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| 6 September 11:00 - Sala Perla7 September 14:00 - Sala Pasinetti ORIZZONTI Nocturnos by Edgardo Cozarinsky - Argentina, 63' language: Spanish - s/t English, Italian Esteban Lamothe, Marta Lugos, Esmeralda Mitre, Jimena Anganuzzi Director’s Statement There are people of the day and people of the night… The night ones recognise each other. Their city is only theirs. While the others seek refuge in the dubious safety of home, they go out to confront themselves with that truth hidden by light and revealed by darkness. |
edgardo pisa fuerte... as usual. break a leg dear ed!
ibiza la blanca la très douce...
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on Ibiza, girlontape learned that:
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my grandmother was a louise brooks fan, just like me
No pictures have survived, but thanks to her History of Cinema class at Wellesley, in which she discovered pandora's box and was therefore struck with eternal louise fandom, girlontape took to wearing her hair just like this. She was 17, about the same age as her grandmother in this photo.
little shots of happiness
Waking up not knowing where you are then remembering: He loves me – it’s true. I can’t wait to see him again…
Stepping out late at night with the dogs, realizing the shadowy creature nosing about in the grass is a fox - a messenger from a wild and secret world - and thinking: How beautiful you are – how marvelous! Run away little one… be safe…
Going into your favorite church in Rome one evening, and they're chanting in a long slow wailing melody, so ancient and filled with yearning; and you’re drawn up, up, up towards the delicately flying angels.
Snoopy writing It Was A Dark And Stormy Night.
You’re standing under a tree in the middle of the afternoon, and someone starts playing the piano in a house nearby: it flows out the window like a stream, clear and swirling, flashing and flowing; and that bird in the branches, those crickets in the grass, you yourself, are the pebbles over which it flows and you think, like Nikolay Rostov listening to Natasha’s song: Will the lovers be united… will good triumph over evil? What are they compared to this…? The only thing that matters is this music… oh it’s marvelous… what marvelous things human beings are capable of, after all… I wish it would never end…!
You’re standing under a tree in the middle of the afternoon, and someone starts playing the piano in a house nearby: it flows out the window like a stream, clear and swirling, flashing and flowing; and that bird in the branches, those crickets in the grass, you yourself, are the pebbles over which it flows and you think, like Nikolay Rostov listening to Natasha’s song: Will the lovers be united… will good triumph over evil? What are they compared to this…? The only thing that matters is this music… oh it’s marvelous… what marvelous things human beings are capable of, after all… I wish it would never end…!
a tale of architects (post for Kat)
Sunday, long night out with Brian. I go pick him up at his restaurant on Prince Street, where I get cornered by an aging bald architect friend of a friend. He bores me to death while trying to touch me every chance he gets. Gross. I’m about to throw my beer in his face when Brian whisks me off to Lotus, where we squeeze into a booth with Patrice and his unpleasant Armani suit and his call girl entourage. He’s a wealthy Haitian who was probably a Tonton Macoute in his former life. He pours us champagne and tells me in his heavy French accent, “You are dangerous…give me your number before you leave.” Some gangster pal of his caresses my bare shoulders too many times. I tell him to back off so he complains to Patrice who scolds me along the lines of “This is my friend so-and-so.” I say that’s fine but he can’t touch me and Patrice gets visibly annoyed. Gross. Brian takes me to Bungalow 8 his members only club where he introduces me to James, a colorless version of another boy I still miss in spite of his pathetically clumsy lies. He gives me some of his low rent blow then invites me to his house. I say “I don’t need to get laid tonight” and he acts all scandalized and I tell him to stop being such a hypocrite. He asks for my number and I give it to him, no idea why.
Monday night, party at the Tribeca Grand. A weird mix of VIP lawyers, designers, hipster politicians, models, stockbrokers and a smattering of rock starlets. Nicollette introduces me to an architect friend of hers who says his boss Rem Koolhaas let him design the new Prada store. I find him zero attractive so I try to put him off with “I’m a Miu Miu girl” but he ends up hooking me with his conversation anyway. He invites me to Sway, where my favorite DJ, Baby Blu, is spinning. This makes me like him a little better so I accept. I’m pretty drunk and I immediately lose myself in the arms of a really hot lipstick lesbian and the architect goes nuts. He tries to break me off from my princess but there’s no way. He has no place left to go but out the door. However he calls Nicollette for my number and starts busting my balls. Finally I agree to let him take me out for the best sushi of the moment, which is at Blue Ribbon. Out of nowhere he asks if I want a boyfriend and tells me he’s looking for a relationship. Due to his silly questions I’m back to not liking him that much, but in the cab for mysterious reasons I kiss him & it turns me on. I agree to go to his apartment where he shows me his paintings, which are pretty damn good. Talent being an aphrodisiac, we end up in the sack. Once he has me pinned under his big heavy body he asks, “Aren’t you afraid of me? You’re very trusting.” I flash on my complicatedly murdered corpse starring in an episode of CSI New York. Get out now, before it’s too late? But no, by this time my brain has stopped functioning. He’s very good in bed. It’s a trap.
