There was a time last week when I felt something was amiss, an inner agitation I couldn't put my finger on. Then it struck me one morning as I entered the rest room at work: I hadn't seen, heard, or smelled The Shitter in days. That should have been welcomed news - who wouldn't want a respite from his prolific, noxious shitting?- but, as it happened, I discovered his absence left me feeling slightly bereft, as if lurking beneath my disdain for him, a part of me felt a measure of kinship with, or, at the very least a dose of sympathy towards, this cherubic lord of the toilet. Absent or present, he's been a haunting influence in my life.
About a day later, I entered the rest room and there were his spotless white Nike's on display under the stall door. I can't attest to where he had been the last several days, but, damn!, did that son of a bitch make up for lost time. Just about every time I went to the restroom, which was about once an hour to pee, he was there, ubiquitous, stinking up the joint with his foul, sinful waste. And today was no different. Any feeling of kinship or sympathy was washed away with the cold realization that The Shitter is a malevolent force in this world. Look past the countenance of doughy innocence! Think not upon the sad state of affairs this man's life must be in because of all that shitting! Not true! His actions are premeditated and cunning; nothing leaves his factory but with his permission. Keep clear of this agent of Lucifer! I say the following with the utmost conviction: if I had a gun with two bullets and was alone in a room with Hitler, Pol Pot, and The Shitter, I'd shoot The Shitter twice.
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I watched Dreyer's La Passion De Jeanne D'Arc with Spira the other day. The film had such a profound effect on me when I first saw it; between Dreyer's inventive and often stunning cinematography, Richard Einhorn's moving score, and one of the most transcendent acting performances I've ever seen by Melle Falconetti, I was left awestruck. I thought about it for days, electrified by it like the buzz of a first love.
Spira slept through just about the entire film. Once, when she was awake, I asked her if she wanted to stop the movie. She said no and fell back asleep. When it was over, she woke up and half-jokingly berated me for making her sit through a silent movie with "mellow" music with the lights off, as if it was my fault she couldn't stay awake.
I had hoped the film would have had a similar impact on her as it did me. Obviously, it didn't, though she did claim that she liked what she saw. I had no problem staying awake, but I can see why she didn't. I've fallen asleep to through films before; we all have. Still, I lamented not being able to share my enthusiasm about the film with her. It's okay, my tastes aren't very conventional; I've gotten over how it limits shared experience.
Anyway, if you haven't seen it and want to watch something different, inventive, and transcendent (at least in my estimation), have a go. It's worth it for Falconetti's performance alone. She wasn't acting, she was channeling.
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Had a nice long weekend. Went up to Mike's on Saturday to attend Pumpkin Fest with him and a stellar lineup of friends, some I hardly ever see. When I left my house, it was sunny, the birds were chirping gaily. When I hit NH, ominous clouds appeared and the closer I got to Mike's the darker it became. When the rain hit, I wondered if we'd have to forgo Pumpkinfest. It poured like a mah'fucka! But, alas, the rain subsided and the clouds parted and we were able to attend the festivities. Good thing: I had begun to wonder if I was heading towards a Heart of Darkness scenario. Kurtz!
Ah, but it was a merry time! At the festival, we splintered off into groups and explored. I don't know why, but I didn't get any fried dough, despite having a mild hankering for some recently (last time I tasted its unholy goodness was when I was a wee lad). Maybe I found the prospect too daunting. It's possible. Anyway, there were other shenanigans, but they're not meant for you to know about. Sorry, but the last thing I want to do is besmirch your innocence with tales of debauchery. You don't want to end up like Billy, do you?
Off to watch some Boardwalk Empire. Maybe I'll play some music and read from Moby Dick. We'll see. Best get crackin'.
G'night, you sweet and tender pups.
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