Showing results for 2015
I had the milk from a dandelion all over my hands once in the sun and in the cracks of my palms and it was getting on my lunch, I kept thinking.
Once my mother painted my fingernails
There was something so sublimely satisfying about reading Laird Hunt’s Neverhome this year that I’ve read it, here and there, probably twice, maybe three times more since. The novel introduces us
1. It was always ice. Ice: a word like a shard of glass shived in his ribs. The dark plain he was bound to travel. His paramour, his nightmare, his lost thumb. His vice.
When I think of mumblecore, I think of Dick Tracy and pornography, low budget films, naturalistic performances, Andrew Bujalski, and pimples. We never set out to make any particular type or genre of film. We just wanted to make our film.