Oh, For The Love Of Film!; I Could Be Betty Crawford; I Could Be Carol Burnett! — A Piece For Sliver Screens — Morning Papers XIX
By The Silent Stars Of The Sliver Screen — The Imagination Was Exhausted Out To Be; That Childhood Desire, Watching Evermore
THE LAST PAPER:
Oh, what a day to wade into the puzzling matters of the heart, returning as it must after the pains of the night had, into a Darkened theatre, Sliver-edged, Red-seated, and all silent, if one can find it as the gift in that condition, but if not, a wavering brow of yours is no matter to the mouths that rumple off one another, even as their film they’ve paid to see begins. Oh, the term to be in with taciturn company — Oh, you can tell I’m mad about something, oh the recent past.
By images alone, akin to a Hopper-like aesthetic, would spring their heart into a quieted fluster; Through the wayward mists, the lights piercing through, the invitation by admission, allotted to you by your winsome delights late in the eve of the day, for the Picture house of a Kaleidoscope of colors. But I am an upset Romantic by such bedazzling scenes, such is the ritual of life.
Even in the most dire of moods, one can seem to find a spot on their belaboring hearts for a spot under the luminous scape of the Sliver screen. In your comfy chair, with all things presented before you, you could yell: “I could be BETTY CRAWFORD! I could be CAROL BURNETT!” That childish voice breaking in the still air, as though life gifted this present to steal you away from the pain hiding; Though the fashion of the screen may have changed, ever-changing still, the special fizzing inside will be there, for the ones not stolen or spoilt by the ways of this here World. That child in me, alive, disquiet, but alive!
That joy to this here World, as I slant back here, writing this piece for you, at whatever time you shall find it, the idea of Act and Acting jaunts its little prancing dance up behind me and lands down on my bronze console.
Slack silence, Act, and React.
The drizzle outside, whilst you’re courting sadness on screen. The inquiry of recovery, queerly pressed for a mere second, only to giggle the hearty stuff a second later.
The akimbo of her lines! The sex appeal dripping off her corset, the befalling merriment Plastered on those sixty-inch faces! My, what a circus to gasp at, what enchantment, what does! And they say that a thing like magic never existed, oh, by the seriousness of this act, I would hedge them wrong! Such widening eyes of mine!
There I am, at Thirteen, staring upwardly at the pictures never imagined, and contrasting them, you bet I did so! By coming away from it all, involving myself in a grand adventure of on-the-spot toying of figures, by my blinkard reactions. Stern was the pressing of my stubbornness, nifty was the play at hand. Taking away from the film my own reaction. The Act To the React. In the modes actors find themselves, I accidentally came across, being the Reaction/Response. Plain as it seemed from the outside, and even though I was born long before the dawn of Cinema, roughly bridging over from the years of 1613 till now. But puppets then were really visionary!
Though my images passing by were never formulated to hopes, as figures would perish, adventures that ended abruptly as though they collided with the ground hardly, never were my toying with the formulas of hope around me, but I was a very unearthly child!
But that is the juncture of the childhood images to the daily rancor of the adulterated fiasco, though the voice does mature to the tone I enjoy hearing…
But here I am, whiling away the Time with you there, and I too am only here, leaning against a metal object, reminiscing but nary for too long, Nostalgia is an addictive thing. But innocently, I relay your time elsewhere to here, continuing on.
It is nice to imagine a time before the distant rumble of cars, isn’t it? I remarked to a friend and a fancying idea I do like to think of during those chaotic situations where cymbals become the joyful escape from it, even just for a mere moment.
I have spoken about the joys of the Cinema Ritual, now being lost, though the allure of something never known to the ones who come into this world aligned to no magic, will hanker after it may revive it as that may so well be the specialty of a youth untouched by the inertia of the world.
They’ll be touched by it soon enough, just let them have this time, this ideal dream in their minds, in their hearts to keep the good graces there when the times draw themselves as stark and unforgiven, let them just have that.
Though, ironically, they may so be exposed to this Haughty and Spurring world viva the mode of Film —this the way of drawing lots, you cannot protect innocence forever, though I would like to gift them, a pocket of cute fancies to always know within the depths of their heart.
I can’t have them spoilt and disused without any semblance of pure hope and dreams, what would we be then? Oh, let them children play!
One last tangent I would like to impart would be, saying I — leaning on my metal thing, escape when you can, how you can, but you cannot spend a life on the run from the manner of the things that haunt and perturb you from the stillness of fear. Like hunger, which I uttered to you in the last paper, I believe, a little dip into the pool of regeneration and consideration is always asked that you do, but don’t wallow too long, the sides of your leaving may become too slippery for you to do so.
Ta-ta Now, the way of the voice’s writing is now had, even enough for sense, during the noisy, ceaseless manner of the day.
Ah, little do they know that favorite sound of a Musician is Naught. ‘tis no quiet place now. Ah, but I love my style!
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