Just finished watching Ingmar Bergman's WILD STRAWBERRIES, starring Victor Sjostrom, who made loads of films in Sweden and then on to Hollywood.
Made sure I didn't fall asleep during the film, however I did sleep during the fascinating commentary. Bergman had a horrible childhood. His father was a harsh man, a minister to the King of Sweden. He was "very manic-depression" Bergman said during the interview.
What saved him was his ability to constantly lie and deceive his father, for which he'd get whipped.
Then, he said, the tax people were out to get him and "kill me." He ended up in an asylum and eventually left Sweden, which he missed dreadfully. He lived in Munich, nearby, and chartered a plane with his wife and flew home to Sweden.
They sat on the steps and smelled the lilac bush.
B/c I had to read subtitles, I'd turn off the movie every time I left the room. Did not wanna miss a single word of this 1957 film.
Bergman was 80 when he gave the interview. I thought to myself, gosh, he's only 10 yrs older than me.
The film was very philosophical...the meaning of life...is there a God...has my life had any meaning.
YOU, Dear Reader, can answer that question yourself. If it hasn't, please email me and we'll discuss.
Before every film or play or other creative venture of Bergman, he felt absolute unstoppable terror.
Prior to that I watched the film LODGER, a silent film by Alfred Hitchcock.
Spoiler: We are led to believe The Lodger was responsible for a series of murders of 'fair-haired' women. The viewer goes back and forth thinking he did it, he didn't do it.
Ivor Novello played The Lodger with wonderful facial gestures and other body language.
Ivor, please take a bow for the audience.
He was more than an actor as you'll read in Wiki.
When I finished the Bergman film I checked my emails.
Bill, a fellow from Wayne PA was gonna come over tomro to sell me an inexpensive camera but the battery was dead. This would be a backup for my pink Nikon which is always trying to run away from home.
Also, I'd had a piece accepted for Crack of the Spine, a lit journal, and now it was ready to purchase from Amazon.
Called Alone Again, Naturally, it's a short essay about my relationship with my son Dan. After my untimely demise, whenever that is, he and Sarah will find it among my memorabilia.
As mentioned, I no longer buy books, and keep only special ones, like my white Confirmation Bible below, and downstairs on a bookshelf I got when a neighbor was moving to DC, I've got Gone with the Wind which Aunt Ethel loaned me and a book of Emily's poetry I got when Larry's father died at 96.
Went to Weinrich's Bakery for breakfast. Had about 3 cups of their dee-licious coffee. Here's a poem I wrote about it, which I put on FB.
WHAT I HAD FOR BREAKFAST
Where to go? The competition
was stiff. I needed great
coffee, quiet ambience,
a comfortable chair to read
short stories of Sean O'Faolin.
Off I drove, insulin pen
in pocket. The chocolate
croissant was good, but
cold. The Breakfast Blend
coffee was fine,
free refills from a black
carafe you pumped yourself.
Such fun for a growing girl.
For me, they turned off the
blaring TV. Conversations
aplenty from patrons who
proclaimed loudly their
"I hate them both, but
I hate her worse."
Best to keep my nose to
the book. One short
story my goal. "Lovers
at the Lake." Ah, O'Faolin's
Is it the writer's job
to make you long to
live, whatever the price?
To create a sense of wonder
in everything that breathes?
To notice the tiniest detail
- the way the squirrel hops
like a rabbit.
This writer will simply
continue reading his work
steeping myself, like hot tea,
in story after story after story.
I've been saving photos to put on Z blog.
She was concerned there might be stains on the rug and asked if I ever had any animals, which I had not, except when Dan lived here many yrs before with his two cats, Blank and Xena.
She'll use the carpet - which she really liked - since her daughter is moving back in with her. Sound familiar?