Over yonder, near the apex of my venerated memories, the sun also rises.

its copper glow covers the sphinx and a multitude of pyramids in a brocade mantle blessed by Ra.

Small tumults of wind begin conducting themselves like ballerinas. Shimmering, they pirouette, pique, and chaine all the way to near where the river meets the bay, and the salmon are plentiful, and when it becomes dusk, all the frog families come out to sing their praises to the clouds that part, making way for the glorious luminescence of the moon. the moon finds the aforementioned activities to be quite entertaining, and often times she must stifle herself lest she giggle, by shifting around the cool, heavy, blue grey craters on her surface and generally making a muck of her face. she sees the sun when approximately half of the population of planet earth do, and often the sun and her have conversations of the workings of the saplings they deign to shine on and/or reflect upon. the sun, being the hot headed troubador of a matador that he is, sees nothing wrong with scorching. the moon, being of the more gentle and generally cool persuasion, always has a problem with this, unless it concerns people with moustaches. you see, the moon despises facial hair. she finds it to be offensive.

the two of them entertain themselves with petty debates over the purpose of existence and why on earth anyone should put milk in a bag, until one day, the sun will burn out, and the moon will take her own life out of loneliness and lack of purpose.

The trees and general flora that make up the greener aspects of this strange and enchanting place, know of the potential self destruction of their moon goddess. for centuries man has cared for, destroyed, praised and preached about said forestry, all the while running through, chopping away at, and bowing down to the various great oaks and fauna found within it. the forest remains indifferent to a point. it will be struck and made into shelter, it will be struck at out of anger or jealousy, it will be made into writing utensils, drawing utensils, and general phalangicle playthings of the humans, as long as the moon blesses them with her sweet tendrils of granite light from her rounded beaming icicle face. once this ends, the oaks and elks will join together and avenge! their blood curdling war cries will shake the ground beneath everyones feet and even the itty bitty chipmunks will cease their squeaking to watch the destruction of the destructors.

and then there will be a feast.

I am so tired of sleeping alone.

All I do, is think of you. well no, that is a vast over statement/exageration. but i do think of you often.

you mean alot to me. that is the tragedy. i am sure at another point in my life i would have gotten in right, instead of mucking it up like i do. i am good at mucking things up. i am good at fucking things up. i am good at fucking myself up, fucking myself over, fucking being a god damned fucking joke.

my life is a comedic tragedy. i think of all of these things to do with you, but you do not want to do them with me. you do not want to be with me. you tell me you want to be alone. i miss having your scent on my sheets. i miss falling asleep with my face against your back, with my arms wrapped around your torso, with your goodnight kisses still on my skin.

i do not want to be salome. i just want you to love me for who i am, the entire dishevelled and messy, swearing, lying, crummy, lot. i am rot.or at least i feel like it.

why wont you come here and cheer me up?

i am sad too.



In this boat, I am with you.
the sun is spreading its glow onto us, nearly bleaching out the colours
everything s the blue of the sea, and an odd, blurry mixture of our skin tones.
the hairs on your arms are pasted to your skin, and salt outlines paint miniature portraits along the way to your naked shoulders.
I am preoccupied with the sounds of the water against the wood, of the oars gently bumping against the sides, of the sticky leftovers of grape innards left on my fingers.
you are wearing your favorite hat, and i watch the shadow of it along the surface of the water as you bring your lips to my neck and kiss me.
In the distance tin is being struck, and laughter drifts above us, floating over, and spreads itself across the sea.
I lean over, allowing the water to come into my palms, and them bring them up to splash you in the face.
you push me over
and fall down
next to me
laughing.

I am a small boat floating along upon the velvet sea. I dive deeper into the waves of my bed.
I smell him everywhere.
His scent begins to taunt me.
An overwhelmingly dreadful sense of having been discarded comes over me.
Small pieces of pebbles are laid on my nude flesh. They cover my eyes, and I suck on one in my mouth. They are being grasped in my small, flute playing hands.
Or the smooth green glass bits that come from the sea, they are there as well.
Randomly at a friends’, I say a certain word, and think of him. I think of him just as he was, at dinner, holding me and asking how I was doing, beautiful.

