Category Archives: Spirits

los | The Cynic Sang: The (Un)Official Blog of the William Blake Archive

The William Blake Archive is pleased to announce the publication of electronic editions of The Song of Los copies C and E, from the Morgan Library and Museum and the Huntington Library and Art Gallery respectively. They join copies A and D from the British Museum and copy B from the Library of Congress, giving the Archive five of the six extant copies of this illuminated book.

The eight plates of The Song of Los were produced in 1795; all extant copies (A-F) were color printed in that year in a single pressrun. Divided into sections entitled “Africa” and “Asia,” The Song of Los is the last of Blake’s “Continental Prophecies” (see also America [1793] and Europe [1794], exemplary printings of which are in the Archive). Blake abandons direct references to contemporary events to pursue the junctures among biblical narrative, the origins of law and religion, and his own developing mythology. Adam, Noah, Socrates, Brama, Los, Urizen, and several others represent both historical periods and states of consciousness. The loose narrative structure reaches towards a vision of universal history ending with apocalyptic resurrection.

via los | The Cynic Sang: The (Un)Official Blog of the William Blake Archive.


AH HOLE AH HOLE: “What is a Caul?”

“What is a Caul?””a caul is a portion of the amniotic sac which clings to an infant as it is being born. As a result, the child is born either entirely or partially still inside the amniotic sac, which often forms a veil over the infant’s face. Historically, cauls were the subject of many superstitions; someone who is born with a caul is known as a caulbearer. Statistically, about one in 1,000 babies is born with a caul, and this number is often lower in developed nations due to routine interventions in the labor and delivery process.”

via AH HOLE AH HOLE: “What is a Caul?”.

Godammit, I’m Mad! » Religion and the Yoruba according to Sister Wolf.

I can’t wait for my hate fans to eat up my new passion, which is reading the angry Sister Wolf’s blog called Godammit I’m Mad! I am so entertained, refreshed and my soul is strangely exfoliated and the epidermal existence of my everlasting “CAUL”  is nourished.

The Caul, I was so-called born with, according to my father, Voodoo Daddy. 

Is there a “Cauler-ID” for mystical face veils.  What the hell is she talking about!  Well, A caul is a thin membrane of transparent skin that is shimmering like star stuff.   So-called, once in a blue moon babies are born with.  The birth of a child with a caul is a sigil that your child might be able to possess psychic abilities :according to local legends in New Orleans and others.  A folk legend, that just might  originate in Africa and the threads of voodoo practices, brought to America by the earliest Africans.

A right-wing henchman might call it an ET jelly you put, when you put those “Please behave and act normal electrodes on your temples!  What I find so interesting about right-wing angry people is that ?  They have a sort of “imagination cloud computing”  domain which incorporates and encompasses all issues which just don’t fit into their allopathic search and destroy algorhymes.  This category is the Science Fiction anything goes, as long as it’s kept in outer space.  It’s ok if it’s wierd and kinky because it’s just Science Fiction and I can keep all my “don’t make sense” emotions and universal questions about life there!   The lovely banished untouchable deliciousness of that icloud chocolate space box!   Just like I need to work out my abs?  They need to work out their imaginations, and take a whorl on the magical mystery tour of the Yoruba’s!  It opens of my mind and thank you Sister Wolf!

But, for us magically romantic sods?  A mystical caul, is in olden New Orleans’ days: A sign that your child will be touched by the spiritual realms and just know shit for no reason, without any particular social skills.  It’s kind of like a pesticide for warding off paranoid smiling people!  The smiling people that fear, you might say something knowing and make them VERY uncomfortable.  My former boss, she once said to me.  ” You know Fumiko?  You scare people, you know?  You don’t realize it but you seem to just know things that you don’t realize that you know or what they are connected to and this scares people”  I promptly said that “As long as it scares you and keeps you as far away from me as possible and that I get a bigger pay check?  You can call me a Voodoo baby” 

She laughed and believe me, you needed a magical potion to keep this women from beginning to chomp on your elbow or eat your eyeballs.  There is no scarier revenge of the bitten, as my once upon a time Lady Mobster Boss!  All, I can say is that Terrence Stamp said that perhaps’ he would visit us and have a spot’ of tea…. when he had a bit more courage and some black widow repellant” !  I have to admit, I was always a bit jealous of her power to incinerate everyone’s egos.  But, Sister Wolf might hunt me down and scourge me, but it will be worth it!  Her blog is so great and I love her mind. She is amazing.  I could never articulate the ideology of international “ancestor worship” as she is able to here.  Her blog in general is capital “R” for Ranting, galloping marvelous. You know when people tell “their” truths?  It is so very necessary and cosmic. It has a cathartic omnipotent Zen potion beyond compare.  So Thank you Sister Wolf!  A great compliment to my at times messy soul blog which rambles in no amoeba direction as of late.  I know she at heart is a deeply romantic soul with very thick armor!  She will need it, in her blazing trails into the bullshit of life that she reports, nothing but her truths and that takes a lot of guts. Thank you Sister Wolf for “not allowing” me to reprint this great piece on the Yoruba religion. 

