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Sunday, May 22, 2011

THE TENNESSEE WARBLER

found art



Today I took a day of rest after weeks of schedules just about every day, driving every day on gas that's almost $4. Today I refused to do anything. Took a brief nap. Didn't sleep much last night, 4 hours or so, but it didn't feel like anything but adrenaline through the course of the day. There were things I wanted to do, but wasn't really tuned to do anything. This was my day to do nothing. Watched a good Moroccan-made film that took place in Casablanca, Ali Zaoua. It's not Bogart and Bergman either. It's a hard look at street kids, orphans that grow up on the streets in a gang of beggars. It has a hard edge and it has a soft edge too.



Later in the evening I put on the movie I call my favorite of all I've ever seen. I wanted to see if it still is. I made the mistake a couple years ago of loaning it to someone I believed I could trust. After a long time, I asked about it. Oh, somebody came by who wanted to borrow it...I'll get it. That was that. Rather than worry my mind over whether I ever see it again, I ordered another one. The film is so out there over the wall in left field, nobody much wants to see it, so it didn't cost much. Still haven't heard from the other one, never will. No problem. Watched it tonight. It's still my favorite movie and for the same reasons. It's off the wall imaginative in ways that are particularly of a Japanese aesthetic.



It's Japanese title is Rampo. The American title is The Mystery of Rampo. Probably in America Rampo is too close to Rambo. Lotsa mad customers buying it thinking it was Rocky blowing up gooks, the sequel to the sequel to the sequel to the sequel. This one is the story of a Japanese writer subject to censorship in the time of WW2. His new novel was rejected by the censor because it was too unlikely a story to happen in Japan. Same day his agent found an article in the paper, the story of an incident exactly as he had written. He looked up the woman of the story, started writing again, and as he wrote, he used her as the model in his mind's eye, and eventually found that she was living what he wrote simultaneous with the writing. To save his character who is his alter-ego from the woman who got out of control in the writing and became a danger, he enters the story he is writing, becomes subject to the story that has taken its own turn. All of the illusion breaks down around him. In the end it's just him and her, and she's fiction.



A bird appeared at the bird feeder I'd not seen before. Looked it up by googling it and found it must have been a Tennessee Warbler. They're in migration now from wintering in Cuba and Central America to Canada for the summer. It makes sense it would be migrating as this is the only one I've seen and it's the south to north time of year. The feeder from Jr's house has seeds in it finches like, snowbirds, doves and others. Thought I'd put up another little house just like it for sunflower seeds. A cardinal is around here. The birds are slow to find this feeder. Maybe I need to let the other one go empty before they'll look someplace else. I'll not worry over it. The Tennessee Warbler was at it, evidence it is getting used. I saw some broken hulls around it too. They'll figure it out before very long.



This evening after 8 I called my mother in Wichita to tell her I was checking to see if she'd been carried away by the rapture. No answer, left a message, "Called to see if you were taken away by the rapture. I reckon you were." We're of different minds on Fundamentalism. Her ideal for me when growing up would have been Fundamentalist preacher or missionary. That's why I moved to the coast. Even as a child I knew I wasn't going to be a preacher. I've been betrayed by a Fundamentalist preacher like never before or since by anyone. He gave me a good learning young. I've so forgotten him, I don't even remember his name.



I never wanted to live my life leading people to believe God thinks I'm a hotdog with a connection they don't have, that my opinions are God's opinions, send me your money. I tend to see a preacher the biggest ego rooster in the chicken house. I won't say most are that way, because I don't believe they are. It's the ones that give all the rest a bad name. Tammy Faye Bakker, for example. If you've never heard of her, google her some time for a belly laugh. In Time or Newsweek several years ago I saw a picture of her in a designer sweatshirt with shoulder pads. Not long ago I found a quotation from her, "Watching a half hour of television makes you want to go out and kill yourself." She could have only been talking about the PTL Club Tammy Faye Show. Three minutes of that would advance erectile dysfunction.



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