The tree lights* are blinking, and this is the third night in a row I've been able to sit by a fire. I am not sure that either Nick Cave, Kate Bush, or Godsmack are especially wintry, but that's been the soundtrack for the last few hours. I only wish it were snowing.
By way of an early holiday present, I took my brother and his fiancée to see Wim Wenders' Wings of Desire (Der Himmel über Berlin) at the now-endangered Brattle Theatre last night—and there met up with![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
nineweaving—and I think it went over well with everyone. I love that film. Half the time I think it's entirely pretentious, but that doesn't stop me from loving it. It's beautifully filmed, simultaneously theatrical and cinematic, and all the characters have terrific faces. (Plus, Peter Falk.) True to form, it's the other angel—Cassiel, who does not choose to become mortal—who has always interested me, perhaps because he's less identifiable for the audience. Damiel's reasons for transformation are human: restlessness, desire, what it's like to feel time pass, what it's like to have choices and to change, so that we understand him even as an angel. Cassiel's priorities, conversely, are all those of a recording angel. He is an assiduous observer of Berlin. In the same way that Damiel watches the beautiful trapeze artist, Cassiel follows an old storyteller: history, not love, catches his attention. He's not detached: he cries out when he cannot prevent a suicide. At the moment when Damiel chooses to descend, to come into life and someday to die, Cassiel holds the transitioning angel in his arms like a fallen comrade. But he seems entirely disinterested in the experience of mortality. I don't know if there is anything he would want enough to descend for. Maybe, at least in Wim Wenders' world, that's the difference between angels and humans. Eternity is a closed system. Desire is of the world.
< / critical essay >
Mythic Delirium #13, meanwhile, arrived in my mailbox today: it contains my poems "Not the Song of Briseis" and "Ibis, Scribe," and many other fine pieces beside. Constance Cooper's "How the Sea People Mourn," Jaida Jones' "Les Berceaux," Karen R. Porter's "Even Old Ogres Must Pass," Gary Every's "Inuit Sky," and Yoon Ha Lee's "Lacunae" particularly took my interest; Catherynne M. Valente also contributes something of a stylistic departure, "The Queen of Hearts," full of black and red queens, stolen hearts, and crow-black trickster knaves. Run out and get a subscription. Mythic Delirium has recently parted ways with DNA Publications, and needs all the love and support it can get. Besides, you get cool covers by Tim Mullins. Not to be missed.
I close with a salutation from one of my mother's friends: "Merry Christmas, Happy Hanukkah, sensational solstice, stupendous saturnalia, bodacious buddha enlightenment day, and whatever other holidays you choose to celebrate."
I think more people need to celebrate Bodacious Buddha Enlightenment Day. Who's with me?
*See discussion here.
By way of an early holiday present, I took my brother and his fiancée to see Wim Wenders' Wings of Desire (Der Himmel über Berlin) at the now-endangered Brattle Theatre last night—and there met up with
nineweaving—and I think it went over well with everyone. I love that film. Half the time I think it's entirely pretentious, but that doesn't stop me from loving it. It's beautifully filmed, simultaneously theatrical and cinematic, and all the characters have terrific faces. (Plus, Peter Falk.) True to form, it's the other angel—Cassiel, who does not choose to become mortal—who has always interested me, perhaps because he's less identifiable for the audience. Damiel's reasons for transformation are human: restlessness, desire, what it's like to feel time pass, what it's like to have choices and to change, so that we understand him even as an angel. Cassiel's priorities, conversely, are all those of a recording angel. He is an assiduous observer of Berlin. In the same way that Damiel watches the beautiful trapeze artist, Cassiel follows an old storyteller: history, not love, catches his attention. He's not detached: he cries out when he cannot prevent a suicide. At the moment when Damiel chooses to descend, to come into life and someday to die, Cassiel holds the transitioning angel in his arms like a fallen comrade. But he seems entirely disinterested in the experience of mortality. I don't know if there is anything he would want enough to descend for. Maybe, at least in Wim Wenders' world, that's the difference between angels and humans. Eternity is a closed system. Desire is of the world.< / critical essay >
Mythic Delirium #13, meanwhile, arrived in my mailbox today: it contains my poems "Not the Song of Briseis" and "Ibis, Scribe," and many other fine pieces beside. Constance Cooper's "How the Sea People Mourn," Jaida Jones' "Les Berceaux," Karen R. Porter's "Even Old Ogres Must Pass," Gary Every's "Inuit Sky," and Yoon Ha Lee's "Lacunae" particularly took my interest; Catherynne M. Valente also contributes something of a stylistic departure, "The Queen of Hearts," full of black and red queens, stolen hearts, and crow-black trickster knaves. Run out and get a subscription. Mythic Delirium has recently parted ways with DNA Publications, and needs all the love and support it can get. Besides, you get cool covers by Tim Mullins. Not to be missed.
I close with a salutation from one of my mother's friends: "Merry Christmas, Happy Hanukkah, sensational solstice, stupendous saturnalia, bodacious buddha enlightenment day, and whatever other holidays you choose to celebrate."
I think more people need to celebrate Bodacious Buddha Enlightenment Day. Who's with me?
*See discussion here.
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