A walk in the woods

When I texted Margie last night to see where she'd like to meet today, she wrote back, "I would love a walk in the woods. Wherever." I have Sue's car at the moment, so I took Margie to Lower MacLeay Park, where there is a paved walk right into the woods, and she was ecstatic. We both checked the weather and found it it was going to be 75F/24C, and not raining, so she wore her T-shirt that declares, "When I Am An Old Woman I Shall Wear Purple" (easier to see in the Extra). I told her I think she has achieved old womanhood, and she agreed and said she is proud to be old. "When people tell me I am really young, I want to smack them. It means they think young is the only worthwhile thing to be. I'm old and I'm not ashamed of it, and there's no reason to be ashamed of it. It's surprising to me that I am this old, but I can still smell the forest, and appreciate the light through the leaves and the symphony of the little brook." Coming off that discussion, I left a small diatribe on Earthdreamer's blip of Sheila Hancock. I wish the Dame and Margie could hang out together. 

In other news, I learned from TMLHereAndThere about a film called The Velvet Queen.  It's available to rent for $4.99 in the USA on Apple TV Streaming, and I watched it last night and plan to watch it again tonight. It's exquisite. In it, a photographer and a poet (and a camera crew) climb around the Himalayas, among wolves, bears, yaks, and other creatures who would love to eat them or destroy them. The animals watch them, there’s a glorious score, and these two guys are helpless and fragile in that environment. They set up a blind to hide behind (but the animals always know where they are), and then, in cold beyond any cold we can imagine, they SIT perfectly still, for hours, hours. They wait to see what they will see. Freezing cold. It’s meditative, but it’s also an adventure film in which all the dialogue is whispered. The scenery is beyond spectacular, the music exquisite. The animals are imbued with magic. There is a scene in which a bull yak in rut resembles a shaman: great wooly robes flapping, massive hooves stamping. He threatens to attack them, and the poet (who narrates the film) says, "Prehistory wept, and each tear was a yak." See if it you can.