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Notes on the Movie Contempt

I let myself into your house and wrapped your family portraits in muslin. There wasn’t a lot I could do with images of fetid life.  I don’t really want to hear about your nostalgia for summer telephone poles sweating creosote on dirt roads, either. Or the movie lot with the dust bunnies or some palace on a peninsula. I’m done with glitz, for the time being.  Please meet me in the creek where my project begins, something about mud, something about, oh here I go again about mud.  You know that feeling where you’ve been thinking a lot about the appeal of French New Wave cinema, and you don’t even really like French New Wave cinema?  I mean, I did spend a year of my life pretending I was Jean-Paul Belmondo and/or Jean Seberg, but that’s between me and my shrink. Did I say “shrink?” I meant I’ll be back in just a second.

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