I foret what thisis called in psychcology but I know there’s a name/term for it.  Kirsten we will call her is writing a book. Her hair is Rapunzel blonde and she works like a skinny bitch . But of course, she doesn’t come across that way. She is friendly—smiles with sincere eye sparkle and teeth. --- a perfect ratio of white and tooth show perspective. So we talk and talk in the coffee shop –sippipng the sea and iced mochas . I wonder, could those spider feet lashes be for real? And the things she’s sayint that I’m not allowed to talk ab out. – she seems so genuinely eager to spend the extra time to not cause increase the revenues of her practice (cutting costs does this too) but changing the way a very flawed system works firght now in the specifically California. We oth agree that legalized criminality “ is a fair way to describe the ways in which CEO’s of private health insurance conglomerates are paying the verry least in claims for the sick (and preventing any remotely unnessary claim) and capitalizing on the healthy. She describes the ways in which GMD a myriad of companies immediately cause her phone to light up in schizophrenic urgency after she has concluded an application for e-insurance. As it turns out, e-insurance is little more than a middleman alert system that says, “here! We’ve got a healthy one! Who can get to her first.” Following a bombardment of telephone calls from representitives of Blue Cross Blue Shield, Aetna, Kaiser and all the rest, she is sure that there is little more to e-insurance than a hired hit man. The victim? The healthy guy who has the pocketbook to pay for insurance. Privatelly or otherwise.  A mother of three ,Kristen or Dr. ‘Scrip, looks more like a sorority gal in her figure than the typical mousey type bookworm you expect nowadays in the office of neurologists and botanists. She’s wearing figure flattering denim and a paisley silk top that hangs off her boney shoulders and reveals a pair of perfectly voluptuous hooters.  Ssomewhere there is a raccoon running around without its tail.  When  a sixty five dollar raccoon fur Becca brush goes on sale, there are several choices. To buy or not to buy, that is the question. Of course, one must buy a raccoon fur brush if one does not already own a raccoon fur brush. Is there a rub? Nay, there is no rub. Except that there is. Aforementioned raccoon is some forest is looking at his exposed anus and wondering where the cover for it went. This stinky vile thing used to have a sleek and baby bum (excuse the pun) soft thicket cover. Where’s it go? I’m sorry for that raccoon. I really am. However, the brush is too wonderful, too soft, too thick and luxurious to spend too much time pontificating the ramifications of such cruelty. (this is only said tonguq and cheek) . I don’t know if anyone could be so callous, even Callas (who wore fur regularly in and out of the opera house). I’ve only looked back several times  on this little luxury. Speaking of, Pierre Berge and Yves Saint Laurent (how beautiful a name to type) finally reminds me of the resemblance. It is none other than the coiffed dandy, Mr. Austin Scarlett of Project Runway season One ( I believe) . I’ll have to look up the pictures to see the resemblance. But I assure you speaker of the hosue that there is more to the spyglass than the ant beneath it who burns in the summer sun beam, a ribbon of ghost smoke rising from his mass of leg, thorax and the ever twitching antennae cells. Not to be mistaken for cellular antennae.