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"Our culture does not value poetry, and it drives poets crazy."  -NYT

I've been apartment bound for most of the week, and I am beginning to recover now, but I still am not strong enough to see Hitoshi Toyoda's live performance and projection of 580 images at Anthology tonight!  This event would be the perfect thing . . .

Where to begin?  You are here, in the night, in the dreamscape that never lies to you, in the mysterious unknown, in the perforations of the physical world, and in the nature of life as it is . . .

I've been wondering about some of my complements over in the cinematic yang . . .  Some may see reflections in the traditional film review (prosaic, compartmentalized, rational document that it is) that I cannot see.  I realize that all truths wait in all things!  If film reviews are what you are into, totally go ahead with that.  Personally I don't feel that writing a film review is much of a challenge in comparison to what I have accomplished thus far, and I have no aspirations in this regard.  My blood boils when writers, upheld as experts, admired as teachers, and awarded the brightest visibility as employees, openly hold the entire blogosphere in contempt.  When that behavior is exhibited, the person ceases to be an expert, you know?  Furthermore, I don't understand why bloggers give so much attention and linkage to film critics who insult everyone writing online.  Why?  What is up with that?  Why not get in touch with the ubiquitous, humble bloggers and ask them what they think about the blogosphere?

(I guess that we all have to live out our own conflicts.)

When I am at my best, my writing is hot!  But there will always be someone who is writing, or has written, or will write what I cannot express.  I am called (!) to discover these worlds  . . . the annihilation in the superabundance of being!

"I would now happily remain at the table while it was being cleared, and, if it was not a moment at which the girls of the little band might be passing, it was no longer solely towards the sea that I would turn my eyes.  Since I had seen such things depicted in water-colours by Elstire, I sought to find again in reality, I cherished as though for their poetic beauty, the broken gestures of the knives still lying across one another, the swollen convexity of a discarded napkin into which the sun introduced a patch of yellow velvet, the half-empty glass which thus showed to greater advantage the sweep of its curved sides, and in the heart of its translucent crystal, clear as frozen daylight, some dregs of wine, dark but glittering with reflected lights, the displacement of solid objects, the transmutation of liquids by the effect of light and shade, the shifting colours of the plums which passed from green to blue and from blue to golden yellow in the half-plundered dish, the promenade of the antiquated chairs that came twice daily to take their places round the white cloth spread on the table as on an altar at which were celebrated the rites of the palate, and where in the hollows of the oyster-shells a few drops of lustral water had remained as in tiny holy-water stoups of stone; I tried to find beauty there where I had never imagined before that it could exist, in the most ordinary things, in the profundity of 'still life.'"

-- Marcel Proust, In Search of Lost Time Part II, Within a Budding Grove, p. 613.

Comments

[cinetrix]

Amen & hallelujah!

[jmac]

Thanks for getting it, Cinetrix! :) Happy blogging!