Lou Lombardo edited for Sam Peckinpah as well as Robert Altman, and once, when he was being interviewed by a pert, fresh-faced young entertainment reporter who asked him to compare the two directors, he leaned back as if to deliver a profundity, and said, “Sam Peckinpah is a prick, and Robert Altman is a cunt.”
Archive Page 2
Humans who travel to faraway cities seem these days compelled to snap photographs documenting the fact that they personally have Been There.
Thus, Andreas “You Can Go Now” Lubitz, when he journeyed to San Francisco, posed hisself in front of the Golden Gate Bridge.
A problem with such photographs is that they rarely accurately evince the Reality of the landmarks depicted.
For instance, the Golden Gate Bridge, upon anyone sentenced to actually driving the thing, has in recent decades imprinted itself as a horrifying hell-ride. As Hunter S. Thompson once expressed it:
Driving the bridge has never been safe, but in recent years—ever since it became a sort of low-tech Rube Goldberg experiment for traffic-flow specialists—it has become a maze of ever-changing uncertain lanes and a truly fearful experience to drive. At least half of the lanes are always blocked off by flashing lights, fireballs and huge generator trucks full of boiling asphalt and crews of wild-eyed men wearing hard hats and carrying picks and shovels.
They are never gone, and the few lanes they leave open for what they call “civilian traffic” are often littered with huge red Lane Markers that look like heavy iron spittoons and cause terror in the heart of any unwitting driver who doesn’t know they are rubber . . . . Nobody wants to run over one of those things, except on purpose, and in that case you want to take out a whole stretch of them, maybe 15 or 18 in a single crazed pass at top speed with the door hanging open.
Thus, a photograph revealing the True nature of the bridge, would look something more like that seen above.
Meanwhile, can anyone explain to me why Germans are allowed to pilot aircraft? It seems to me that after their behavior in airplanes from 1936-1945, Germans would be prevented from flying planes for, oh, the next thousand years or so.
In China too, humans want the folks back home to know they’ve Been There. And so they would pose against a city skyline, as photographic Proof.
Problem is, in China, these days, cities don’t have skylines.
This is because, Mao long flushed down the memory hole, the nation now run by capitalist roaders who live and breathe but to fellate money, there is no longer any sky over China’s cities. All the air there, it has been replaced by filth.
But, not to worry. For enterprising entrepreneurs now make it possible for visitors to China’s cities to pose against photographs of China’s cities. Photographs that depict the cities with actual air in the sky, rather than shit. Photos portraying, like, the Ideal city, rather than the Real one.
So, like, let a thousand photos bloom.
The Science Men, they are getting all in our brains. Now they say they can tell when we are in love.
By scanning the brains of men and women who said they were in love, and comparing them with people who had fallen out of love or never been in love, researchers say they have been able to piece together the first map of the changes that occur in the brain.
The use of a functional magnetic resonance imaging scan (fMRI), which measures brain activity by detecting changes in blood flow, showed that love involves a dozen areas of the brain, with one area—the caudate nucleus—dealing with the ending of a love affair. A cocktail of chemicals also carries messages from one region to another.
“Our study provides the first evidence of love-related alterations in the underlying architecture of the brain and the results shed new light on the mechanisms of romantic love,” said Professor Xiaochu Zhang of the University of Science and Technology of China in Hefei, who led the study, which is published in Frontiers in Human Neuroscience.
The researchers, who showed romantic lovers photographs of their partners while scanning their brains, say that the study has demonstrated the “possibility of applying a resting-state fMRI approach” for testing for romantic love, opening the way for fMRI tests to diagnose love.
Horseshit. They don’t know what love is.
My daughter’s award-winning poem, which can be read here, and which I mentioned here, reminds me, to this day, some nearly five years later, still, of Eugene Field’s wistful little fable, “The Robin And The Violet.”
I published Field’s fable once before. In 2010. So what. Five years ago. And no one read it then.
I dedicated the fable then to my daughter. And I do so here again.
Appended, here, to “The Robin And The Violet” is, again, a Chris Isaak song, “Fade Away,” relating to both the poem of my daughter, and Field’s fable, and to other things as well. Like all the best songs, it is more Real than any words.
Once upon a time a robin lived in the greenwood. Of all the birds his breast was the brightest, his music was the sweetest, and his life was the merriest. Every morning and evening he perched himself among the berries of the linden-tree, and carolled a song that made the whole forest joyous; and all day long he fluttered among the flowers and shrubbery of the wild-wood, and twittered gayly to the brooks, the ferns, and the lichens.
A violet grew among the mosses at the foot of the linden-tree where lived the robin. She was so very tiny and so very modest that few knew there was such a pretty little creature in the world. Withal she was so beautiful and so gentle that those who knew the violet loved her very dearly.
The south wind came wooing the violet. He danced through the shrubbery and ferns, and lingered on the velvet moss where the little flower grew. But when he kissed her pretty face and whispered to her, she hung her head and said, “No, no; it cannot be.”
