And see you, after rain, the trace of mound and ditch and wall?

I spent most of today out on errands; very uninteresting. If I dreamed last night, I don't remember it, because I slept for about three hours. But this morning, I watched Powell and Pressburger's A Canterbury Tale (1944) on TCM, and this is now a film I love. I'm not surprised that it made no impression on me when I first ran into it as a small child, because it's a weird enough piece that the most striking images—the girl with glue in her hair, the cathedral with its bells ringing out—were probably all I could fasten on at that age, and it's very likely that I didn't even see the entire movie. Now I can observe that it has that slightly cracked dreamlike quality within which exist characters who are detailedly real, and that there is genuine fucked-in-the-head around some of the edges. By me, this is a recommendation. It is a strange film.

(Cut for enthusiastic, if not entirely coherent, reactions and some spoilers. Thanks to nineweaving for listening to me.)
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