Oct 6, 2008
Closer realms than veins allow
This past weekend whisked me to the days of the Grim Fandango, where the land of the dead met film noir, beatnik revolutionaries and gangster mechanics. We dream now of screening experimental films in dark bombshelters, with live performers strumming on bass and screeching clarinet.
The film I cut for all to see was in a language I can’t speak. Some in the audience did, and laughed, and were solemn. Others scratched their heads as much as I, wondering when the subtitles would activate. Wondering when the world, its secrets, would abbreviate.
How we spend our days, said Dillard, is how we spend our lives. And not one moment more I’ll spend aside, apart, in shambles left for scavengers to thrive. In white, and clean, starting rapidly anew. Enclosed in closer realms than veins allow, the chambers’ bloods to spew sporadically and elegantly strewn in patterns.
Ashes to urns, flames to the wind. And skins dissolved in layers one by one. You earned a return, you heaved a sigh of retreat. And the seeker once again inside resolves to destroy- itself, in roads littered, in rocks draped with snake cascades, withered and lone, immobile as by dust on shelves stuck, on mirrors smudged, crackling under hissing metamorphing savagery selection, natural and grim. Beautiful solemn. Iris like shades drawn sharp and vertical, close my sight. It’s time to count the ashes, one on one.
Oct 15, 2008 @ 06:46:16
bring it.