Zabriskie Point and Suck Bucks

Michelangelo Antonioni

Pink Floyd original music
Grateful Dead

Opens with a revolutionary student meeting. Talking about the Pigs. Talking about shutting down campus. I’m willing to die. Look man, if he didn’t come to join us he shouldn’t have come at all. College campus. Angry students. Talking about black kids and white kids, white experiences and black experiences. What kind of nonsense is that . . . if he wants to be a revolutionary he has to work with other people.

Company Rules
Guard seated within circle of security monitors. Farmer Meats. Large mural painted on pork plant, farmer and pigs, a pig wrestle; to a string of businesses along the boulevard, set to trippy squeak music, bros driving red Ford pickup through the streets, once a smile, past motorcycle cops, driver flashes peace sign, Bethlehem Steel Los Angeles, Brown Bevis Industrial, Pacific Metals Div., know the place the Americans created! Original, completely wack, eccentric, its own thing, riding a vibe and an economic model, complicated as fuck with many millions. Humans billions many. The poetry of the Whole Thing. Heller Machinery – they drove by fast. Makes me want to drive around East Los Angeles, Palm Springs, Ontario, San Bernardino, see with a capturing, set-aside vision of the thing, distance of a critical measure, set a sign to seeing, offering a version, not here not there just a version. Nostalgia of the present. Drive America! Make this world up, based on principles in contest, with a driving standard from the get-go, the origin, private enterprise, credit and debt, freedom and democracy, representative government, the rule of law, construct this property regime, and we the runts run it. We for ourselves, and the entire world, with China, with Russia, now throwing shit in the cage with Iran. We the monkeys.
In the cage. Bethlehem Steel. Scrap metal rail yard. Shot from the freeway driving quickly. What of port, know scrap metal mountains. Ships with cranes take the rusting product away, out of Narragansett Bay. Who are these people, and what do they do and what are their names?
What are We and Who Are We Doing?
What are We and What Are We Doing? Versions of knowing being. There’s an actual and we breathe it. Twilight of the Idols. But what is this, scrap metal rail yard. Expanding crazy, vigorous global markets, test your ability to conduct small wars. World War III trending. Young people googling “Draft.” A police station and the cop “maybe five minutes maybe five hours” to beaten-up protest kids, Nixon’s punks. Fun as fuck to see it from his and their perspective. All you people who live and the mechanisms we live by.

The Associate Professor of History
“Occupation?”
“Associate Professor of History”
“That’s too long, I’ll just put down ‘clerk’”
Name?
“Karl Marx.”
Laughter.
“how do you spell it?”
M-A-R-X

Can I help you boys?
We need some guns right away, for self-defense.

If you see it as ruined it shall be ruined. If you see it glorious, you will know glory. The Miracle of America. The Bugging Interpretation of History. Los Angeles, California. What are you? Do you see yourselves properly? What madness miracle! Spawn and order, this a show! Office Smog Inspection Station. After the shooting on campus – did he shoot the cop after the Building Occupier was killed? – he’s on the run. Fly United to New York City. Lost Angeles 1970s America I love you! It appears as if he’s stealing the Lily 7. What a nice plane, shots inside the cockpit, like a classic car but more shit comprises dash. He’s started the little prop, on his way. Flying into the desert.
And she, too, now on an adventure in the desert. Looking for Jimmy in the middle of the Mojave. What is that, a dead piano? A dead dusty harp he’s playing in the dirt. The shot where he flies Lily 7 toward the car on a lone desert road is awesome.

Manly Beacon
Manly Beacon?
Manly Beacon it is. There! When? Now! At Play in a Wonderful World. That’s the one.
He walks like an actor or a dancer. Very Theater. He killed that run down the steep slope. Would have injured most and he kept going. Oh my her arms, her arms, the way she holds her arms when she runs. I will never forget those arms. And they’re running through the desert. He does a freaking somersault. OK, Actor. But good okay. Man and woman naked in the desert. Kissing. Hands. Movement. Have actors naked. Have beautiful young women in films. Mud wrestle dirt love is that the Grateful Dead? Desert dirt wrestle love. Now it’s a love orgy, kissing and pushing one another over in the dust. Take it there, Antonioni! This could still withstand the new critical paradigm holding the moral high ground. The new untouchables. But here they are, love wrestling with four in the American desert. Appears darn consensual, though he threatened her with an airplane. And now she’s on drugs. How many wrestle lovers are there? Actor Wrestle Pushing Games. “OK, contact improv in the dirt everybody.” A UCLA theater department? Get to the bottom of this. They definitely have dirt in their mouths when shooting.
Red-painted port-o-potties in the Mojave Desert. Death Valley. Summer temperatures. Now they’re painting Lily 7. Looking at those instruments, gazing at cockpit seats, speed of highway approach, steep climbs, deep dives, views out the window at the desert, makes me think I should learn to fly. Flying before piano. Surfing with sharks before flying. Flying! What a kickass plane. Now’s the time to research small airplanes and hours-of-flight. Fifth career crop-duster. Bay and lake landings Alaska. The No War Plane, with breasts between the wings. Now have to get off the couch, grab a camera. How’m I not gonna shoot Suck Bucks? Please shoot Suck Bucks, and share it! I promise you we do not listen to fiddle music enough. Flying a helicopter, too. I mean, Juergen Klinsmann flies his own helicopter to training. Stay away, that’s dopeness. Dr. Dopeness approves. Rollin’ wit dopeness.
Antonioni succeeds showing the joy, beauty and thrill of flying a small plane, more palpably aeronautic than sitting in a commercial jetliner balling at 40,000 feet. Though dope. Not gonna lie knowing. Dang, banking above the clouds by yourself flying! In the painted He-She-It plane!

