people thinking – thinking that one misery being much the same as another, they may as well change — in the interest of trying something new and reminding themselves they are alive. Is such behavior — in this world of the horrible and the miserable — irrational?
or there are the conservative, not wanting the reminder, who like what they have, love it, or have learned to ignore it, and the thought of some new tragedy.
Heinrich Heine, who wrote in an 1833 work on the German Romantic period that “every epoch is a sphinx which plunges into the abyss as soon as its problem is solved.”
The look of your film is reminiscent of the banal landscapes enshrined by American photographers in the ’70s.
Stephen Shore, Robert Adams and Joe Deal’s photography are big influences and part of that school of “man-altered landscapes.” For me a landscape that’s completely free of man-made stuff is not that interesting. I like a little bit of a footprint.
Kelly Reichardt, Interviewed by Deborah Solomon for the NY Times Magazine, November 30th.
http://www.nytimes.com/2008/11/30/magazine/30wwln-Q4-t.html?ref=magazine
Half cracked light bounces against dark velvet corners, in which men in suits sit with women in cheap dresses made beautiful by the soft light and their laughings at old jokes long forgotten by the turning — on the little half stage, old footlights shining up the red velvet suit is a tall and pale androgyne, with greasy long black hair hanging across his eyes, singing into an old 1940s microphone, circular with great big spokes like some pagan wizard’s staff – his voice is haunting — high pitched jazz — words beyond meaning in the smokey room — glasses on the tables vibrate, liquid amber shakes — visceral shivering as the voice crawls higher hitting higher and higher notes — the song is an old one — invented someone else, not hear in this city, but down many rivers, in the rice fields, in the cotton fields, brought here by a subject race from deepest furthest Africa, still a mystery to these white bankers and their ladies, drinking at the end of the world — the alcohol is an imperfect medium, but still, with enough of it coursing down their arteries and up their veins, pushing past the blood brain barrier and making vision skew and twist — out of the corner of their eyes, these sad humans, the audience, can see something else, some shadow vision of the world that will be, the world without them, the 21st century they won’t live to see, or the 18th, or before, but also, heightened sense of the now, that holy moment they’re usually too dead to feel — the alcohol clears some dead wood, and the voice clears some more, and the girl in their arms, living and breathing and looking back at them, maybe that clears the most. It is dark in the club, so dark, light bouncing out of the way, but they know that they are here, now, in this special place. They have some sense they are on a speck of dust floating in a vast unmeasurable cold emptiness — they have some sense that the religious tales they hear on Sundays may not be so different than the fairy tales of unicorns and dragons they read to their children at night — but the alcohol and the voice and the women — counteract these feelings, remind them of the present, here but not here, always slipping, held on to, but slipping — the voice sings on — carrying them into the next moment — eighty years from now this building will be gone and these people will be gone — there will be other people and other buildings and another singer — different lighting — but here they drink and listen, sitting in shadows, lights fragmenting —
demoscene — european coders who have been creating beautiful scenes for the past twenty five years on their computers — large festivals of sexually frustrated boys sitting in arenas staring at computer screens — weed passed around, and beer — a few girls here and there, eventually passing out sexual favors — a few homosexuals, doing the same — mostly sexless, sublimated, nervous and angry —
— different languages — bloodshot eyes — computer screens dancing — someone is keeping time — someone is trying to figure out what to do — its a new europe — a new world — people are hungry — im not hungry — can i make this computer sing ? can i make it sing?
