#Alastair Reid

[dreaminginthedeepsouth]

Jorge Luis Borges

[filmaticbby]

Baby Love (1968) dir. Alastair Reid

[weirdlookindog]

Baby Love (1969)

[schlock-luster-video]

On November 15, 1990, The Night Digger premiered on German television.

Here's some new art inspired by the cult classic!

[opsena]

Baby Love (1969)

Alastair Reid

[gatutor]

Patricia Neal-Nicholas Clay "El enterrador nocturno" (The night digger) 1971, de Alastair Reid.

[martyred-underneath-a-microscope]

from 'Weathering' by Alastair Reid

[cinemaquiles]

Ninguém viu porque dormiu: "Ártemis 81" (1981)

[johnesimpson]

In Proportion to the Capacity for Delight

Pablo Neruda, Margaret Renkl, et al.: 'In Proportion to the Capacity for Delight'

[Image: “Sometimes, Things Just Jump Out,” by John E. Simpson. (Photo shared here under a Creative Commons License; for more information, see this page at RAMH.)] From whiskey river’s commonplace book: How Much Happens in a Day In the course of a day we shall meet one another. But, in one day, things spring to life— they sell grapes in the street, tomatoes change their skin, the young girl you wanted never came back to the office.

They changed the postman suddenly. The letters now are not the same. A few golden leaves and it’s different; this tree is now well off.

Who would have said that the earth with its ancient skin would change so much?...

[Read the rest]

[lilith-salammbo]

[movie-titlecards]

Shout at the Devil (1976)

My rating: 2/10

What in all the fucks is this movie. It's clearly going for "lighthearted romp", but then there's piles of mangled corpses all over the place, and there's extended graphic depictions of elephant poaching, piles of bloody tusks and all - this is done by the protagonists, mind you. The bad guy is a ridiculous, Pickelhaube wearing, sausage eating caricature, but he'll happily commit war crimes, up to and including the murder of a baby. At one point Roger Moore puts on blackface so he can infiltrate the German ship and plant a bomb, something that could have been easily accomplished by the half dozen actual black men accompanying him. Just- just fuck this movie. So much.

[dreaminginthedeepsouth]

Alastair Reid : Pablo Neruda's desk [UNdr] :: [h/t Beth Levin]

* * * *

'How often I found where I should be going only by setting out for somewhere else.'

-R. Buckminster Fuller

[cunning-pope]

Poem by Alastair Reid

Curiosity

may have killed the cat; more likely the cat was just unlucky, or else curious to see what death was like, having no cause to go on licking paws, or fathering litter on litter of kittens, predictably.

Nevertheless, to be curious is dangerous enough. To distrust what is always said, what seems, to ask odd questions, interfere in dreams, leave home, smell rats, have hunches do not endear cats to those doggy circles where well-smelt baskets, suitable wives, good lunches are the order of things, and where prevails much wagging of incurious heads and tails.

Face it. Curiosity will not cause us to die– only lack of it will. Never to want to see the other side of the hill or that improbable country where living is an idyll (although a probable hell) would kill us all. Only the curious have, if they live, a tale worth telling at all.

Dogs say cats love too much, are irresponsible, are changeable, marry too many wives, desert their children, chill all dinner tables with tales of their nine lives. Well, they are lucky. Let them be nine-lived and contradictory, curious enough to change, prepared to pay the cat price, which is to die and die again and again, each time with no less pain. A cat minority of one is all that can be counted on to tell the truth. And what cats have to tell on each return from hell is this: that dying is what the living do, that dying is what the loving do, and that dead dogs are those who do not know that dying is what, to live, each has to do.

[apoemaday]

Poem Written in a Copy of Beowulf

by Jorge Luis Borges tr. Alastair Reid

At various times, I have asked myself what reasons moved me to study, while my night came down, without particular hope of satisfaction, the language of the blunt-tongued Anglo-Saxons.

Used up by the years, my memory loses its grip on words that I have vainly repeated and repeated. My life in the same way weaves and unweaves its weary history.

Then I tell myself: it must be that the soul has some secret, sufficient way of knowing that it is immortal, that its vast, encompassing circle can take in all, can accomplish all.

Beyond my anxiety, beyond this writing, the universe waits, inexhaustible, inviting.

[dabiconcordia]

Reading books within books

"When writers die they become books, which is, after all, not too bad an incarnation." Jorge Luis Borges

[opsena]

Baby Love (1969)

Alastair Reid