From the Vault.

Originally posted on 7-12-11.

 

I searched the desert sands
just to later realize that I was in the
jungle;
and the pool of water that I sought so
desperately was just within reach,
only I was too parched to
swallow-
and by that point, too weak to
stand.
I lay there on my back,
atop a mossy patch of green, tangled
earth, while
insects trekked over me as if I were
an abandoned log-
they went about their way,
in search of their own sparkling oases.
The leaves around me rustled with
life,
and the brush was alive with movement.
I lay motionless, staring at the soaring
blue sky,
deep and blue and rich
with a tint of yellow orange sun,
absorbing the sounds of my temporary
confinement.
I heard feet brush past me-
I’d closed my eyes to rest, you see, and
I followed the hurried sound with my ears
and opened them slowly to see myself
walking toward the pool,
which was only a few paces away,
right in front of me…
the entire time.
I wearily watched this version
stride to the pool and take a drink;
how effortless it truly was, and
then I questioned how difficult I’d made it
out to be, sipping from that pool.
I turned back to the sky
and cursed this alternate me,
enraged at the thought of what could
be-
but I was only cursing myself…
I realized then that I wandered the desert
because I never thought that I was
worthy of a drink*

-G. Boston

From the Vault.

Originally posted on 1-7-12, with music.

 

What is flesh, but a creation?
A limited fuse lit by an unseen hand-
Can it heal?
Yes.
Can it grow?
Yes,
and we don’t have to lift a finger.
What is flesh, but a wrapper,
a covering-
much like a candy bar,
or a tiny mint-
a mask for something more defined
and complex-
a shirt for our thoughts,
socks for our feelings,
a jacket for our innermost workings-
we can spend years crying tears of all
colors,
or smiling moonlit smiles…
with or without the courage to move
forward, or backward,
with or without the strength to stand on
current ground.
What is flesh, but a creation-
what is creation, but a thought turned into
action-
and action, a collection of concerted
effort-
it heals,
it grows,
and all we have to do is continue to
breathe.
The sun…it always shines*

-G. Boston

 

 

 

 

Theatrical Thursday – Bad Accents, featuring Robin Hood: Prince of Thieves (1991).

Hollywood has long been accent confused; the mere hint of an accent is meant to suffice for any nationality on Earth. Britons generally serve as the universal go to voice for any global race, as Britons have systematically portrayed German Nazis (Valkyrie, The Eagle Has Landed), Vikings (The 13th Warrior), and most recently North Africans/Egyptians (Exodus: God and Kings). We are forced and made to believe that any accent is better than no accent at all, an absurdly pervasive premise that is shoved down our movie going throats on a regular basis. It hearkens back to the days of ingorance when Laurence Olivier and Constantin Stanislavski portrayed the Moorish character Othello, and the screen was full of white men and women masquerading as Asians and Native Americans (such as Stephen Macht as Heavy Eagle in The Mountain Men), and every other non white ethnicity on the planet. Only in the very recent modern times have ethnicities been able to…shocker…portray themselves.

A classic example of accent forgiveness is Kevin Costner in Robin Hood: Prince of Thieves, Costner’s 1991 take on the legendary English tale. As is commonly known, Robin Hood was the fabled English outlaw of Sherwood Forest who challenged the evil authority of the Sheriff of Nottingham, robbing from the rich and winning the hearts of the poor on his way to literary glory. It would be assumed that, portraying such a well known figure of English lore, either an Englishman would assume the role, or someone that was adequately capable of producing the necessary English-ness that would make believers out of even the most discerning viewers. Instead, we got Kevin in his most typical All-American self, with zero (and I mean zero) hint of credibility that he is the famous English longbowman who made the forest of Sherwood his bitch. We got Robin of Cincinnati, who sticks out like a sore thumb as the only one sounding like he’s from Akron, Ohio while being surrounded by a largely British cast. Even Morgan Freeman got his Moor on, while Christian Slater and Mary Elizabeth Mastrantonio sufficiently mustered thinly veiled European impressions. I remember seeing this film in the theater as a kid, and even then thinking “what the hell”. Behold, Robin of Montana in all his American splendor.

 

 

 

Wisely, they kept the original trailer dialogue free, which deftly concealed his distinct American-ness. This wordless 2 minutes of trailer quite effectively duped the public.