“To multi-tasking”
Was his cheer. My green glass clinked against his.
When he came to my door, I believe I said hello. We did not touch.
Later, in the kitchen, when he was preparing dinner for us, he walked by me, and leaned in.
casually I turned my face and took another sip of wine.
We watched a sex scene involving water and hairy bodies. The splashing noises made me feel more at ease than ill at ease. It is nice to wince privately.
HAHAHAHAHAHA he says
HAHAHAHAHAHAH I say. He gets up to urinate and I spread myself out on the sofa. He returns and we cuddle. My roommate leaves. He turns my face to his. We kiss. We kiss passionately. He rubs himself into myself rubbing onto him. I can see when he looks at me he is becoming frenzied. His breathing turns to pants, and he turns to mine. I guide him to my bed. He guides me ontop of him. Our mouths are everywhere, and his hot flesh is all around me, warm and smooth to the touch. Our moans surround us as we thrash about, sweating and such. I felt small blossoms within me bloom. He was so deep inside of me at one point I could feel the water within me come to the brim, slowly splashing over.
He falls asleep as I watch a gruesome film, his head on my shoulder, his body turned into mine. It takes much effort for me to not look at him. From the corner of my eye is his forehead. Throughout the night we are entwined in multiple scenarios. He kisses my neck before he passes out.
In the morning he takes a photo of me as I luxuriate in the afternoon sun. I wonder inwardly how long it will be until it is erased.
I read Bukowski.

I am going mad missing him. A new him, yes, but alas it is not the person himself rather what he came to represent; a renewed faith, private smiles, the shared joy of holding someone until sleep arrives.
I hate myself for this endless repetition. It is shameful that after all the times I have been aching, just as I ache now, and yet, the pain does not subside, it merely clarifies my foolishness.
I am a fool for hoping when failure is inevitable.
For somehow coming to the unfounded conclusion that this time, or the last time, or the next time, will be anything but the same.
I am alone again in this godforsaken empty bed that you and I had shared. The walls offer no comfort, the floor no words of consolation, and distractions are temporary. I tell myself I will have to move. I tell myself it will be best to never see you again.
I imagine what it would be like, because I am demented and despicable like that, and I know I would have tears in my eyes, but wait until I am on my way, running running home to my solace and broken dreams, the godforsaken bed, the looming overhead thoughts, until I can slide into the solace of the space in between things. It is a god damned shame, this is.

When I am alone, sometimes I feel you come to me from behind.
I do not hear anything.
I do not see anything.
I think that I know that you are there with me.
And in that moment everything stops
everything stops but you and me
at the back of my mind I am considering the least painful way to die.
But then I imagine the expression on your face,
and all of a sudden I am overwhelmed with the impossible desire to be held by you, and to hear your voice, like when you would hold me tight, as if your voice was my own, and our love made me whole.
You are gone
I am alone
there are things that you left behind
you also left us
and I am growing weary of this pain.

I don’t know if I’ve ever watched a black and white movie before because a movie without color kind of seems unnatural to me. That is, until I got to watch Casablanca in class.

It was as good as everyone says it is. Most of the accents were pretty horrible, but otherwise it was a classic love story about a guy that I wish existed in real life.

I even ended up loving that it was in black and white. It made it classic and romantic–and that soft Rembrandt lighting made Ilsa (Ingrid Bergman) look so beautiful that I almost wished my boyfriend was colorblind so that I’d look like that to him (and yes, I realize that being colorblind doesn’t actually mean you see black and white).

Now that's love.

And Rick (Humphrey Bogart). Oh Rick, how I wish you were a real person. I love his sort of gruff exterior and how he loved Ilsa so much that losing her completely changed his personality. I love how he says thinks like “Of all the gin joints, in all the towns, in all the world, she walks into mine” and “I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship.”

Men like that just don’t exist anymore. Well, I don’t know that they ever existed, but I really wish they did.

~Kelsey Bennett

Humprey Bogart e Ingrid Bergman

“Casablanca” es una obra maestra, es una de esas películas que muchos no nos cansamos de ver una y otra vez. Cuentan que el rodaje conllevó un sinfín de peripecias de todo tipo. Dicen los que conocieron aquel rodaje que con frecuencia ni los actores conocían la globalidad de las secuencias. Incluso se produjeron significativos cambios en la dirección… Da igual. “Casablanca” es una obra maestra. De entre las muchas frases excelentes que se pueden rememorar citaré la siguiente. Le preguntan a Rick Blaine (Humprey Bogart): ” ¿Cuál es su nacionalidad?”. Y Rick (= Humprey) contesta: “Soy borracho”.

…from Woody Allen’s Play It Again, Sam.