Kid returns to Los Angeles. The stolen plane caused concern. Maybe that’s right, especially during the reign of terrorism. The insane of terrorism. Media assembled, oldschool cops with reee-rurrr sirens. But what the what-up? Aviation. They take training to fly seriously. Why do we take it so seriously, more than cars? Is it the psychology of flight? An airplane’s potential danger. I’m going the former. We just freak on flying more than driving. Landing a little wobbly, would you lose nerves and rise again? No, dude, flying’s harder.
It’s not supposed to be the real thing, art’s representation. Expresses feeling about the thing within experience. A puppet show and we know the more. Neorealism is cool. Fantasy is cool, too. What a big, insanely beautiful ridge-perched desert house. Wonder who’s house that was then? Those touches were sex touches. Filmic. Action in the shot smoke rising from ashtray cigarette. Close-up, sometimes unfocused, on her head, hair, face as she runs up the stairs. Arizona Impress.
Seven shots after her drive-away, stop, look back: House from distance; balcony from the railing National Geographic flick-flaps in a breeze, radio that you’re about to see; third is ashtray smoking National Geographic patio side table; four is pack of cigarettes and radio; five is side of living room with door and doorknob chair lamp statue of . . . Jesus I don’t know horse?, gong? Set within circular wall cutout; six a wall of guns, large image, ashtrays, newspaper coffee table, couch, telephone, view of mountain, gonna say tray of vodkas on the rocks and books, shot from coffee-table height; and back to her in the car from behind.
All right, that’s it. You win me forever with the house exploding. Loud af exploding desert house set among pink and red rocks like Sedona blown the fuck up, shot from multiple angles, incredibly loud not turning it down. Go through this again. Exhilarating. Fourteen times. And stunning. Take us there, shot of the pool and patio during the explosion, slow-motion. Blow up the clothes rack, dresses flying through the air. Blow up the fridge. That is a flying Special K box. A salmon, cucumber, to Pink Floyd. If you’re on acid for this, all the power to you. I mean, he had to film this, had to get this vision down. Explode the TV. That’s a lobster and an orange and impossible head of lettuce. They blew up books and the books flew through the air. And then there’s the Pink Floyd Complete Zabriskie Point Sessions, Rome, Italy.

The Tin Drum, Or once they burn your synagogue, it’s time to go

Grandmother in the potato field. Hides Jakob under her skirts. Then the war breaks out. Then ends. His mother grows up – she was getting older too –
Oskar telling the story from the perspective of a boy. Who’s his father?
The woman with the two makes three. Who is Oskar’s dad? Suppose we’ll get to that.
Oskar as fetus! Born live action from inside the womb! The blood canal, dripping folds of skin, his first light a 40-watt bulb. The only thing keeping me from crawling back inside the womb was the tin drum. From lost object to new object. The drum. Oskar sees it all. The flirtation – foot fucking under the table during cards – Oskar threw himself down the stairs in an effort to always remain three.
I, Dr. Dopeness, Professor of the Dope, earned my power and tenure with the world as poet of the potato. Therefore I shout: “I love the potato, because it speaks to me.” Yes, the potato! Ich liebe die Kartoffel. Now in school. Teacher trying to deal. Oskar drums. Arithmetic, Writing, Lesen, you are naughty Oskar. Put that drum away. Try to grab it from him and glass smash, shards so beautiful, wine glass, grandfather clock face (you’d get the time for the next draft). Schoolroom windows.
Joy chemicals are good. Watching this smile rises. Now the Scream inside the doctor’s office, three years since the accident; screeches until specimens in formaldehyde
Formal Dehyde. Fetus on the floor and flood specimen goop. Is this the Dr. Know-It-All, adult hypocrisy, society, and riding through the end of days? The Rasputin Scene. The omg scene. Draw back the curtain. “His black beard grazed her breasts.” Read Goethe’s Elective Affinities. “And thus I grew not in size but in spirit.”
Dag. They undressed quickly. Nudity! Garters. A room. To the bed. Oskar followed his mom down the street. Stands on the sidewalk opposite the hotel. White cotton curtain on the fourth floor flutters, Jan pulls away. To the bed. Fuck screams and music. Now Oskar’s at the top of the cathedral clock tower. Well, he already jumped once. Danzig is and always has been German.
The Circus Development. He meets the little people, and Bebra who stopped his growth at 10. Better late than never. You must join us, you must. He pops some orange lightbulbs. “As you can see, I can lay claim to a certain artistry.”
“You know, Mr. Bebra, to tell the truth, I prefer to be a member of the audience, and let my little art flower in secret.”
“My Dear Oskar, trust an experienced colleague, our kind must never sit in the audience, our kind must perform, and run the show. Or it’s the others that will run us. And the others are coming, They will take over the fairgrounds. They will stage torchlight parades. They will build platforms and fill them, and from these platforms preach our destruction. The First Nazi Flag, They buy a radio. Say it in German. Beethoven above the mantel replaced by Hitler, next to the radio, framed painting. Your siding with Poland is crazy. Oskar’s drumming disrupts the band and soon the parade ground of Sieg Heils drops into a waltz.

