The Imaginarium of Doctor Parnassus

I just saw Terry Gilliam’s The Imaginarium of Doctor Parnassus.
Such a beautifully imaginative movie. Like Wow. Terrific production / costume design.
During the first 3/4 of it, I felt that this was exactly the kind of movie I would make if I had the chance. During the last 1/4, the movie sort of sputtered, which is a real shame. I hate it when that happens, when you are like, ‘But the movie could have really gone places! I was there!’
The movie is magical nonetheless. Have you seen any good movies lately?

J.D. Salinger

Just got word that J.D. Salinger has died at the ripe age of 91. That elusive man of mystery!
It makes me so sad to hear it, but at the same time, I’m excited that there is a possibility that many more of his pieces will be published now. Rumor has it that he has a file cabinet of written work that he wanted to publish after his death.

Seymour Glass has got to be one of my favorite characters in all of literature.
He can be found in this perfect, heartbreaking story – The Perfect Day for Bananafish.


I first heard of DV8, the British physical theater / dance company, a couple of years ago when my British dance history teacher showed us their short film “The Cost of Living”. It blew my mind and changed the way I thought about dance – and I keep on coming back to it even years later. The way they use bodies (even imperfect ones) to create such beautifully memorable scenes. Pure poetry of movement.

Questions of Travel

These beautiful travel photos of Aya Brackett  made me dream of far off places today.

About travel: Something about being a wandering gypsy really appeals to me.  Just being able to live the philosophy of waking up to a new horizon every morning, of swallowing the world whole – that’s the way to be! A cage-free existence!

Where’s the one place you could travel to right now if you could?

Ever since I read Elizabeth Bishop ‘s poems about Brazil in college, I’ve always wanted to go there. At the time, it seemed like the complete opposite of the world I knew.
I fell in love with this poem, in particular, about Bishop’s mixed feelings about Brazil and travel, in general.


There are too many waterfalls here; the crowded streams

hurry too rapidly down to the sea,
and the pressure of so many clouds on the mountaintops
makes them spill over the sides in soft slow-motion,
turning to waterfalls under our very eyes.
–For if those streaks, those mile-long, shiny, tearstains,
aren’t waterfalls yet,
in a quick age or so, as ages go here,
they probably will be.
But if the streams and clouds keep travelling, travelling,
the mountains look like the hulls of capsized ships,
slime-hung and barnacled.
Think of the long trip home.
Should we have stayed at home and thought of here?
Where should we be today?
Is it right to be watching strangers in a play
in this strangest of theatres?
What childishness is it that while there’s a breath of life
in our bodies, we are determined to rush
to see the sun the other way around?
The tiniest green hummingbird in the world?
To stare at some inexplicable old stonework,
inexplicable and impenetrable,
at any view,
instantly seen and always, always delightful?
Oh, must we dream our dreams
and have them, too?
And have we room
for one more folded sunset, still quite warm?
But surely it would have been a pity
not to have seen the trees along this road,
really exaggerated in their beauty,
not to have seen them gesturing
like noble pantomimists, robed in pink.
–Not to have had to stop for gas and heard
the sad, two-noted, wooden tune
of disparate wooden clogs
carelessly clacking over
a grease-stained filling-station floor.
(In another country the clogs would all be tested.
Each pair there would have identical pitch.)
–A pity not to have heard
the other, less primitive music of the fat brown bird
who sings above the broken gasoline pump
in a bamboo church of Jesuit baroque:
three towers, five silver crosses.
–Yes, a pity not to have pondered,
blurr’dly and inconclusively,
on what connection can exist for centuries
between the crudest wooden footwear
and, careful and finicky,
the whittled fantasies of wooden footwear
and, careful and finicky,
the whittled fantasies of wooden cages.
–Never to have studied history in
the weak calligraphy of songbirds’ cages.
–And never to have had to listen to rain
so much like politicians’ speeches:
two hours of unrelenting oratory
and then a sudden golden silence
in which the traveller takes a notebook, writes:
“Is it lack of imagination that makes us come
to imagined places, not just stay at home?
Or could Pascal have been not entirely right
about just sitting quietly in one’s room?
Continent, city, country, society:
the choice is never wide and never free.
And here, or there . . . No. Should we have stayed at home,
wherever that may be?”

(photos via: cup of jo )