Re: Phil Christman’s Lynchian moment in Twin Peaks that should not work — and with all due praise to one of the most significant artists of our lifetimes—the key unmentioned factor for that Aristotle-flouting scene working, can summed up in two words: Angelo Badalamenti. Part of DL’s genius was choosing collaborators.
I would recommend that you take a look at Wesley Edits substack. Wesley is an accomplished television and audio book editor who provides interesting and unique insights into new films and books.
In a world veiled in darkness, my grandmother found her light in the tactile whispers of point print. At three months old, her eyes may have betrayed her, but her spirit was as sighted as ever. The Bible and books that filled her days were not defined by their heft or the thickness of their pages, but by the life they breathed into her through their raised dots-a language of touch, a precursor of Braille.
Her slate and stylus were her instruments of correspondence, a bridge between her world and that of her blind friends. With each letter she crafted, her thoughts were etched into existence, her words a tangible presence in a world she could only hear and feel.
Her books would rest on her lap, a foundation of knowledge and faith as solid as the earth itself. Her fingers, nimble and sure, would dance across the pages, a ballet of sensation and understanding. The dots beneath her touch would rise to meet her, eager to share their secrets and stories.
I remember the sound of her voice, rich and warm, as she read aloud. It was a melody that resonated with wisdom and resilience, a testimony to her ability to navigate a world that was not built for her. Her dexterity was a marvel, her fingers moving with a grace that belied their age.
Those books, the stylus, the slate-they were more than mere objects. They are the legacy of a woman who refused to be defined by her limitations, and who embraced the world with hands wide open. They are cherished not only for what they are but for what they represent: the indomitable will of my grandmother who saw more clearly with her heart than most do with their eyes.
Roxie, a name that echoed within the walls of our home, was a beacon of resilience and grace. Blindness never dimmed her spirit; it only sharpened her other senses, transforming other daily chores into a display of her remarkable capabilities. Roxie, her domain was the heart of our household kitchen- where she reigned with gentle authority and an unerring touch.
As our dishwasher, Roxie's fingers were like whispers over porcelain, detecting and erasing the slightest imperfection. Plates and utensils gleamed under her meticulous care; each one emerging from her hands as if they were new. It was a dance of fingertips and water, a silent symphony played out on ceramic and metal.
The snapping of green beans was a ritual she performed with a surgeon's precision. Each bean was a conversation between her fingers and the vegetable's hidden strings. She would hold the snapped pieces to her cheek, a gesture as tender as a mother's touch, ensuring not a single string remained to mar the perfection of her task.
Shelling peas was a task she cherished, a moment of peace in the rhythm of the day. The pea pods would yield to her deft fingers, splitting open to reveal their hidden treasures. The bowl would fill, each pea a testament to her skill, and the sound of the shells parting was a familiar refrain in the melody of our family life.
Grandma Roxie, as we fondly called her, was more than just a member of our family. She was a symbol of unwavering strength, a reminder that the human spirit can adapt and thrive. Her legacy is etched not only in the well-worn pages of her point print books but in the very essence of our home. She is unforgettable, a cherished memory that continues to inspire and guide us.
This is proudly my memories of a grand blind lady who greatly influenced my life and character.
Such a wealth of talent in the world. It's gratifying and humbling.
And infinitely reassuring
I'll take the assist, you get the slam dunk.
I cannot help myself. The fresco is fabulous!
Thank you for featuring my poem. This poem especially loves to be shared/“kissed” 🙏
Fantastic!! Keep writing! Do you have a book??
Yes! Pre-orders available now
https://writebloody.com/products/good-girl-and-other-yearnings-by-isabelle-correa
Re: Phil Christman’s Lynchian moment in Twin Peaks that should not work — and with all due praise to one of the most significant artists of our lifetimes—the key unmentioned factor for that Aristotle-flouting scene working, can summed up in two words: Angelo Badalamenti. Part of DL’s genius was choosing collaborators.
Lynch: vaccinated? Just wondering.
