My blood is alive with many voices
telling me I am made of longing.
May Nothing But Happiness...
from the album: Come On Die Young
"May Nothing But Happiness Come Through Your Door"
From Come On Die Young
Were you ever just dandelion wine?
Did you ever let your body be an altar?
Were you ever the loudest in the room?
Did you ever let your pain lay open?
Spread it out across your face?
Let it be the dirge it is?
Dominique Christina Ashaheed,
“Mama,” published in Alight
With the red hair of one she-urchin in the gutter I will set fire to all modern civilization. Because a girl should have long hair, she should have clean hair; because she should have clean hair, she should not have an unclean home: because she should not have an unclean home, she should have a free and leisured mother; because she should have a free mother, she should not have an usurious landlord; because there should not be an usurious landlord, there should be a redistribution of property, because there should be a redistribution of property, there shall be a revolution. That little urchin with the gold-red hair, whom I have just watched toddling past my house, she shall not be lopped and lamed and altered; her hair shall not be cut short like a convict’s; no, all the kingdoms of the earth shall be hacked about and multilated to suit her. She is the human and sacred image; all around her the social fabric shall sway and slip and fall; the pillars of society shall be shaken, and the roofs of ages come rushing down; and not one hair of her head shall be harmed.
If today one were to find a remedy for death, I would not take it. My pain (the death of his father and his mother) my happiness (his love) has meaning only if I myself must also go there.
Long ago Barth said that Pastors and theologians needed to have a newspaper in one hand and a bible in the other. Faith which doesn’t speak to culture, and in opposition to the evils of society, is worthless. And so is scholarship.
I’m Godless. I’ve had to make my God, and my God is narrative filmmaking.
But even when I was in grammar school, I suspected that warnings about words that nice people never used were in fact lessons in how to keep our mouths shut not just about our bodies but about many, many things— perhaps too many things.
Kurt Vonnegut. Palm Sunday: An Autobiographical Collage.
My strongest impression of “Grand Budapest” is that of all the Wes Anderson films out there, this one is the Wessiest. In an alternate reality in which all movies are like Wes Anderson movies, this is the one that was made by the reality’s own version of Wes Anderson.