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Consumed In Only Boxerbriefs

This is actually Post #2,500. I can’t fathom that, but according to the clickr it’s a fact. For seven years now this has served as my own personal notebook/ scrapbook/ journal. To continue as needed.

I’m immersed in several projects at this time, excited by them all, all in various stages of development headed for production.

Today I’m over to Tory’s for a “debriefing” after Thurs. night’s presentation for possible investors for one of those projects, which went very well. Tory (producer), Ann (actress), Mike (writer), and I (director) will be there. (Elizabeth, co-producer, will be elsewhere editing her film for Sundance.) It’s supposed to be 105 today, and Tory said she’ll have watermelon and to bring a bathing suit if we want to go swimming in the pool. That’s my plan.

Last night I started Dennis Cooper’s novel, THE MARBLED SWARM, which I’ve wanted to read for a while. The first 27 pages are very neo Fall Of The House Of Usher and beckoning.

Breakfast this morning (up at six) is black coffee/ a banana/ orange juice, consumed in only boxerbriefs; I love this big old Hollywood apartment but there is no air conditioning.

• Text Post

on Form vs. Substance

"Werner Heisenberg, following Plato, once observed that ‘the smallest parts of matter are not the fundamental Beings, as in the philosophy of Democritus, but are mathematical forms: the form is more important than the substance of which it is the form.’ The formal rules in art, continues Heisenberg, are closely related to the essential elements of mathematics. Equality and inequality, repetition and symmetry are the group structures common to both art and mathematics."

—- more on the math of art

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Bob’s upstairs apartment in Los Feliz, where Bob tutored me in the massive amount of dialogue I had (which was all in French), prior to performing Jacques Offenbach’s “Les Deux Aveugles” in New York, a few years ago.

The strangely daunting, arresting painting on the wall to the left, I believe, was done of Bob himself as a young man, when he lived in Paris.

Photo by Andy Steinlen

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Late the other night after devouring a third of MICHAEL CUNNINGHAM’s scintillating 2010 novel, “By Nightfall” (I seem to be going through an intense rush of catch-up reading this summer), I found myself with a curious, inexplicable need to put a specific 1951 Hitchcock film into the dvd-player, once in bed.

There’s no exact connection between the Cunningham novel and the Hitchcock film, except general themes of identity-subterfuge and latent (perhaps taboo) desires. That’s evidently enough.

Where Hitchcock puts the camera is a constant revelation (of course), starting from the very first Title Card image of the train station, emerging us into an immediate world of Freud. The brilliant film is all about the penis, after all.

(Although I’m only 1/3 thru) the Cunningham novel is too, now that I think about it. Or maybe, due to subjectivity, absolutely everything is.

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I’d forgotten that “Strangers On A Train” was Patricia Highsmith’s first novel. And that the Hitchcock screenplay was mostly written by Raymond Chandler.

The story goes that, supposedly, Hitchcock hid behind an unknown entity with no credits, a go-between, in order to purchase the rights to the book for a lowball price, thus cheating the very young and new writer, Highsmith, out of a big payday. Few have called Hitchcock “nice”.

I’d forgotten that “Strangers On A Train” was Patricia Highsmith’s first novel. And that the Hitchcock screenplay was mostly written by Raymond Chandler.

The story goes that, supposedly, Hitchcock hid behind an unknown entity with no credits, a go-between, in order to purchase the rights to the book for a lowball price, thus cheating the very young and new writer, Highsmith, out of a big payday. Few have called Hitchcock “nice”.