About Lloydville

I can't even remember what it was I came here to get away from.



This is an interesting word.

In the conventional usage of organized Christianity it means passed (as in passed the test) or elected (as in elected to the club) or distinguished (as by a celestial diadem).

In everyday life it means rescued from disaster, which sort of rescue was the everyday business of Jesus.  Passing, election, distinction — he didn’t have time for that shit.  He had actual work to do, still does.

Organized Christianity, get the fuck out of his way — we don’t need you, he doesn’t need you . . . your time has come and gone.



Style is a very simple matter: it is all rhythm. Once you get that, you can’t use the wrong words. But on the other hand here am I sitting after half the morning, crammed with ideas, and visions, and so on, and can’t dislodge them, for lack of the right rhythm. Now this is very profound, what rhythm is, and goes far deeper than words. A sight, an emotion, creates this wave in the mind, long before it makes words to fit it; and in writing (such is my present belief) one has to recapture this, and set this working (which has nothing apparently to do with words) and then, as it breaks and tumbles in the mind, it makes words to fit it. But no doubt I shall think differently next year.


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There are many spiders in my little bunker by the sea. They are very sensitive and painfully shy, but also very proud of the magical webs they weave, and of their own odd grace. I never kill them — except one that I thought might be a black widow — and I give them a lot of admiration. I believe that they appreciate it. (And I’m convinced that they are deeply humiliated, devastated really, by all the ill-will directed towards them on Halloween. I am especially nice to them at this time of year.)

When I first moved in they would sometimes crawl on the bed, and I would always remove them gently to some other place, and now they know that I don’t like them on the bed, and respect my wishes. They wait in their own little corners but always seem happy to see me. They are lonely creatures, and hopeful that they have set their webs in a good place, and they get rid of really bad insects, like mosquitoes and flies, who are rude and dangerous.

There are some beautiful long-legged spiders, airy and delicate, who live above my shower. Sometimes they forget and drop too far down, so when I take a shower I have to turn the water on slightly to remind them that it’s about to rain. They scurry back up to the ceiling on their invisible threads.

Learning to love spiders has been one of the best things about living here . . .



A Flickr user who calls himself oldcarguy41 has created a wonderful Photo Stream of vintage illustration, advertising and pin-up art, mostly in excellent high-res scans.  It’s an impressive and valuable curatorial achievement and a delight to browse through.

I discovered the illustration above, by Bernard D’Andrea, in the collection, which you can visit here.

Click on the image to enlarge.



Eda Zahl was the first woman who ever appeared in a photograph on the cover of The National Geographic Magazine.  She was the mother of my best friend Paul Zahl when I was a teenager in Washington, D. C.  She was an eccentric, brilliant and opinionated woman.

She was the first adult person, apart from my parents, who ever took me seriously, who took my ambitions seriously.  My parents would have taken any of my ambitions seriously, but Eda Zahl took my specific ambitions, to become a filmmaker, seriously.  She made me feel that abandoning those ambitions would be disgraceful.

Becoming a filmmaker entailed many years of failure, of poverty, of hopelessness.  I was sustained in the journey by my parents’ blind faith, but equally by Eda Zahl’s clear-eyed and demanding faith.  She taught me that being true to one’s dreams was not just a private, personal indulgence but a duty.