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“What can’t be said can’t be said, and it can’t be whistled either.”
–Swami Rama Tirtha, quoted in Be Here Now
Guess what. These people are married.
Guess what. These people are British, and married.
Guess what. These people are British, and married, and one of them is having an affair.
Guess which one?
This is actress Maggie Smith in 1981, crying like she means it.
This is more than a good cry. This is a roto-rooter cry.
She reaches down into her genetic code and tickles every unarticulated sadness she can imagine with a magic finger in her mind. Digs right to the source and heaves it up, then plops it at her frightened husband’s feet. If she weren’t crying so hard, she would be laughing. Or maybe she would be doing something with a pillow.
At any rate, words fail her.
Which brings me to the topic of P!nk, the pop music icon, who might be unhappy. I listen to her music on my car radio. And I worry.
FAQ’s for P!nk:
What is your mother’s middle name? (Routine security question.)
How many hours per day do you devote to sculpting your bod?
How tall are you?
How old were you when you married that skateboard star?
Oh? That’s what I meant. Motocross. I know it’s not the same thing.
Anyway, how old were you when you divorced him?
Oh? I heard you broke up. Sorry.
Do you bite your nails?
Have you been to Burning Man?
Have you read anything by Ford Madox Ford?
Oh, oh, oh. It’s Paris in the 20s. Terrific. And none of it’s real.
Cut to: the summer of love.
Cut to: feminism, first wave.
Cut to: the moment of my supposed conception.
Cut to: The Norfolk premier of Purple Rain at Military Circle Mall.
Now that, I was there for.
Film clip is from “Quartet”, a Merchant and Ivory Production.
Based on the novel by Jean Rhys.