Over the past two nights I got in touch with a movie I love—Pedro Almodóvar's All About My Mother. There's so much to love: Almodóvar's use of color and pattern in the frame is matched or surpassed only by Baz Luhrmann (Strictly Ballroom, William Shakespeare's Romeo + Juliet, Moulin Rouge), in my opinion. Almodóvar's shots erupt with life: bright reds, volcanic oranges, thin yellows, rich earthy browns and greens. The film takes place mainly in Barcelona, which is beautiful in its own right. Add in the beautiful Cecilia Roth and Penelope Cruz (in her pre-homewrecker/rat-face days) and you've got some pretty things to look at. Lastly, the film features probably my favorite transgendered character ever—the whore Agrado, whose monologue on reality & artifice could be the abstract of a wonderful dissertation.
Anyway, the film spurred a poem. Actually, it wants to spur a series of poems that respond to the film, but they're not ready to come out yet. They may never come. In the meantime, though, I have a really awful, painful-to-read poem that is obviously transitional as I move toward wherever I'm going poetically from here.
It's sort of language-poetry like, although I think it prizes intuitive movement through language more than an academic deconstruction of it.