consciousness
snow that came almost a bit too late. always uninvited but never cease to surprise, it went up my ankles.
cold air fills the space. I push my head out of the window, dig it into the thick air, sniffing oxygen so hard I want to snizz. What a beautiful feeling through the Oesophagus into the lungs. A chill so acute and unambiguous traces its way into the pores of the lungs, the temperature so alien to the body.
This is conciousness. Breathing, the most intimate and simple interaction with the environment. I've recaptured it in the wilderness of Gloucestershire, where waves of mountains covered by flat turfs of grass, where the individual becomes so small, and possibly so guiltlessly happy.
Have been stressing myself out so much with studies I've heard this aweful news about a classmate killed in a car crash during the holiday. Prompts me to review my life and all priorities I've set. To work hard and get a lot of good grades and praises and then whop! you die. What's left in your life to mourne about? who is there to remember you and carry on your spirit? How much would you have given to people you cherrish and love, and those who felt the same to you?
One of my favourite places is the cemetory, it's tranquil and full of events, both natural and imaginary. On the graves, what are now underground would always be protraited as 'doctor, and the loving father always', or 'to my loving wife'. It's family, the role we see with eager disdain, that carries on. My father, I dreamt a horrible dream about you, I just wish that moment never come.
Looking at the mirror and that face starring at me, I'd marvel at how beautiful some other faces could be, stern and dignified, composed as if it's gift of will; whereas this one, this one of mine's angular and asymmetrical, colourless and distant. Would all those beautiful faces lives with less remourse that I do? How much could I fall for this face in the mirror? Is this a practise of confidence? or is it just a life long struggle of defense? If the me that loves myself a bit too much does not exist, where will there be the grip to handle of the lightness of being? Or if I am as ignorant and arrogant as I could always have been, would you approach me with more eagerness and marveling at my beauty instead?
Enough moaning of insecurity. All is full just trouble missing. The saturdays devoted to getting rid of the whirling dust in my very room, the empty fridge to fill, eggs and milk all gone, all evians consumed, please don't even bother with the wine bottles, coz I still have to think about the colours in the dinner plate. All underpants are dirty, could that be my excuse for not turning up at school? Digging here and there, filling the leaking holes of life, I still need to figure out whom I love the most where to put the adjectives and how should I hold the glass. Inevitably minute and weightless details of being. life.
Becuase of the diabolic existence of STREAMING. I've seen almost too many films. There's never too many, so the ALMOST is essential.The only film I remember myself seeing in cinema is THE FLIGHT OF THE RED BALLOON. Coincidentally, It gives me these beautiful flashback of MARIE ANTOINETTE,a sketch of life in its very essence. This time it's the city of Paris, a balloon and a mother.
Plot. a week, a month, paris, a woman as a devoted artist, mother, friend, landlady. Period.
Life goes on, suffering, 'this is intolerable', enjoyment are being questioned, 'why do you have to buy presents?' the boy asks, 'so that everyone could be happy', the mother replied. This is life. All the hows and whys and when and whats, entangled by time, so exhaustive that Juliette is always out of breath, grasping her pace, and becoming passive by events and circumstances around her. Red Balloon's existense as an observer? an emblem of chinese heritage? a resemblence of the Au pair from beijing, floating and experiencing an alien city of smog and rubbish bins?
Where do I stand when it comes to PARIS? I love it so much I can't even fathom the facism of piss. Can the film be shot somewhere else? can the mother not be a puppeteer? can the red balloon not exist in the movie at all? YES, but NO.
The next one would ne THE FUNNY GAME. Knowing it's Haneake, it just would not be very funny. I have never been intimidated by challenges of the directors, but an escapism as expensive as £9 in the dark, I'd think twice. Lars van Trier and David Lynch are those I remember who could provide me with such 'cinematic thesis' of a weight so immense as if it's cardinal.
awaiting for CHANSONS D'AMOUR and PARIS. Christopher Honore again in a musical like investigation of love and sexual tension. I think DANS PARIS was an imperfect immitation of novelle vogue, a dirty attempt in doing what JL Godard did already too beautifully in A BOUT DE SOUFFLE and SLOW MOTION. Nonetheless Louis Garrel and Romain Duris and Juliette Binoche, can't be too careless.
cold air fills the space. I push my head out of the window, dig it into the thick air, sniffing oxygen so hard I want to snizz. What a beautiful feeling through the Oesophagus into the lungs. A chill so acute and unambiguous traces its way into the pores of the lungs, the temperature so alien to the body.
