Apr
6th
Sun
6th
It’s 4 a.m. on a Tuesday Night and I am watching “funnyface”….i am becoming old. Or am. How awful. But yet, how little effort goes into this whole “quiet in the house- quiet in the mind” life.
by the way maybe I am slow but is this movie referenced in “the devil wears…”
Because I swear these officer scenes…
Not many songs grow here but much rest could. If I managed to take my eyes off of this beautiful movie. and Hepburn. My god she is such a star. I mean, you know, the way they must have meant it in the 1950’s, one tailored suited sweaty amphetamine boozer to another, on one of those nights Elaine Stitch torn it down. A dizzy block from the theater., in a rat hold lit with golden dribbling lights, outside it’s window the reflections of neon words disappearing from the glow of taxi’s, one by one. Magical Dominoes. Glittering, dying, awaiting re-birth. Night by night by night.
Or what is must have been like to have stood next to Mary Pickford, and for sure you knew her breath smelled of gasoline. Maybe as she stumbled into scene, on fire like comets so cold they burst back into flame for their own frozen electricity.
Funnyface. hmmm.
Tomorrow I am going to make my own version of this. Now that would be something else.
I will start by procrastinating, then making tea, then I will really know just how old or how young this feels. this silence,
it is, well, something.
by the way maybe I am slow but is this movie referenced in “the devil wears…”
Because I swear these officer scenes…
Not many songs grow here but much rest could. If I managed to take my eyes off of this beautiful movie. and Hepburn. My god she is such a star. I mean, you know, the way they must have meant it in the 1950’s, one tailored suited sweaty amphetamine boozer to another, on one of those nights Elaine Stitch torn it down. A dizzy block from the theater., in a rat hold lit with golden dribbling lights, outside it’s window the reflections of neon words disappearing from the glow of taxi’s, one by one. Magical Dominoes. Glittering, dying, awaiting re-birth. Night by night by night.
Or what is must have been like to have stood next to Mary Pickford, and for sure you knew her breath smelled of gasoline. Maybe as she stumbled into scene, on fire like comets so cold they burst back into flame for their own frozen electricity.
Funnyface. hmmm.
Tomorrow I am going to make my own version of this. Now that would be something else.
I will start by procrastinating, then making tea, then I will really know just how old or how young this feels. this silence,
it is, well, something.
— “Me”. Lateblogging (via ryanadams)
