6x13 In Care Of
Harold and Maude (Hal Ashby, 1971)
This idol, black eyes and yellow mane, without family or court, nobler than the fable, Mexican and Flemish; his domain, insolent azure and verdure, runs along beaches named by waves without ships, names that are ferociously Greek, Slavic, Celtic.
At the edge of the forest—dream flowers chime, burst, lighten,—the girl with the orange lip, her knees crossed in the clear deluge that wells up from the meadows, nakedness shaded, crossed and clothed by the rainbows, flora and sea.
Ladies who twirl on terraces near the sea, little girls and giantesses, superb black women in the gray-green moss, jewels erect on the fat soil of coppices and thawing flower beds—young mothers and older sisters whose eyes speak of pilgrimages, sultanas, princesses of tyranical gait and costume, little foreign women and sweetly unhappy people.
How dull the hour of “dear bodies” and “dear hearts.”
|—||Arthur Rimbaud — Childhood (via iwanttobelikearollingstone)|
I was just in the middle of writing an epic cathartic fuck-all rant when my phone died. hahahahah I’m sure it’s lost. How often would you say I do that? Every month? Every two weeks? hahahaha Was I really going to say anything new? Even now, I’m over it.
I talked to the director. The movie is over. He’s going to be fine. I want to break it all down for you, to tell you how I really feel, but… I’ll just say something horrible. What could I say that would make me feel better? I’ll say this, because this rang true. Any consolation disgusts me. Those words just need to fall out of my mouth at the moment. I don’t feel like hearing any bright sides of the story. I don’t think they’ll help me do anything real. And they won’t make me feel better. Not today. Not about this, anyway.
A cold bottle of sweet wine would be really nice. That’s not such a strange thing to crave. Strange for me. I must preserve those few rare things in myself that are not completely mediocre at all costs. And they disappear by the day. Sometimes I become aware of something real as if waking up from a deep amnesia. Life is barely life.
But I don’t want to give the impression that I’m sad or upset about anything now. Dealing with people for any proportion of time leaves me starving for clarity, honesty. That’s all. Nothing is resolved, or asks to be resolved.
Ingrid Thulin in “Tystnaden”
Dude is still not answering my calls. The kids do nothing but fight. Today is a funny one. Not necessarily bad. Like I said, nervous laughter supported by genuine amusement. For fuck’s sake haha. You ever develop a report with someone and have no idea where it came from. “I have no idea why you trust me. I am exactly the kind of creep you need to watch out for, keep your distance from, and find someone witty to whisper to about.” Thank God for harbored delusions. I’m going to watch Laurence Anyways.
Corinne Marchand in Cléo de 5 à 7, directed by Agnès Varda, 1962