Lulu loves his wandering eye and not his wandering eye. That’s a lie. She likes the lustiness with which he sometimes looks at women.
A chubby girl with a huge head of curly red hair, red like cherry boucle, reminds Lulu of Campion’s depiction of a preadolescent Janet Frame in the biopic An Angel At My Table. Or it’s Frame herself and not a filmmaker’s depiction. Yes, it is Frame, the novelist who once wrote
I must go down to the seas again
to find where I
buried the hatchet with Yesterday
When someone tells you
she adores
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a
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I music
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Self-conscious men invite punishment. Lulu grows fond of reinforcing her beau’s belittlement of himself. Men less manly than he is, in less healthy relationships than theirs is, reify the insecurities of the women they love, so why not turn it around on them?
Sometimes Lulu believes she was born to help others and looks upon creation with eyes of love. Sometimes she holds it occasion in the periphery of her vision negative capability. Sometimes she insists it owes her big-time debt and confronts it with proverbial fists of fury film violence when her all too real voice sonority splotches her face red crimson and inflames her nostrils respiration. Lulu’s dream is to one day renounce such extremes antithesis as coming and going routine sameness and otherness melancholy and the hold eternity and annihilation have on human beings fear of a wasted life. Such animation outstretches the day midnight and wrecks the one that follows.
Mistaken for a marksman, she claims the rank of first fine shot. So tote an empty weapon and a cloth of rocks far beyond the broad ephemeral border. The blue green bullet behind the forehead personalizes known landscapes.