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purist (with whom I find exactly zero fault), it’s the Parents Television Council (with whom I find universal fault). So I put my screeners in the DVD player, and even before Animal Collective made a play for my affection, I was greeted with these bare feet. Or it’s a curmudgeonly critic howling about, “Get off my lawn, you kids! The Effylant in the room is the reason my screeners went unwatched for the longest time. ” And I always wonder if the adults on just hit a little too close to home for those guys. It’s the reason it took me four hours to get past the first three seconds of the adaptation. The symbolism of them, the million miles they walked between silence and breakdown and incalculable loss.
And “what America is/isn’t ready for” — this antiquated Puritan trickle-down effect — has ruined more great stories than I can even count.
I walked back and forth between the kitchen and the living room.
I looked at Eura and I remembered Effy backwards: Freds’ shed; Panda’s serenade; wrapped up in the angel Katie Fitch; Pato; the rickshaw; the rock; the vase full of flowers smashing to the floor; f–king Cook, Freddie; “Go on, JJ, tell me something true”; Panda’s missionary position; “Oh.” And a hundred other things I cannot say because I don’t really know where Eura and Effy intersect and I don’t want to spoil the first American season.
I’m in it for the new noise I heard with my own ears. Hate it if you hate it; you won’t hear a peep from me.
I’m not in it for the echo; I’m in it for what it can become if the echo is allowed to reverberate.