Is a pervy, sustained, obvious-to-the-characters love triangle such a great device? Down with titillation, sex, trysts in a downtown hotel and nylon-stockings-play on the beach with grunting husband taking the photograph, while Oskar watches too. Because war is war and love is love. But the whole story begins with a rape. Certainly that’s a rape on the edge of the potato field when Jakob runs from the soldiers. Non-consensual sex. Make a baby. Live together, making it work, to disappearance and the next generation. A criminal rapes a farm girl in a field while she shelters him from danger.
The horse’s head and eels scene is fucked! Nasty. Agnes, she’s puking on the rocks. Dude feels her ass, the ripped-off head, because of war, eel squirms out of an ear, another from eye socket, she’s puking, Oskar paddles the drum not like a drummer – as skill level – and the fisherman reaching an arm down the horse’s mouth. This scene stopped a friend from ever eating eel again. I married her, and I’ll still eat eel. Eel to the kitchen floor. Touchy-feely between the fucking cousins on the couch. Surely this is a joke, a lean toward farcical, and another fight between husband and wife, with the drum, the drum, the drum. Wonder how Gunter Grass wrote the drumming to make it as obnoxious as it is here. Here it’s audible, annoying, tinny. Fighting over Oskar, food, fish.
She’s sobbing on the bed after the fight. Pervy cuzz rolls in, hand up her dress, starts to finger her – while she’s sobbing. Now it’s psychotic. After a good finger fuck and cum, she emerges to eat eels. Grabs the entire lot on the serving plate. Now all Agnes does is stuff her face with fish, jam her fingers down her throat, pukes it up. The town is talking. They watch through the windows from the sidewalk. Now it’s herring. So homegirl’s lost it. How is there not mental illness? And how does it not run in the family? But again, level, chill, what does it mean. Besides a critique of civilization’s hypocrisies, Germans and Poles and the war. They’re coming, the Germans are coming. Jesus, she just bit the head off a fish, chomped and chewed. Great acting! Now we gag. Why don’t you want the child? Asks her husband. It doesn’t matter whose it is.
Now Agnes is dead. Killed herself in the bathroom. An indictment of rapey patriarchy. Of war. Of men specifically. Come on! Author kills the woman. Does that work, psychologically? Nonetheless, she’s gone. Nazi swine! Red pig! The trumpet player Brown Shirts and the Communist. Competing ideas rule the separation and fuel a culture war, sides in a bubble ready to battle over ideology, paranoia, and a willingness to believe self-hype and crew-ideas over universal solution. Social media rampant in Europe in the teens, 20s, 30s and 40s, is what we’re saying, running men and women into the ground. Paranoia and doubt, gas-lighting and never-knowing. Which way to act, which way to turn, where to go for help, who’s on which side, what is real, what’s the core of the system, how do you behave when, 1984 and appearances, layers, obstacles to knowledge, total observation. What we have with Trump, social media, and competing truth systems. Who knows which side we’re on, and where are the sides? Lost mooring, released, not knowing what to hold on to, which thing to do, which task, which master, ruler and signified. Wear your marker, Pole and Jew. Try to stay invisible. Who escaped to London? Who recognized the impending truth-flip and got the fuck out?
After the funeral a meal. Oskar under grandma’s skirts. Once upon a time there was a drummer. His name was Oskar. He lost his poor mama who had eaten too much fish. Once upon a time there was a gullible people, who believed in Santa Claus, But Santa Claus was really the gas man. [Once they burn your synagogue, it’s time to go.]
Once upon a time there was a toy merchant. His name was Sigismund Markus, and he sold tin drums, lacquered red and white.
Now Markus is dead.

September 1, 1939.

