A young woman who addresses perfect cosmic unity and infinite design, regarded in certain primitive circles as “God”…let me start again. Anyone who addresses the grand altogether as some sort of nice fella or…whatever, as an all-pervasive, all-powerful emotional counselor with a kindly personality and the will to listen to and empathize with the plight of earthly humans…c’mon, man. That’s YA stuff.
In 1964 Alfred Hitchcock regarded this picturesque Baltimore seaport neighborhood as grim and down-at-the-heels. This is where Louise Latham’s Bernice, the emotionally constipated, man-hating mother of Tippi Hedren’s lead character, resided. By today’s standards, of course, it’s a prime location — red-brick row houses, great harbor view, sea air, cool cafes.
Yesterday some Facebook entity representing Joni Mitchell posted an attractive photo of the fabled singer-poet, taken in ‘83. The comments were adoring but shamelessly so — a torrent of rapt, falsetto-voiced religious worship. I tried to point this out, and of course my remarks drew scorn.
“Past Mitchell Capturings,” posted on 7.20.19:.
