Current repeating song: (This Is) The Dream of Evan and Chan by Dntel
hours to days and days to weeks: outside the windows electrical discharges puff yellow pockets of light across the plane (stomache lurches as the metal shudders. I dont want to die, please...I dont want to die) as shallow breath becomes ever so slight falling into memory of the previous days flight. Wake to the smell of coffee and heavy Texas air. The fortress of a house pleads solitary indifference. Room after room hall after hall (is that an elevator? for 4 stories? attic access? what do the attics of the rich claim as their splendors? haunted references to the dwellings of the seventh stranger leap to mind olny to fall into the dusk of consciousnes a few moments later....a purpose of being here? chase down the hollowed footsteps to find it....fast forward...long showdows across the dash board, the emptied ugliness of streched landscape, eyes heavied from the hours of droning engine roar as the sun treks across his path for the 2nd day in a row....fast forward....drunken premeire party superfluous noise and stale smoke, sit down and wait for the lights to dim. Its me! Its me! Lonesome asshole cowboy 5 years to feed your sex addiction 5 years to find yourself living inside the story of a series of songs. no dialogue. no cohesion of plot. Beautifully Brakhage with beautiful images but still blank stares all around. except here. except here and never mind the blood and the pain and the killing of the self (sink into pot holes of the past, junk culture? run outside to see the gun raised no No NO dont shoot him hes mine! hes my kitty cat! no.no.no.please? oh god, dont....feel the dread of incipient events Hear the shot. see the mound of fur that once meant so much leap back and crumple to the ground NO NO NO Run and pick up the bleeding dead carcass Feel the blood thick running from these pre-teen hands hands but nowhere near as thick as the hurt and stemmings of anger and hatred: Glare, stare through the tears, the rage. You wanna have something to ccry about? Ill give you something to cry about Only babies cry like that. Watch the slow movements of this man, the form of your sisters husband coming near and run run and mourn and cry and feel the bitter hate turn to vomit and nausea and the embrace of the cool leaves as the ground leaps to embrace your falling body....wake staring at the ceiling of a truck, the off key lyrics of Morissey and the Jesus and Mary Train and Primal Scream being belted out by the hungover passengers and try to catch up and sing along (A dream? Did it acually happen? And the flood of recalled emotions staring at the caked cats blood as you returned home drunk off your own emotion suffucates you back to sleep as a distant thought spirals out of reach...it could have been a worse one - it could have been a worse memrory/dream....you have lots worse you have you worse?!?) wake up with a familiar ceiling above you and your arms around a familiar stomache, the comfort of the gorgeous face and the caresses of her body heat sing promises of the present. Hours later, at home admist the eviscerated machines and empied boxes you realize (staring at the painted flower sirens on the wall) that youve been gone from this room for 2 straight weeks straight...
hours to days and days to weeks: outside the windows electrical discharges puff yellow pockets of light across the plane (stomache lurches as the metal shudders. I dont want to die, please...I dont want to die) as shallow breath becomes ever so slight falling into memory of the previous days flight. Wake to the smell of coffee and heavy Texas air. The fortress of a house pleads solitary indifference. Room after room hall after hall (is that an elevator? for 4 stories? attic access? what do the attics of the rich claim as their splendors? haunted references to the dwellings of the seventh stranger leap to mind olny to fall into the dusk of consciousnes a few moments later....a purpose of being here? chase down the hollowed footsteps to find it....fast forward...long showdows across the dash board, the emptied ugliness of streched landscape, eyes heavied from the hours of droning engine roar as the sun treks across his path for the 2nd day in a row....fast forward....drunken premeire party superfluous noise and stale smoke, sit down and wait for the lights to dim. Its me! Its me! Lonesome asshole cowboy 5 years to feed your sex addiction 5 years to find yourself living inside the story of a series of songs. no dialogue. no cohesion of plot. Beautifully Brakhage with beautiful images but still blank stares all around. except here. except here and never mind the blood and the pain and the killing of the self (sink into pot holes of the past, junk culture? run outside to see the gun raised no No NO dont shoot him hes mine! hes my kitty cat! no.no.no.please? oh god, dont....feel the dread of incipient events Hear the shot. see the mound of fur that once meant so much leap back and crumple to the ground NO NO NO Run and pick up the bleeding dead carcass Feel the blood thick running from these pre-teen hands hands but nowhere near as thick as the hurt and stemmings of anger and hatred: Glare, stare through the tears, the rage. You wanna have something to ccry about? Ill give you something to cry about Only babies cry like that. Watch the slow movements of this man, the form of your sisters husband coming near and run run and mourn and cry and feel the bitter hate turn to vomit and nausea and the embrace of the cool leaves as the ground leaps to embrace your falling body....wake staring at the ceiling of a truck, the off key lyrics of Morissey and the Jesus and Mary Train and Primal Scream being belted out by the hungover passengers and try to catch up and sing along (A dream? Did it acually happen? And the flood of recalled emotions staring at the caked cats blood as you returned home drunk off your own emotion suffucates you back to sleep as a distant thought spirals out of reach...it could have been a worse one - it could have been a worse memrory/dream....you have lots worse you have you worse?!?) wake up with a familiar ceiling above you and your arms around a familiar stomache, the comfort of the gorgeous face and the caresses of her body heat sing promises of the present. Hours later, at home admist the eviscerated machines and empied boxes you realize (staring at the painted flower sirens on the wall) that youve been gone from this room for 2 straight weeks straight...