© Jack Bell GalleryIn the ever-changing world of the Yoruba people of southwestern Nigeria, one thing that remains consistent is a close connection with their ancestors. The ancestral spirits of the Yoruba are much more than just dead relatives, they play an active role in the daily life of the living. They are sought out for protection and guidance, and are believed to possess the ability to punish those who have forgotten their familial ties. While there are numerous ways the ancestors communicate with the living, one of the most unique is their manifestation on earth in the form of masked spirits known as Egungun.The Yoruba believe that the transition from the realm of the living to the abode of the dead is not finite. It is just part of what African author Wole Soyinka describes as the “cyclical reality” of the “Yoruba world-view”. Each person comes to this life from the world of the unborn, through the “abyss of transition.” And each will leave again through this archetypal realm, as they make they way to the world of the ancestors.When a child comes into this world, he or she is said to carry with them aspects of a former ancestor who is reborn in the child. This is not to say they are the ancestor reincarnate, but that there are certain features of their personality and elements of inborn knowledge that come from a previous relative. When the time comes to leave this earth, it is not the end of their existence either. Yoruba scholar Bòlaji Idowu explains: “Death is not the end of life. It is only a means whereby the present earthly existence is changed for another. After death, therefore, man passes into a ‘life beyond’ which is called Èhìn-ÃŒwà —‘After-Life’”To be remembered is to be kept alive; to remain within the Sasa period, which is the realm of the living, the unborn and the ancestors.Once an ancestor has been forgotten, they simply slip into the vast expanse of the Zamani, where the gods, divinities and spirits dwell. As long as an ancestor remains within the Sasa period, they have the ability to help those here on earth, because the living-dead are bilingual: they speak the language of men, with whom they lived until ‘recently’; and they speak the language of the spirits and of God, to Whom they are drawing nearer ontologically. In exchange for being ritually remembered, the living-dead watch over the family and can be contacted for advice and guidance.

via Godammit, I’m Mad! » Religion.

Diagnosis: Ecume des jours

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.

This slideshow requires JavaScript.

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: 

Froth on the Daydream
Book by Boris Vian
Froth on the Daydream is a 1947 novel by the French author Boris Vian. It tells the story of a man who marries a woman, who develops an illness that can only be treated by surrounding her with flowers. Wikipedia
Flowers are the stuff of angels.  Warm yet never scorching.  A bridge of hope in their inviting rejuvenating nature.  I would love to see this film and be healed with flowers.  Roses remind me that in the dense, damp, musky earth, so gravity leaden with geologic granite and fibrous bark of trees? That there is music which the melancholy planet speaks.  There is suddenly a counter force which defies the mundane. Suddenly there is poetry in spite of the  existentialist rancor of stony abyss. Roses!  Spring itself defies all logic. What is it that suddenly renews our little planet with chirping sudden blossoms and greenery supreme. Spring is nature falling in love. It dares to rise above hopelessness. About logic. All that was old is again renewed.  For me this is the froth of days.  Just as the most weary soul is suddenly revived by a 4 o’clock cappuccino.  The magic of meringue. The uplifting roar of caffeine. Those bewitching spells of molecules which send the spirit to rise above the mundane.  It is for this reason that I have devoted my life to the  the grande dame,  “Lady Camellia.”  Chanel grew enchanted by camellias as did Dumas.  In the secrets of the blossoms?  All the fairies know the humble yet powerful elixir of the camellias, which is Camellia Sinesis.  Camellia Sinesis of all the cultivars in the plethora of these round many radiating petals so perfectly curved is the most humble of all.  The ugly duckling in fact of their kind, which alone like Cinderella majestically becomes the life flowing healing within its leaves and blossoms.
It is where water and sky are sipped and we are suddenly revived. How brave is hope within a rose?  How daring it is to appear in the most scoundrel of vacant rubbish lots.  In Mexico, the virgin Mary is reputed to have shown her divinity by causing roses to grow in the most barren land, in order to prove that there is always powerful unseen forces at work upon Mother earth. I can’t wait to see this movie Ecume Des Jours but I shall buy the book as well. To be under the spell of which only beautiful blossoms can break the calcification of a hardened heart.  We witness perhaps God’s alchemical healing. Flowers are the rainbows of the earth after frightful storms.
  Most fearful matters of life according to Zen is merely transformation and celebration or resistance to change and the trail of thorns it entails.  If we refuse to add the creme of tartar of wisdom or the sparkles of salty wit in soda?  These most basic ingredients in life make the Willy Wonka Chocolate factory bubble. If we go to sleep each night with hate?  We are not a garden where fragrant little bells of ivory Muguet lilies can grow, but a twisted bramble inside of acidic honks, squeaks and squawks. It’s as if not following mother natures recipes in stubborn foolishness we become lead balloons!
Then the little squirrels and winged creatures can sense our metallic bitterness and scamper away to where the sun and the moon waltz.  I too am sick with the disease of which only flowers can cure.

