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Monroe 2022-03-02 08:01:41
Steve Earle--Lonely are the Free
The closing credits of "Leaves of Grass" that brought me to tears at the end, with Steve Earl on old kapok guitar and hoarse voice -- are as meaningful as the title: loneliness is freedom.
As I get older, fortunately, my troubles seem to be less and less. Unfortunately, sometimes I always feel... -
Paolo 2022-03-22 09:02:54
Mai Ruihuana
I remember a few years ago, I smuggled a hash from a small poor country and put it in my pocket. When I crossed the border, I was terrified, and I planned to throw things into the backpack of the person in front of me immediately if there was a drug dog. Unexpectedly, it went relatively smoothly....
Chris Freihofer
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Tara 2022-03-18 09:01:09
The sword never gets old.
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Amara 2022-03-27 09:01:21
Norton's usual strong acting is about the dualism of love and fear. Whether it is a respected professor of an institution of higher learning, who starts with a discussion about maintaining his spiritual world, or a "ruffian" who grows marijuana, he comes out with a speech that insists on his pure natural cultivation method. In fact, through the phenomenon In essence, the two brothers are the same kind of person. The film also slightly satirizes religion, which makes me like it, and the soundtrack is very good
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Janet: You still leaving tomorrow.
Bill Kincaid: I think so.
Janet: I'll miss you.
Bill Kincaid: And we barely know each other.
Janet: "You have not known what you are. You have slumbered upon yourself all your life. Your eyelids have been the same as closed most of the time. What you have done returns already in mockeries. The mockeries are not you. Underneath them, and within them, I see you lurk."
Bill Kincaid: [absorbing what she'd just quoted] Who was that?
Janet: Walt Whitman.
Bill Kincaid: I don't think I ever imagined hearing him recited to me by a girl gutting a 40 pound catfish.
Janet: That's exactly how he should be recited. He wrote without rhyme or meter. Free verse. Just whatever he felt inside coming out in one intricate rhythm. Pure unashamed passion, without definable restriction.
Bill Kincaid: I'm sorry, see, I have a few issues with that.
Janet: Why?
Bill Kincaid: Because some have dared to suggest that even poetry has rules.
Janet: Or you make your own.
Bill Kincaid: Right there, that's the part I never bought into.
Janet: Because?
Bill Kincaid: If everybody runs around making their own rules, how can you ever find what's true? There's nothing... there's nothing to rely on.
Janet: "One night, I split my cicada skin, devoured your leaves, knowing no poison, no law of nourishment in that larval blindness, a hunger finally true."
Bill Kincaid: Who's that?
Janet: That's me.
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Brady Kincaid: I ain't gonna manufacture or purvey anything that I ain't gonna ingest into my own sweet self.
