A friend described The Grand Budapest Hotel thusly:
I liked it. At first I thought this is very dumb. After 15 min I was involved and had to watch the rest. It was strange and sad.
That’s a perfect review.
Wes Anderson is like that. Like, always. There’s that off-putting first impression, then an uncomfortable acquaintanceship, and before you know it that oddball has won you over.
And bittersweet, that man does bitter sweet like no one else.
Do you laugh, do you cry, do you run a marathon?
Update: I could never get it quite right, ended up with a bunch of file, so I put a few into this slide show.
This is how to title a poem: simple and direct.
From Sad Poem by E., on A Sign of Life.
It’s a wonderful blog, you should check it out.
How I manage to stay on my feet durning performances is by clinging to the wall.
I pull myself up, handhold by handhold.
Words crumble and fall around me. I look for a path and follow its logical progression.
It’s scary, but there’s always another word where you need it.
Sometimes you have to make do and grab at the next best, and the next, and hope,
that when you slip,
you can grab another word and ride it to safety.
Myself, then, is a path of words that manifests in performance. Myself is maintained word by word, for as long as there are words.
But what is myself in wordless times? In silence and solitude, I pace and drink coffee and commune with dogs. Myself blindly balances on a single foot and finds that, by strumming or muting invisible lines of tension, pain can be, not averted, but channeled, partially, elsewhere in the void. Myself is a silhouette in a blue sky, tensing and relaxing without words.
This means more time to do things we really enjoy.
~Business Insider
She is dragged from her car and revitalized.
She takes her place on the assembly line.
It’s OK.
She will sleep on the drive home.
I am have become emergent in no small part due to this ally. Not to imply catalyst, but fire. Another connection flares, instantly welded as tangles of continuum bang and bump in the drift. There, in that maelstrom, is born Poemcraft.
But latter. I’ll tell you all about it, later. For now up under About is my Manifesto in Progress.
