George Jones: The King Is Gone (1989)

George Jones: If Drinkin' Don't Kill Me (1981)

George Jones: Walk Through This World With Me (1967)

Antonioni's "L'Avventura" (1960)

 

Three ways to think about this:

(1) You didn't see the small rowboat rowing away from the island. (Which I didn't upon first viewing; just caught it when told to by the Commentary.) And thus you feel annoyed with friend and boyfriend of the missing woman for hooking up so quickly, and keep waiting for the missing woman to show up and create some personal drama, or else for her dead body to show up and create some drama re who might be responsible.

(2) You saw the small rowboat. You think that maybe the missing woman is just existentially escaping and is now traveling across Italy (as her friend/boyfriend seem to think while following her potential path as reported by the local media) and will turn up eventually, hopefully right when the friend and boyfriend are having sex in the abandoned city.

(3) After about an hour, you give up on the non-existent plot and simply watch Antonioni's pretty shots and not-so-pretty decadent rich characters, which both tell us: (a) Old World is better than New World (architecturally at least). Many scenes of classic architecture re-purposed to generic 1960 office buildings, and of beautiful buildings and streets marred by TV antennas and wires. (b) Men are all sexual predators to some degree (both crude guys on the street and the shallow boyfriend, Sandro). (c) All relations between men and women, rich or poor, are utterly false (as evidenced by every single pair in this film, from the leads to minor-character marriages to a random young couple on a train).

Monica Vitti is the "Adventurer" in this film. Guilt-stricken while simultaneously attracted to her missing friend's lover. And also fascinated/repulsed by the luxurious world she finds herself in while ostensibly searching for her friend. (She's a lower-middle-class "sensible" girl who takes what people say at face value, and is rather confused when they nonchalantly reveal to her that what they said yesterday is not the same as what they might mean today.)

#3 is the best way to watch this film, I think. The stated "missing-girl plot" is not the point at all. Antonioni wants you to see how ugly and fleeting all modern (1960) personal relations are in relation to their ancient backdrop. (Two books left in the missing girl's bag: The Bible and Fitzgerald's Tender Is the Night -- the latter a 1934 forerunner of psychologically horrific/naturalistic marital and coupled states on display in this film that would soon become de rigueur in both fiction and film by the 1970s.)

When does the light go out of one's eyes?

Some people never have a spark in their eyes, even when young.

A lot of celebrities and society people and gay guys have a certain "dead eyes with a smile" look.

QEII, in the '50s, had very lively eyes. At some point, though, by the end of her life, they'd become dead. (Didn't do research on photos through the decades, but by the 2000s, in the public pictures, she was only smiling with her mouth and not her eyes---not an "ageing" thing; a lot of old people, including QEII's own mother, kept the twinkle.)

I remember pictures of my brother in the '90s---the light was there. A decade later, it was not. (Just an ageing thing, or a wife thing? I couldn't tell you.)

Below pic is QEII in the late '50s, still with a spark.

 

 

Now that the official period of mourning is over for QEII...

 ...what, sans funeral queue, am I supposed to watch on TV to inspire positive, historic contemplation within myself? Damn. The past week has also been a respite from all of the angst usually encountered on the UK Daily Mail website---most people briefly stopped their pro-/anti-Brexit insults in favor of a sense of national unity. Pre-QEII death, I usually had on Fox News in the background while I worked on my Joan website, or else football (now that it's fall), or "90-Day Fiance" marathons. Sometimes "On Patrol" marathons from Reelz. 

To be clear, Fox is still a thousand times more factual than CNN or MSNBC. And the UK Daily Mail is still a thousand times more factual than the BBC and The Guardian. And "90-Day Fiance" is still a thousand times better than watching any "Housewives" franchise, with all of the racial lectures that have become ingrained in the last couple of years. And football is still so-so---some teams have taken the BLM propaganda off their helmets and end zones, but some still have not.

