I began reading "Child of God" last night. Words. That f***ing McCarthy sure has them--and he knows how to use them. It is an easy book to read. Short chapters. Vignettes, really, linked by character and plot but more by tone and mood and atmosphere. I'll give Franco credit. He captured much of the novel's feel. His translation is practically literal. Critics should read the novel before they write about the movie maybe. If Franco is going to be criticized for anything, it needs to be his choice of trying to film literature. Who's ever gotten that right?
I had dinner with my mother again on Sunday, two nights in a row--her birth week, I guess. I am a beaten fellow right now, so it hardly mattered. I skipped brunch with my buddy earlier in the day. I'm not much use for anything right now.
After dinner, I took a detour and drove down the Boulevard. Sunday night had hardly diminished its foot traffic. Beautiful people dressed in beautiful things, bundled up as southerners do against the cold, fashionable coats and scarves and hats and boots. My own hometown has been transformed, but sometimes I look and think, yes, maybe it isn't so bad. I had a camera but couldn't make myself stop and get out of the car and take pictures on a picture-perfect holiday night. I did not feel one of them.
At the last light of the Boulevard, the sky became visible, clear and cold, the stars shimmering above the oak trees, falling away beyond the fairways of the country club and across the city's lakes. I turned east, then south, and drove a parallel road back the way I'd come seeing the decorative lights and the light of storefronts across the park. The tent that housed the ice skating rink had a large plastic window so that I could look in to see the skaters inside. The little rink was crowded and awkward, a kind of slow motion folk ballet. Further south on the lakeside road, the college quiet now, the still water reflecting the night.
It had been dark a long while when I got home, but it was still early. I was tired, but it was too soon for that. I opened the laptop computer on the dining room table and looked for emails that were not there. I decided to make a soundtrack for the movie that wasn't available. You can try it here.
I had dinner with my mother again on Sunday, two nights in a row--her birth week, I guess. I am a beaten fellow right now, so it hardly mattered. I skipped brunch with my buddy earlier in the day. I'm not much use for anything right now.
After dinner, I took a detour and drove down the Boulevard. Sunday night had hardly diminished its foot traffic. Beautiful people dressed in beautiful things, bundled up as southerners do against the cold, fashionable coats and scarves and hats and boots. My own hometown has been transformed, but sometimes I look and think, yes, maybe it isn't so bad. I had a camera but couldn't make myself stop and get out of the car and take pictures on a picture-perfect holiday night. I did not feel one of them.
At the last light of the Boulevard, the sky became visible, clear and cold, the stars shimmering above the oak trees, falling away beyond the fairways of the country club and across the city's lakes. I turned east, then south, and drove a parallel road back the way I'd come seeing the decorative lights and the light of storefronts across the park. The tent that housed the ice skating rink had a large plastic window so that I could look in to see the skaters inside. The little rink was crowded and awkward, a kind of slow motion folk ballet. Further south on the lakeside road, the college quiet now, the still water reflecting the night.
It had been dark a long while when I got home, but it was still early. I was tired, but it was too soon for that. I opened the laptop computer on the dining room table and looked for emails that were not there. I decided to make a soundtrack for the movie that wasn't available. You can try it here.
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