nostalgia

to continue with the mixing of old and new stuff, this is a prose poem from some years back:

Atmosphere and Clackamas

JF


Unwieldy passage of the sun, white, through the keyhole of the old birch hill.
Blue rabbits in fields and thickets.
The cigarettes still smoulder in far-away rooms,
The Son of Man, cuffs in rock burrows, head in lines of blowing trees, lawnmowers, and fading thistles.

Amputated yukata of the early morning because
His face becomes a heavy black rhinoceros horn.
Hangover carves the inky bluffs,
Meet at the Seven Stars.

Blue mist charging and climbing,
Storm shaking stars and fir.
Alphorns sounding over lamaseries lorn,
Thibetan femurs ring beyond cromlech and rise.

Original Face

I have been perusing Ursula K. Le Guin's The Lathe of Heaven. I was lukewarm toward the writing at first but am appreciating it more as I read on. The setting in Portland (with reference to the Portland of the early 1970s, or alternative versions of same) gives the novel added appeal. I believe it's set around 2000 or so. .

Also watched The Saddest Music in the World not long ago -- I'd agree with the Rotten Tomatoes critic who called it weirdness for weirdness' sake. One of the issues I had with TSMINTW was the uniformity of presentation. A lot of it is one character says one quirky thing, then another character responds with another quirky thing, and so on... The thing with the glass leg is run into the ground. Some of the camerawork was notable though, including the occluded lens effects.

lincolnshire

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