Look at those factories time-lapse spewing smoke; at the cathedral; Danzig; at bridges, buildings, and lights. Every institution has its interest. Those who work for a thing represent its interests. These cooperate and they compete. Gaze upon that city. At our central Europe. My God! Soil! Our land! And war.
The tin drum is sanity for the boy, a core. And it’s insanity, constant noise that we don’t want to hear. It’s interruption, stress and anger. It’s loud, insistent and pisses us off. It’s the soul of a boy, it’s the mind of man. We are drum and stick and noise and conflict.
He finds the next drum on a top shelf while the Polish Post Office is under siege, on fire, about to fall. And within the Sturm and Drang, the madness of man, the tin drum, clean and white, pure, rolls to Oskar. The Polish Post Office they shot with a newsreel, for this went down in history as the first battle of World War II.

()()()

He jams his face in her parts in changing room at the beach. They sleep together in her room when his dad attends a Nazi cell party – they’ve made him leader. Oskar fucks her. Next day, however, she’s fucking his dad on the couch. Whoops. Ouch.
A fight. Dad cums inside of her. So where we at?
Oskar rips open the fizzy candy pack – the one he pours into her hand and spits into it and she eats it. A kind of fizzy sugar pack love ritual. So where we at? She sobs, squats over a bowl of water set on a kitchen chair, and, using her nightgown, washes. Oskar attempts the sugar pack love ritual. She looks at him with contempt, smacks his hand away, and offers the next few lines in a piercing scream: “You nasty little dwarf You crazy midget! And, as she kicks him, actually not-acting sending him flying, “You belong in a loony bin, you scumbag!”
She’s pregnant. He gets his own room. Boom-boom-boom, over and over again. She’s waddling. Who’s the dad, because Oskar came inside of her too. She’s sleeping in a chair next to the piano. He plays three notes in a rhythm. He stands, grabs an open pair of scissors, and brings down the blade toward her stomach. She blocks him, holds his wrist, glowers, momentary stare contest. During the Moscow-Falls Dinner, “Now you’ve got a little brother, Oskar.” He stands, pushes the pram across the room, and I don’t want to see him push the baby downstairs, even though it was an ugly-looking mother fucking German Nazi baby. “Shit Oskar, don’t push the baby down the stairs,” I said. “I don’t want to see a dead baby bent in half after falling into the cellar, Oskar.” With the adults screaming. That’s what we feel, and I’m trapped – I don’t want to feel this way.
And on to Moscow on the front. Moscow will have to fall “or we’ll have to feed all those people.”
“Starve ‘em! Starve all our enemies!”

FLK fat fucking Cheney-faced mother fucking German Nazi baby. “My son,” says Oskar. “You are definitely my son” he bounces him, baby crying and wincing nasty, almost the same size as Oskar, you are definitely my son. Well, here we go. Moscow won’t fall. Millions of Germans will die. Russia will push back, overwhelm them. The Americans, too. Eventually meet in Berlin and Germany, based on What, having adopted a New Vision, a story born from the soil, latent populism, freakish nationalist tendencies, meth-xenophobia with a lot of hurt globally and a scapegoat on which to pin their hatred and something else. That something else the desperation of a people without mooring with too many competing voices and one shit-talking asshole steps up to mesmerize the dead.
Here we are today, writ more specific. And the fat fucking ugly-assed German Nazi baby definitely looks like Trump Baby. Cheney-Trump Baby. We cannot neglect the problem of a few insane anxiety leaders driven by something evil and chaotic, snagging the reins of an entire nation’s power, driving forward with the energy of its actual national essence, including GDP as a Thing, with the energy to manifest such earth-scale endeavor, pitching us forward toward the death of mega-millions. Well, what is this, then, we are allowed to ask? Freud’s death wish? What is this, thing. And where is it going? What is the point? And what do we want to do with it?
That baby’s gigantic. That baby’s Helmut Kohl. And when you’re three, I’ll buy you a trommel. And if you want to stay small, I’ll show you how. Reunited with the circus. Now they work for the German Army, entertaining the troops. A picnic on the bunkers. Five nuns walking on a beach looking for shellfish. They’re just nuns looking for shellfish, he said, I know them. That’s an order! And now five angel-nuns ascend to heaven. Look at this shot!