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.

Théâtre Rambouillet Ecume des jours.

francesca galliani – asia

Once upon a time there was a Buddha….

francesca galliani – asia.


the depth of significance is unimaginable. La Petit Dragonette

Why to fast and pray?

Wolf Suschitzky, Tenements London, 1936

This photo makes me draw a line of unbroken chalk back to the Victorian era of extreme poverty for the Irish like perhaps my Grandmother was. In My favorite book called The Tea Rose?  A woman of substance emerges in spite of astounding obstacles.

Why do we fast and pray?  I think a lot about these artful ways to become closer to the source.  To petition the Lord with prayer strangely reminds me of the song by THE DOORS.  “You cannot petition the Lord with prayer”  the stern Jim Morrison exclaims or is it as women’s voice?  I can’t recall.  Yet?  The poor and the most starving often are the most inventive, resilient and triumphant. Out of the magic hat of poverty languid birds fly thru the air like a Chanel shawl made of sweet soft feathers.  The imagination is our most dizzying and valuable asset.  Why would the idle rich awaited to simply be served and entertained need use of this precious commodity.

I would like not to be so poor, yet I am!

The poor like the hungered petitioner to God seeks grace. During a fast we no longer depend upon even our imagination.  We stop to acknowledge even this too, never belonged simply to us.  An immaculate pop korn machine with seeds germinated by divine fire. We are driven to the brink of the essentials. It staggers the mind.  We close all the web pages and erase our surfing history during a fast.  Particle theory and synapses play the cosmic maracas and whistle the hearts harmonics.  If scientists have proven that trees with branches of neurons and electric blossoms take place when we think?  If it takes a plethora of brain mapping to build a new habit, hence we are groggy and foggy until these internal routes are laid.  Perhaps fasting primes the divine canvass for heavens hands to paint?

We live in a time where we are Gods, and like a typical CEO he blames all of his underlings anytime there is an error. Our thoughts are only our own or are they?  Once upon a time in China….  If one man had a prophetic dream whilst asleep?  Another could buy his dream and sell it to the Emperor. Dreams were actual substantial viscera. Do our thoughts think us or do we think them?  During a fast I find that it cleans up all the open webpages and cleans up the registry.  During prayer isn’t it possible that we invest in the collective consciousness or great mind of all minds forming routes to and from divinity.

How truly rich are those closest to the immeasurable imagination of God.

This slideshow requires JavaScript.

Le blog de SoVeNa » Clarence John Laughlin

I was just thinking about how my Father loved New Orleans.  The stories he would share about being stationed there during the army for training. What a place to do your hardcore survivor stunts. He spoke about being paired up with a wonderful fella who also had relatives in the Hoosier Appalachians.  They dined with crocodiles.  My Father was raised with all chefs, cooks and musicians from New Orleans and La. ad nauseum where the trinity means “bell peppers, onions and….”

 How I remember him telling me that his army buddy and him to dropped from where Jimi Hendrix kissed the sky into the backwoods somewhere in La.  They had to survive for two months on literally zero.  You cannot imagine having a Dad who was an Army Sargent.  He would say if you don’t clean up your room you gonna have to hunt down a gofer and eat it for dinner.  In fact if you don’t catch one and skin it?  No pancakes on Sunday.  I fainted.

During the real survivor mode, not the TV series, I shudder with pride and amazement.  They lived eating skunks, crocodiles, bobcats, snakes, bees, bark, berries, insects and managed to show up Daniel Boon and the Last of Mohawks.  Two months!

