Anne Francis stars in Forbidden Planet

Most of the last twenty-four hours were composed densely of fail, to the point that in self-defense I purchased a pound each of pistachio and almond flour and the book on Francis Bacon I had been eyeing for some weeks now at Raven Used Books; this is an accidental conjunction. I do not have the skills required to bake a meringue in the shape of a scream-streaked Pope, much as I'm now curious to do so. I met nineweaving at Burdick's, read a poem by John Stallworthy. It rained drearily and a passerby with an importunate umbrella tried to knock off my hat. The evening, thank God, involved dim sum and Forbidden Planet (1956), which I watched with Eric et al. for the first time since high school. Robby the Robot. Morbius—a philologist: knowing I loved my books—in his unconscious magician's black. Electronic tonalities, theremin and tape loops: the sonic landscape of science fiction that we now take for granted. I love J. Michael Straczynski, but I can't imagine what the projected remake will look like. By a similar token, while I am looking forward immensely to Julie Taymor's take on The Tempest, I do not understand Prospera. If Cate Blanchett can out-Dylan Zimmerman and Tilda Swinton illumine Gabriel and Orlando, Helen Mirren should make a magnificent Prospero, damn the pronouns and full speed ahead. This is Shakespeare. It comes with built-in genderfuck. At least I have the filmed War Requiem (1988) to look forward to, if I can find a region-free DVD player. Benjamin Britten by Derek Jarman with Wilfred Owen besides. thomasfreund, I'm looking at you. These are the chains my brain runs in: I can't fall asleep before I free-associate another link, but at least I can stop typing.