There is Wind That Blew

Tonight!

November 11th 2007.

Two days left.

So why can't I say good bye yet?

Four days left.

I will remember to listen to the sound between my two front teeth
-The weight of his hand on my chest-

One week left.

Too much.

His hands will always be warm
but separated from what the shadow grasps
and love is a little less then everything

Teaser Trailer #2

INT. KITCHEN NIGHT

The Painter

by John Ashbery

John Ashbery

Sitting between the sea and the buildings

He enjoyed painting the sea’s portrait.

But just as children imagine a prayer

Is merely silence, he expected his subject

To rush up the sand, and, seizing a brush,

Plaster its own portrait on the canvas.

So there was never any paint on his canvas

Until the people who lived in the buildings

Put him to work: “Try using the brush

As a means to an end. Select, for a portrait,

Something less angry and large, and more subject

To a painter’s moods, or, perhaps, to a prayer.”

How could he explain to them his prayer

That nature, not art, might usurp the canvas?

He chose his wife for a new subject,

Making her vast, like ruined buildings,

As if, forgetting itself, the portrait

Had expressed itself without a brush.

Slightly encouraged, he dipped his brush

In the sea, murmuring a heartfelt prayer:

“My soul, when I paint this next portrait

Let it be you who wrecks the canvas.”

The news spread like wildfire through the buildings:

He had gone back to the sea for his subject.

Imagine a painter crucified by his subject!

Too exhausted even to lift his brush,

He provoked some artists leaning from the buildings

To malicious mirth: “We haven’t a prayer

Now, of putting ourselves on canvas,

Or getting the sea to sit for a portrait!”

Others declared it a self-portrait.

Finally all indications of a subject

Began to fade, leaving the canvas

Perfectly white. He put down the brush.

At once a howl, that was also a prayer,

Arose from the overcrowded buildings.

They tossed him, the portrait, from the tallest of the buildings;

And the sea devoured the canvas and the brush

As though his subject had decided to remain a prayer.

23:12:02

At night
I can hear you in the other room
in the voice of who I could have been.
Your muffled grunts,
her stifled breath,
You lay in bed,
Your lights left off.
If I look
your faded hair
And angled back,
The sheets still folded,
The night stand and wallet.
I’ll watch you go
When a breeze comes in,
Or a car goes by,
And your shadow calls outside.
I lost you when I close my eyes
And I left that self behind.
So why can’t I say goodbye yet?

VHS Tape: 1989

Dad: it is a little warm up here
Mom: okay… phew oh boy it is ever hot, it must be 100 degrees… here is the third floor bathroom, and in here, oh they installed the shower. That’s nice.
Dad: I like the way it’s facing too.
Mom: yeah, it looks good… this will be the view from the bathroom.. not right now sweety.
Dad: it’s the best view in the house.
Mom: honey please.. yes of course, Okay, and-
Dad: I think these will be nice rooms.
Mom: Oh I see they framed out the stairway that looks good… If you do that one more time that’s it. .. alright just a minute… now we are going to take a peek out the sky light, see what we can see out here… not a whole lot.

Seeing is Forgetting the Name of the Thing One Sees

Robert Irwin: Light and Space 2007.


“It is not a question of why: you won’t find an answer justifiable. It is a question of to what effect”
-Juan Rulfo

Their is Wind That Blew Trailer

A film crew films a dead dear

Self consciousness is a dull trauma

And my process is: through

Can I do more?

Save it till after I am done being selfish.

The baby is born.

KYLE
Don’t hold your hand like
that.

MARY
What is going on?

http://memory.loc.gov/afc/afcss39/262/2627b2.mp3

Montage of moving pictures:

Tapestry


It is difficult to seperate the tapestry
from the room or loom which takes precedence over it.
For it must always be frontal yet to one side.

It insists on this picture of "history"
in the making, because there is no way out of the punishment
it proposes: sight blinded by sunlight.
The seeing taken in with what is seen
in an explosion of sudden awareness of its formal splendor.

The eyesight, seen as inner,
registers over the impact of itself
receiving phenomena, and in so doing
draws an outline, or a blueprint,
of what was just there: dead on the line.

If it has the form of a blanket, that is because
we are eager, all the same, to be wound in it:
This must be the good of not experiencing it.

But in some other life, which the blanket depicts anyway,
the citizens hold sweet commerce with one another
and pinch the fruit unpestered, as they will,
and words go crying after themselves, leaving the dream
upended in a puddle somewhere
as though "dead" were just another adjective.


John Ashbery

Mary pulls the flesh off of James.

Mary
Oh God. James. What did you do?

James
I was him.

There is the slow removal of a medium sized book.

Look at us. This okay?
Where son and son (blow my boys blow)
climb into just his diary: the bathroom, The fireplace, a sleep over on weekends;
sides of sticks or bones or sheets of trembles.

"I will cross my arms and Comala will die of hunger"
And that was what happened.

-Juan Rulfo

James wears a baggy t-shirt and pajama bottoms.

V.O YOUNG JAMES
And the breeze pushes. And the
woods push. And the ground
continues to give. And the sky
stays grounded. At least until it
rains.

There is laughing. Mary walks on to the scene and stands next to James

MARY
I loved the way he used to laugh.

INT. STAIR CASE/ GUEST BED ROOM- 2005- MORNING

She walks around the room looking at objects. She fixes a
picture.

Second Semester

It is the second semester and I feel great. I just got done with taking screen shots of every thing I have shot and then "manually" editing the second part of the film on the wall in my room. It feels sooo good to have such a large chunk of the film physically in front of me. I can wake in the morning look over and notice that that picture should go up two slots, or that the dialog really needs to go with this image instead of that.

Inspirations for the week: As it has been all semester (in no particular order) Andrei Tarkovsky, Juan Rulfo, John Ashbery and Sufjan Stevens. ( I dare someone to read, watch, discuss and listen to all of these artists and not get inspired). Hey this has felt pretty coherent so far. hmmm. nice. "Is this okay?"