After the ordeal of sleeping in the swamps?  His army buddy said now your gonna meet my kin.  Oh boy!  I treasure my Fathers stories.  I’m sure they could make a novella vignette of short films.

One story that stands out is not the boxing in the brigs but the dances.  The beautiful ladies that got gussied up for meet and greets.  My Father said you walked into the barn and it had a distinct smell of apricot pies, crystalline sugary glistening pale ecru cookies.  Cherry gobsmacking candies and the haunting smell of twirling fish and duck swimming in a lusty gumbo.  Strangely haunting there was no pickled okra?  There was no paled lace cuffs handing you pecan pies?  Where did the elusive smell of  overstuffed orchid pods hail from?  The sweet music of vanilla.

Like the ghost of  bakery sweets there were no buttery sins.  My Father asked Antoine what is this sweet heart beat that scents the skies and lacquers the barn walls?  Antoine laid out the shake down. He said well Jimmy, women around these parts don’t have money for fine French perfume.  They want to show there best Sunday go meetin smiles anyway so they douse their pretty fingers with vanilla baking extract and put it behind their ears and pulse regions.  My Father smiled.  He sure could bake up a storm.

I so loved that story and it has given me courage, humor and hope all of my life.

Working in N.Y. is not all that different from being stationed in the Bermuda triangle.  Sometimes and I had my share of lemon pay cheques, which bounced like a  spicy Baton Rouge- grilled cheese sandwich, with an ice tea made of crocodile tears,  that’ll  bounce as high as the World Trade Center sadly.

Once I had  upwards of 7 pay checks that I could not cash.  I was just about to eat some cat food but thank goodness not a bob cat and the only question would be could I afford Purina or Puppy chow. My credit cards were going into debt and I could no longer afford health insurance payments. I show up for work and she runs off with the dough.  I smiled all day as I slung around the Pheonix oolong to Temi, Sikkim, Darjeeling  tea leaves with the Buddha  statues smiling and her cash register singing.  I gave up my good job at the Metropolitan Museum for a Royal Scam.  The good news is that I can sling tea leaves like Jessie James and Wyatt Herb too and this experience has given me strength of paying dues no business school could ever compare.  Still a gal friday’s gotta eat.  My pride and Japanese loyalty has either nearly gotten me killed but most of all awful hungry cooking school is next!

All the while I knew I would never get lunch nor have money for dinner. She would proclaim, my hard knock employer that times were hard and she could give my job easily to someone who would work 10x as hard and for 10x less!  That there were starving people from countries that had to eat human beings like Chikatilla!  How I feel for those emigrants like my Mother whom come to America to get abused by unscrupulous employers.

I remembered that if my Father could survive on eating skunks and bobcats for the free world?  I too could devise a scheme to get these damn rubber checks cashed.  When it was pay day all 20 employees would line up and growl at each other at the bank teller line.  You felt as if you were a land lubber about to walk the plank.  I had developed seriously anemia and thyroid disorders and bled profusely sometimes, but I said so what!  It’s New York, New York and I love my family beloved and were gonna eat somehow.  The best schools are here, I can starve in front of the great Rodin’s, Monets, Francis Bacons and try on diamond earrings at Bergdorfs and be fashionably skinny.

I said I know just what I am gonna do!  I went next door to the Duane Reade next to the bank with employees lined up like the Depression era soup kitchen.  I said this time it’s my turn!  She had just so much she would keep in her account and it was like Claude Van Damn in the tattoo greasy inmate crib. We had to fight to the death to eat and it was horrific. She pitted each employee against the other until we felt like we were all crazed rocky racoons.  This was how she kept control. Most of the time I just let other people cash there checks.  I know how to survive.  Not this time!  So, I said maybe If I look enchanting and oh but there is some vanilla perfume!  Vanilla extract.  I said well it can’t hurt and I opened it up and poured it in my hair and I put on lipstick like cherry pies.  I help my breath shaking and I waltzed passed the soup kitchen line aka bank teller line of tea prisoners heh heh.

I decided to pretend that I was going to get a loan.  I walked to the back of the bank and opened up my compact and checked my cherry pie red lacquer lips.  I winked at myself in the mirror and said here goes and whoah Nellie….  I sauntered past the bank manager with a trail of vanilla invisible cookies.  He looks up and says who is that, that smells like cookies and pies!  I laughed and said it was me but suddenly I was so shamed.  I looked at my friends in line who had turned into beasts.  I broke into tears and my mascara ran down the Veranzzano bridge like Kiss of the Spider woman.  I broke down and told him this cannot go on.  You have to do something about this.  He looked at me smelling like cookies so confused.

