darlings despite living on This Coast where it stays temperate (almost) all year round, we can feel the slow unwinding of the year into soft quiet rituals of early nights and comfortable warm socks and reading and lamplight suppers and a trip to Thai Town to unblock those meridians and be soothed as the h o l i d a y s are fast approaching *nervouslooktocamera*. quiet times. and blazing skies. plenty of supplies from the Library. santa monica evening at twilight. and the traffic wends its way (usually pretty slowly) home to supper. and we’re back writing the weekly column saying thank you to los angeles for all the strange and deliciously hidden experiences that make it so glorious to live here… now we’re NOT able to stay up very late so although we were Sorely Tempted to see this movie it seems as though the Universe said “no, darling” because not only was the door locked fast-ly-shut when we
rattledithardseveraltimes gently tapped with our mid-week-navy-gloves but Mr. Fandango also had an error on each of the *coughs* five times we triedtobuyaticket. so there you go. no. was the answer. but the reason we Truly need to see it again soon is because Mr. Caine has a truly lovely moment (when he’s not being naughty and adulterous – in Character – we hasten to add) all around mr. e.e.cummings.
do you remember it?
no need – it’s here before you need to grab it from your cerebral cortex, love.
nobody, not even the rain, has such small hands
somewhere i have never traveled, gladly beyond any experience, your eyes have their silence: in your most frail gesture are things which enclose me, or which i cannot touch because they are too near your slightest look easily will unclose me though i have closed myself as fingers, you open always petal by petal myself as Spring opens (touching skilfully, mysteriously) her first rose or if your wish be to close me, i and my life will shut very beautifully, suddenly, as when the heart of this flower imagines the snow carefully everywhere descending; nothing which we are to perceive in this world equals the power of your intense fragility: whose texture compels me with the colour of its countries, rendering death and forever with each breathing (i do not know what it is about you that closes and opens;only something in me understands the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses) nobody, not even the rain, has such small hands e.e.cummings