“I’ll take one for the owl movie, please.” The ushers wear standard-issue evening-wear pastiche: bowties and black vests over white button-downs, black pants and shoes. They guard what little love is here, unless we dare to sneak some in like so much smuggled candy (the bodega’s a block away). Alex told me they briefly considered turning this space into a music venue, a few years back. And where would I be tonight, then, some depressing AMC, or breaking my ass on a Film Forum chair?
Kidnapped, the owls trick the Circe of the moon and escape through a crack, to quest for what they’ve only dreamt. “Stories are part of our culture and history”—oh, dad. The guardians, once found, dart and glide around a world-tree, they train to fly, even storm-blinded, over the sea. The young hero has the gift, he closes his eyes and finds the single, impossible path through spiral of wind and rain as a thunderbolt splits the sky behind. It’s that very intuition that takes him, in the final battle, though the flames.
It’s exciting, and I’m alone, I never masturbate here but sometimes I’ll just sort of graze myself alert. Think of the way an owl sees the night, every rustle and breeze alive, the talon-tips impending on the panicked prey. What’s this metaphor, penis as owl or as mouse/vole? I wonder what’s the craziest thing anyone’s ever done in this place.
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