Some might say: "If you don't like it, turn it off." I've been addicted to television for decades now. The people talking, especially on live news sites, make me feel less alone as I constantly sit in my house by myself! (Pre-24-hr-news stations and cable, I would have FM talk-show radio on in the late-night hours---used to go to sleep to Larry King's all-night radio show in the '80s.)  I would love it if there were dozens of ad-free, left-wing-propaganda-free history stations, but, alas, there are not.

I do recognize that in the last week, while watching almost only BBC coverage of QEII ceremonies, that I felt better and clearer mentally than when watching ad-filled, nonsensical, corrupt junk. I wasn't particularly a fan of getting pissed off while watching news stations or visiting websites, which I was just doing out of boredom. I also feel the internal need for some fresh air and exercise---I can say it, but I never go out and get it, except for the occasional swim over this past summer. My body and mind are TELLING ME what I need, but I'm too lethargic to respond.

I can order all the crystals and jewelry-making supplies and candle-making supplies that I can afford---and all the Ingmar Bergman movie sets that I can afford---but none of these are going to actually clear my mind. Crystals/candles/essential oils/classic movies might perhaps solve about 10% of my neuroses---most in the satisfied thoughts while ordering them rather than in the actual result upon receipt of them: Making jewelry is hard! (Those fucking jump rings and how to open/close them! And when I put all my good, positive thoughts and care into crafting a set and then I list on eBay and there's not even 1 watcher for 2 weeks!) Making candles is hard! Actually learning about crystals and what they represent is hard. Making the decision to stare at a Bergman film and think and cry for 2 hours is psychologically harder than lying there on the couch and watching 2 hours of "On Patrol." What I have thought might be "relaxation" is actually hard---like taking a damn walk around the block.

HM The Queen: Lying-in-State - BBC

A couple of days ago, someone posted online: "Why would anyone wait in line for 12 hours when they could just watch it online?"

I responded: "Because some prefer to experience life first-hand instead of via a screen." I don't think anyone born pre-2000 understands what "experiencing life first-hand" means. (A sad, soul-less, deletable generation.)

Joan Crawford in "Rain" (1932)

I've been watching so many Ingmar Bergman films lately. I don't think it's possible that he was unaware of or uninfluenced by either "Rain" (1932) or "Possessed" (1947).

I really am turning into a stereotypical ageing lesbian (or else a witch)...

(1) I have 5 cats. I call my one black cat (Solomon Grundy, Mini) "my familiar."
(2) I have candle-making supplies.
(3) I've been buying a lot of crystals lately; plus charms to go with them. I sometimes hold certain stones in my hand when I'm having a particular problem.
(4) I have posters of Hekate and Celtic holidays above my desk.

From "The Crack-Up" (1945 posthumous F. Scott Fitzgerald compendium of essays plus random thoughts)

*Parts of New Jersey, as you know, are under water, and other parts are under continual surveillance by the authorities. But here and there lie patches of garden country dotted with old-fashioned frame mansions, which have wide shady porches and a red swing on the lawn. And perhaps, on the widest and shadiest of the porches, there is even a hammock left over from the hammock days, stirring gently in a Victorian wind.

------

What gives me the initial thrill is the double use of "under." And then I hang around to learn more about the countryside and the mansions, and then about Fitzgerald's own nostalgia, to see if it compares to mine, in a different age---for the different but same things.

The Queen Is Dead + Ingmar Bergman

Queen Elizabeth II dying brings a nation to its core---for the moment, no more arguing about Brexit or Boris. For the time being, the focus is on the nation's history and what it means to be British, with a connection to the thousands of years that have gone before. (Immigrants---you're welcome into the fold if you make an effort to understand what exactly it is you're now a part of. Same goes for immigrants into the US.)