My Children, quick.
What’s wrong?
The Americans are coming!
Beethoven back to the wall.
Now the Russians are coming. Blow the shit out of shit. Your party pin! Now pops tries to hide it, looks around the cellar, digs a small hole. Imagine supporting the party cause in a small town of contested territory you remain small, don’t go to the front, think you’re winning because of propaganda, that everything’s going okay, and then, word of mouth almost, your boys have lost, Russians rolling in on you, Americans rolling into Paris, ass-whipped and over, an extreme life experience. What does this do to a person, a people, a history, a mind, a consciousness? Hide the pin under the winter-kartoffeln, she suggests. The Russians are coming!
Dig a hole with a heel.
War rape. One of the women, with whom Oskar had sex, Russians in the cellar, Oscar with the pin in his hand, jammed it into Alfred’s hand, who then swallows it. Caught in throat, pin jammed into esophagus, he can’t raise his hands, stumbling about, machine gun fire he’s out.
From the off this is not normal life. A reality radically removed from an older way, what happens to life survival, love, food, day to day. This film not for an instant normal, takes place slightly off, out of kilter, as are the lives. And you stand, still you, watching the madness, adapting to the madness, dealing, enduring suffering like you wouldn’t or couldn’t in “peacetime.” War-torn Danzig.
A Jew comes to possess the shop. He survived a concentration camp. His wife and six children killed. He was a disinfector at the camp. He tossed the drum into Matzerath’s grave!
Oskar, should you or shouldn’t you?
I should, I must,
Then Kurt (the gigantic brother-son) throws a rock and hits Oskar in the face and he falls into the grave.
Grandma opened the film, raped, dealt with all the life that followed, including war, suicide, death, madness, drumming, and she’s there at the end, standing, Karshabians were made to be bashed in the head. Going and coming, they just want everything perfect, they bash us Karshabians in the head. She stands as the rest board trains for “the West” – for the Rhineland. Yes, it will be better. Better in the West. Grandma! Shouts Oskar from the train. Die Liliputanter und Zwerge. Die Blechtrommel.

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Red Desert, or, private domestic bliss hell while the industrial world spins and mankind buzzes

Michelangelo Antonioni

“With one startling, painterly composition after another--of abandoned fishing cottages, electrical towers, looming docked ships--RED DESERT creates a nearly apocalyptic image of its time, and confirms Antonioni as cinema's preeminent poet of the modern age.”

Winner of the Golden Lion at the 1964 Venice Film Festival

Every shot man and machine. Young woman (Monica Vitti) in green overcoat with small boy (Valerio Bartoleschi). Loud machine roars and hisses over dialogue. The Steam Scene. Hissing hell steam, escapes in giant billows from concrete. Rewind and do the entire scene again. Spend time with that hiss. Close eyes on the third. Find if the steam suggests anything to you. And see every shot. You set the camera there see the Thing. People who make movies are rad. Shit, I should turn it down. I remember Ravenna from my youth and father’s teaching. Businessman’s dad died, responsibility’s on his nice overcoat shoulders. Geysers explode sideways powerfully. See what happens when you scan the screen quickly rather than slowly, like a nervous animal from corner to corner, what do you notice in the shot? Like when the mother gently touches her sleeping son stare only at the 1960s robot – stare. Back and forth robot bonked wall. Gaze at the gray hole-punched metal lightbulb eyes disc ears hook nose and that smile. Giuliana, Mom, bugging in her white nightgown.

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Her shop. She is, um, nervous, neurotic, always wrapping herself in a shawl, a scarf, a blanket, walking in fits and starts, pauses, turn and looks, like, seven thoughts away from the present possible spectrum. Dude - Corrado (Richard Harris) - moving in. There’s something. She stares off into space, into the modern distance. “Giuliana, are you tired?”
“I’m always tired.” Pause. “No, not always, sometimes.”
The accident. In the hospital for a while, due to the shock. An automobile accident but maybe she tried to kill herself. Breakdown to worse. As the film rolls, her ticks, touching, hand-wringing, stumbling worsen.

They’re rolling around together, Giuliana and the ginger Corrado. Just rolling around not his wife Italy during a labor strike. Why underscore the strike, and these Owners (walking) wandering around looking for workers talking about the accident, and why did Cannes go off on this in 1964. Meditate on 1964 – close your eyes, what did that look like in Europe. Oh! Tony Bruno owned that Alfa Romeo and we drove it to Karlsruhe for tuxes senior year and after he scored a goal he leaned over the sprawled keeper middle finger cocked yelled “fuck you!” That Alfa. What did audiences think about in 1964? What was my dad doing? What mom? What Sue? What Leo? I believe in 1964. Owners.

Now the capitalists hang as a bohemian commune in a rusty fisherman’s shack. Pier over water. Lying about drinking, sprawling on the floor reading, innuendo, perhaps an orgy’s on. Oh my god, a mattress in the small space size-like-elevator the fisherman’s shack. One by one, during conversation, they all join the reading lady on the mattress. This might get you at Cannes in 1964. Weird touching and laughing, feet rubbing, one dress unzip shoulder show bra strap. Aphrodisiac. “You’d be surprised what men in other countries do.”

Now they’re ripping up the shack board by board and jamming slats into the wood stove. Large merchant marine docked, raises a flag. One or two flags for infectious disease? One. “Let’s get out of here.” Can you build a panic to get everyone out of a room, as an actor? There you are assembled, six actors, and, action! Build-a-Panic. Let’s get the fuck out of here motherfucking smallpox on that boat! Grab coats, let’s go, where are my keys, let’s go now before we fucking die! Yeah. I could build a panic, get you to react and clear out, in front of camera. And while the whole thing is absurd, playing. Playing! Like kids in an attic. Her mental problems after the accident. She tried to kill herself once, foggy road and self-harm entwine. Neorealism and color play.

