This statement just came out of my mind, sitting here trying to make sense of why and what I am feeling. Feeling Grey Gardens is feeling complexity to an unnatural degree, an emotion amalgam that is really inexplicable, at least in everyday words strewn into everyday sentences. It is the shaky place between losing it and writing a poem — feeling very Grey Gardens.
And in feeling this, I feel for it.
I am madly disgusted that Hollywood has to break into the house of the once and often forgotten yet again. There will never ever never be another Grey Gardens film. And there certainly will never be another Big and Little Edie.
But how arrogant I am acting saying this, having a blog at all? Somewhere, I am also riding this boat to nowhere gloating words outward and rolling them all over my body; I am a public display that makes someone else sick no doubt.
I must learn to deal with there being this sudden greed to finally see art that has been there for so many midnights, ignored like a madwoman in the attic?
Oh, opinions. Opinions in the world’s face like this. I feel something sinister now. In this. I need to take it or leave it. To take me or leave me.
We should all choose a day to eat ice cream with knives.
I choose tomorrow’s Friday evening after a swim.
Grey Gardens, to me, is pure poetry. I only wish I could be even a pinch so poetic.