I've also been watching numerous Ingmar Berman films via Netflix. At first out of intellectual curiosity, and then because every single film I've watched so far made me feel cleansed in some way. I actually wept (much harder than "cried") at the end of "The Virgin Spring," and I haven't either wept or cried in ages. In the past few weeks, I've seen the following Bergman films:

Port of Call
Summer Interlude
Summer with Monika
The Seventh Seal
Wild Strawberries
The Magician
The Virgin Spring
Winter Light

After watching "Winter Light," I finally broke down and just bought the whole 39-film Bergman Criterion Collection set from Amazon.

Between the spiritual QEII coverage of the death and coffin cortege on the BBC, and the spirit of the Bergman films exploring both death and faith... I feel much better, and lighter, than I've felt in years.

Though I've usually enjoyed being a "news junkie," I'm now trying to avoid news stations, just trying to stick to the BBC and the ongoing coffin procession for the time being. All is pure for the time being. (A feeling to remember, and seek, for the future.)

A Queen Is Crowned (1953 film)

A ghoulish side note: While Sylvia Plath's mother went to watch this film about Queen Elizabeth's June 2  coronation in Boston on August 24, 1953, Sylvia was at home swallowing her mother's sleeping pills and then crawling into the family basement to die.
 

I know too much about Plath. And also about the Beatles... On the very morning that Plath did finally kill herself in London 10 years later (February 11, 1963, 23 Fitzroy Rd), the Beatles reported to their Abbey Road studio to begin recording their first album. Just 2 miles away.

Either it doesn't mean anything, or it was a vortex of some sort. These were two very big historical occurrences within a very tight geographical location and time-frame!

Sex Pistols: God Save The Queen (1977)

Oh, how cute and punky!
Who really wants an entire world like this, though? 

We're trying out this anarchist version of society right now in the US (no arrests, no borders, statue- and shop-window smashing/looting, no monetary policy, no consequences for anything)---and it's an utter nightmare: sky-high inflation, crime rates, mediocrity (based on race/feminism/gayness instead of competency) in academia and government, etc.

Keep on with this Weimar chaos. 

But then don't be surprised by the reaction when it comes:
"Those who do not remember the past are condemned to repeat it."

BBC: Announcement of QEII death

Tammy Wynette and George Jones: We Go Together (1973)

Great song, until, near the end, when Tammy makes an overt deal about George accidentally spitting on her while singing. I've seen her wiping her face a couple of times while singing with him---obviously to make him feel bad. If you're a pro, you know that spit happens---and you're supposed to just ignore it while onstage.

New T-Shirt

 

Two Hoots and a Holler: Middle of the Night

Song written 1990. Performed above in 2013, Austin.
2005 Austin article on Rick Broussard and his drug use and clean-up:
https://michaelcorcoran.substack.com/p/rick-broussard-shadow-man-jumps-into

I'd been a regular at the Monday night Two Hoots shows at the Black Cat Lounge on 6th Street from about 1989 thru the early '90s. I always went with my friend Jerry, whom I worked with at the university library. In '94-'95, I moved to San Francisco to get my Master's, and during the same time, Jerry got his Master's in Library Science and then moved back to his hometown of San Antonio. When I moved back to Austin in 1996, there was no one left for me to hang out with. Aside from Jerry, my other 5 or so close friends had all gotten married and either moved to small towns outside of Austin or to Seattle or someplace. My close writer friend Brian (who shared my birthdate and with whom I'd been putting out a lit magazine in Austin and attending a regular writers' group with every 2 weeks for 2 years before I left for SF) got accepted to the writers' program at Johns Hopkins and moved to Baltimore. I was completely alone. To this day, I consider 1996 thru 2000 to be my godforsaken "lost years"---I'd lost every single personal connection and was desperately, unsuccessfully trying to fill the vacuum.

During this bad period, I tried to re-create the earlier good times I'd had at the Black Cat seeing Rick Broussard and Two Hoots by trying to find Rick's current shows. Usually at the Saxon Pub on S. Lamar. I think he had a regular gig there on Sunday nights. Only this time I didn't have Jerry there as a buffer. So I'd go and sit and drink by myself. Sometimes strange guys would come sit down and I'd chat with them. But I'd always "dump" them if Rick happened to come over to my table.

