What does “The Froth of Days” “Mood Indigo” and “A Streetcar named desire” have in common? The tinge of hope. The splendor of dreaming violets, with a racing scent speeding into the periwinkle skies. The welcoming pleasure within a garden of silken fleurs du sucre vanille.
When I saw an enchanting yet slightly perturbed wisp of melancholy in a photo called Ecume des jours? I began to discover the book by Boris Vian called “The Froth of Daydreams” In this photo titled “Ecume des jours” I was wont to ponder this photo collage of an Asian woman as the main feature in a collage dream like state, where flora and fauna was superimposed as her mind-cranial sacral area of her head.
I shall try to describe it? Inside of this almost park which was cropped into her hair was the man whom wandered within a garden mirrored all betwixt the parts which made up her silhouette. (If I could I would post it here, but I do not have permission from the artist.) As if women were trying to discover and recover her true nature. Don’t we all feel a bit Frankenstein?
It got my mind to wander into this novel called “The Froth of Days” The title of the photo I meandered onto, on FB by a person named Astral Vibes. I really love the poetic sensuality all encompassed in the title. Alas? What is the thread like Hawaiian leis of orchids which link these 3 themes above. “The Froth of Days” “Mood Indigo” and “A Streetcar named desire” ?
Does anyone ever reminisce about Vivian Leigh in A Streetcar named desire, when she says things like ” I depend upon the kindness of strangers” in her genteel fragile imaginary paradigm. How she may be busted flat in Baton Rouge but she can muster up a dull copper penny for a Chinese lantern made of paper to shield herself from the brutal bright, raw piercing light of a mere barbaric bulb.
As if Stanley himself were that animal like villain, brutish bare and incongruous bulb, which she must curry favor with to no avail. She feels more comfortable in the secrets of the shadows. Of course we adore Marlon Brando strangely in his obscene yet clothed masculinity. There shall never be another king whom became a man as he. Alas, he is the sun itself in all it’s unabashed inferno.
It’s uncharted and inflamed pure madness itself which drew Icarus to burn its winged dream. Be wary of too much light impure. Perhaps the perfect women is 1/2 Blanche and 1/2 Stella? Stella which means stars. The sun is the brightest star and if not for the pink moon of night? All teal tinged froth azure, would become singed, and all flowers burned.
Stanley: That’s pearls, Stella, ropes of ‘em. What is your sister – a deep sea diver?
The indirect shade, so forgiving. So lush. The underlying mood and sincerity of those whom are ill is what Blanche speaks of, evokes a sapphire mood indigo. Mood Indigo, the languid and bittersweet blue with its absence of light. The absence of glaring and burning golden fire. Flowers seem to burst either in the magic of dawn after a the earth has its mystical sleep? Or, at twilight when in a grand flourish gust of music buds begin to blossom. The sweetness of the earths imagination. Perhaps flowers are the kindest strangers whom always invite one to ponder beauty.
When I think of Mood Indigo, it is one mood where we begin in a doldrums of doubt. Perhaps a hope dashed? A love unrequited. Then for a moment, the heart takes a vacation from its heartache and begins to daydream? Here perhaps begins the recipe for escape. Dreams chase the tail of the Cheshire cat, yet we need the sparkling glimmer of inspiration to spark us onto new passions? If we have enough faith we might pounce upon one of our daydreams to make them real. This brings me to this novel called “The Froth of Days” described here:
Some how? There is no space, but only love betwixt the ocean and the sky.
The flood of clouds as effervescent as seltzery music. The horizon makes an algebraic impossible equation. The two azure atmospheric phenomenons of oceans and skies are one. There is no space in between the cerulean bodies except an eclipse of froth like frosting. Such spinning is the levity of love. It’s as if the angels have been baking and the mixologists potions stirring.