He say’s ok, Ok, I will call her.  Usually, you can see that some  tellers of lesser character relish the propects of denying you your pay.  How easy it is turn to turn people into animals and wolves.  She used to call up and say who could get paid and who could not.  This fine gentleman had character and chutzpah.  He said I am going to pay all of the employees today and hold payment on her next deposits.  My Mother used to manage Bank of America and so I said oh Mommy is giving me good luck and a crows feather in my cap of humility but also of nobility.  That day we fought for our dinners and won!  So, I say thank you to that New Orleans Vanilla perfume!

My Father played all manner of woodwinds and specialized in bebop arrangments of Parker but I loved the Italian Jazz.  The muffelatas, the Louis Prima’s and the post man who turned Sax player Sam Butera.  In the end it is the music within that we must dance to and hop scotch with to get us thru rings of fire sometimes in the Midnights of our lives of good and evil.  How my Father loved all the film and culture of New Orleans.

I must thank Le Blog de SoVeNa for this wonderful collection of Clarence.  My Dad was raised by women from New Orleans and root work from Hoodoo to Voodoo suffuses or permeated their lives. You did not have to be a witch or a Madame Laveau!  It’s simply part of the everyday culture to believe that there simply is more to life than meets the eye.  I feel that enigmatic whistling of triple worlds in Clarence’s work.  The beauty of a land rich with so many Gods’  The land was settled by French Catholics to Creole Africans and Latino rhythms.  My Father had a strange superstition about shopping in second hand or Antique stores.  He felt that the pieces had soul which lived on beyond it’s owners.  That art was impregnated with spirits. He would say for all you know I might buy a belt buckle with dragons on it from a second hand store and go home and my wife might fight me and all because of that damn belt buckle!

I’d say Daddy that’s ridiculous!  He’d say well did I ever tell you about the time….  So many stories and so little time. I will say that my Father’s favorite past time was junking it up with yard sales and antiques and the radar set to ward off spiders and insects he bought from some own twilight zone science kit sure back fired.  He was fast asleep with his third wife and they wake up and the bed was filled with spiders and bugs!  I laughed until the crows flew back to Burma.  I said, well Daddy sometimes you gotta eat humble pie and he smiled.  Better unplug that radar set and dance wearing vanilla perfume.

I love these photos so much!

Le blog de SoVeNa » Clarence John Laughlin.

No salad as a meal – Eat vicariously: Russian Caviar


Simply amazing molecular gastronomy mad science  by No Salad as a meal!

No salad as a meal – Eat vicariously: Russian Caviar.


Like a mermaid, but with 2 tails


Features Appears in European Heraldry, and a French medieval tale.


Described by A French Medieval tale- Melusine married Raymond of Poitou,  although she forbid him to see her in the bath one day out of the week.  They had children, and some of them had strange features like big teeth. One day he spied on her in the bath, and saw that she was part serpent or fish.  At this she fled, never to be seen again, but when a member of Melusine’s family dies, a dragon is said to fly over, crying.  There are different versions of this story.

via Melusine.


The Transcendentalist finally makes peace with itself about an hour in, settling into a nonsense rhythm reminiscent of another sub-prime classic you’ll have on the tip of your tongue, like the name of a minor lover you spent a long week promising to never forget on one of the more tousist-ridden Greek islands when you were eighteen and promptly didn’t write to, ever, despite wanting to. (Why didn’t you?) Gary Cooper, heretoforth vibrating with alacrity between folksy hero and weary cynic (a pendulum on which almost every Hollywood lead swings, at least if they’re not on the one that ticks on homespun innocence and tocks, unbelievably but inevitably, on genius and glory. Neither are exclusive; many character arcs greedily take in both donging devices, or an unholy mixture of both), takes sixty minutes of chewing gum (beautifully, slowly, sexily, evoking the old Wrigley’s slogan ‘Too much mastication will make you go blind’, a minor classic of inverse-advertising that made the kids chew their way through the fifties) before he ups the gears into something more, something om; He discovers a fifty-foot meta-Cooper at exactly the same time as James Agee and Dirk Langston’s script begins to sing a second simultaneous song, spreading melodic shards in many new curves; this is also the exact moment that Charles Laughton’s direction seems to twist into a new heaven, somehow capturing the exact moment that Western Philosophy meets east, causing a blissful Oz to permeate the director’s canvas/Kansas.


%d bloggers like this: