sorry, i left my underwear in your car

about m.   


Hollywood, how the fuck do you get away with this?

— 3 years ago
magnificent obsessions

I have somehow managed to establish a coherent if tenuous link between my visual fascination with branches and my textual fascination with the ‚one person in two bodies’ notion. It came from a reflection i conducted as a result of one of many recent tattoo talks i held with various individuals. yes, i’d love to get a tattoo, but i’ve no idea what of and where. i though of a star on my rib cage, but thats just so.. overdone. i’d like something personal, something i feel connected to, and won’t stop feeling connected to in times to come. so a kafka bird, but where? where would it sit perfectly perched on my skin as if it belongs there. my hands, because that is the only part of my body that i actually like. but there it would be simply too visible, and hands are for smaller, more delicate things not birds. maybe sparrows, but not perching kafkas.

anyway, i thought, antlers. antlers is something i’d want. but not the deer, not his head not whatever. antlers, but not in a masculine, bigger-than-yours way. i think antlers have that kind of flow of competition and aggressive manliness. after all its the way the deer courts the lady deer. oh dear, no.

so not antlers, but the shape itself. of course, the shape of coral of branches, of roots. of growing upwards or downwards, of branching out in a direction. there is something about branches, as if a map of life however obvious and silly that sounds. but as a map of all the choices we took and we didn’t of all the wrong turns and returns and than new ways, new turns and new decisions and indecisions. and you end up on one of the tips and the whole tree somehow took you there. roots and growing, and having no roots, so roots up. that what should keep you down is actually what keeps you afloat and moving. and coral, red coral (is it painted is it real?) dried and conserved and hung on ones neck like a tooth trophy fascinating and violent. but more like bronchi, of course, the bronchi. thats what it all comes down too, the branches within me (remember, the bronchi branch i dragged home form the park and decorated with ribbons and kept it until it just fell apart?) and the cough, the small specks of blood that come from inwards, that the branches shed like leaves. when the cough is too violent and you can’t breathe. there is something repelling and terrifying, a morbid fascination, with the things that should not happen that should remain inside, should stick to the maps and roads of the chest cavity that return to me in such a violent way. as if they speak to me make themselves known unrepress themselves. or i unrepress them agains the other part of my self, that acts to keep them safe and sealed and neatly tucked under the carpet of skin and bone and muscle and all that. like the people we could be that we hold within ourselves, that never quite resurface. or the people we are, because i believe (correct me if i’m wrong) that we aren’t just one thing, one person, but many. i mean i am only one person as with regards to the obvious limit of my body, but inside i have my many roads of the bronchi, my other possibility (ies). my elisabeth and paul, my grace and elaine. not exactly my double but not my opposite. not my complementary, but rather that which destroys me and which i destroy, because i cannot live suspended in a vacuum between two irreconcilable concepts and yet i can never let go of the imaginary in favour of the doubtful benefits of the real which has to offer nothing but honesty. not even that, not even that. melodramatic, maybe, hysterical and neurotic.

so, branches. but where…

— 3 years ago
BFI + JM = no <3

my notes summarising the BFI’s lack of interest in Maybury’s work |from my interview with David Curtis (the archivist at st.martins)|

BFI decided (due to M O’P) that Jarman and Wyn-E are ARTISTS, Maybury isn’t  he does ‚videos’ - the non inclusion of his short films on DVD’s - BFI : Maybury’s first film is love (…) + Jarman’s name in the funding application for Bacon.

(because you’re mine. i walk the line)

— 3 years ago
the trolley song

all of the films chosen by the director terence davies for the era new horizons film festival dealt with dysfunctional families. the magnificent ambersons most overtly so. kind hearts and coronets, a story of exclusion from a family. and in vein of black comedy, an attempt to exclude that family in order to regain ones place by erasing not the exclusion itself but the excluders. and meet me in saint louis, perhaps most complex in its presentation of the dysfunctional, through  mascarade, through pretence of not only the normal but the normative. why do i mention this? simply because today i felt a great urge to watch meet me in saint louis which got me thinking about the film, and about why it was precisely that i wanted to see it. 

 

meet me in saint louis is a happy film. and its a film that makes you happy. but its not a blunt, oblivious happiness, not an empty joke designed to make you laugh. i’m not claiming that meet me in saint louis is a dark masterpiece, far from it, but like a lot of hollywood utopian escapism, it fails, (perhaps because it is impossible) to escape from the accumulation of all that it represses, restricts and banishes to the periphery. and thats what makes it happy; what makes us happy. the most accurate metaphor for the film might be one of derailment, with which it flirts in passing, in the most acceptable guise of the child. yet even if the film does not fall of the tracks, the possibility is still there, blatant and unashamed, and no amount of happy songs and smiles can make the viewer (me? terence davies?) just forget.    

 

first of all, the central image and song, the trolley song: a happy encounter of the girl next door with the boy next door among the multicoloured extravagant hats and happy faces of fellow passengers, as contrasted with the girls prank, the body on the tracks. the body which is nothing but a rag doll, which nonetheless by its very semblance to a body allows for the possibility of sending this happy trolley of its tracks. people could have died. but they didn’t and i’m always disturbed by how easily the issue is resolved through laughter. perhaps laughter is the easiest remedy, and perhaps some things just need to be kept away. yet even this happy family holds the potential for disaster and it is that potential that has to be kept safe, laughed away. or perhaps because going to the dance is more important than the younger daughters destructive urges that there is something inherently   progressive about the nonchalant attitude with which her misadventure is treated. precisely, as a misadventure. she remains morbid and essentially wrecking and still part of the heard in an understanding that thats how little girls are. are they? do little girls almost derail trolleys? do little girls burry their dolls once they succumb to terminal diseases? there is a specific brand of the morbid little girl wednesday adams would perhaps be the prime example or maybe lydia from beetlejuice, but they belong in the fun house mirror families that expose the middle class american family dream as nightmare. and perhaps meet me in saint louis is precisely the dream itself exposed as a distorted mirror reflection itself. you can say: there is no dream, because the fantasy is already a dysfunctional construct. 

