After a dry spell of a few years, finally, Annie and I are resuming our positions in front of the TV for a much-needed session of Kingdom Hearts and Final Fantasy XII.
I couldn't even count how many hours were spent in her bedroom, staring at her television, her playing and me watching. I have very fond memories of munny and chocobos.
And for those of you who know--those Final Fantasy video sequences that you saved up for were some seriously top-notch animation. Seriously wonderful stuff, kind of reminiscent of the movie Simone (If you haven't seen it I suggest you do. It could happen, man).
This is the time period that I belong in. Volunteering at the Alzheimer's home, I talk to dozens of people every day who all hit their prime somewhere in the 20s-40s... the epitome of glamour and beauty--every clothing item perfectly tailored but never risque. I am incredibly jealous.
I want to live in the time of Brassai, more specifically in Paris--I want to see the world through his lens--beautiful, mysterious, simple (but not bland or stark, but a full, enchanting sort of simple). I've always considered myself a Francophile, but really I'm more of a Paris-ophile. My first visit to that majestic city was enough to cement my admiration.
And above, that is Django Reinhardt (thanks, Steph). He burned two of his left hand fingers and couldn't read music but was still the most influential jazz figure in Paris--he brought the art to the city and was a foundation for other forms of music to grow as well. And he has opened my mind to a new form of music as well.
Listening to:
Honeysuckle Rose, It's Only A Paper Moon, All the Things You Are, Double Whiskey- Django Reinhardt Passion (En Duo)- Angelo Debarre Et Ludovic Beier Tchavolo Swing- The Hot Club of San Francisco Mambo Italiano- Rosemary Clooney Boheme Auberge- Pearl Django Viper's Drag- Fats Waller Anitra's Danse- The Hot Club of San Francisco Tu Vuo Fa L'Americano- Carosono, Renato
I am a lover of all things French--lucky to claim it as my last name as well--and always have been. All the fiction stories I've written since I was about seven years old have a contingency to be set in pre-revolutionary France (the epicenter of the world before Robespierre and the Reign of Terror came in and mucked everything up), and post-WWI-Belle-Epoque Paris.
Maybe that is why I am so drawn to the work of Brassai and Atget... there's something so beautiful and human in all of their photographs. Look at the post below for my personal favorite.
A piece of Atget's--"Boulevard de Strasbourg, c. 1912"
#1: Two Apaches in Paris, by Brassai. I first saw this photo when I went to the Art Insitute of Chicago this summer, and this photograph seems to haunt everything that I do. I fell in love with it the second I saw it; there is a raw emotion in this photo that seems to resonate across the space beside it--which is not a wall, by the way, the photographer purposely left the space undeveloped to give the photo its stark, deep feeling. Looking at this photo makes me feel as if I am not alone in the world--stunning. Beautiful.
#2: The Bell Jar by Sylvia Plath. I'm 3/4 of the way through this book and it's shaping up to be my favorite book of all time. Unfortunately, I had to use the Amazon.com version of this book cover with its LOOK INSIDE skewing the beauteous masterpiece behind it... :). This story chronicles Esther Greenwood's slow descent into some kind of insanity, with a keen eye and sharp language, pointing out things that we have always noticed but never been quite able to put into words. I have been completely immersed in this story ever since I picked it up, and the dreamy, cynical way Greenwood views her own life is both entertaining and tragic, at times so human and endearing that I feel as if I am experiencing this with her. Four stars in progress.
#3: Fictionpress.com Even I have a username on here, but I won't tell you what it is :) I can spend hours just clicking around on this site, reading and critiquing manuscripts, some of which are absolutely wonderful. These are the bestselling authors of tomorrow, publishing their work online for free. If you find the online communities for each genre, they pick out some of the more worthwhile reads--very handy.Wonderful summer, everyone!
Four is an odd number to round this countdown to, but there are only four that deserve to be here. (I'm trying to edge around spoilers)
4. Fight Club. A perfect movie, my favorite of all time. If I could only choose one movie to watch over and over again for my entire life, then by all means, strap me into that A Clockwork Orange contraption and make me watch this over and over and over again. The only reason that Fight Club is number four on this list is because it wasn't a sudden-impact ending and more of a total summarization--still, a work of sheer genius.
3. Dangerous Liasons. A work of art--I've never loved John Malkovich in a role more. The ending to this movie nearly put me into a trance, after the final scene I had completely forgotten I was in a movie until I saw the credits rolling down. I can remember sitting absolutely still for another few minutes, trying to wrap my head around the emotion conveyed in the last scene.
2. The Talented Mr. Ripley. I can't even describe this movie. It was fascinating, making me cringe half the time I was watching it. And kudos to the director for not falling victim to the cliche that many directors commit in movies such as this. Absolutely haunting.
aaaaaand....
1. A Clockwork Orange. Stanley Kubrick is a maverick and a master of his craft. The moment those credits hit the screen, accompanied by a rousing "Singin' in the Rain," I had chills that ran up and down my body. This is the standard by which I judge all other movie endings.
It's odd that until this very moment I haven't truly realized the depths of my arachnophobia. I was in the shower, reaching for my towel--I wiped my face on the edge and there, crawling up the edge, was a swarthy, thick-bellied thing heading straight up towards my fingers. I instantly shrieked and threw the towel down--but there was a sense of terror afterwards, that gave me chills that racked my body. I found myself going through species of spiders, trying to comfort myself that it was no black widow, hobo spider, brown recluse, or wolf spider (I never have forgotten that to a child of eight or younger a bite from a brown recluse is instantly fatal).
I remember when I was with my dad once, he had caught this gigantic, four-inch masterpiece in a clear glass bowl. We treated it as a case study, spending at least an hour scouring the internet trying to fit its genus and species, with no such luck. I tried to keep it around long enough to take a picture and send it in over the internet so it could be analyzed by some arachnologist in New York or something. But even looking at those pictures was a test of wills, it gave me a thrill to try and overcome the creeping feeling it gave me.
I seem to be getting that feeling again. Goodnight.
