I always feel a buzz of excitement after watching a film I find particularly well written, or well thought out, or that has a central character that I can whole-heartedly relate too.
I love central characters I can whole-heartedly relate too. Perhaps this is selfish, I don’t know. I know that I don’t have the same love for cinema of my younger self. I was a pretentious yet gluttonous viewer. These days however, I fuss needlessly, and sometimes tirelessly over my viewer choices, and I am rarely disappointed. But then I don’t really learn about anything new. The reason for this is my appreciation palate as changed – my singular gaze as shifted and re-focused.
Woody Allen always makes me want to write. He always has, and always will. It is the same feeling I have when I lazily re-do Hemmingway or Salinger, which are the only two novelists I have allowed to sneak through my modern regiment of websites, music, TV series, music and podcasts.
What is the point of this post? The excitement of art and creation and more importantly, words. Words I can do. Of course this is a selfish appraisal, but I can. I like words. I like sentences. I like having some control of the art form. I am but a voyeur with music. With film or soccer. I seek, I download, I buy, I watch and hear and discuss. But that’s it.
But words. Well, we can all do words. We all have words. We do and think and dance and run and sweat and say and laugh and feel and tire and then translate it into words which piece together into paragraphs and then tumble into narratives. Words.
Hence this post. The Post-Woody Allen buzz. I want to use words. To express something, or, as you can well see, anything.
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