The Eye of Sybil

I found it odd this summer, well, and now fall, that I was reading this book called The Eye of Cybele by some Paraguan - or was it Uruguay? - or Paraquayan - and it was a book about fucking Alcibiades! My god, it was only a year ago I found out about this dude, and here's the ... (I'm sure there's some Dignified reference to this in my past.) And it's really about 'fucking' Alcibiades, or this girl, who sort of does. - well she dance's and is the Queen of the Rump Dance, or something like that, where she dances, and fucks, with a bare bottom. Oh, my, god! For some reason Alcibiades was very attracted.

And the next book I read, (the witch of porto...) was about a witch named Athena, and well, Alcibiades, and Athens, and well, the girl with the bare bottom, were all about Athena, and well, so should I, her being the goddess of wisdom and all, but... I hated the Witch of Portobella!

But then yesterday, I was thinking about how in that book the witch was dancing too...

Yesterday or the day before I finished The Castle of Otranto, my in-between book of a hundred or so pages, of ... Today, I drove by this brick building that looked like some '60's architecture, with glass and brick, empty, not on the right commercial path, with a concrete sidewalk and weeds (even in winter) sprouting up through the cracks; and for some reason I was reminded of some summer day, that I personally never experienced, that occurred some summer day, perhaps 50 years ago, on that self same sidewalk, where the sun was pouring down, and foretelling the weeds, and the desertion.

Yesterday, I started Melmoth the Wanderer. I think I've stumbled on a masterpiece. Well, I've only read 26 pages... Chapter 1 ends, I think, on page 23. It is Irish; and it is protestant Irish. And it makes me wonder if that 'protestant' isn't against the pope, but rather, and perhaps, against the religion. For the Irish you know have their own folklore.

Today, I finished the first chapter. You might say the titular character died at the end. But then I've only just begun. But in the midst of that first chapter I was confronted with a character known as a Sybil, reference to Virgil, (I believe); but then I could not help but think of Cybele - who according to the Paraguayan - no the Uruguayan (I've checked the back of the book) (his name is Chavarria) - was the mother goddess of all time - or at least according to one of his characters - and I wondered if there was a correlation between Sybil and Cybele, and Athena and me... Oh well, I'm looking forward to this read. The author, Charles Robert Maturin, writes very densely; but the imagery he drew, at least in the first chapter was close, was right there, something I could see, and hear, and well, was scarey, made the hairs stand at attention and salute!

Merry 10's.

Tom

Anatomy of a Murder

This movie was something of a surprise for me. Although its star and director are A-list, and it was nominated for seven Academy awards back in 1959, I had never seen it before. In part because of its star (Jimmy Stewart), I thought it would be a fairly formulaic courtroom drama. In some ways it is, but it has some noir undertones, excellent characters, and nice subtle acting by Stewart and a great supporting cast including Ben Gazarra, Lee Remick, and George C. Scott.

Especially cool is the soundtrack, by none other than Duke Ellington. The Duke himself has a cameo appearance as a piano player in a local jazz club.

I cared less for the actual trial histrionics than the scenes with Stewart and his associates outside the courtroom. But the way the case is played out is surprisingly blunt about various aspects of the crime, and there are unexpected bits of seedy humor. The way Remick's alleged rape is dealt with made me cringe at times--a key point becomes whether or not she was wearing underwear at the time, implying that if she wasn't she clearly deserved anything she got. But the short sidebar among the judge and lawyers (all male, of course) about what term they should use in referring to Remick's panties is a nice, funny touch.

Two Shoes

I was wondering where my loafers were, when I noticed one was by the door. For a day or so, I wondered where the other'd gone to...

Then today, or so, I noticed the other was at the farthest end of the condo, by the terrace door.

I've always found loafers convenient; slip on to run outside. No laces, you know.

'Course these have their laces, they're moccasin style; or is it boat shoe? I forget which.

'still I'd wondered why, and I still do, how each had reached their locations, juxtaposed you know.

like they were arguing, pouting perhaps, had a disagreement that made them perplexed.

