Full disclosure here: I’m not a Frank Lloyd Wright fan. His Prairie Houses always make me flash on Danish modern furniture, which I think is fuckin’ ugly.
I don’t see why form should have to follow function.
I kind of like architectural elements that have no practical use whatsoever.
This makes me the perfect ghost writer for a project that’s a Frank Lloyd Wright hatchet job.
Didn’t hear from Celeste for a week, and then yesterday, I did. Your email somehow disappeared, she wrote.
No, no, no, Celeste: The dog ate it.
Anyway, she is game to go. Though we still don't have a contract. And I won't work without a contract.
I am scuttling off to NYC tomorrow to spend a few days in lifeinroseland’s beyond beautiful apartment and play in museums and possibly go to a play and hopefully finish the Alice/Nell story, which is now up to 12,000 words and has two (count ‘em!) working titles, The Green Sickness and The League of Arbitrary Assuageurs, neither of which is good.
When I get back, hopefully John will have whipped up a contract, and I will have figured out a way to record Celeste when I debrief her.
And then I will debrief her.
Since I am in New York, and Celeste is in California, I won’t be able to feed Celeste psychoactive substances to lubricate the debriefing process – but knowing Celeste as I do, I trust that Celeste will be able to handle that end of things on her own.
I’m about a third of the way through The Fellowship, the book that gives the skinny on what really went down in Taliesin. I don’t want to carry it with me to NYC since it’s an enormous tome, must weight 15 pounds. So I’ll try to finish it this evening.
Oglivianna, the third Mrs. Frank Lloyd Wright, was a Gurdjieff acolyte. She completely dominated Wright for the last 30 years or so of his life. Under her management, Tailiesin drifted into the familiar Scientology/Synanon-style cult. It will give me great pleasure to do a hatchet job on Oglivianna, and I hope Celeste feeds me some really disgusting details about her personal hygiene.
You don’t hear much about G.I. Gurdjieff anymore, but when I was a gorgeous young girl, Gurdjieff was still quite the thing. I may have seen the film Peter Brooks made from Gurdjieff’s book Meetings With Remarkable Men. I may even have read the book. And Luke had an unfortunate dealing with an exceedingly unpleasant woman named Helen Palmer who was a psychic focusing on Enneagram interpretations (a Gurdjieff thing) and who tried to rip him off over some expensive real estate.
I’ve been around many people like Gurdjieff over the course of my lifetime. That's that Zelig thing again: I've stood on the sidelines watching while any number of interesting events transpired.
The success of authoritarian self-styled mystics always amazes me. Most people are sl-e-e-e-e-eeping! sez Gurdjieff. Well, sure. But you don’t have to do ridiculous dances to wake up. All you have to do is pay attention.
Plus I’m not sure there’s any great utility to waking up.
It’s not like you’re gonna be able to change anything.
The more you see, the more you understand. And the more you weep.
Also, I’ve been listening to The Maltese Falcon on tape as I’ve been driving the last few days.
It’s really terribly written.
Why is it considered such a masterpiece of American literature?