Me

Tonight my wife Catherine and I went to Pottery Barn to buy two white panel curtains that I’ll later hang in her office using my drill, a screw driver, a pencil, a level, and a step-ladder. When we arrived home at around 8 p.m. I made myself a martini, which I sipped at the dining room table while Cat warmed us both up some soup. We enjoyed our soup while sitting in front of our big TV watching “Indiscreet,” starring Cary Grant and Ingrid Bergman. About 10:30 I got tired, and went off to bed.

But now I can’t sleep. And the haunting thought that’s keeping me awake?

When—oh, God, when??— did I become my father?

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1943: For Whom the Bell Tolls di Sam Wood

“Grande successo hollywoodiano legato soprattutto ai due amatissimi protagonisti” (Francesco Mininni). Celeberrimo film, immancabile per un amante dei classici.

Per chi suona la campana è il dodicesimo film di Sam Wood (ex allievo di Cecil B. DeMille) a cui si devono celeberrime opere come Kitty Foyle, ragazza innamorata (il film che regalò l’Oscar a Ginger Rogers), Addio, Mr. Chips!, Un giorno alle corse e Una notte all’Opera (ambedue con i fratelli Marx).
“Nessun uomo è un’isola,
completo in se stesso;
ogni uomo è un pezzo del continente,
una parte del tutto.
Se anche solo una zolla
venisse lavata via dal mare,
l’Europa ne sarebbe diminuita,
come se le mancasse un promontorio,
come se venisse a mancare
una dimora di amici tuoi,
o la tua stessa casa.
La morte di qualsiasi uomo mi sminuisce,
perché io sono parte dell’umanità.
E dunque non chiedere mai
per chi suona la campana:
suona per te”.
E’ la celeberrima poesia di John Donne da cui Hemingway trasse ispirazione per il suo romanzo.
Il film pone in secondo piano l’aspetto esistenziale e politico del libro, privilegiando la storia d’amore tra i due protagonisti… ma essendo questi due star tra le più carismatiche che il grande schermo abbia mai avuto, come non godere dalla sua visione?
Gary Cooper aveva vinto due anni prima, con Il sergente York di Howard Hawks, l’Oscar (ne avrà un altro nel 1952 per il magnifico Mezzogiorno di fuoco): “Cooper è bellissimo e normale, dunque più completo di un Power (solo bellissimo) e di un Bogart (solo normale). Quando Cooper morì di cancro, nel 1961, il Paese, e non solo, sprofondò in un lutto personale. C’era più dolore che per la perdita di un presidente, c’era lo stesso dolore della perdita di un famigliare. E proprio Kennedy, neopresidente, disse: «è morto Coop, come faremo adesso?»” (MyMovies).
Ingrid Bergman, “volto di una intensa e pacata bellezza, occhi che sanno esprimere amore in ogni fotogramma, grande interprete sia di ruoli leggeri da commedia sia di densi personaggi drammatici, subito nota come «il più illustre regalo della Svezia a Hollywood»” (MyMovies). “Scesa dal Nord a ricordarci anche brividi mistici e sensuali che increspano i fiordi. Quasi fosse nata, come fu detto, da un sogno di Ibsen” (Il Corriere della Sera), riceverà l’Oscar l’anno dopo con Angoscia di George Cukor (il primo dei tre ricevuti) .

scheda

premi e riconoscimenti

The most important part of this picture? The cup.

The film is rich enough and so multi-faceted that you can watch it over and over again and find new aspects of its storytelling and filmmaking to admire each time. Revisiting it tonight, the thing I was most into wasn’t how perfectly edited it is, or the way Hitchcock used wardrobe color to such simple, powerful effect. No, tonight I was amused, because this movie casts Carey Grant in a less-common light.

In the movie, Ingrid Bergman plays a high-profile playgirl whose father was just convicted of being a German spy. Carey Grant plays a federal agent assigned to recruit her to gather intelligence on some of her father’s friends. She falls in love with Carey Grant, and though he’s too cold to admit it, he loves her, too. Then he finds out her assignment is to seduce a man who used to be in love with her.

That’s where Carey Grant goes from being cold to flat-out cruel. He sneers his way through his scenes with Bergman, accosting her in Hays-approved innuendo for going through with the plan, while she grows to resent the fact that he didn’t ask her not to. This is not the dashing, charming Carey Grant or even the funny and accessible Carey Grant that producer David O. Selznick wanted to hire as a way of ensuring that the film would turn a profit. No, to us today, this is more like tuning in to watch this show Dexter you’ve heard so much about because that father from 3rd Rock From The Sun is in it and being treated to John Lithgow’s tortured, horrifying performance as the so-called “Trinity Killer.”

