There’s a haunting beauty to Buster Keaton’s two-reelers. Day Dreams calls me back often. And The Frozen North. The Haunted House. Many of them. Sweet, innocent, melancholic, sometimes sardonic. (The latter can jar you a little – or a lot. Unexpectedly forcing introspection. It’s a depth I’ve never experienced before in comedy. It’s greater poignancy comes from the nature of silent film itself.)
The more I watch, read, study, learn, and discuss, the more I realize Buster Keaton is to film what Elvis is to music.
It’s almost Halloween. Too bad the month’s gone by so fast. But it gives November a chance to make her graceful entrance. November is when the leaves turn, and the weather becomes cold, and all memory of summer is lost in an effort to find your socks.
I’ve turned to needlework again to calm my busy hands. Can a creative person do a thing that is not creative? Or maybe we do all things creatively? My thoughts turn to gardening again. One of these days I’ll start that garden journal I’ve dreamed about since I was a child. As it turns out, you don’t need an English manor house to keep a proper garden journal.
‘Till next time.