They don't speak to me, but at least now I know,

Where two shoes have gone to, for this moment at least,

Hopefully their soles will find some sort of peace.

Books That Have Passed My Way

A number of years ago I found a book in french, Rue des Boutiques Obsure, of which I could read the first couple of pages without too much diffuculty - or difficulte - so I bought it. I remember once sitting down to read it, and getting through 30 or so pages before giving up. I had a pale idea of what was going on. I wrote notes in the margins. When I gave up, I thought, this would be a good book to get the english version of ... and read, side by side. Some time later I found the english version on Amazon Dotcom. I knew it was the same book because Amazon provided the first chapter or so for reading. I could read side by side the english and the french and well there were essentially the same prose.

Flash forward, and sometime last spring, the idea of reading them side by side surfaced again. For the umpteenth time or so, my glance fell on Rue des Boutiques Obscure. I went back to Amazon. I found the same book, but couldn't find the first chapter, until, well clicking here, and clicking there, and of course I was confused why the title was translated as Missing Person ... Long story short, I ordered it, read 'them' somewhat side by side... Well, I would read one chapter in one, then maybe two in the other, or, the french would throw me into the air for 50 or so words, and I'd have to go read the english...

Ultimately, near the end, I didn't really need the english; but then again, shit!, ou possible, merde!, I was content to be getting 60 % of what I was reading.

In the long run, it was a fairly interesting story. an amnesiac who after a number of years picks up the trail on his former existence only to discover the tragedy that caused him to forget everything to begin with... The title americain sort of addresses that; that he was the Missing Person. The title francais refers to an address where the old Guy (c'est son nom) lived in Rome. It refers to an area of the story that was never actually addressed in the novel, is someplace Guy is heading at the end of the story.

Catching the Not Paying Attention Disease

The world infuriates me by not paying attention,... But then lately, it seems I may have caught the disease. You wonder: why? But of course 'wondering why' is part of the disease. Some thought passes before you and you go chase it for a moment, forgetting the thought of a moment before. And then when the moment before thought re-introduces himself, you wonder what the hell has he been talking about?

Alas am probably off to chase some other thought for a moment or two...

Drinking For My Father

Drinking for my father,

Or in his stead.

Lieutenant,

Place holder,

Until I'm dead.

second looeys are

full of hooey

and are stuffed with chop suey.

or is that fooey?

Drinking for my father is

my final sin.

What do the scientists say

about yesterday? Where did she go?

Who are the soothsayers that pretend to know?

I am one, I believe to pretend.

There's a cure for what ails ya'

And who could say no?

Is yesterday iight that's gone a long day away?

Is there hope that the light will come this way again?

Is the answer in a bottle, or perhaps in a djinn?

Life is quite silly; that's where you begin.

It frightens, it n'lightin's, it's made up of shade.

The soothsayer knows this; is why he's quite gay...

I am one, I pretend to believe,

I believe there's a weave to what we can see.

The mountains are hard; the oceans give way.

And yet I am hopeless and drink every day.

My three beers, my four beers, my time for deep sleep,

Waking, pretending, amazing, I find time for reading,

And yes, I like eating, and walking the dog, of course,

Oh and that chocolate, hmm, yummy chocolate!

Why do I not search for something defining?

Even when I am sure something's designing,

The web of my dreams, the web of my fears,

The web that has stopped me from shedding any tears.

I suppose the Earth will burn down to a crisp.

It's sad, you know, that all is at risk.

Such a short time we've been here,

And so quickly we've spent here.

Coin, is my meaning, not life that I'm spending,

We've spent her as though all of her twirling

were worthless. We've spent her, so why should we care?

Ah such is the curse,

The worst of the worth.

The worth of the worst,

and the word of the cursed.

Drinking for my father until the end.

A movie I will never watch

The Son of Dr. Jekyll

The blurb in the guide indicates it about a kid out to prove his da weren't looney. My thinking is it's more likely he's the child of Mr. Hyde. But of course all Mr. Hyde's tramps were probably killed, so maybe my thinking ain't straight.

In any event, if there is a never never land, maybe I'll get a chance to watch it there, but until there, I doubt I'll bother.