3rd ROCK FROM THE SUN was originally going to have much darker finale.

People knew the range Grant was capable of, but I think we can all agree he’s primarily known as a dreamy leading man. Selznick sent notes throughout the re-writing process asking that Hitchcock and his collaborators be sure that Grant’s character be charming enough, but Grant and Hitchcock took his character in a slightly different direction. From the moment Bergman meets him, we as the audience trust him. This is partly because Cary Grant carries certain cultural baggage nowadays, but mostly it’s because he does bring the charm. (His response when she tells him her car is outside is easy to miss, but something few other actors could have pulled off quite so well.) We don’t know what his angle is, but we decide that Bergman should trust him.

And then, five minutes later, he decides to just up and knock her out.

I’ve been influenced by this man ever since I was born. He decided to name his first child by one of his main crushes actress Ms. Ingrid Bergman. So I guess I’m flattered by such name. Thanks Dad!

Sweet Jesus. As some writers cannily predicted at the beginning of season 3, Don Draper’s world has come crashing down just in time for JFK’s assassination to rip the nation apart.

In “The Gypsy and the Hobo” I saw Jon Hamm’s face do things I’ve never seen before—he was laid completely bare as his defenses fell one by one to Betty’s questioning. And Betty was magnificent—I didn’t give her nearly enough credit in my last post, but she nailed Don to the wall. “You don’t get to ask any questions,” she snapped. Bravo! I held my breath when she left the room, wondering as Don picked up his box of photos if he’d manage even now to squirm away, but he stayed. She got 90% of the truth from Don—his appallingly sad childhood and even his betrayal of his brother Adam, all but details of his past affairs and the one currently in progress. We see latent class differences begin to emerge too: “I see how you are with money,” Betty says, “you don’t understand it. I knew you were poor.” “I was very poor,” Don admits. (If anyone is guilty of squandering money I would argue it’s Betty, but we’ll leave that for another time.) And most important of all, what I believe is the key to understanding Don’s self-destructive behavior: “What would you do?” Betty asks. “Would you love you?” “I was surprised you ever loved me,” Don responds.

If Don believes he is fundamentally unworthy of love—and why shouldn’t he, after a childhood of being told he’s illegitimate and unwanted?—then it would explain why he seeks refuge in sex and flirts with affairs one inch from tearing down the artifice of a life he’s created. Betty has certainly earned the right to her anger, but we see in her iciness (gradually thawing when she asks about Adam) a self-perpetuating cycle—Don has married a more beautiful version of the cool, rigid woman who raised him, and so seeks out warm, compassionate women like Suzanne Farrell. It is only when he senses he’s about to lose Betty, as he does in “The Grown-ups,” that he ceases taking her for granted and becomes the attentive husband she’s always needed. “It’s going to be OK,” he says as they dance, and he kisses her—but by then it’s too late.

Henry Francis proposes to Betty in “The Grown-ups”—a proposal predicated on three kisses, a handful of letters, and one violent box-hurling incident. He tells Betty “I’m not in love with the tragedy of this thing. I want it to happen,” showing a fundamental insight into Betty’s nature. Though their lack of physical intimacy may be a sign of the purity of their love, it also seems to indicate Betty’s cooler temperament and her preoccupation with the fantasy rather than the reality of their affair. Like a little girl playing the damsel in distress in the ivory tower, she wants to be desired from afar without having the relationship consummated—which might make Glen Bishop Betty’s ideal lover.

On the opposite end of the relationship spectrum we have Roger Sterling, all too prone to consummating his relationships. But then Annabelle shows up in “The Gypsy and the Hobo,” the long-lost Ingrid Bergman to Roger’s more light-hearted Humphrey Bogart, and she throws herself at him. And Roger turns her down. He claims Jane is the girl for him, but then there she is acting like a brat in “The Grown-Ups,” refusing to abandon the news for 10 minutes to listen to her husband’s toast. And then he calls Joan. What are we to make of all this?

I think the writers are preparing us for an eventual Return of Joan and Roger, while placing it in a proper context to give it some meaning. Roger displays the first smidgen of character he’s shown all season by rejecting Annabelle, and it’s clear he still turns to Joan to make sense of the world for him. Jane can’t do that; Mona never did. But if he’s eventually going to pursue Joan and have it mean anything at all, we first have to see him showing some reliable judgment. Meanwhile, Joan is finally beginning to second-guess her marriage; maybe Greg’s deployment to Vietnam will test his mettle in a way that definitively proves his weak character, and she’ll leave him. Or he’ll die a slow, painful coward’s death.

