The first of the currently fifteen monarchs residing in various states in my mother's house was launched this afternoon with the assistance of the twins past whom it shot like a special effect in marigold cellophane. I walked around the neighborhood with my camera and came back heat-stunned with pictures of bees. I have some kind of reaction on my hands that obliges me to leave my rings off and without the weight my fingers feel weird. Two of them are only thirteen years old, but I have worn the third for more than twenty-five years. It's left a callus.
R.I.P. Phyllida Law. I would have seen her acting on film with both of her daughters, but had encountered her most recently through her mid-century stories of the West of England Touring Company collected in Kate Dunn's Exit Through the Fireplace: The Great Days of Rep (1998): "Because it was a fit-up company and the stages were all of different dimensions, sometimes we had to leave bits of the set off . . . Sometimes we had to extend the stage with card tables. I think Joan Plowright once went through one."
The predictable thing happened when I started to rewatch the 1979 BBC Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Spy in memoriam John Irvin: since the last time I had seen any of the serial, I had properly discovered Alexander Knox. Control was how I saw him first, that dying man shot like Hamlet's ghost in the greenish, cadaverous desk-light of secrets, but I had learned his face so many decades younger, I recognized him through the second half of the twentieth century as if through a mask. The tilt of his bones, the draw of his brows. A cold desperate hawk of a performance, it might have been the closest thing to seeing him onstage at the time.
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spatch told me about and then sent me the six-part interview that Kliph Nestoroff conducted with his next-door neighbor of recently blessed memory, radio legend Peggy Webber.
I don't know how far I agree with the results of this color-coded quiz on reading styles courtesy oftroisoiseaux, but I am entertained to be rated an Alchemist Purple. It was right that I read Le Guin and Butler and Vonnegut and Bulgakov.
R.I.P. Phyllida Law. I would have seen her acting on film with both of her daughters, but had encountered her most recently through her mid-century stories of the West of England Touring Company collected in Kate Dunn's Exit Through the Fireplace: The Great Days of Rep (1998): "Because it was a fit-up company and the stages were all of different dimensions, sometimes we had to leave bits of the set off . . . Sometimes we had to extend the stage with card tables. I think Joan Plowright once went through one."
The predictable thing happened when I started to rewatch the 1979 BBC Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Spy in memoriam John Irvin: since the last time I had seen any of the serial, I had properly discovered Alexander Knox. Control was how I saw him first, that dying man shot like Hamlet's ghost in the greenish, cadaverous desk-light of secrets, but I had learned his face so many decades younger, I recognized him through the second half of the twentieth century as if through a mask. The tilt of his bones, the draw of his brows. A cold desperate hawk of a performance, it might have been the closest thing to seeing him onstage at the time.
spatch told me about and then sent me the six-part interview that Kliph Nestoroff conducted with his next-door neighbor of recently blessed memory, radio legend Peggy Webber.I don't know how far I agree with the results of this color-coded quiz on reading styles courtesy of
troisoiseaux, but I am entertained to be rated an Alchemist Purple. It was right that I read Le Guin and Butler and Vonnegut and Bulgakov.
