All sewn up.

These last few days have literally sewn me to the floor. Maybe it’s the season, maybe it’s the heat, maybe it’s the fear of things of big change heading my way. Depressive behavior strangles every bit of momentum out of everything I normally enjoy. You may find bits and pieces like stones in a fire but shit fuck when it rages, silently suffocating –  it wreaks havoc on the face of just trying to make it through the god damn day. I can see and feel it blackening things all around me, as I try to stay spun up so that I may be whisked away to no longer have to think, but rather just go into any kind of entropy – into the eye of any storm. And I see it withering people that I’m close to, and I just have to stare through from a distant piece of dirty glass and paint some kind of wirey smile on my face. It’s a million miles and going, it’s every speck of the shit sandwiches that I’ve had to eat. It’s looking around the corner to maybe collide into a broken down spiral of a person that actually has true warmth. But no, life hurls you venom. It’s fooling, and contorting in some vast magic scheme to make us think we are to ‘learn something’. I can plant a pile of seeds of experience and let it broadcast across your chest exactly the type of reality that is just getting up everyday. It really doesn’t matter, sometimes in decades of faces you would understand to be different – are actually just the same book, but with the new cover art. And that just fucking guts me from the inside out. The throttling, bottle neck behavior – I just can’t be around. If I was to ‘learn’ anything it’s that. It’s that ruining that wholeheartedly makes me sad. We are not JUST cut from different stone, we are often merely just CUT.

These dips in the week can go fuck themselves. I’m tired of the constricting, gasps and sight clinching of everything. Fix shit, break shit, run at shit – lets entertain so that I can set aflame the strings flying out of your mouth. 

“When we love someone, who do we love? That person, or our idea of that person? Some years before virtual reality became a byword, Tarkovsky was exploring its implications. Although other persons no doubt exist in independent physical space, our entire relationship with them exists in our minds. When we touch them, it is not the touch we experience, but our consciousness of the touch.” – R. Ebert, Solaris 1972

Out of time.

Maybe it will matter ten years away, maybe it will make you think differently. Maybe you will make better choices because of this, or maybe even you will drown in the narrative of acting like you are full of innocence. Drape yourself in the compliments at 2am so that you can wear them on your shoulder and hope that it re writes a pleasant demeanor on your face. It’s easy to slip away and color by numbers those decisions and figure “oh yeah, well – as long a I come out looking ok that’s all that matters”. Because that is all we really are. Pasting and erasing our impressions over people we don’t even give two shits for. I am so beyond associating myself around this mentality anymore. I am so tired of having to justify your actions and that point of view, when I know it’s diabolically wrong. After hearing you define over and over the explicit behaviors you hated so well, then to see you go and mirror them exactly, finitely and without hesitation – I will never understand how you sleep with that painted on you. That is one expensive mask, and I wish I were that much of a superhero to have one of my own. I’m better with being labelled lost, bitter, angry and unreasonable than wearing the moniker of malfeasance.

One of the worst feelings I have ever felt is being repeatedly chastised for wanting more time.

Reap it.

Note 3022
I had a dream about the person I thought you were. It was easy. It was a place without transparent phrases. It was cold mornings and crummy good byes. Life just won’t be that way, I was misguided to think it was more.

Note 3009
It’s shocking to watch someone pummel themselves everyday for the damage life drug them through, and then see them do the exact thing to someone they say they love. Weird and tragic how that works.

Note 3008
The night consisted of late dinner and a movie. Then at 1am I beat myself at the gym. Odd and perplexing at thinking at 48 my weeks generally start that way now. And my weekends are a blur. I’ll take that jetpack sleep during the in-between thanks.

I broke myself literally of everything from there, like completely. Some of it intentionally and some of it accidentally. But none the less, that toxicity is now all yours for you to drive in during your tailspins. I no longer subject myself to that haze – go ahead and let it nail itself to you. You earned it.

Note 3023
You had one of the best singing voices I ever heard. Too bad we never were given the chance to explore that. You’d be surprised how many times a voice saved me.

Note 3024
Time to soar on, I give up.

 

Pain reminds you the joy you felt was real. More joy, then. – Blade Runner 2049

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

split_up_border2

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.” – Astheticsofthemind.com

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