Musings, vol. I

Just some jumbled thoughts coupled with pictures I found interesting. I apologize in advance for using personal pronouns entirely too much and for being a dreadful bore in general.

It's terribly windy out tonight. Wind always makes me feel as if I'm going out of my mind. Coupled with the word-amnesia (shucks-- there’s a word for that but I can never remember what...oh, the irony) and recent insomnia makes for one tired and cluttered Juliette.

Grace Kelly, on set of something...The Country Girl?

Oh, I forgot to tell you about the brilliant idea I had. Actually, I suppose I forgot to tell myself. Last night at, oh, I’d say six or so (that’s a.m., dear), I awoke with a marvelous idea. I was going to write it down, when suddenly my subconscious (curse it forever) told my conscious self that I had already done so. My conscious self doubted this for a bit, then finally relented and went to sleep. Which turned out poorly, as now I’m unable to recall even a bit of it. So I beg of you subconscious-- if you know the whereabouts of this idea...by all means, let me know.

Hitch and actress Anny Ondra

Emma Brockes can be quite the little philosopher when she puts her mind to it...

“The difference between an interest and a passion is that an interest works on you from the outside in, whereas a passion works the other way around-- from the inside out. This is why people see their passions reflected in every surface, every circumstance.”

Lovely little quote, huh? I thought so.


Golly I hope this game still exists...

I’ve never much liked DVD commentaries by the director. It seems redundant. Isn’t the film supposed to be their commentary-- their statement on or about a situation? Some commentaries are enjoyable, though. Liza’s on The Band Wagon, for instance. That one was swell, but then again perhaps I’m biased. A little. A lot.

All day long I’ve had “In My Merry Oldsmobile” stuck in my head. Not that I mind.

Greta Garbo posing with the USC track team in 1926.

I think I shall begin writing letters. Not here, I mean, but to people on "the outside," aka real life. I was reading some of Flannery O'Connor's letters and noticed that she too writes a lot. An awful lot. A heck of a lot. By "a lot," I mean frequently, you know? I've always thought it was cool in biographical films when they'll have someone read the letters that particular person wrote to another. Just the feeling that you mattered enough to someone else that they thought to save your writing. Pretty neat, huh?

Young Bette Davis Eyes.

I can be a very stupid person, really. But I've gotten to know myself well enough to laugh it off. Like, I know I go through phases (should be pretty clear right now as I gaze at my "Barbra shelf"...ack) and I can laugh at that. I'm a flake too, but I don't much mind that. I'm distant and many times prefer to be alone. I'm no recluse, but I could happily be a cloistered nun...ah, scratch that, I love my family too much. I'm not neurotic, and have gotten over the time of finding neuroses particularly glamourous. Mainly. I'd still kill for a case of DID (kidding...ish), but otherwise it's better. When I fear something I generally avoid it. Whenever I think my writing has gotten too serious or self-indulgent, I throw in a phrase or two to shift focus...man alive this is getting long. I'm spent.