Espero alegre la salida y espero no volver jamás

Best scene I've seen in a movie recently: in Julie Taymor's Frida (2002), when Kahlo glimpses over her shoulder in a barroom mirror a cowled figure whose face is the carved wooden mask of a calavera, the skulls who grin through the Day of the Dead; and then she turns and there is the same figure at a table behind her, only the face is human, with strong old bones and cropped silver hair and a voice like a dry riverbed, singing about La Llorona, the weeping woman. Yo soy como el chile verde, Llorona—picante pero sabroso. You cannot tell their gender: Death is not so simply classified. It's breathstopping. And then I came home and looked up the singer and discovered she was Chavela Vargas, who was born in 1919 and had an affair with the historical Frida and is still alive and performing as recently as 2006. And that is awesome.

(By which you may understand that I am home and once again observing Movie Night with Viking Zen. I don't plan to go anywhere that isn't within walking distance—at most, a subway—for at least a little while.)