Movie Review by Glenn Kenny: ‘The Burial’ Review: A Mississippi Courtroom Drama starring Jamie Foxx and Tommy Lee Jones. Free on Amazon Prime.
Tag: discrimination
October 4 1988
I would like to be a free artist and nothing else . . . I hate lies and violence in all of their forms . . . I look upon tags and labels as prejudices. My holy of holies is the human body, health, intelligence, talent, inspiration, love, and the most absolute freedom imaginable—freedom from violence and lies, no matter what form [they] . . . take.
— Anton Chekhov, (October 4, 1888; Letters, p. 109) in “Freedom from Violence and Lies: Anton Chekhov’s Life and Writings” by Michael C. Finke (Reaktion Books, Nov 11, 2021)
Anton Pavlovich Chekhov was born on January 29th in the year 1860, in the small seaport of Taganrog, Ukraine. He is regarded as one of Russia’s most cherished story tellers. (Portrait & background: Famous Authors)
Walking. In White.
3:35 a.m. Restless. Lousy night’s sleep. (Again.) Co-pilot is fast asleep next to me. She dreams of bunny rabbits and puppies. I’m being chased by failure and mortality. Any wonder why you don’t sleep?
Yesterday morning: “Are you getting tired of the same walk?” Translated, she’s getting tired of flipping through the same shots, the same landscapes, morning after morning. “No,” was my monosyllabic response, short, curt, clipped, after 3x years of marriage (I didn’t want to do the math), there was no need for more words.
4:28 a.m. Gear check. Backpack. Camera. Battery. Memory Card. iPhone. Earbuds. Audible Book re: Rebecca Solnit, Wanderlust: A History of Walking. I adhere the strap to my right wrist, synch it up, and clip it to camera, listening for the satisfying snap. Secure.
4:33 a.m. I’m out the door.
Day 5x something, just shy of two months. Not a single day missed. Same route. Near the same time. A five mile walk. Walmsley to Linden to Hollow Tree Ridge Road to Hillside to Anthony to Brookside to Post to Weed Avenue to Cove Island Park. And back again.
Scene 1. I’m 1/4 mile out on Hollow Tree Ridge Road and a patrol car stops one street up. Rare to see any traffic this time of the morning. He pauses under the street lamp, looking in my direction. He sees: Man, 6′ 1″, black long sleeved shirt. Black pants. Carrying something black in his right hand. Backpack on his back. Walking briskly. Continue reading “Walking. In White.”
Walking Cross-Town. With Labels.
Morning. This morning.
I’m walking. Cross Town. Down 47th street, three blocks from the office.
For some inexplicable reason, the head is yanked left to a billboard across the street.
Two skeletons, holding hands.
Same bones, different color.
“love has no labels”
What’s this?
I get to the office. Google it.
And then I take the quiz.
Hmmmmmmm.
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