Loneliness is hell.
An endless cycle of introspection.
As we each make our way through this life.
Every day.
We are judged by our faces.
A face and a mask.
Masked and anonymous.
There is no real point in recounting this tale to you.
If you wish to know it, you will seek it out.
We can whisper the hallowed name of Franju and almost be done with it.
Because I speak to everyone.
I don’t know who will find this post.
From my island I set this bouteille adrift.
Deriving the meaning through impressionist film criticism.
I am not critiquing the film, I’m critiquing myself.
I think, therefore I think I am.
Detour before the bridge.
But I also speak to the cineastes.
And for you I mention Alida Valli.
Because The Paradine Case is one of Hitchcock’s most underrated films.
But the spectacle calls for psychodrama.
Christmas at the zoo.
Christmas on Mars.
A Christmas gift for you.
From Phil Spector.
Sure.
Before there was The Silence of the Lambs.
And even a few months before Psycho.
There was Les Yeux sans visage.
For 1960, this was horror.
But there’s more here.
Like Angela Bettis in May (2002).
Who let the dogs out?
Who set the birds free in Hyde Park after Brian Jones died?
Who cares?
Write loneliness.
Though two roads diverged in a wood.
My face is finished. My body’s gone.
Ask not what you can do for your country…
You’re not waiting for me to cite Houellebecq.
Because it’s understood.
I want to see the film in the morning light.
At morning sun (harmony in blue).
Morning effect.
Setting sun (symphony in grey and pink).
Grey weather.
Dull day.
Dull weather.
Full sunlight.
Road to Rouen.
Messiaen pulling out all the stops.
Eventually these corrupt regimes collapse.
The rich have the faces.
And there are always hounds of hell.
Echoing in the basements of ultimate fear.
As above, so below.
Caduceus vs. rod of Asclepius.
It is only when one runs screaming from the complex (Snowden) that healing begins.
SecDef Forrestal seems to have almost made it.
Before leaping from the 16th floor of the NNMC in Bethesda.
And yet someone felt compelled to drag Sophocles into the mix.
From Ajax:
“Comfortless, nameless, hopeless save
In the dark prospect of the yawning grave….
Woe to the mother in her close of day,
Woe to her desolate heart and temples gray,
When she shall hear
Her loved one’s story whispered in her ear!
‘Woe, woe!’ will be the cry–
No quiet murmur like the tremulous wail
Of the lone bird, the querulous nightingale.”
Who set the nightingale free?
-PD
paulydeathwish 