A few weird incidents: One time I ran into Rick outside the club---we started out chatting amicably, and he literally "bent down to tie the laces of my shoe," which I found incredibly romantic. But then, in the course of chit-chat, I asked him why he'd broken up with his latest girlfriend: "We were in LOVE!" he said angrily, and then left me in the parking lot.

Other encounters: 

I once sat outside the Saxon Pub mens' room waiting for him to come out. He sneered at me as he exited and walked past me.
Another time, Rick invited me over to a place that he shared with another musician. While we were all hanging out in the living room, Rick disappeared into the bedroom, leaving me to chat with the roommate. At one point, Rick came out and said to me, "Are you going to come in here?" but I shook my head no. (He was known to do heroin, and I was afraid of that.) I kept talking to the roommate for a while, and then went home.
On the night that Princess Diana died (8/31/97), I was making copies of tapes of Rick's appearances on Austin cable TV to give to him per his request. (During a pause in the taping, I found out what had happened and stopped the taping.) During this same period, he once asked me to go driving with him, but then called to cancel.

The worst 5 years of my life. Just partially because of Broussard. I couldn't find a regular job, and I was still trying to get over my ex-girlfriend (breakup: 1991) and contacting her, occasionally seeing her with unsatisfactory results. While also trying to hang on to the memory of good times watching Rick perform at the Black Cat in earlier years, trailing him around his current shows like a groupie and throwing myself at him, desperate for some, any deep human connection not forthcoming. For some reason, I thought that because I loved his music, that he and I might connect... Nah, just some weird, random stuff.

I've long since gotten over my groupie-dom, and have long gotten used to being alone. I still love his music, though! :)  Our few personal encounters were so surface, they're just anecdotal, not deeply hurtful---only indicative of that ugly time period when nothing went right, despite the most sincere of hopes and needs. One disturbed person seeking comfort in another disturbed person, to no avail.

Rick ended up marrying a well-balanced girl who worked at my very publishing company! Cuter, nicer, and with much better vintage clothes.

Daytime Nighttime Suffering: Paul McCartney (1979)

What does she get for all the love she gave you
There on the ladder of regrets?
Mighty river, give her all she gets

What does she get for all the love she gave you
There on the ladder of regrets?
Daytime nighttime suffering is all she gets

Where are the prizes for the games she entered
With little chance of much success?
Daytime nighttime suffering is all she gets

Come on, river, overflow
Let your love for your people show
Come on, river, flow through me
Let your love for your people be
You are the river, I am the stream
Flow mighty river through me

What does it pay to play the leading lady
When like the damsel in distress
Daytime nighttime suffering is all she gets...

Man We Was Lonely: Paul McCartney (1970)

If anyone's interested in a great overview of Paul McCartney's solo stuff from 1970 thru 1984, I highly recommend the 2-CD "Wingspan" set. Hits, B-sides, and other very good album tracks.

I used to listen to this collection all the time a couple of years ago, and just now re-discovered it---have listened 3 times in a row so far tonight!

Serena Williams

Glad Serena Willliams is gone from the US Open. I was sick of listening to the constant "people of color" propaganda from the broadcasters (when I just wanted to watch tennis), and more sick of looking at her polyester black-sequinned evening gown, and at her watch. (Who wears a WATCH and long-sleeved mesh to a sports competition? She obviously came to the court to be seen and talked about rather than to play.) Glad that the rest of the Open is left to actual tennis competitors---oh wait: Djokovic still can't come in---in 2022!---because of his vaccination status---friggin' ridiculous.

 

And I'm still offended that this no-neck hulk recently appeared on the cover of Vogue---not racist, just that no one as blatantly unattractive and unstylish (white or black or whatever color) as Serena Williams should ever appear on the cover of Vogue as long it claims to be a "style" magazine. Who's next on the cover: Randi Weingarten? Lena Dunham? Either you're Ms. or you're Vogue---make up your mind.