So where does this leave us for the season finale and beyond? When Betty tells Don that she doesn’t love him, he retreats to Sterling Cooper’s office, the one place where he feels moderately in control. But if we’re to truly see his world upended, that must come tumbling down too; given the finale’s ominous title (“Sit Down. Shut the Door.”), that might involve Conrad Hilton pulling his business just as Sterling Cooper goes back on the market. I’d like to see Bert and Roger buy back the company from the British, hire Lane Pryce as a supervisor, rehire Sal and Joan, promote Peggy and Pete, and reinstill a little pride among the employees. As for Betty and Don, I think Betty probably will explore things with Henry Francis for a while, and the writers have left the door open with Suzanne Farrell. But it’s hard for me to picture a show without them as a couple anchoring the center. Or a world where Don doesn’t have a secret life. Who’s he supposed to be now?

We’re back with a few peoples favorite post to learn the real origins of some of today’s most popular (and not so popular) phrases. So without further ado (I know I have to get to that one too) …. the all dedication edition…..

-Wash My Balls for a Dollar

When Ramblin’ Rooster requested this one, I thought that maybe he was taking the piss. After a little research I was surprised that this phrase is actually quite popular in low income and urban areas in the mid-west. The phrase was written in the original script for Boyz N the Hood by John Singleton. The phrase was replaced however when, during the first month of shooting Singleton and Ice Cube were getting pissy on the Crystal, and a nappy headed crack ho asked Mr. Cube for a crumb. When Ice replied, “suck my mother fuckin dick” John quickly wrote it in his notebook and the rest was history. Fate was finicky for ‘Wash my balls for a dollar,’ or it would be a pop culture phenomenon still today. Apparently the phrase is still used sparingly by liberal Hollywood, the West Coast elitists, and occasionally by crack dealers looking for a quick laugh or in need of a ball cleansing.

-Jump on the Bandwagon

Requested by Micky-T. Although many fools attribute this phrase to P.T. Barnum, it was originally coined by Dan Rice who was a world renowned circus clown. This was back when circus clowning was an intellectually respectable vocation; before all of the clown nonsense began. Mr. Rice found that he could substantially increase his income by throwing his considerable weight (this was before the 30 clowns to a car shtick, and he weighed a lot) behind political campaigns. He’d bring his fancy bandwagon which was stocked with a full bar, to crowded areas and get everyone drunk if they promised to vote for whoever he was supporting that election year. Some people would become too intoxicated to stay on the slowly moving vehicle, which was also how the phrase ‘falling off the wagon’ came to pass. Unfortunately, most of the people who fell off Rice’s wagon were crushed by his massive 60in spinning rims on phat Goodyear’s.

The phrase began adopting a negative connotation in the late 1840’s, when Rice successfully got a Know Nothing candidate elected in Boston. The Know Nothing political party was extremely anti-Irish and anti-immigrant, but above all else anti-Irish immigrant. So when a bunch of Irish immigrants unwittingly elected a K.N. politician because of too much free booze and a fancy wagon ride, the potatoes really started flying. The backlash was stereotypically drunken and violent and eventually the election was overturned. The Supreme Court, which was surprisingly made up of oracles, ruled that it would be like a bunch of Mexican immigrants electing Lou Dobbs…..uh…a hundred and seventy years from now.

This phrase, much like most of our proud linguistics, is now used almost exclusively in reference to sports. 

-If the Shoe Fits, Walk a Mile in it

For Claire , I easily found that this phrase began as a duel sponsored corporate advertising campaign put together by the mad men working for R.J. Reynolds and Buster Brown in 1944. The commercial was made sexclusivley for theater audiences because of the adult nature of the content, i.e.; there was a tongue (or European) kiss. The ad starred Ingrid Bergman as Virginia Slim and Cary Grant as Joe Camel. In the first scene Virginia is having a fight with her husband over a burnt roast. After receiving a sharp slap, Virginia storms off and we next see her in the neighborhood strip mall trying on a new pair of comfortable Buster Brown shoes. After paying (with her new Shawmut debit card), she tells the clerk, “Why these shoes fit so well, I think I’ll walk a mile for a Camel in them.” After a short clip of her walking down a long and dusty road we see her arrive at an isolated farmhouse. On the porch is a rugged, square jawed farmer sitting with his sweaty torso fully exposed as he happily drags on a cigarette. He slowly rises and greets her with a long passionate kiss, tilts her head gently back and says, “You’ve come a long way baby!”   