 

and than of course there is the corseted and powdered derailment of judy garland. judy the gay icon. judy the queen of queer. judy who complained to dirk bogarde (sic!) that her funeral would be gays waving flags. judy with too much bloom, and her life ahead of her, but of course, because we know where it ends, we can’t just watch an smile (or can we? yes we can). we know while the celluloid doesn’t and the gap between the imprinted and the received is like the very definition of cinema. the film strip 24 frames per second which remains there, and carries the there inscribed on its very matter, on its body, embodies. and the here and now, which is only too aware, and which by the very awareness does not allow for innocence.the now which has to function in the double pull. which derails. which says this is fake, but of course it is. but it is real in a way too, only to real. it is brechtian,  a lot of things are to be honest, because brechtian is not only a technique but a way of seeing. but while the preformed might be nothing else than preformed and it always is because preformed is never ever real than the performance is. the fact of the performance, these people existed, and they preformed, and they performed it this exact way and the camera registered it. i know sounds really simple (because i’m just stating nothing more than the state of affairs and that is always simple) but think of the whole escapism/ realism discourse, they are nothing but modes, but modes which have in them a truth a reality that is as inescapable as it is elusive. thus judy derails her own trolley, and this time, its not a joke and can’t be laughed away.

 

is that really what i wanted to see?

— 3 years ago
the story about the animals that froze

this is a story about animals that froze. there is a story in english and in polish. the story in polish is under a read further link (i presume this is what will happen when i press the icon that i am about to press). the stories are slightly different, i didn’t translate them but wrote anew.(incidentally, i like the polish one more). the story about the animals that froze is a silly, innocent little thing, a little bit like a fairytale a little bit like a pastoral romance, a thing i think the time around christmas calls for with the inusuffereable accumulation of melancholy it tends to stir within me. enjoy.

All the animals have frozen. The deer on their way to the clearing, their antlers white from the resitude. The bears in asleep in their caves. The robins and the sparrows as they pearched down, their claws clasped on the branches. The rabbits and the foxes in their holes. The fish in the stream, they too have frozen, midway between the source and the sea. The penguins, of course and the humming birds dropping midflight. The hens and the geese, the hippopotamus and the panda and the lion and the snake and even the ants have frozen. And noah was late. And the animals sighed as their blood stopped cold because they knew it. They knew he would not come. They knew that it would be to late. And when he finally arrived, Noah cast a sad glance at the animals that froze, and the tears formed icy streams on his cheeks. There was nothing left to save. Noah was alone and the world has turned into a great icy museum of natural history.  

Peter froze in terror. Like a rabbit caught in the headlights. Mary has cut her thumb which was now bleeding a thick stream of something dark reddish, almost copper. Mary was bleeding and peter just stood there transfixed. He never finished his story about the animals. Although it was haunting him for days, somehow he could never find the right words, the exact words to describe the horror of earth white and smooth and silent, as it came to him all of a sudden on that sunny sunday afternoon in stratfford-upon-avon. Mary didn’t mind, she didn’t care for the story at all, never cared for any of peters flights of fancy. She considered him a bit cookoo for that matter, but she let him carry on nontheless because she liked the sound of his voice. Even now though her finger was bleeding and stinging and bleeding she would have liked him to carry on, as usuall. Instead he just stood there and stared at her, as if he had seen a ghost, precisely like that. She thought to her self, you silly girl, why did you do that? And he thought he never saw anything as perecious or as beautiul as 17 year old mary the scullary maid with her hand covered in little ribbons of red.

the that was the story of the animals that froze.  

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— 3 years ago

monthly moth.

i’m a monthly moth.

but i’ve put all that in []

this is where i’ve been. good morning baltimore. hope you sleep well.

— 3 years ago

i will write, once i’ve digested all my recent social misendeavors. 

— 3 years ago

its been a beautiful day. it was warm, it was sunny. the earth was wet and when i sat on it for a while so were my trousers. everything smelled of warmth earth and grass and leaves. i went to the park which isn’t a park, just a field really, and sat on the grass with my book and my wasabi coated peas and my wet pants and the sun just shone and the wind just blew and it was calm and warm and nice. An end of a summer.

i don’t plan, i flow. big things seem to happen, to evolve from decisions i made long ago, rather than those i made on the way or am about to make. little things are arranged, prepared for. dinner, meetings, classes, are all put in the diary, registered, annotated and fulfilled. reading is read. Ironing is done, washing dried, tea brewed. but the future, is neither done nor dried nor brewed nor even considered. sure i think about it, but it doesn’t get me any closer to any scheme, any plan, any prospect i might have. my tutor told me to see her, we would talk we would discuss my future. i am to become an academic? i am to write a phd and study and teach and write in a language that isn’t mine but that is so much easier to handle than my own? i am to stay here? i am to move there? what is it i want, that isn’t what i always wanted but fuck that people want things they don’t get and its not like i even want that any more. don’t get lost in your imagination, my friend said. i wish i wouldn’t loose my imagination, is my reply.

its still been a beautiful day. 

— 3 years ago