Just a quick word to, erratically sure, convince you all this resuscitation wasn't some drunken prank--what a strange autumn. But which wasn't, and really, which might we expect to not be so up til and likely well after we, as the morbid and hilarious Lee Hazlewood sang it, "make the flowers grow"?
So much wild static has shot between the android antenna of the food blog and the poetry that yes I have neglected my first love: slovenly and detailed confession. No wait, it was a mutation, costume change. I never stopped.
I awoke this morning--and I'll keep this brief as I feel my eloquence is already subsuming in decorative ego, to the fantastic 1952 movie version of Carson McCullers' The Member of the Wedding. This bracing reminder comes to me with so much of the grand southern gothic. It's a palpable sensation of equality and Family that thrives in a certain kind of dialogue, one in which the lowest, poorest characters are the ones who not only bear the richest wisdom they also speak the most poetically. And with the most poetic conviction and meaning--the last should ot be confused with wisdom; the former involves experience, the latter--you'll pardon the historical skip to William Blake, concerns the eternal, and therefore concerns innocence. What we inherit is like what we do, but it is not what we have done. Something to that effect.
Anyhow its a special thrill to see the dialogue in action, to see the actors performing it--The Member of the Wedding was originally a play and certainly feels like it. Maybe its that Julie Harris and I have the same haircut. No, a joke won't do. I look at her, at them, Ethel Waters, Julie Harris and I'm absolutely puzzled. I have never been with those people in my life, those poetic and low voices who throw themselves on the ground, disolving. And yet he similarities are almost unbearable.
No wait, I have.
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