The ad only ran for 3 short months before the American Family Association began protesting, and got it shut down.

*I still have two more requests due for nest week’s edition, but remember…. if you have any phrases that are close to your heart let me know!!!

O tópico deste ‘post’ tem ume dupla função: os meus textos imediatamente anteriores que abordavam o assunto de árvores genalogicas vinham  carregados de  cor sombria. Era preciso  dar outro    tom. Torná-lo  airoso. Depois, estou numa fase etária de recordações. E nada melhor que o relato do facto verdadeiro que vou contar para  despertar      interesse a algum curioso. Estava-se na época de verão em Roma. Suponho que o ano fosse 1957.   Havia uma pausa de preparação para os exames da Universidade Gregoriana e durante este tempo, aos alunos do  Colégio Português onde eu me encontrava, era permitido  sairem    para  estudar ao ar livre.  Era muito severo   o Regulamento daquele Colégio naquele tempo. E note-se que os padres  eram obrigados a andar de batina! Falava-se  de  um decreto da diocese de Roma proibindo,sob pena de exmunhão, os clérigos de ver  um filme numa sala  pública. Existisse ou não este decreto, fosse ou não válido, certo é que era proibido aos  clérigos ir a uma sala  de cinema que não fosse da casa paroquial! Incluo aqui um parêntesis para confessar que transgredindo esta proibição , no ano 1959, eu e um colega, amigo  meu , português, fomos ver  numa sala pública o então badalado filme de Mario Monicelli ‘ La Grande Guerra’, tendo no fim saído os dois com a excomunhão às costas…). Ora  numa tarde de  verão em Roma  eu, embatinado,  com uma  faixa bicolor verde-vermelho,  distintivo do Colégio Português em Roma,  fui ao jardim do  famoso Castel Sant’Angelo, à pequena distância do Colégio :  era só atravessar um pontão sobre o Tibre. Sentei-me  num banco ao lado de uma senhora jovem que, julguei fosse a mãe duma linda menina,  vivaça, duns cinco anos, que brincava, saltando  à corda. A senhora não largava de vista a pecarrucha, ao mesmo tempo que gritava: ‘Gioia, veni qui…- Gioia, veni, gioia…”

Virei-me para a senhora e perguntei se era a mãe da miúda. Respondeu-me ela toda sorridente. Não . Não. Era apenas a ama e a miúda era filha,uma das gémeas, de Rosselini e Ingrid Bergman. Seria mais tarde a Isabella, actriz por mérito próprio, tornada famosa no filme Veludo Azul de David Lynch. Fiquei varado de surpresa. Rosselini  era para mim um semi -Deus , expoente do  neo-realismo no cinema  então em força. Já vira em casas paroquiais o seu clássico ‘Roma, cittá aperta’ etc. Já vira  De Sicca do ‘Ladrão de biciclata’ , etc. etc. Não me escapava filme numa sala paroquial onde fosse exibido um filme dessa eescola. Exactamente neste ano, Nehru convidara Rosselini a fazer um Documentário sobre  India – convite que este aceitou ,tendo ido, de imediato,  para India  realizar o trabalho. Não pssou muito tempo que os jornais noticiassem o envolvimento de Rosselini  com a indiana Sonali Das Gupta, que trabalhava nos estúdios  como guionista. O caso deu brado e como esta senhora era já casada, Rosselini não teve outro remédio, sob pressão diplomática, senão abandonar India juntamente com Sonali rumo a França onde se fixou. Teve uma filho com Sonali que  perfilhou. Ora estes acontecimentos ocorreram imediatamente após o meu encontro com a  ama de Isabella no jardim de que falei. Aquela expressão italiana ‘gioia’, ‘gioia’ com que a ama se dirigia à filhota de Rosselini ficou gravada na minha memória. ‘Gioia’ em italiano significa, primeiramente,alegria, mas também se usa no significado da nossa plavra portuguesa ‘joia’. E assim que a minha filha nasceu , eu começei a chamar-lhe ‘joia’, ‘joinha’. Tanto assim é que na dedicatória  do meu livro ‘Casa Grande’,  se lê.:

“Para  Zé e  Joínha que me deram a alegria de viver”.

Leopoldo da Rocha