This is conciousness. Breathing, the most intimate and simple interaction with the environment. I've recaptured it in the wilderness of Gloucestershire, where waves of mountains covered by flat turfs of grass, where the individual becomes so small, and possibly so guiltlessly happy.
Have been stressing myself out so much with studies I've heard this aweful news about a classmate killed in a car crash during the holiday. Prompts me to review my life and all priorities I've set. To work hard and get a lot of good grades and praises and then whop! you die. What's left in your life to mourne about? who is there to remember you and carry on your spirit? How much would you have given to people you cherrish and love, and those who felt the same to you?
One of my favourite places is the cemetory, it's tranquil and full of events, both natural and imaginary. On the graves, what are now underground would always be protraited as 'doctor, and the loving father always', or 'to my loving wife'. It's family, the role we see with eager disdain, that carries on. My father, I dreamt a horrible dream about you, I just wish that moment never come.
Looking at the mirror and that face starring at me, I'd marvel at how beautiful some other faces could be, stern and dignified, composed as if it's gift of will; whereas this one, this one of mine's angular and asymmetrical, colourless and distant. Would all those beautiful faces lives with less remourse that I do? How much could I fall for this face in the mirror? Is this a practise of confidence? or is it just a life long struggle of defense? If the me that loves myself a bit too much does not exist, where will there be the grip to handle of the lightness of being? Or if I am as ignorant and arrogant as I could always have been, would you approach me with more eagerness and marveling at my beauty instead?
Enough moaning of insecurity. All is full just trouble missing. The saturdays devoted to getting rid of the whirling dust in my very room, the empty fridge to fill, eggs and milk all gone, all evians consumed, please don't even bother with the wine bottles, coz I still have to think about the colours in the dinner plate. All underpants are dirty, could that be my excuse for not turning up at school? Digging here and there, filling the leaking holes of life, I still need to figure out whom I love the most where to put the adjectives and how should I hold the glass. Inevitably minute and weightless details of being. life.
Becuase of the diabolic existence of STREAMING. I've seen almost too many films. There's never too many, so the ALMOST is essential.The only film I remember myself seeing in cinema is THE FLIGHT OF THE RED BALLOON. Coincidentally, It gives me these beautiful flashback of MARIE ANTOINETTE,a sketch of life in its very essence. This time it's the city of Paris, a balloon and a mother.
Plot. a week, a month, paris, a woman as a devoted artist, mother, friend, landlady. Period.
Life goes on, suffering, 'this is intolerable', enjoyment are being questioned, 'why do you have to buy presents?' the boy asks, 'so that everyone could be happy', the mother replied. This is life. All the hows and whys and when and whats, entangled by time, so exhaustive that Juliette is always out of breath, grasping her pace, and becoming passive by events and circumstances around her. Red Balloon's existense as an observer? an emblem of chinese heritage? a resemblence of the Au pair from beijing, floating and experiencing an alien city of smog and rubbish bins?
Where do I stand when it comes to PARIS? I love it so much I can't even fathom the facism of piss. Can the film be shot somewhere else? can the mother not be a puppeteer? can the red balloon not exist in the movie at all? YES, but NO.
The next one would ne THE FUNNY GAME. Knowing it's Haneake, it just would not be very funny. I have never been intimidated by challenges of the directors, but an escapism as expensive as £9 in the dark, I'd think twice. Lars van Trier and David Lynch are those I remember who could provide me with such 'cinematic thesis' of a weight so immense as if it's cardinal.
awaiting for CHANSONS D'AMOUR and PARIS. Christopher Honore again in a musical like investigation of love and sexual tension. I think DANS PARIS was an imperfect immitation of novelle vogue, a dirty attempt in doing what JL Godard did already too beautifully in A BOUT DE SOUFFLE and SLOW MOTION. Nonetheless Louis Garrel and Romain Duris and Juliette Binoche, can't be too careless.
posted by 百鏽 at 23:13
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home