On Tuesday James calls, I barely remember him. He invites me for a drink at Balthazar. I agree for want of a better plan and besides, I love that place. James is sitting at the bar with his posse, all slaves at the same literary agency. They ask me stupid questions like “Are you an actress?” I am clearly the object of some hidden plot hatched in their sinister male minds but I don’t give a toss so I dig in to the oysters, which at Balthazar are amazing. “Harlan is on his way, he wants to see you,” says James casually, adding that he introduced us at Bungalow 8. It doesn’t ring a bell. A boy arrives & I'm still clueless, but he is utterly glam: wild black hair, very cool suit. Nick Cave from way back, minus the heroin. He turns out to be an architect. He sits next to me and the posse of agents drops off my radar. Then they disappear for real and Harlan loads me onto his huge shiny black BMW and takes me to Missy Elliott’s birthday party at Lot 61, where he plies me with his super deluxe cocaine. Now we’re talking. We make out passionately in every corner in between long heady discussions about everything under the sun. He asks for my number and I'm glad to give it up. He starts taking me out to fabulous events all over town. The nights we don’t see each other he calls me for long intimate bedtime chats. His strategy and everything about him, impeccable. I start to feel comfortable, wanted and happy. Another trap.
Thank god I gave my number to the chick from Sway. She’s no architect, but she does happen to be the perfect toy.
Monday night, party at the Tribeca Grand. A weird mix of VIP lawyers, designers, hipster politicians, models, stockbrokers and a smattering of rock starlets. Nicollette introduces me to an architect friend of hers who says his boss Rem Koolhaas let him design the new Prada store. I find him zero attractive so I try to put him off with “I’m a Miu Miu girl” but he ends up hooking me with his conversation anyway. He invites me to Sway, where my favorite DJ, Baby Blu, is spinning. This makes me like him a little better so I accept. I’m pretty drunk and I immediately lose myself in the arms of a really hot lipstick lesbian and the architect goes nuts. He tries to break me off from my princess but there’s no way. He has no place left to go but out the door. However he calls Nicollette for my number and starts busting my balls. Finally I agree to let him take me out for the best sushi of the moment, which is at Blue Ribbon. Out of nowhere he asks if I want a boyfriend and tells me he’s looking for a relationship. Due to his silly questions I’m back to not liking him that much, but in the cab for mysterious reasons I kiss him & it turns me on. I agree to go to his apartment where he shows me his paintings, which are pretty damn good. Talent being an aphrodisiac, we end up in the sack. Once he has me pinned under his big heavy body he asks, “Aren’t you afraid of me? You’re very trusting.” I flash on my complicatedly murdered corpse starring in an episode of CSI New York. Get out now, before it’s too late? But no, by this time my brain has stopped functioning. He’s very good in bed. It’s a trap.
On Tuesday James calls, I barely remember him. He invites me for a drink at Balthazar. I agree for want of a better plan and besides, I love that place. James is sitting at the bar with his posse, all slaves at the same literary agency. They ask me stupid questions like “Are you an actress?” I am clearly the object of some hidden plot hatched in their sinister male minds but I don’t give a toss so I dig in to the oysters, which at Balthazar are amazing. “Harlan is on his way, he wants to see you,” says James casually, adding that he introduced us at Bungalow 8. It doesn’t ring a bell. A boy arrives & I'm still clueless, but he is utterly glam: wild black hair, very cool suit. Nick Cave from way back, minus the heroin. He turns out to be an architect. He sits next to me and the posse of agents drops off my radar. Then they disappear for real and Harlan loads me onto his huge shiny black BMW and takes me to Missy Elliott’s birthday party at Lot 61, where he plies me with his super deluxe cocaine. Now we’re talking. We make out passionately in every corner in between long heady discussions about everything under the sun. He asks for my number and I'm glad to give it up. He starts taking me out to fabulous events all over town. The nights we don’t see each other he calls me for long intimate bedtime chats. His strategy and everything about him, impeccable. I start to feel comfortable, wanted and happy. Another trap.
Thank god I gave my number to the chick from Sway. She’s no architect, but she does happen to be the perfect toy.
New York 2000
death to ladyboy
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| here's a preview from KITCHEN FLOOR, the debut album of our band DEATH TO LADYBOY track 1 Yesterday she cried on the kitchen floor Today she asked would I be her boyfriend It's a man's job but a woman's got to do it track 2 I come alone & think of you You come with her & think of me Same same old same old story: The hero always returns in act three Saying I’m a good man, I just happened to act badly Merciful lady, please forgive me For tomorrow I marry And I need you to think well of mededicated to Amy Winehouse stay tuned © death to ladyboy productions 2011 |
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