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Because now she’s bugging: I swear! It was an accident. I didn’t mean it. The fog confused me. I made a mistake, I’m sorry. I swear it! Place actors in small fisherman’s shack place actors on an oil platform in the sea have them stand in fog mysterious and conversing before billowing steam. They live in a building on the docks, on a canal, large ships passing bedroom window, place actors in a busy port, ship’s blasting horns and water’s foghorns, industry movement, rust, steel, oil, machinery. Her young son can’t get out of bed. Says he can’t feel his legs. Has he had his vaccinations? Of course he has! The doctor wouldn’t forget them. Can’t move his legs. Mother stressed, as you can imagine, their domestic stressed. Ship blaring seen through bedroom window.

Bunch of bourgeois lying around semi-orgy picnicking on some form of insane, aimless adventure while there’s a strike on, not once commenting on their own role in the unrest. Huge industry churns, meanwhile. And now the boy. What now? The boy! Perhaps the toxic system gets to them after all and hits the most vulnerable.

Elisabeth Maersk, Kobenhavn. That people build ships should be our redemption, and our story’s core. Giuliana and her son and housekeeper/nurse just hanging out all day living this private hell, while gigantic oceangoing vessels pass through the canal and the men always on the road. Private domestic bliss hell while the industrial world spins and mankind buzzes with gigantism while women suffer and children suffer. She caught the kid walking! He was lying! The fuck, kid! Tulipa, registered Palermo. The boy lied to her, his own mother. This deception alienates her further. The men keep her away. She’s alone, a woman and all these males, and now her son - total isolation. I mean, she stumbled along the hallway her right shoulder bumping the wall and hotel room doors, bumbling along the wall, leaning into it while stumble-trotting. So fucking weird. I mean, if anybody presented that anywhere anytime that person would be cray-gone or stupid drunk. And here she is. Have actors in hallway. Have female lead Antonioni’s muse stumble bang bump down the long hall. Corrado stands at the end, shot construction.

My son? No, he doesn’t need me, it’s me who needs him. My hair hurts. “It didn’t get better. It will never get better. Never.” A lot of clasping and gripping.
“You brood on your illness,” he said, “but it’s just an illness, like any other.”
I think the book on the nightstand rotary telephone is called Hot Babe. Hey, pause and stare and write your own damn book. “Help me.”
I’m scared – Calm down! “What are you scared of?”
“Streets, factories, colors, people – everything!”

Acting is sometimes fully stupid. What are we doing this for? Do we have this much time on our hands? Here, you don’t have to hunter-gather anymore: watch TV, theater and cinema. Now they’re making out, face grinding, hell neck grinding she wears her slip. Lot of ginger torso wrestling arm pretzel. You’ve got to at least aspire to that old man hobbling cobblestone. Shot from several stories above.

Sure, sure, I love film first in line but this is some wack shit. Bodies in shots, though, moving bodies framed, art. Now running through nighttime streets. And there’s the Alfa. Tony! On the Autobahn, friend! And then you disappeared. No, that was a hard disappear. Suppose most dudes just aren’t destined to know one another after childhood. Suppose we just keep flying, keep flying, get out there young one. A friend of mine killed in Iraq. Some stayed in Germany and England. But fly to the Pacific Ocean from Central Europe, and again to the Atlantic, to Boston this time, and again, and once more make it hero each stop and do not minimize the myth. It’s your job to sing the myth! Fly to the Pacific triumphant return, pause, then to the Mississippi and back to the Atlantic, to Narragansett Bay large world-class body. Build foundation among the oaks with a song to the sea. Build, roots, create, stand tall here, Dr. Dopeness, the one they’ve tried to kill.

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Place actor against white stucco wall. There’s the Art Shot, now speak in front of the wall.
‘There’s something terrible about reality.”
So you’re watching this in Cannes in 1964 and you’re like “fuck yeah.”
Now she’s stumbling, lost, among machinery next to a massive ship.
The boy asks, “Why is that smoke yellow?”
“Because it’s poisonous,” Giuliana replies.
The last shot mega-factory with the poisonous gas. FINE.
Industrialization, factorization, rational planet madness, nobody honest with anybody, yellow smoke wreaks havoc on bodies especially women and children.

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The Wayward Son

“Thou owest God a death.”

Hanging with the no-goods, addicts, alcoholics, whores, thieves, people of the street – but commoners, bandits, rogues, real people, and the prince cavorts with them and with Falstaff. Harry explores an alternative edge for his own life, his own education, his own standing place. The father grieves. We have children, relate to these sentiments, hope and pray, give our lives to the next generation, to the world. When having children, you sacrifice parts of your life, work for them, and age as they rise. They grow as tall and then taller than you, they eclipse you and live their own lives, and parts of you die as they gain life. We age whether we want to or not, rise past our best physical talents, and yet still must climb the mountain. Give to our children, and hope they do right, achieve their solid happiness, their own arrival. And because of our hopes, we fear what the king fears here, and we know Harry’s troubles. But he, the son, must adventure his life, make self-chosen decisions. Yet cannot escape his context and will not. And he becomes his own version of the man, his own style of king, and experiences his heroic journey according to the first and last breath.

