Snapshots from July 28th, 2011

Published on 07/30/11 at 09:47:28 pm using 378 words.

I’ve had fun here. Fun with cameras, coffee n’ whipped cream and lights. I’ve delighted in the mirror-topped round tables. I’ve gone into screening rooms here. Once, to watch Synechdoche, New York while A. obligingly hung out by himself for the running time. And later, to watch Lixo Extraordinário (Waste Land) and feel comfortable crying only after ascertaining that the stranger sitting next to me was too. Ever natural and odd, this discomfort with crying

This time, I just sat there for half an hour with my coffee and cream, notebook in hand, jotting down random thoughts. I saw a beautiful little girl in a red dress and chanel bob haircut. A veritable forget-me-not to my Agnes. An unexpected glimmer of hope in the seemingly limitless sea of aesthetic mediocrity…

…in front of her a woman dressed in baggy trousers barely reaching the knees, as was the fashion that year. The outfit seemed to make her behind even heavier and closer to the ground. Her bare, pale calves resembled a pair of rustic pitchers decorated by varicose veins entwined like a ball of tiny blue snakes. Agnes said to herself: that woman could have found a dozen outfits that would have covered her bluish veins and made her behind less monstrous. Why hadn’t she done so? Not only have people stopped trying to be attractive when they are out among other people, but they are no longer even trying not to look ugly!

She said to herself: when once [sic] the onslaught of ugliness became completely unbearable, she would go to a florist and buy a forget-me-not, a single forget-me-not, a slender stalk with miniature blue flowers. She would go out into the street holding the flower before her eyes, staring at it tenaciously so as to see only that single beautiful blue point, to see it as the last thing she wanted to preserve for herself from a world she had ceased to love.

(immortality - Milan Kundera)

And so the memories pile up, little things that get fastened to places, petit plaisirs (à la Amélie Poulain), that get discovered and repeated to dependable delight.

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