You might wade through theories near and far.
About the indestructability of energy.
And they would be true.
Great poets put their pens to page.
And poured out their hearts.
Rage!!!
Nay, sage…
Neigh, cage.
Nain, has a lot of courage to die in this way.
He’s not dying, he’s living.
He’s the positive man.
Wounded and scared.
Since the birth of the gun.
At least.
Must be hard to follow an endless stream.
As just a pebble.
And these my feet.
Right about now, the break.
Chalumeau.
Achille.
Zero acceleration.
Enormous forearms.
A clinically depressed quarterback.
Zero awareness.
Idiot savants all.
We welcome more to the eternal return.
Jean Cocteau. Wrote the film.
Auteur.
And Jean Delannoy directed the film.
Auteur?
World War II and two blondes are battling it out in love.
And the only brunette is mon oncle…with his perverse moustache.
They call him Mr. Blond (which makes things extremely confusing).
How you know you have become a writer:
I must write or I will die.
Some famous for writing diaries.
All manner of writing.
And when we first fall in love she is reading.
Like Anna Karina…near the end of Vivre sa vie…or was it Made in U.S.A.?
Should be easy from black white to Lichtenstein popping.
But I see colors when there is only the absence of color.
And specific colors in the full chromatic.
A white scarf.
We can get the sweat of the desert gun running Rimbaud from Jean Marais.
Aden. Mocha. Sanaa.
A hitch in there somewhere to Abyssinia.
In the time of the assassins.
We all descend on Aswan high as kites for burial rites.
Now that I’m flying, I don’t feel so tired.
Two blond specimens of perfection.
Lorded over by the brunette fuhrer.
A war film. Resistance. Don’t capitalize. To hell with the umlaut.
I’m feeling better, getting that out of my system.
That wave of sadness.
Regret and memories lapping at my feet on a Corsican shore. I assume.
Nietzsche to inspire Cocteau. (Occupied Cocteau?)
Cocteau always several orders of magnitude more brilliant than his peers.
Nietzsche was a foundational literature for the Nazis.
And Webster Tarpley has Nietzsche as a foundational literature for the neocons.
And so making this film in censored times. Under German occupation.
The only other film which jumps out at me is Les Visiteurs du soir (1942). And then our L’Éternel retour of 1943.
And so you saved something of the war.
Surreptitiously.
Filming even before the columns of tanks had left.
Rossellini.
Culture jamming meets national security state.
Woo-ha!
Each Spartacus.
It’s a miracle he fell in love with her.
A miracle.
I’m the dwarf. I’m Marais. I’m Murat.
I’m among those lining the street to see Madeleine Sologne’s parade.
Lovingly.
And all alone shot with the realization that I’ve found a reader. A genius.
A spark plug pulled from a pocket.
Must step over her bed. To access the stairs.
That’s a moment of love. Slow drag dancing on her cigarette.
As much as blondie’s fatted hair parted smart.
Hear your laughter at being upside down.
Heels over head.
Such a romance as only the French know.
And I know. I seek. Found. Find. No more.
Factories of love struggling with the lutte.
People married to their devices.
Too ugly to get a date.
There we go.
Me and Lester. And Chuck.
Throw some more guys from the skunkworks in.
The name. They work. All night long. Don’t bathe.
Maybe put in another day.
Don’t wash clothes.
Don’t even change clothes.
How “Skunk” Baxter got put on missile defense team.
You never know, folks.
There may be love yet to be had.
Pure love.
Mad love.
Keep your eyes and minds open.
And maybe if it’s even just a boring day.
Maybe there will be little pieces of art in the things you say.
Because you are toiling on something far beyond your current abilities..
So I praise film! And France!
First review written while sleepwalking.
-PD
paulydeathwish 