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Mary Pickford (b. Gladys Marie Smith)
B. 4.8.1892 Toronto / D. 5.29.1979 Santa Monica
Cerebral Hemorrhage

The most essentially ancient morning in America.
Desfilé de las Rosas!
Over coffee, I detect the charged and enigmatic markings of cabal.
New York in November, slapping on patches, sending aloft the same old behemoth balloons: a parade of economies. Now watch Pasadena heap high the perishables each year anew: sunny Pasadena, that is, where you should be careful you don’t get temporarily blinded by a shaft of sunlight bouncing off the sterling silver saddle mount of some billionaire Gold Rush re-enactor. Meanwhile rain fills New York's holes.
Industry, commerce, government, philanthropy competing to propitiate a pleasure-dome of gods; scouring nature’s face for the hue-harvest of petals and seeds they’ll present at the sacred precinct.
Need a matte brown hand-hewn plank effect for your float? Are you working the nation’s log cabin nerve, for example? Redwood bark will do the trick. Only trouble is, you have to wait for the bark to fall off the redwood trees by itself. No harvesting it “prematurely” or you’ll go to jail!
The angle of that turn, where they’ve placed the cameras. It’s like something worked out by the Masons, from Babylonian blueprints; something's unlocked when marching bands pivot at 80 degrees.
During all-night windstorms whole battalions get bussed to the redwood stands; dawn finds them deployed among the rearing roots, on each dew-damp back a basket. Mexicans, of course.

Consolation Site: First female Grand Marshall (1933)

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