Peter and the Beer Cellar.

The transparency of the world is so brutally silly sometimes, one wonders how it sustains itself at all, and the simplest of secrets, while utterly banal, and even dull, if once part of some evanescence have since grown happy with use, like the handle of an old hammer. Just today, while playing Simon Hesera's _A Day at the Beach_
which has Roman Polanski as one of the co-writers, I began to think of ways in which to dig beneathe the surface of such an oddly wonderful, yet depressing piece of marmalade. It reminded me of something from Freud, which seems like something one would tell a child, like something a priest or a shaman would say to an uninitiated creature who thinks no further than the symbolic order provided by state, family, and co:

In later years, when I was already busily engaged in the study of dreams, I was quite annoyed by the frequent recurrence of the dream-image of a certain peculiar locality. I saw, in definite orientation to my own person- on my left- a dark space in which a number of grotesque sandstone figures stood out. A glimmering recollection, which I did not quite believe, told me that it was the entrance to a beer-cellar; but I could explain neither the meaning nor the origin of this dream-picture.



Oh Herr Doctor, we ARE dissolving statuary, and both life and death, and everything within and beyond are certainly confined to a beer cellar, or a bier seller, or an intoxicating caller, or a bare collar, in other words, a chain, a vortext. It seems rather silly to me, that someone so obviously verbose and associative "could explain neither the meaning nor the origin of this dream-picture".

...
What a liar! What a horrible old Viennese Scholar Shaman hoodlum of ass.
What ass. Ridiculous. At any rate, to return to _A day at the beach_ which is a far more subtle approach to these kinds of metaphors, I was also suddenly struck by an association between Bernie and Winnie, and certain originary episodes in Charles Dickens' _The Old Curiosity Shop_:

One night I had roamed into the City, and was walking slowly on in my usual way, musing upon a great many things, when I was arrested by an inquiry, the purport of which did not reach me, but which seemed to be addressed to myself, and was preferred in a soft sweet voice that struck me very pleasantly. I turned hastily round and found at my elbow a pretty little girl, who begged to be directed to a certain street at a considerable distance, and indeed in quite another quarter of the town.

It is a very long way from here,' said I, 'my child.'

'I know that, sir,' she replied timidly. 'I am afraid it is a very long way, for I came from there to-night.'

'Alone?' said I, in some surprise.

'Oh, yes, I don't mind that, but I am a little frightened now, for I had lost my road.'

'And what made you ask it of me? Suppose I should tell you wrong?'

'I am sure you will not do that,' said the little creature,' you are such a very old gentleman, and walk so slow yourself.'

I cannot describe how much I was impressed by this appeal and the energy with which it was made, which brought a tear into the child's clear eye, and made her slight figure tremble as she looked up into my face.

'Come,' said I, 'I'll take you there.'

In fact, there is a good deal of interesting language, one might even say, Dickensian language in "A Day", or even a Carrollian sense, as Winnie seems to partake of some sense of both Alice, and curiously enough, Tiny Tim.

There is a wonderful performance by Peter Sellers as a gay beer seller, and there, right there, is the irronist connection with the Flat-footed or, maybe, uncanny Freud. I don't know. I feel funny about this. I feel lucky. I really can't imagine how lucky I am to see something like this, the sophistication of it.

This movie is high literature as far as I am concerned. Glittering Sandstone indeed
Herr Bullshit Artist Freud! Oh, It's all bullshit, from the tawny yawns to the neutron
blam blams. Lead on Sign-Monde.. [Raises Hands like Victum] I give up.



Look how gorgeous Winnie turned out!

Oh okay...

In 1907 I happened to go to Padua, which, to my regret, I had been unable to visit since 1895. My first visit to this beautiful university city had been unsatisfactory. I had been unable to see Giotto's frescoes in the church of the Madonna dell' Arena: I set out for the church, but turned back on being informed that it was closed for the day. On my second visit, twelve years later, I thought I would compensate myself for this disappointment, and before doing anything else I set out for Madonna dell' Arena. In the street leading to it, on my left, probably at the spot where I had turned back in 1895, I discovered the place, with its sandstone figures, which I had so often seen in my dream. It was, in fact, the entrance to a restaurant garden.

wave-front gorrillism. field as impasse.
drunken dawn-key.

:)