Journal Entries
forget-me-not
Posted Sep 13, 2003
a MODERN AGE ALICE, in
blue fields and a miniskirt
far from a world where opiates are religion
of the elite, and the opposite holds true for the rest
~
FADE TO
far from a world where blonde wheat stands like coarse hair in fields
PAN to where tall forks spur from the ground
in jutting clusters of greens and browns
soaked paddies of costly shoots
eking out a life in the mud
~
she's happy, and she might wel be
what doesn't she have, this modern age alice
a mirror?
PAN UP to the clear sky
~
holding up a mirror, then:
enter a GIRL, with, yes, blue eyes, blonde hair
and a sadly smiling mouth
and a beautiful white dress
and a missing leg
and an aching heart
a prodigal family
clutching tightly to her chest -
a y-shaped twig
with some blue shreds of fabric wound tight around
some finger-scratched features for a face-
a doll.
ZOOM INTO the DOLL.
she won't let go.
~
BACK TO where
our alic has fallen over, and grazed her knee.
now she's crying. she knows pain.
~
unlike the incurious eyes of the fevered
mother, as another one of hers
drops toward the floor
in the foreground
with no more than a barely audible mewl;
and when the boy crumples on impact
her face betrays no expression
as his body leaves behind no trace
save a torn set of imitation-western jeans
and a muddied, bloodied, grass-stained shirt
~
FADE OUT/IN
as we rejoin alice at this point
she is being sped
to the hospital
by a troubled father; FLICKER FRAMES OF WHERE the cut on
her knee has by now
swollen grossly to poison
her face is yellow and damp, her eyes all white
tongue is bulging blue
hair in disarray
scratching, wheezing breath
hands
held tight by her parents
as
they, numb, (SPLIT SCREEN) watch
her
give up,
forget,
and
FADE
~
CUT TO
a beautiful group of flowers,
alice blue and soft as snow,
velvet, or the kiss of destruction
set in a crystal-cut glass vase
SLOW ZOOM onto the vase
where an almost imperceptible finger of a crack
is worming its way
to the stem of the vase, like a maggot
tunnelling, until
with a
CRACK, the vase shatters, and the flowers wither and die
in jutting clusters of brown and green.
~
CUT.
~
and somewhere in the world, far off, alice is watching.
Discuss this Journal entry [70]
Latest reply: Sep 13, 2003
_
Posted Aug 30, 2003
"We sit together,
the mountain and I,
until only the mountain remains"
Li Po.
Discuss this Journal entry [4]
Latest reply: Aug 30, 2003
Workers of the world, unite! You have nothing to lose but your minds!
Posted Aug 24, 2003
Desire Is
(An utterance echoed
by the loudest of minds, ringing in the ears
like an untouched bell)
(A smooth grey stone sits cold and empty in a cavern)
Empty love?
Desire Is
(A dry black pit, solemn and sullen in the desert)
(The hot taste of a lover's tongue)
Reciprocal dreams?
Desire Is
(Quiet, yet open)
Dead?
Discuss this Journal entry [3]
Latest reply: Aug 24, 2003
Dualism
Posted Aug 9, 2003
People's minds seem to work in sets of two.
Obviously. Think of something basic and important that *isn't* doubled, that isn't the so-called Holy Trinity, and I'll either applaud you, or show you how you're wrong.
Opposites. There's knives and forks. Spoons are something else entirely. They're like miniature bowls.
Mother and Father. Adult and Child. Love and Hate.
Being and non-being.
These are our lies. Who for a second thinks that reality functions the way we wish it to? Right and left.
Dead or alive. If it's possible, imagine yourself in situation where you know, for sure, that there's no possible way to survive past a certain point, where you know, for sure, that you will die at such and such a time. Are you alive? Are you dead? You may not be dying in the strictest sense of the word, but you are still alive/dead.
Point A and Point B.
Is it that hard to realise that the space between the two is made up of an infinite amount of Points? No? Good. Now take away the dots.
Black and White.
I'm white, you're wrong. Everyone who will read this will have heard to the point of tedium the argument about relative morals.
Yellow and song. The two are one and the same.
"Picture an elephant.
"Yes?
"Now take away two elephants. Do you see it?"
Order and chaos.
The one isn't the other. The one isn't the lack of the other. The one isn't the reverse of the other. Neither of them are true.
Have you heard of the principle of "lies-to-children"? "It's okay to tell them that the television work by electricity as if it was some kind of magic, because they don't need to know about electrons and quantum mechanics yet". These are our lies-to-children, and having lived with them for such a time, the universe is now engaged in doing the same to us.
Solid and non-solid. It's a gradual affair. It's in the concentration of things.
Heaven/Hell and Nothing. Each to their own.
Male/Female. It's a lie. You're living a lie. Heads and Tails - what's your torso? Surrealism and realism are one and the same. Today I saw a blue jug with cold water in it. That's surRealism. The trick is to look at the sub-realism. What if I were to tell you that there were five realities, one for each of your senses? I'd be wrong.
Dead or Alive. We must all die at some point; even I, a young boy who believes he can live forever, know this. At some point, the universe will end, and run backwards. Am I alive? Am I dead? I am asleep.
"Justice?! Peace?! How can you have justice or peace on a world of sleeping people?!" - G.I. Gurdjieff.
An exercise - Straighten out your hand and spread your fingers. Now stretch your arm as high as you can above your head, and tilt your head down. Hope and despair. That was an exercise in duality. That was an exercise in belief.
Here ends this Journal. I hope you enjoyed it. It was an exercise in freedom. It was an exercise in belief.
Discuss this Journal entry [10]
Latest reply: Aug 9, 2003
Dead Dot Hyphon
Posted Aug 4, 2003
We are the dead.
It all seems so simple, even if you stand up closer -
but then you can see the peeling paint and rips in the canvas.
It's all filled with mist, the land of the Dead.
Occasional ideas for revolution, song and colour drift
like flaking trees shedding leaves in wind
or a table and fire
or even a clock.
(Not even a clock has time to move the hands from one moment to the next.
Nothing happens in a flash, or even gradually - it just has happened,
while you were busy doing something.)
We are the dead. Who knew what lay beyond the silk?
Then, they were sure. Now, we are not.
Each of us is living, of a kind,
in a dream-world of memory and sepia'd photos.
(Then you live for the day when yesterday becomes tomorrow.)
Some are more faded than others-
then they drop away, more leaves. There's never any questions.
(There's never any point.)
It's all in misdirection, and smoke, and it has a cheap gilt frame.
You thought we were gone, but then
we just moved behind you. We're waiting,
(again)
the dead. Out of sight, out of touch, out of life and love
and power, and out of time.
Especially time.
Even the fallen leaves and marching decay stand still here. We're all perfect.
It's a world of echoes and shadows, and silence, utter silence, and dead, fallen logs.
We, the dead, see ourselves as we saw you.
There's a lot of old, ugly people here.
(Again, again, you cry.)
My time isn't money, or power, or the smell of a fresh dew.
It's not the feeling of your blood cavorting around you.
It's just there, like the dark, waiting.
So speak, you living, for I am the dead.
Speak, and I will listen, and listen.
Talk, and I will hear, but only -
do not question, for I will answer what I believe to be true.
Discuss this Journal entry [47]
Latest reply: Aug 4, 2003
Mal
Researcher U219274
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