The Smell of Green: (An Innerspace, Outerspace and Beyond Space/Time Poetic Odyssey)

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In fact, the whole visit was a miserable fiasco of interstellar diplomacy.

The supposedly lofty visitors are just as suspicious and trigger-happy as the Earthmen. Dreamer Putnam is not much of a scientist; instead of sticking to facts he spends altogether too much time telling the sheriff his flaky-sounding theories. If he really wanted some cooperation, he should have dropped the Men from Mars talk and simply told the authorities that he saw a solid gold meteor at the bottom of the crater.

The illusion was stunning, with the rockslide sequence indeed making us bob our heads reflexively. Some of the scenes had a cutout diorama look. Isolated planes of action appeared to be stacked up like paper cards instead of creating a convincing depth continuum. But all of the scenes with mist and smoke and some of the elaborate special effects looked great.

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Only the unsatisfying shots of the meteor zooming across the sky stand out, because the cartoon matte around its trailing sparks never blends well with the sky. Some of the superimposed explosions, glitter and flying sparks are awesome. The 3-D picture and the image overall is quite good, with smooth contrast and a pleasing surface texture.

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When I look at just the left or right eye information, I see no drop in quality. A year or two before the stereophonic hi-fi sound craze hit America, It Came From Outer Space has one of those highly directional tracks that delights in playing tricks with our ears. The archive has a good article about the audio from those experimental years, here , written by Greg Kintz.

The first shot hard-cuts a bit late to the opening Universal logo, but included at the forty-minute mark is an original Intermission card that was used in original two-projector exhibition, which required a break to change to the second half of the show. Please listen up, studios… we consumers LOVE these kinds of exotic thrills and technical frills. So far as I know, it has only been seen in isolated special screenings. The disc has been given the extras from the old DVD from fourteen years ago. He tells the production story in pleasing detail, including how the many special effects were achieved.

Round trip. A cruise. Imagine: The view is out of this world. Free from gravity, our limbs obey now only the instructions of our brain; Time is on the panel. What time?

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Greenwich time, Western time, Tokyo time? Our time. Body-time tells us to be hungry, thirsty, sleepy, driven by the force of life. As the sphere turns into a distant marble, the moonscape becomes readable: the Imbrium Basin, the Copernicus, the Agrippa, the glaring lifeless Seas of Nectar, of Moisture, of Cold hypnotize us with their rough, ashy texture.


We are silent. We are tense. We are almost there. The Equatorial night is freezing: F it is written in the instruments. We climb the lunar-mobile that will take us to the base.

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We bump over the dusty, windless surface, our eyes lost on the Earthset. We get there. We hop in. The children start playing in their language, as usual. The boundaries have been broken, forever. A womb. The tent was a womb, soft, protective, warm. Motherly architecture. From the middle of the pond emerged an island of powdered gold, an amorphous glaring surface of dispossession. In the middle of the island stood a table, round and hollow at the center, a wedding ring the size of a soul. People sat around the headless circle of earned nobility, un-hierarchically.

Breathing calmly, as if inhaling time, the noble party joined hands in a necklace of human beads.

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Life is a present at eighty-three. Life is a present anytime. The pace slow, the hearing weak, the breath short, the mind awake. The Cossacks. Old parents. Ten siblings. Rotterdam: Waiting for the visa. Two years.

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They clean even the walls. America is closed. Indians with feathers. Third class, there was no forth. Twenty days on sardines and tomatoes.

Dream Journey 2 - Inner Space

Glaucoma on board. Buenos Aires, No language. No friends. No money. No profession. Only God and a will to defeat misery, to save his family, to raise above the flock. Purchased loves. Impeccable dressing. She was a presence. She was different. She was born free. She knew the language. She knew the manners. She was my eyes. She was my taste. Three months of passion, and we were wed. Forty-three years of adaptation to the incompatible, to the unique. What I am is what I leave. To the memory of Yehuda Amichai. A great poet is gone leaving behind seeds and yearning, as great poets do; I know.

I first met him at a private gathering in Los Angeles: I will never forget his simple shoes, that no one can fit into them. The last time I saw him was on television, his skin close to his bones, his hair sparse, his serene eyes still filled with his love for life, as in the old days. Now he also belongs to my private Pantheon of fathers that once breathed and laughed and held my hand and spoke into my heart like a loving father speaks into the heart of his son, his first-born and his Benjamin. I turn my head and I see a rusted steel handle sticking off the sand. I pull. I dig around it with my hands.

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It is attached to a three by three feet concrete slab. I pull again: it moves. I lift it. I see stairs descending into the unknown. I step down, like a curious cat. A man in a white robe, his head covered with a hood, stares at me with a smile. He looks like me, with a white beard. We are walking in a cave, our pathway sloping down towards a lake.

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  5. Vernell Garrett (Author of The Smell of Green).
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  7. The cave, lighted by torches, is filled with people dresses in clothes from all times. You are a great woman.