The quest according to our first and last breath. There is a circle, inhale to exhale. How these knots are tied. How we know the life pulse, our beating hearts. How we know our own mortality: we see it in one another’s eyes.

“Uneasy lies a head that wears a crown.”

Back in the bawdy house –

“You whoreson little valiant villain, you!”

Days of Heaven

 Terrence Malick - Music Composed and Conducted by Ennio Morricone

Saying a prayer in the field of wheat.

And I remembered, oh my goodness, that’s what I saw under the Big Dipper tonight. I saw that either side of one’s Truth possess conspiracies about the other. They think We spout conspiracies into the wind, and they are appalled at our lack of truth, morality, sense, propriety. Remembered while watching the Prayer in the Wheat Scene.

The Combine Scene

            Loud machines

            Churning through wheat.

Should make you the richest man in the Panhandle.

Richard Gere in the Chicago steel mills, pouring fuel into the roaring fire, he gives the foreman the eye. The foreman does not like the laborer’s eye. They fight. Gere character walks away. Head out to the plains, to Texas, looking for work. He’s got his girl. They find work, $3 a day, harvesting wheat. Gere gets in a fight with a fellow worker who challenged him, said something about the girl he just looked at. The justified anger established, the shitty conditions. Imagine having to accept the conditions of employment and the pay. This is key.

            Rich man has his eye on his girl. He offers her a job. She wants to stay. The tension is palpable. Two men and a woman. How will this play. How much anger will there be? The land owner and the foreman, the big house on the Texas hillock, surrounded by wheat. Yes, they pray at harvest. And yes, the work is grueling.

 Beauty in shots, in golden wheat and rolling hills, in the machinery, in vistas. The poetry of the land and of labor. Land and labor, bodies and power, relationships disrupted. Lives disrupted. Work for nothing. Mean people. Haystacks. Serfs. This is Russia and the czars. Land, property, ownership, production, bodies, and profit. The harvest is profitable. Should make you the richest man in the Panhandle. But it is wheat. It is food. Wheat is survival, not money. And this the finest example of alienation. Here lives the very definition of alienation. The Owner of the Means of Production is the Owner of the Means of Survival. He’s got his accountant tabulating the haul by acre. This is money not food. Profit alienataes man from himself; the workers harvest but it is not their harvest. It is the Owner’s harvest. They are dispensable, and dispensed with. Herein lies class struggle. Herein lies war forever. And the wheat flows in the wind on the prairie. There is beauty in the wind and the grain; beauty in seed; beauty in food. There is nothing else but food and survival.

And what of conditions that make you angry, but in which you can do nothing. And that you cannot escape? Know this.

The train dropped them off at the three large grain elevators.

            The train picked them up in front of the three large grain elevators.

And they stayed behind.

Tapdance Harmonica

 And so he gave up his girl? Sure, ask that as a question. Now answer it. Yes. He gave up his girl, she married the rich guy, he has to observe, and be a normal guy, a friend. They’re one wonderful family out there on the Plains.

 “The rich got it all figured out,” said the narrator, the sister, the little girl.

 So, if you ask, What kind of fucked up shit is this?” you would be correct to wonder. But answer it again: He gave her up to escape that shit life. That’s the set up anyway. Thinking, what, they’ll escape it one day. He did not stand up to the man. Or, standing up to the man doesn’t work. And so you bend over and give up your woman too? What is the line? In this story, what is the line? Observe and find out.

 Then she runs off with him in the morning. They play and drink stolen wine.

 Where you been? I’ve been looking all over for you?”

I couldn’t sleep. I went out for a walk.”

“You should have woke me up?”

 The ranch foreman says “I don’t think they’re honest people. In fact, I think they’re a bunch of con artists.”

 “You’re talking about my wife.’ You know, maybe you’d better off taking care of the north till spring.”

 The shot of the germinating seed, growing through the dirt toward the sun, reaching and stretching for light, pushing and wiggling through the dirt, time lapse. Quickly, takes you to a new level.

The Locust Horde is Red Alert

 And then there is Fire.

            The fire rages, loudly, hot, across the prairie, the wheat on fire and a strong wind. Threatens everything, including the house. Fire started because Rancher charged Richard Gere with his lantern.

            The shots of the locusts were awesome.

 The film finished after pestilence and fire, murder and a manhunt, large horses and dogs, men with guns on large horses. They caught him along the river bank; they shot him in the water. He floated away. A police officer hauled in the lifeless body.

Wings of Desire

Think of Trump America, Global Now

Here, Berlin, with the Wall, and you have this art:

Hear also these words:

More borders than ever, and “would be visitors encounter barricades.”

