Wednesday, January 22, 2014

January 22, 2014

January 22, 2014

I couldn't sleep last night so I got up and watched "The Man Who Laughs" starring Conrad Veidt. It was broadcasted on the local KTLA station, and normally my TV set seems to be attached to Channel 5. Call me sentimental,but I just can't watch any station except KTLA. It meant so much to me as a youngster. I am pretty sure I witnessed the shooting of Lee Harvey Oswald on this station. It was the first time I became aware of someone actually getting shot and dying, compared to watching Westerns on Saturday mornings where bad guys got shot, but mostly just shooting the gun out of their hands. So the fact that someone got shot, and not only they died, but also Oswald didn't have a gun in his hand when he got shot was just simply odd to me. 

Sometimes KTLA would broadcast a D.W. Griffith film, but for some reason it was hard for me to watch a silent film on a TV set. In a movie theater no problem. Especially when they have an organist on the bill. Actually the first time I saw a Griffith film was in Tokyo with Mie Yanashita on the piano. "Broken Blossoms" was the film, and Ms. Yanashita's music score to the film was very touching and beautiful. 

This morning, after I dressed I went to Amoeba Music to try to locate some piano or organ silent movie music. There was some titles there, but I really wanted something that would fit the mood of either "Broken Blossoms" or "The Man Who Laughs." After almost a hour in their soundtrack section I couldn't find what I was looking for. But that's life in the nutshell. You try to force a 'taste' on oneself, instead of letting it naturally go to you. I should have looked for the music with no thought to my head. 

Nevertheless I found myself in the Associates/Billy Mackenzie vinyl section in the other large room at the store. The late (and much missed) Billy always reminded me of Lord Byron, and if Byron was alive now, no doubt he would be a lead singer in some Sunset Strip band. Or maybe work in an used clothing boutique in Echo Park. 

When I got home I felt a depression upon me. Before the dark cloud takes over, I usually can fight it off by reading the poems and writings by Francis Picabia. But this time it didn't do the work, so I put on Malcolm McLaren's "Paris" album which didn't exactly cheered me up, but made the pain seem like a dream.
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