the late night insomniac madness | the light always on, glowing | screens | screens | what year is it? | how did I get here | are there channels in my mind like the empty wadis of Mars? | Dug deep by endless-pain and longing and suffering | where do dreams go when they die? | The Last Play of William Darcy — the play I’d never written — Kate and Darcy — Elizabeth Trueheart, Lovely and Wise — who will I be, what song will I play for you | David and the Nightingale, teaching songs to each other | Old Stern Midianite, with Fire in Your Belly | Pinchas lusting after Midianite Women | The JudeoChristian AllFather With Stern Judgment and Morality | Where now is the God Who Loves? Are we Serpent’s Seed or Adam’s? Old Mother Eve, she lived in her bonnet, eating her curds and whey | Put put Old Mutt | What I lack is control and formality — the old way of speaking — hooked on phonics worked for me — laughing at the dumb ones — but they are not dumb, just slow, just beautifully mercifully slow — staring across a table at the new girl who I’m about to fall in love with — I want to see her breasts — what are these what are these | Two second aphorisms | Thirty minute shortstories | Characters are not characters they are not real I could give them names like Tim Leary or Will Darcy or Ron McCrae or Steven Barry or Edna Millay or Soren Jorgenson but what do they mean they’re not real, they don’t have fathers and mothers and little half-remembered childhoods like I do like they do — you walk into Elsewhere and you go play a game, the game is called “I have that” it’s a memory game, but it’s sacred because it’s your memory | Oh stop the changes | I lying in bed, but it’s a different bed than my old bed, my poor old single twin side bed | I am not back there, in 2002, tripping my face off, thinking I’m a soul trapped in a troll, praying for another chance, to go back to the beginning — “May I return … to the beginning … ” lovely — a trip to New York City in 1994 — a walk through the tenement museum — I will be a writer I say — I will be a Supreme Court Justice, I say — the Constitution is a book – it is my book it is my holy book I love the law why do you love the law — Justice Justice Pursue it Pursue it Justice — Marian the Librarian — Blech a blech on both your houses — the endless dying — true dying — not dying — the living that feels like dying but isn’t dying — the horror — Chinese food for dinner in my apartment — rain — a cockroach — horror of horrors strange worms, small insects crawling — a forest , deep underbrush , where do we go where do we go five years since college I feel like I am nearing the end of a long journey — JImi was dead by now , I don’t want to be dead I want to go on and on and on and on and on and back to Europe and over to Asia and other places too — always a student — pay back my loans? How — -a book about Rasputin and the Dying Past? Could write it — yes — the decadence — and then write another book about Godless Lenin — Shadow Country and Seminole Wars and Andrew Jackson and the forgotten history of this great New World where our fathers bled and died and raped and pillaged — great ugly White Masters — black slaves — distrusted Jews — Oh my fathers, I remember you all, you wonderful Americans of These American Centuries — I will dance with you on you 300th birthday, America, and then I’ll bid adieu, Frenchwise, and spend my last few days in glowing neon late 21st century Paris, capital of the hip-avant-garde — the world moves on without me even now — tied together with fiberoptic skeins — who are the spiders crawling on the webs — Shelobs or Charlottes or something else, Nobodaddy or Somodaddy, Soma or Germ — oh great machine would I trade places with you and trade this mushy mess for ones and zeros ? we are all electrons, strange loops in spacetime, curving and deforming, reducible, yes reducible, to multivariarate differential equations — representations of change, they say, the name of my book, my book, is the Book of Changes. Loveliness loveliness loveliness mindless sex and wonderful sex and being held by a woman by a girl by a woman by a girl different woman unique and precious diamond as you are a diamond I give you a diamond and make my house with you on the hill — who shall who shall come with me, who shall stand with me — the death is subdued it has returned to the ocean it is now ground and I am the figure I no longer dramatize myself write myself into strange stories I am simply the narrator, the eyes, two eyes, stereoscopic yet still not avoiding the parallax problem James Joyce is dead — he said — James Joyce is dead — language you wonderful robe — language learns from me and I learn from language and God breathes his breath across the water and I breath back and there is something something something special unique eternal I am the only one reincarnation is death-denying a way of death-denying, heaven is the same and death-denying is life affirming and is therapy the answer maybe what’s wrong with me why can’t I enjoy myself this is no longer psychonaalysis this is a pyschotic break what happened to me staying up all night and tracing the skeins of causation in my own life, leading forward and backward to an evening in my childhood bed when reading a large oversized book (either thinks that go or Richard Scary or the Little Engine that Could) I closed the book on my penis which I assumed accounted for the slight angle I found in it during pubertus pubertus which I assumed would render me unable to have sex — I wonder how long I carried that with me that strange thought idea — everyone thinks that they’re broken — I thought I was broken — wonder why and how those strange feelings those strange hormones driving me crazy absolutely and utterly crazy and yet I am crazier now right, why the satisfaction or the frustration or what or what or what or what 1000 words have I painted you a picture, my guineas clink in my pocket as I amble my way down the cobblestones of Tortuga, searching for a ship to take me there — dark Tortuga — in the old days before the world changed — pirate freedom, they called it, the Free Cities — nothing left is free, all is Organized and Synchronized, where is the Great Wide Open Fields, the Great Endless Freedom of Possibility — Laws are fences — terrible fences — I hates it, I hates it, I hates it — I shall do nothing with this law degree, nothing with this law degree, nothing with this law degree it is not my path it is not my choice it is not my passion false passion gotta do something gotta do something I’m not convincing anyone urggha I sound disingenuous — what shall I do? what shall I do with it? I thought this was what I wanted
you’re young, you think you’ll have many chances, but then as you grow older (and this happens sooner than you think, I’m only twenty six), you realize you don’t have many chances, you only have a few, and if you miss them, you miss them.