“Nay, little violet, do not be so cruel,” pleaded the south wind; “let me bear you as my bride away to my splendid home in the south, where all is warmth and sunshine always.”
And the rose exclaimed, in an outburst of disgustful indignation: “What a foolish violet! How silly of her to refuse such a wooer as the south wind, who has a beautiful home and a patrimony of eternal warmth and sunshine!”
But the violet, as soon as the south wind had gone, looked up at the robin perched in the linden-tree and singing his clear song; and it seemed as if she blushed and as if she were thrilled with a great emotion as she beheld him. But the robin did not see the violet. His eyes were turned the other way, and he sang to the clouds in the sky.
The brook o’erleaped its banks one day, and straying toward the linden-tree, it was amazed at the loveliness of the violet. Never had it seen any flower half so beautiful.
“Oh, come and be my bride,” cried the brook. “I am young and small now, but presently you shall see me grow to a mighty river whose course no human power can direct, and whose force nothing can resist. Cast thyself upon my bosom, sweet violet, and let us float together to that great destiny which awaits me.”
But the violet shuddered and recoiled and said: “Nay, nay, impetuous brook, I will not be your bride.” So, with many murmurs and complaints, the brook crept back to its jealous banks and resumed its devious and prattling way to the sea.
“Bless me!” cried the daisy, “only to think of that silly violet’s refusing the brook! Was there ever another such piece of folly! Where else is there a flower that would not have been glad to go upon such a wonderful career? Oh, how short-sighted some folks are!”
But the violet paid no heed to these words; she looked steadfastly up into the foliage of the linden-tree where the robin was carolling. The robin did not see the violet; he was singing to the tops of the fir-trees over yonder.
The days came and went. The robin sang and fluttered in the greenwood, and the violet bided among the mosses at the foot of the linden; and although the violet’s face was turned always upward to where the robin perched and sang, the robin never saw the tender little flower.
One day a huntsman came through the greenwood, and an arrow from his cruel bow struck the robin and pierced his heart. The robin was carolling in the linden, but his song was ended suddenly, and the innocent bird fell dying from the tree. “Oh, it is only a robin,” said the huntsman, and with a careless laugh he went on his way.
The robin lay upon the mosses at the foot of the linden, close beside the violet. But he neither saw nor heard anything, for his life was nearly gone. The violet tried to bind his wound and stay the flow of his heart’s blood, but her tender services were vain. The robin died without having seen her sweet face or heard her gentle voice.
Then the other birds of the greenwood came to mourn over their dead friend. The moles and the mice dug a little grave and laid the robin in it, after which the birds brought lichens and leaves, and covered the dead body, and heaped earth over all, and made a great lamentation. But when they went away, the violet remained; and after the sun had set, and the greenwood all was dark, the violet bent over the robin’s grave and kissed it, and sang to the dead robin. And the violet watched by the robin’s grave for weeks and months, her face pressed forward toward that tiny mound, and her gentle voice always singing softly and sweetly about the love she never had dared to tell.
Often after that the south wind and the brook came wooing her, but she never heard them, or, if she heard them, she did not answer. The vine that lived near the chestnut yonder said the violet was greatly changed; that from being a merry, happy thing, she had grown sad and reticent; she used to hold up her head as proudly as the others, but now she seemed broken and weary. The shrubs and flowers talked it all over many and many a time, but none of them could explain the violet’s strange conduct.
It was autumn now, and the greenwood was not what it had been. The birds had flown elsewhere to be the guests of the storks during the winter months, the rose had run away to be the bride of the south wind, and the daisy had wedded the brook and was taking a bridal tour to the seaside watering-places. But the violet still lingered in the greenwood, and kept her vigil at the grave of the robin. She was pale and drooping, but still she watched and sang over the spot where her love lay buried. Each day she grew weaker and paler. The oak begged her to come and live among the warm lichens that protected him from the icy breath of the storm-king, but the violet chose to watch and sing over the robin’s grave.
One morning, after a night of exceeding darkness and frost, the boisterous north wind came trampling through the greenwood. “I have come for the violet,” he cried; “she would not have my fair brother, but she must go with me, whether it pleases her or not!”
But when he came to the foot of the linden-tree his anger was changed to compassion. The violet was dead, and she lay upon the robin’s grave. Her gentle face rested close to the little mound, as if, in her last moment, the faithful flower had stretched forth her lips to kiss the dust that covered her beloved.
a lot of flowers in this world are never seen
i want to hold your love
i want to win your love for me
for me there was no sunshine
for me there was no rain
for me until i met you
every day was the same
The above what I was hearing, live, meandering, high, many years ago, in that moment when I understood, beyond anything so very limited as understanding, in every cell that I am, that is also every cell that you are, exactly what it is that these Dead people were working so hard to be playing, which is that all that is all is all, is one unhoused fused wide-open diffused unlimited cable skien twine vein, unfettered unwashed boundless, consciousness without physical boundaries and without limit, into every and all and forever and every all forever, forever, and forever into the great wide open, and i am you and you are me and see how together we fly and how we fly all together and fly how we all fly forever . . . .