Random Stuff, Fraught with Peril: the impression of stillness
or,
A RECORD : I do not want to be living in a French film (I do not want to be living in any film at all)
The record is almost as good as having had the experience. Thank you.
Longing is a good starting point for art. It is even pleasurable at times.
Describe: The illusion of connectedness. The illusion of illusion:
That trumps everything—
Say this again:
(I do have my demons.) There's lots of dark out there.
Balance is not stasis; it is constant motion.
Closing. Closing things. Tangential. Say something. Enlighten me if you please. On some level I still believe…
Flatness does make for good skies. Is this proof that humans need art? Art does not seem to need humans.
I am sad. Nothing more to report.
Thank you. You make me think things I should not say.
You use these words intending to mean meaning, as in, you point. To where?
Your response is logical, yes. I register your logic. But my feelings are not logical.
I seem to be failing.
I am sorry.
My worlds collide.
There is a long scene toward the end where I remember one sees nothing but a bit of the white collar of the man walking around in near-dark. I may mis-remember. But that is the impression I had watching it. Lots of walking around in the dark with a bit of white bobbing... That's what love affairs come down to in French films.
That’s what love affairs come down to
That's what love affairs
My not wanting to die alone is a pathetic clawing against that inevitability.
I'd like to respond to this logically.
Reason does not keep petulance at bay. (Theory is great, but practice makes perfect?)
and I keep talking myself into corners I didn't realize were there.
I haven't yet run out of wine. But I note I am running low. There is dust on the screen and I do not wipe it off. It sparkles. I note that too.
I am sorry if that was the result.
I'd like to respond to this logically.
It is a different kind of place. The anger is hard to attribute. It resembles the anger one expects to find in parts of the South. The lushness is almost oppressive to a Westerner.
Consequently, I have to say that both truth and reality are illusory.
both are
sad sad sad sad sad sad sad
both are
angry and hurt
I can almost touch what I’m trying to say. I can almost say it. In the distance,
