** The BBC production of Sarah Waters’ novel, Fingersmith. Suspenseful, Victorian constraint with a well-executed Sapphic theme and good acting all around, especially by Elaine Cassidy.
** A gorgeous American Masters’ production on Gregory Peck, an actor I’ve admired, and yes, loved for a long time.
Misogyny in Islam
my page is betta than urs…
Hey Judge Judy…
wingless gargoyles cannot speak
Hey, is that true? events
transpired over 3000 years ago?
Hey cities of loud distress–
get yo’ ass free wireless
Hey, Macarena! How ’bout a
vapory security filter?
Hey, Jehovah, how ’bout that
Elks Club singalong? How ’bout those drunk Elks?
Hey. How do civilised people kill responsibly?
hehe…bye: C-U later ….
LonelySoul: what up, hayles?
LonelySoul2: break, bb! You’re a lesbo!
candy177: LOL that would be funny though…
“I am from Lesbian”
LonelySoul: wats up hun?
(christy22 hides in her hole)
Some say my lover’s face
DracoTempros pokes candy’s hole
LOL that would be fun though
BladeOfEquinox sings to Numb
BladeOfEquinox sings to Numb
christy fades into shadow
some say whatever
DracoTempros: the “Breast” Man
LonelySoul all tainted up
sits on the floor bruised and broken
I’m tired, Draco.
some say how awesome
would it be
to see some horny lesbos.
** Rounding out the set with not the least, one from Jenny Boully’s[one love affair]*:
…the entire catastrophe of being a poet …
The entire catastrophe of being a poet is that, after the
fact, everything will be too eerily coincidental: the fact
that the fire could not and would not light; the fact
that the kindling flamed fast only to extinguish itself;
the fact that the bed sheets were two sizes too small;
the suggestion the doves gave of not being able to
roost, of having to move on again. And later, some
evening without a fire, when the poet writes it down,
as she will and as she must, the other more obvious
metaphors of lameness, impotence, shame and weari-
ness: the thunderstorm that was not as tormenting as
the weatherman said it would be; that we could not,
try as we might, properly row our boat to shore; the
same storm’s lightning felling the old sycamore to
cinders and ash; the sound of a train in the distance;
the over-used view of the moon caught between
branches. And so, the entire catastrophe of the poet is
the conspiracy of the world, how everything can be
read yet how the poem the poet writes regarding this
written world will never be read by the one for whom
it is intended. The bridegroom after all is not ready,
will not tear through the scenery, does not have a
musical mating call. And when the snow storm comes
late in spring and gathers in clumps in your windows
and doorframe, and you know the wisteria is suffering
some other kind of forbearance, then you will know
what this means: a metaphor for another kind of de-
mystifying; another kind of premature parting; the
beginning of solitude and other such things.
One Response to “Weekend Appreciations, In Brief”
Just saw this film, GYPO, the first British release that engages the Dutch Dogme 95 style (all natural: no lighting, no make-up, no soundtrack, just a camera, standard sets, and script with a bit of improv, etc). It’s a good one that touches on xenophobia & class issues and has a little Sapphic love story to boot.
The film is told in three parts, and only in the third does the audience finally understand the events and character contemplations in the first and second parts — so I had to go back and re-watch some of it what was going on in the characters’ subtle actions to appreciate the absolutely fine acting. But this structure doesn’t detract, but rather, it adds to the suspence aspect and enhances the second viewing. Stellar work for something put together in something like thirteen weeks and on a minimal budget.
For a nice breakdown, click here.