Around midnight one night I set up the video projector and 5-foot screen on the balcony and watched Barbarella. This time, I had composed my own soundtrack on the computer: Dionne Warwick (“Walk on by”; “Alfie”; “Theme from Valley of the Dolls”), some Vicki Carr, and other sixties-influenced or psychedelic music; and listened to it on the wireless headphones (out of consideration for my neighbors).
At certain moments I fell in love with Jane Fonda – the lurid costumes could not detract from the bright innocence radiating from her eyes, set in iridescent mascara reminiscent of a peacock feather; and I wanted to enfold her in my arms and carry her off the way the blind angel Pygar does. There is after all nothing lovelier than enfolding or being enfolded tenderly. The passive and active voices of the verb “to enfold” are misleading, in my opinion: “to enfold” and “to be enfolded" are really one gesture.
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