Trapped in a vacancy

Solaris 1972 film outtake // A. Tarkovsky

Pretty much how I feel daily. The weight of the season may as well just extend itself to covering your face in plastic wrap. Fingerprints leave a lot more than you would ever think.

“Solaris helped initiate a genre that has become an art-house staple: the drama of grief and partial recovery. Watching this 166-minute work is like catching a fever, with night sweats and eventual cooling brow. As in Siegel’s Invasion of the Body Snatchers (1956), to fall asleep is to risk a succubus’s visit. This time, however, the danger comes not from any harm she may do the hero. True horror is in having to watch someone you love destroy herself.” – The Criterion Collection


Last In Translation


I have written this in my head for weeks. I delete it from my mouth over and over daily, and it still screeches across the chalk board and wakes me in my sleep. Its damage, its poison, it is a dragging of nails across a wall of sand paper. To think that two years ago, nearly to the hour and minute, I was flush with something that was so new, a vital breath I had not seen in fourteen fucking hailing years. And to the exact year and nearly hour later, I was swimming in a fire and a boil that I still relive every fucking day. Thirty-two years of reeling over and over with the pummeling, the showers, the unnerving stare of faces that have the devouring mask and the utter will to glance and lie in a faceless, operatic, act of desperation. The sad facsimile of your own narrative leaves piles and piles of unrepairable damage in its path. How do you, how does anyone sleep and then paint your face in a mirror every fucking day without pulling needles out of your throat. I’ve dreaded today for months and yet it laughs as it chokes me in my blanketed room. You lived your life in disbelief as your past whittled your self-esteem into nothingness, and then as you stared at me, I offered over and over the blooms of understanding. Only to feel punished and bare as they sent me stacks of all the blatant displays of failure. The photos, text messages, many I never shared. It makes me sick and anemic from everything that I felt. For what, so that you can lay there and stare at your phone in silence. Ignore it. Cover up in the flattering faltered sparklers of that place. Just to fall into a circle of badgering and manipulative behavior of every tile that covers that toxic belittling satire of a place.

It’s ruin. It’s a battery of taste.

For the last fourteen years, no one has ever said “hey, I am really sorry for lying. I am sorry for how I behaved.”

We’re not perfect. But we all need to own everything we do.

Some never do. Some never will. And I grow tired of letting that split walls in my life.

“It matters not to Kelvin whether his wife’s doppelgänger, who committed suicide 10 years earlier, is real or not. Whether she is a simulacrum, a manifestation of a decade’s worth of grief-stricken memories, or a celestial hallucination, to Kelvin she is real. He can hold her, speak to her, and so he alone gives licence to her existence. Tarkovsky extends this idea to all our relationships, past and present, and asks us whether they really exist at all. Do we love the people around us, or simply how we perceive them? Is it the idea of them that sustains them, gives them life? How much do we really know about someone, save for our own mental colouring of their character?” – Little White Lies, Why Solaris is the greatest science fiction film ever made

Spilling over

Production Film Set Solaris 1972 // Andrei Tarkovsky

Damaged. Broken. Unthinkable. Pointless.

When people lie to you over and over, you just kinda find it hard to feel the truth in anything.

To make conscience manifest, and to face it.

“Tarkovsky’s Solaris is about a similar communication barrier, except the alien is one’s self. It’s not about experiencing the beyond, but experiencing the beyond within. About reaching the hidden facets of one’s consciousness, and becoming perfectly aware of one’s innermost thoughts. To make conscience manifest, and to face it. Tarkovsky utilizes Solaris as a metaphor for his examination of the human condition. The visitors, who are physical manifestations of conscience, allow the characters to experience a profound insight into themselves.” –

Clair de Lune

I don’t even know what to put here anymore. I am detaching far from everything. I want to bury myself in the sky. I don’t want to crater during this season. It’s unfamiliar to just not feel. Then absolutely the next day be overwhelmed. You really weren’t ready for this, or really ready for anything. Cover yourself up, barricade yourself in. It honestly feels like a curtain call. The writings I’ve read over the last six weeks, it’s like nothing ever counted. It really was just words, and nothing else. Some people just don’t care, they really don’t. Like how do you even wake up and just be. I don’t understand. And mentally I just take myself somewhere else.

39 Days

Note 1398
Maybe when someone wakes up and really sees the value in what was there, it will matter.

Note 1399
Winter, it’s really all I can think about. And yet it petrifies me at the same time. A cardboard box of things that will dump all on the floor at once. My safest place is always there, in the times that made a difference. As you leave your comfort zone, you unravel everything – you walk under branches and over the leaves. And years later it unfolds and reads like a beaten book. I could tell stories all day about very short intimate events. I can go there in my head and smell the air, I can feel the cold in my lungs. I can remember a shirt on my fingertips. And these places just are more real to me nowadays. I’m tired. I’m quiet. And I don’t want to lose the very little I have left.

There is just not enough time, and I really should not be surprised anymore. Why would I think the next one should ever be different.


“Most people have a rope that ties them to someone, and that rope can be short or it can be long. You don’t know how long, though. It’s not your choice.” – Nick Hornby