I've overdosed. On literary flavors tickling my brain, and lay in a comatose with this update.
The first venture was to the San Francisco Public Library big annual book sale. My stacks runneth over, after spending Friday lost in the currents of the warehouse sale. I had no idea. Saturday, with lists in tact, we charged forth. Mostly, writerly books and old classics (that's right, I didn't have a copy of Don Quixote or the Moscow postcards I went home with).
But by far, the surprise of this summertime weather and bookstore joy, was Howl, the new movie from the documentary film makers who did The Life & Times of Harvey Milk. It's previewing this weekend in Berkeley, New York, and San Francisco of course. I caught it at the Kabuki last night and it was a great surprise for my soul. I went on the ride of a poem, a love letter to the artist, a simple story of how the poem came to be - juxtaposed to Ginsberg's entry into poetry and the trial Ferlinghetti was placed in for publishing the works.
I was moved several times in watching the film, to parts I related to and to the spirit and rhythm of words and art on the screen. I was reminded of my captivation with words - not only of my brain, but of my soul. They are the beat of our hearts and our times and knit images of beauty to allow me to absorb misery in color and the color in misery.
So I'd like to thank the Howl filmmakers. For a story on the artist's journey, that made it all simply human and simply heavenly at the same time - just as it is.
It was a nice inspiration as we head towards a turn of season...
nta
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