“A little nonsense now and then is relished by the wisest men.” Roald Dahl.
Last night I watched a program on the TV about 1,000 boxes of Stanley Kubrick’s life. It was an expose by an investigative reporter who was given the privilege to uncover the contents of some of the most revealing and intimate parts of Stanley Kubrick’s personal and professional life. It was a treasure trove of mysterious scrawls and recorded legends of fan mail, movie scripts, concepts and futuristic meanderings. I was captivated by the ideas and letters that were documented in meticulous order.
This quarry into this man’s mind and life was interesting, invasive and somewhat perverse. And while I sat there drooling over the tidbits I felt somewhat ashamed. It is not as though we were invited and yet were there longing to see inside each box. I wondered why we are so beguiled by other people’s lives. Why have we brought so many weekly magazines? Is it morbid curiosity that their lives can be fraught with ordinariness? Or are we truly relieved that their silver cloud is tinged with the blackness of self doubt?
I don’t know for sure but I still consider on the flip side of that ponderous coin, why do we listen to dead men/women? It seems that the quotes of philosophers/writers/poets past seem to flit into our social fabric, twisting the thread in a new direction and coating it with meaningful substance.
Is it that we are bereft of original thinkers and passionate orators? Or that the speakers of today have creative writers in their coat pockets scrolling the most enigmatic lines for them to deliver to a wide-eyed audience? What makes a good orator? Is it the structure of the perfect words formulated in a rhythmic rhetoric? Or is it the colour of their tie or the strut of their pant leg? I’m not convinced that we are inspired by the face and lips when the spirit has not been oppressed and its darkest phase have traipsed the caverns of dismay. How can we be convinced when prettiness is all on offer? Or is it all just a load of nonsense?
Peace and Love,
Julia Ashton-Sayers
This quarry into this man’s mind and life was interesting, invasive and somewhat perverse. And while I sat there drooling over the tidbits I felt somewhat ashamed. It is not as though we were invited and yet were there longing to see inside each box. I wondered why we are so beguiled by other people’s lives. Why have we brought so many weekly magazines? Is it morbid curiosity that their lives can be fraught with ordinariness? Or are we truly relieved that their silver cloud is tinged with the blackness of self doubt?
I don’t know for sure but I still consider on the flip side of that ponderous coin, why do we listen to dead men/women? It seems that the quotes of philosophers/writers/poets past seem to flit into our social fabric, twisting the thread in a new direction and coating it with meaningful substance.
Is it that we are bereft of original thinkers and passionate orators? Or that the speakers of today have creative writers in their coat pockets scrolling the most enigmatic lines for them to deliver to a wide-eyed audience? What makes a good orator? Is it the structure of the perfect words formulated in a rhythmic rhetoric? Or is it the colour of their tie or the strut of their pant leg? I’m not convinced that we are inspired by the face and lips when the spirit has not been oppressed and its darkest phase have traipsed the caverns of dismay. How can we be convinced when prettiness is all on offer? Or is it all just a load of nonsense?
Peace and Love,
Julia Ashton-Sayers
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