These questions — these pretenses — these trying to be authentic, trying not to be a phony — this embarassing earnestness — what Kerouac talks about on the first few pages of The Subterraneans, when he talks about how he is hot, fumbling, lame, and nervous to the cool hipness of the hipcats he’s hanging with — this self-concious namedropping of authors where I use their last name — “you know, Kerouac” — pretentious pretentions as useful foils — elevated diction — words i’ve heard the elegant people say — do I deny it — do I pursue the scatalogical roughness — the dim prebiographical memory of potty-training in the kitchen of my childhood house, getting shit on me, and my mother maybe hitting me — “don’t talk about that, not in pleasant company” — or the endless trying masturbation — or the attempt to literize even that (literize, v. tr., 1) to make literary; 2) to make literal) — these Celine like dashes — there I go again — that’s ok, these are thought-droppings, there is no censorship here, no editor, just one word at a time — preparing for an interview — why I want to be a lawyer — I like things — I like expensive scotch and I need a new wardrobe and I want to sit home all day — what now what next what then — how do I prepare for the unpreparable — how long will I let this Anxiety dictate my thoughts and play as my muse? What is this? Am I writing again? Writing what? It goes nowhere – neither fiction nor nonfiction — every once in awhile I realize this output counts for shit and I go smoke a cigarette (rarely, I quit, now I’m just a ghost of myself) or describe what my shithole room looks like (Raskolnivkosky) What is this!!!???? Freud! Anziety ANZUS, remainder, two paths for the novel, what’s the different between madness, prophecy, and art? Am I pushing myself to these extremes, trying to break out of a chrsyalis before my wings wither away to gossamer and I’m trapped forever in the dusty undercanopy? Ferngully, the Last Rain Forest, sings, and Give Elmo A Break, Please — and and and and and and and and Winston Churchill baby — and who sings for the lonely and how literary do you want it and what quotes will you put on your yearbook page — boats against the current, or a word from Mr. Nixon about the special providence of special moments or maybe sweet earnest sentimental Adam Duritz who wants to be Bob Dylan and believes that maybe this year will be better than the last — you know once I took a train back from New York City after two years, no it was after New Years, New Years 2006, strange fake fictional science fictional date — all these dates are inherently unreal I will never believe it is real again — the strange feeling of waking up and thinking that Barack Obama is President-Elect, Soontobe, Soontobe, I gave him money first, in early early 2007, it also seems so strange, we’re moving faster now, we are, we’re moving faster now, we are, what is this art this strange art this some strange art I was telling a story I was telling a story about a train ride I was telling a story about a train ride back from New Years in 2006, on the first day of 2006, never to be seen again, boo hoo, like my uncle, like my grandfather, all the people I use to know are illusions … I was telling a story about a train ride — a girl sitting next to me, talking to an older gentleman, being very friendly and attractive and loving of the world and had I swallowed some pixie dust the night before, possibly, possibly, lost opportunity, a girl I was meant to see but didn’t (think maybe I didn’t, she was in Hoboken that night), anyway this one, different girl, says to the man across from her, she says “this is going to be the best year ever,” and it was, couple months later I lost my virginity (that’s right, how old do you think I am, how old do you think I was, actually, it was a very frightening experience at first but frankly I learned to like it alot the wonderful feeling of closeness), it was the best year ever, or maybe what she said was “this is going to be the best year yet” and that was true too, evne though I’d done many funfun things to get me to that place, to that train ride — now I’m here, living in New York City, and I won’t even go outside so I’m going to go outside and smoke a cigarette, won’t like it, just to remember what it was like, sure, and to feel with the smoke the inside of lungs and then I’ll come back and put myself to sleep and that will be the end of this day which was unproductive and cold and gray and sad and I spent it mostly indoors which saddens me too and I don’t know what I’m doing or why I’m doing it but I know I’m going to do something it’s going to start with this cigarette I’m going to go outside smoke the cigarette, think about the poisons contained within and think about my uncle (just my uncle, no need to complicate these things) and then I’ll come back in and distract myself with some form of television or another;
ground control to space control over and out roger roger
The influence of gaslight or electric light on the growth of paraheliotropic trees 