Don't know what to write ....just have an urge to.
Strange how in those silent moments words just flow........unlike now
But whatever. Books I'm reading,
The Portable Henry Rollins - Henry Rollins
Elements of the Writing Craft - Robert Olmstead
The Art of Dramatic Writing - Lajos Egri
Essays - Michel De Montaigne
Movies I've been obsessing over recently.
Apocalypse Now Redux
Sin City
Koyaanisqatsi
Hiroshima Mon Amour
We live in discourse and disassembled grammer. Grasping at etheral words spoken in haste...and waste. In the subjectivity of now could anything matter....really....children loose themselves in the speed and interconnectivity of today...night...dawn....morning. Dimentions open up and slam shut in milliseconds like years. We sit reading Waiting for Godot and finish up with Sisyphus....Parents buy into a system built on the backs of their dead and then fail to realize the wants they deem their own are instilled by marketeers and corperations......
I feel like the harbinger Kurtz staring lifelessly into the green climbing black grasp of the jungle....alone with ....the horror.
I spend my weekends searching for an unattainable truth. In histories wrung out of old cardboard boxed memories forgotten in attics and covered in the dust of time. Linking back to a place simpler and more confused. A timeless lying golden age smiles back in a silver lining as the elderly wish this world away. Where am I ... what am I .... who am I ... what is with this endless byzantine malaise.....
I dreamed of a snail moving along the edge of straight razor.........
Venturing to search an out of the way bookstore I've infrequently purchased books from. I arrive to find the place closed. I suddenly recall the owners image, one I coulden't immediatly place, in the obituary, weeks ago....the owner wasn't returning. Wandering amongst the memories of yellowing dog eared pulped fictions I recall the owner always had a story from some corner of the world. He'd been to the Middle East, he'd been in Europe, he'd been down south, had worked in great cities, and yet he preferred to live here....nowhere....truly. This out of the way little reststop between real locations. After all my talks with him ... nothing. I thought of my own fathers death. My affect flattened like black tar under a steamroller....I've become nada .... like the owner of the bookstore....only he died to achieve it....
Seek no answers here....I thought to myself. I'm crazy, some sort of deranged lifeless sentinal...trying to feign objectivity. I'm burying myself in the thought of attempting to find meaning out there while jamming as much info in here as I can bare.....but answers won't arrive. Not now, not later today, not ever. But just then it comes to me as I stare into the dull grey windows of the one time bookstore....there on the floor is a copy of Dostoyevsky's Notes From The Underground....and a line comes to me......."we shall invent a method of being born from an idea." And the confusion loosens its hold as I feel the sunshine warm my face and I leave the store for the last time listening to a Wittgenstein quote fire and repeat like a DJ Spooky sample in my head....."Die Welt ist alles, was der Fall ist."
Friday, April 29, 2005
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2 comments:
I was flipping around my five television channels and found Koyaanisqatsi this weekend. I had not seen it since I was a precocious fuck of a high school student looking to embrace art that no one else understood to prove my worth. This time, I actaully liked the film for its actual merits. My five year old offered insightful critisism that, yet again, shows that she is my intellectual superior. "Jumps around too much. I am watching and then it moves to something else," she said. Exactly! The cuts are not smooth and are disruptive. The moves from subject to subject are herky jerky.
You have been obsessing over the film, is there a reason for this?
Yup........
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