I spin so ceaselessly

Today was busy. I saw mrbelm for a book handoff at the Diesel. I saw Matthew in between errands. I saw Dean for lunch at Sofra. (Score one for the lamb shawarma with tahini yogurt.) I saw two episodes of Millennium with lesser_celery. (Hence the Patti Smith.) I saw the newly restored print of William Wellman's Wings (1927) at the Brattle Theatre with derspatchel, a bottle of rose lemonade, and some chocolate with cornflakes in. And then I came home to collapse.

And I saw Sofia Samatar's post on Stone Telling and Alan Turing.

And I saw that time_shark wants my Charon (sap) poem for Mythic Delirium, although it will need a proper title before it sees print.

I'm still collapsing, but I'm in a pretty good mood.

Some strange music draws me in

No. n+∞ in the list of people I can't believe I didn't know about: Raymond Scott, electronic music mad scientist pioneer of the '50's and '60's, who collaborated on experimental films with Jim Henson, built his own synthesizers and sequencers—analog—and named them things like the Electronium, Bandito the Bongo Artist, and Karloff, and is well-known by melody if you've ever watched Warner Bros. cartoons.

On our way back from Rodney's and the Dosa Factory, rushthatspeaks decided to introduce me to Weirdo Records. The first thing that resolved itself out of the racks of mostly unfamiliar music (an unusual experience for me) was a two-CD copy of Manhattan Research Inc., sitting next to an anthology of popular music from Singapore. I had no idea what I was looking at. I turned the case over and saw Henson's name. I read on with growing amazement. (I showed it to Rush, who had a similar reaction.) I left it, of course, because it was not cheap, and now I suspect it of being the sort of thing I will never see again and which will possibly no longer exist the next time I look for it. But I am still very impressed.

I did get a book of portraits by Angus McBean. Here's Christopher Fry, the year The Lady's Not for Burning ran on Broadway. Here's Emlyn Williams, resting on his not exactly laurels. Spike Milligan under glass. Elsa Lanchester, post-Bride. Jaw-droppingly sultry Quentin Crisp. I didn't know the artist's name, but I recognized the pictures. (Oh, look, it's the famous photograph of Benjamin Britten. Why am I not surprised?) What I can't find online is his double portrait of Tilda Swinton and Derek Jarman, shoulder-to-shoulder like a thought glittering out of the darkened double-exposure of Jarman's head. Black-and-white, 1987. It looks like a dissolve from some film of the 1930's, except that I know those faces. I bought the book for it as much as for Robert Helpmann's Hamlet, lost in his words, or Binkie Beaumont, pulling the strings.

(The major portion of his work is at Harvard? Excuse me; field trip.)

Tonight I am watching Le Samouraï (1967) with Alison. That will be something completely different.