Well said. Thank you.♥️
I would like to share two posts: "Philosophy and Beyond First Philosophical Essay Contest" (https://romaricjannel.substack.com/p/philosophy-and-beyond-first-philosophical?r=38g75g) and "AI, Social Media, and the Search for Quality" (https://open.substack.com/pub/romaricjannel/p/ai-social-media-and-the-search-for?r=38g75g&utm_campaign=post&utm_medium=web&showWelcomeOnShare=false)
Love this newsletter. It is amazing to see so much variety of talent in one space. Recommending https://open.substack.com/pub/dannilevy/p/memory-photos-of-wildfires-wars-and?utm_source=share&utm_medium=android&r=3g3t74 🙏
I miss you David Lynch... despite not seeing ur filmography yet
This was awesome. The art and photos beyond wonderful and creative!
I would recommend that you take a look at Wesley Edits substack. Wesley is an accomplished television and audio book editor who provides interesting and unique insights into new films and books.
https://open.substack.com/pub/america/p/what-will-you-miss-about-the-last?r=5okqj&utm_medium=ios
EVERYTHING!
The art and the melange are fabulous! Check out https://open.substack.com/pub/thegiftoflovejournals/p/four-things-to-think-about-your-dear?r=9qagq&utm_medium=ios
Also contrary!
ROXIE, MY BLIND GRANDMOTHER
In a world veiled in darkness, my grandmother found her light in the tactile whispers of point print. At three months old, her eyes may have betrayed her, but her spirit was as sighted as ever. The Bible and books that filled her days were not defined by their heft or the thickness of their pages, but by the life they breathed into her through their raised dots-a language of touch, a precursor of Braille.
Her slate and stylus were her instruments of correspondence, a bridge between her world and that of her blind friends. With each letter she crafted, her thoughts were etched into existence, her words a tangible presence in a world she could only hear and feel.
Her books would rest on her lap, a foundation of knowledge and faith as solid as the earth itself. Her fingers, nimble and sure, would dance across the pages, a ballet of sensation and understanding. The dots beneath her touch would rise to meet her, eager to share their secrets and stories.
I remember the sound of her voice, rich and warm, as she read aloud. It was a melody that resonated with wisdom and resilience, a testimony to her ability to navigate a world that was not built for her. Her dexterity was a marvel, her fingers moving with a grace that belied their age.
Those books, the stylus, the slate-they were more than mere objects. They are the legacy of a woman who refused to be defined by her limitations, and who embraced the world with hands wide open. They are cherished not only for what they are but for what they represent: the indomitable will of my grandmother who saw more clearly with her heart than most do with their eyes.
Roxie, a name that echoed within the walls of our home, was a beacon of resilience and grace. Blindness never dimmed her spirit; it only sharpened her other senses, transforming other daily chores into a display of her remarkable capabilities. Roxie, her domain was the heart of our household kitchen- where she reigned with gentle authority and an unerring touch.
As our dishwasher, Roxie's fingers were like whispers over porcelain, detecting and erasing the slightest imperfection. Plates and utensils gleamed under her meticulous care; each one emerging from her hands as if they were new. It was a dance of fingertips and water, a silent symphony played out on ceramic and metal.
The snapping of green beans was a ritual she performed with a surgeon's precision. Each bean was a conversation between her fingers and the vegetable's hidden strings. She would hold the snapped pieces to her cheek, a gesture as tender as a mother's touch, ensuring not a single string remained to mar the perfection of her task.
Shelling peas was a task she cherished, a moment of peace in the rhythm of the day. The pea pods would yield to her deft fingers, splitting open to reveal their hidden treasures. The bowl would fill, each pea a testament to her skill, and the sound of the shells parting was a familiar refrain in the melody of our family life.
Grandma Roxie, as we fondly called her, was more than just a member of our family. She was a symbol of unwavering strength, a reminder that the human spirit can adapt and thrive. Her legacy is etched not only in the well-worn pages of her point print books but in the very essence of our home. She is unforgettable, a cherished memory that continues to inspire and guide us.
This is proudly my memories of a grand blind lady who greatly influenced my life and character.
Her grandson:
peppermiller3011@gmail.com
https://open.substack.com/pub/johnadamsingram/p/peoples-march-live?r=1dgcz&utm_medium=ios