The brief promotional materials said it had something to do with Chekhov’s “Three Sisters.” I had hopes it would be live theater and that maybe Krymov would appear, if only remotely—he seems to have a new play in New York to promote—or that a scholar of theater or Slavic studies might be there to explain what was going on.
I have no hesitation declaring “To Be or Not to Be” perhaps the greatest film of all time, nor should anyone else. That is not written for effect. I mean it, both in emphasis and a level of insistent aggression that, if you have not seen it, stop what you are doing and watch it forthwith.
I felt strong, refusing the Barbie color. But I denied myself too lavishly.
Given David Holthouse’s quest in ‘Sasquatch,’ he himself is the subject of one of my old, scarcely believable memories. This memory is not potent enough to send me on an investigation worthy of a documentary series, but the coincidence spurs me at least to commit it to writing.
‘Perfect Days’ (2023), directed by Wim Wenders, challenges us, starting with its title, to consider what it means to live an enlightened, fulfilled life.
Somewhere between pages 25 and 30, showcasing my daughter’s fourth-grade photo and Christmas of 2015, the images cease, as if my photo album took a different route from my own at some mysterious fork in time. Somehwere between the physical world and the ether of the digital, years slipped away, as if they never took form.
Through centuries of existence, in a multitude of translations, and in myriad versions and bindings, the Bible has never mustered victory in any battle besides sheer force of influence. Even then, and up against all the glories and benefits its believers promise, it still finds plenty of ways to fall short. Put both of those qualities together, and you get a book everyone should read, even in taxpayer-funded public schools.
How this volume of six hundred pages of Kazakh poetry landed in a town library in St. Louis’ Metro East is a mystery, but it has met its goal.
What Turner’s remarkable painting of that long-ago night in London reminds us, though, is that if fire’s wrath is not ours to contain, it will always remain dormant and waiting for our homage, whether framed or not.
I wrote this little memoir in the spirit of a Cupid, hoping someone out there hears me and tries this out and buys some lonely person who looks like they can really cook their groceries and they cook you dinner and in fact they can really cook well. Dinner together is delicious, and you take it from there, hopefully, expectantly, both of you taking your chances on love and food.