Miracles are “not believed in” and the excuse given that “the laws of physics are immutable.” This excuse implies, and one gathers from the soup of talk, that miracles are being thought of as (good things that happen during) momentary suspensions of the laws of physics even as “the laws of physics” are being thought of as an exhaustive description of what is possible and therefore that which it is possible to violate (ah: transcend! surpass! rather) per impossile. But potential is potential for new possibility that is also more exciting possibility and not merely more (period) or different (and that is all). A miracle makes one realize, is the realization that, “within the bounds of the intelligible” (the intelligible is bounded, does have bounds, even though “beyond them” is senseless), something much, much more exciting and interesting than we recall ever having found before, is before us. It is, moreover, not “believing in” miracles as recognizing those before one as such, naming them as such, and, in naming them, undergoing the acceleration that that name entails.
Frank and Thor, who are both ice blue-eyed invaders of Roman letter houses and themselves in turn expelled, are, respectively, Scandinavian Man prior to his 9-10C surge-resettlement (Thor) and, later, mildly denuded of his momentary ethnic prickers and completely ignorant of his own eye-color, simply frank (Frank). Violet, banking on his blankness as ultra-violet-vision-to-be, is already playing desperate longball and firing white soap into the men’s dorms in hopes someone will take a hint when her relationship with Frank is rudely sidetracked by the fausse-depressed Priss (“She was ‘fat-EE-gue-d’! WHAT a BITCH!” Frank complains as if on Violet’s behalf), and she hasn’t anything better to fall back on than the reflection that “life is a long flowing river” in which former lovers are bound to resurface and be caught by the virtuous and patient. Violet’s narrower-hipped, small and hackneyed but still sweet friend, Rose, on the other hand, enjoys the mellow-Viking attentions of Thor corresponding to her very-late medievalesque damselhood, which prefers the romance of faded pagan dreams to the vast Martian plane of Frank’s benign-alien futurism. Poor Lily, whose color flower has already failed at one school and is the white of the doomed maiden, innocent pure and beautiful but fragile and like Ophelia “incapable of her own distress,” is captured by the vile neo-Cathar heretic-devil, Xavier and dies a spiritual death into the realm of ordinary meanness seeming to pull Charlie down with her (and away from Violet). At the end, Violet, the Ultra Woman of Survival, may become the invisible power of light of her own dance craze-to-be, The Sambola.
Whereas Wes Anderson-Rushmore’s hedged bet is on (yellowing) off-White, Stillman-Metropolitan antes down on an intra-white, red-infrared couple, Tom and Audrey Rouget.
“She became an archaeologist…” [“Now note the decomposition levels…”]: After the last betrayal on Royal’s part that she could stand (he would come back to half-life to inflict one last act of sabotage), the Tannenbaums’ mother turned her eyes to dust. Henry Sherman falls into one of her excavation holes as if a trap laid by one of her aristo-mummy suitors, but he hardly loses his stride.
Yellow is the color that the eye perceives most shades of (each differentish) and still feels comfortable calling “yellow.” White of course is the color that includes all the others in a rainbow, and it is Europe that has the most eye colors and hair colors and also the most widely differing within Europe and between Europe and not-Europe and also the strongest individuality (or did, more likely). A white-yellow melange–call it “off-white”–is probably the best situated situation to be in, the yellow taking pressure off the white to be ultimate AND all-inclusive AND distinctive and taking this pressure off without washing away the whitewash, the yellow itself being not, if questions asked, no doubt further specifiable without failing to be yellowy. I think OFF-WHITE is the good slightly second-rate and therefore lower rent option given conditions of unknown duration. Like the Mycenians having succeeded in throwing a maze, an odd flower, and a post through the narrow-grated blockade–and marker-to-be of a meridian at which to renew the struggle when cosmic energies glow with a little more palpable hope, we shall give our child the name Hyacinth, the inth sounding the indefinite endurance of her roots in vanishing below a shallow but debris obscure grave.
Castle Rackrent is a castle you can’t afford despite never having desired yet which you are interminably impelled backward and forward into staying amidst. It’s like a black hole that afterwhile seems to be running out of batteries. It is a trap laid by no one but accumulated errors and its jumbly hold on you slackens when you submit to the ludicrous-revolting semi-comedy of being demurely tooted out of your own chamberpot. Trew newz, Friends! Oh I might add that it contains about as reliably as is appropriate for such shambles all the engraved cracked-punchbowl wisdom of the Irish just because it’s their sort that rattles about in it longer than most; there is a short and miscellaneous but not absolutely worthless (given one’s misery) supply of hints and tips for rousing depleted sanity and perking up the mushroom garden in the endless meantime.
Remember how, after it has been to the future and back, The Delorean no longer needs plutonium to get up to 88 MPH? Well, like The Delorean au M. Fusion, I can now visit 2113 with only a Butterfinger in the tank! (Note that The Delorean’s flaming tire tracks vanish at the doors of the town cinema…)