Rolling on with Women's Month movie-watchin'.

Virginia Woolf:  She spoke of striving to find a new narrative method.  

Mrs Dolloway?  Orlando?  To The Lighthouse?

"You don't like me?"  Of course.  Your family hates you, and you know it.  Such is always the case, that if there is no anger, and only aversion, do you expect the impetus to say such things out loud?  A suitable kind of reason d'etre?  

She come up with the notion to find a new narrative method, and the little idea excited her; in my own world, I came up with a similar notion, and it was called publicly "Promised Bland".  But to a bored woman without the imagination to amuse herself, I suppose everything around and about her is well.... bland.

And eventually, as the very reek of destination begins to weigh her, she put stones in her pocket and deposited those feelings "Into the Chattapequa", the dark waters of the Chattepequa, reflecting back only what they see...... 

Herself... a gleating of shame and misunderstood intentions, eighty thousand words, and her new narrative method, but did she still feel, incessantly, that she had not come across with her reasons?  (I remember yelling out the Blake line a few times, myself: "who made thee?!".)

To herself, and only herself, that minds eye: that black mirror that looks almost like reality but upon examination.... those triumphal works were but a stain, I wot, in her perview, and she had no recourse but to feel all "alternative" or something, segmented off on her own little island, screaming toward that other shore, again incessantly, but always that perception in her mind, that sort of doubt, that she had ever, at all, been heard.

The staid waters of the Chattepequa.... 

It reminds me of the novel-within-a-novel thing, a novel written by a character in a story, "The Gothic Sea".  James Purefoy writes about his protagonist walking into the ocean, to intention, reason de'tre, to snuff himself.  The character's name was Jordan, or Pidgeonhole, Reese or something.  Murder-cult maven, that nome-de-something.  The canonical league of those fictional novels include, "The Collected Works of Kilgore Trout: An Anthology of the Everyman's Library", "Mr Blandings Builds His Dream House", "White Enamel", "The Philosophy of Time Travel", "Time Against Time"(I wrote that one: that was I; that was me), and some other.

The Fuller Brush Girl:

Lucy, in the "few-cha", Modern Times, as it were, taking up life(and as we say, "life and life more abundantly").  The film, silly beyond words, and that respect, maybe in its lack of logic, reflective of something more real than the average film of happy coincidences.  Why, we have "the impossible job", and its improbable but strange-enough-for-reality failures and its own non-propitious coincidences.  Played for laughs, maybe, but the late 70's saw such "everyday worries" as a true and relevant reason d'etre, and spoke it to the world in such common course, such vain incantations as "mortgage" and "dental work for the kids"--and the audience sat, and almost sh*t their pants in their nervous perturbations.

Lucy pinballs into building her life.

Real-world Lucy was so much the obverse side of that coin, and she "churned her cream into butter" as it were, of the mouse of proverb, helping to produce, via Desilu Productions, the original Star Trek and so forth, doing so much in the real world while being, herself, pidgeon-holed by things like "The Fuller Brush Girl" and "I Love Lucy".

Rio Bravo:  

One woman in that one, so not much for the "Women's Month", but at least she is one of those that strides the dividing line between classical womenhood and bold modernity, a saloon girl but oh with a mind of her own.

But you remember this one, of course, Ward Bond--my Wagon Train dude--and some others, Ricky Nelson and Dean Martin.

It was a film so good that John Ford made it twice, in fact. The team of Stumpy, Colt, Dean and the Missouri Kid.  Such a good oater but proto-action film, buddy-comedy that he had to revisit the formula later.  Such a formula in a western figures more a lot of people pointing shotguns at one another.

And there was livestock.