Tuesday, October 22, 2002

Had many nightmares that my husband was unfaithful. Then I got to have sex with Paul Newman. That was OK. The house I was living in with Paul was really cool. Painted many different nifty colors. I'm glad my horrible dreams still bother to have good aesthetics.

The night before my nightmares were about blogging. I keep thinking in blogs with dark blue background. I was half awake and half asleep. I don't want the internet to irrevocably change the shape of my consciousness or anything. Yikes.

Sleep...Why can I never sleep? I guess I mean like a normal person because I slept for 12 hours today. I slept for 2 hours the night before last and then I went to see a Kurosawa movies. Roshomon and High and Low-- High and Low was so amazing. After the movie was over I bummed a cigarette off a guy outside the movie theater. (So many people smoking in the movie. The killer always had a cigarette in his mouth). I asked the guy I bummed a cig off if he thought it was a great movie. He just was like 'yea, it was OK.' Maybe he was scared that I was trying to pick him up?

Some people fail to appreciate life. He thinks that movies like that come around every day perhaps? There never will be a director like that ever again. The folly of youth.

My God--the scenes in the Tokyo hipster joint..alas I was born too late. I want to be a hipster but especially I want to smoke cigarettes with impunity. Without fear, guilt. In public. Without paying taxes on them.

I want to claim that Godard was copying Kurosawa since Kurosawa's movies are better in my opinion but alas Breathless (1959) is before High and Low (1963). Still Akira does it better...much better than Paul.

In the movie...whose title I forgot for the moment there are these incredible, incredible shots. There is one of the killer going through this patch of gladiolas with mirrored sunglasses...you just see his head from the sunglasses on up. In another, the killer talks to the victim in the last scene. Whenver the camera is on the killers face you see the reflection of the victim and vice versa reflected in the glass vaguely. So you can see the person speaking and the reaction of their nemesis at the same time.

Then I came home. To fall asleep I tried to read a book. Unfortunately, it was an incredibly good book. Thus I stayed up until 3:30 a.m. to finish it: Nobody's Son...by Luis Alberto Urrea


Right at the end, after all the many mourners had passed by, after my father had gone out to hide in his car, right before they closed the box forever and carried it to the hearse, Abelino stepped up to her. He didn't weep. He stood silently, gazing down at his one love, the companion for more than a lifetime, and he studied her face. Then, with no emotion showing on his fae, he reached into the coffin and put his palm against her cheek. His big, iron, calloused worker's hand. It trembled slightly, and it landed on her flesh as delicately as one of her butterflies. Just a second, no more. But all the love in the world was there, in his palm. All the love in the universe, and all the tenderness and all the grief and all the beauty collected there in his hand and lay against her lovely cheek.

Urrea, Nobody's Son, University of Arizona Press, p. 151.


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