Or are hit by laser beams.

“Every proprietor, or even tenant, sticks his nameplate on the door like a coat of arms, and studies the morning paper as if he were a world leader. The German people are divided into as many states as there are individuals, and these small states are mobile. Each person carries his own state around with him, and demands a toll when another wants to enter, in the form of a fly in amber or a fat-bellied bottle. And that’s just at the border. To reach further inside any state requires the right passwords.”

 The circus scene with the kids!

Angel 1 wants to re-enter the History of the World

Enough with the world behind the world! 

Here I go. But why?

            Kid talking to himself before he jumps. Should probably watch the sequence again now. A girl, little feet, sent her a letter, hope she hasn’t read it yet, strange people, they keep shouting (people behind him, behind the fence, trying to attract his attention, to get him to stop), the angel couldn’t save him, angel lets out a scream when the kid jumps, here I go but why?

            Berlin means nothing to me.

            This is it. I’m finally going to do it.

            Under the Mercedes-Benz giant top of skyscraper.

            This is it.

This time I’m actually doing it. Funny I’m so calm.

            After the storyteller, and the shot of a flock swirling in the air like you’ve seen them, a school of fish movement.

            Why red socks and black shoes?

            Too stupid.

 Wearing a Walkman.

 Trapeze tension exceptional. Fantastic. Rushing anxious jolts. They’ve got us. Will she make it through the routine?

Every one of us has a story. Lives a story. How good is yours? Ha, depends on the storyteller. But also the content. Or, maybe not. The interpretation of the content. Interpretation of the content. Interpret the content. Interpret Content. Content Interpretation. Which is it? All. Which shall it be now, then, this second? The Interpretation of Content. That’s what it is. You don’t need to free solo El Cap to live the all edge. Though, anyone dong that surely expresses alive. But the edge is always and only the edge. The focus. The magma. Everywhere and all where. The point of breath. The word, then the story. Depends on the storyteller.

Second Color on the Turkish woman in the laundromat

Thinking to herself as they all are.

You’ve wondered how to do this, by the glorious by: to render thought, and the miracle of thought and mind. Here exists a version.

Peter Faulk at the Imbiss. My my. That’s good stuff. My God! Peter Faulk at the Imbiss! Damn, look at Germany in the 80s, where I grew up and when I grew up and how it looked like when I grew up. How Germany smelled and tasted. Those skies I know. Buildings too. Makes me want to cry, the Life-Not-There-Any-Longer that place way back when. I’ve been to that Imbiss! With my brothers!

The angels’ next conversation takes place behind the Berlin Wall, along the security no-man’s land.

He’s going to take the plunge. Wants to leave the world behind the world and feel pain and raw.

I am not going to say the two small ponytails on middle-aged 80s men tale unfortunate.

Ahhh, now, on the other side, the side of color, he let out his hair. Now he’s bleeding. Tasting the blood. “it has a taste he says. Now I’m starting to understand.

The murals along the wall, by the way, are figgy amazing!

I got in a fight near those apartment buildings!

Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds

Marion, dressed in red, red lipstick,

The whole world

I don’t know if there’s such a thing as destiny

But there is such a thing as deciding.

We’re more than just the two of us now

We embody something

The whole place is full of people with the same dream as ourselves

I’m ready

Now it’s your turn

The Red Dress Soliloquy

There is no greater story than ours, that of man and woman.

Naqoyqatsi

And the third of the trilogy. We observe and make intelligent or not-so comments.

Notice the Is

The is of the Thing, that’s where to begin. What are you seeing; what are you being shown and why? Yes, that’s the passive way to suggest the idea. And Know the eye of God, the spirit of Humankind in the thing. And you begin to see. And then you know.

Do you accept?

I accept.

Good. Because there is nothing else.  

You have to sustain the wow. You simply must show me the miracle. And he does. There the skeleton, X-Ray and 3-D mapping, the Body, the spinal cord, our brain, your motherfucking brain, you flesh and wiggle. And my God! The infant wiggle.  

The Infant Wiggle Scene

            Yes, camera pulls out, more supine naked infants wriggling. Many with joy. Whoop, one rolled over.

My God! Do you remember your sons rolling over? Do you remember rocking on hands and knees? The fear, that which holds them there until they burst through it, is the face plant. Do not want to topple over the hands, like going over the handlebars on a bike, and face plant. I watched my sons. I saw the miracle of walking. If I didn’t note in these notebooks, shoot me. I noted it all, described everything. For this there has to be an Amen. No matter your stance – when you see your thing and know your being.  

The Olympic Body, the Olympic Effort

Our physical experts; athletic accomplishments. And those bodies. We don’t have bodies like that. Be we have our own bodies.  

When are these trite or cliché (the NYSE, digital stock ticker, exchanges and hydroelectric dams)? And when is cliché real? And again, or better, can you see the real in the cliché? Because when you see the real, the thing that is the thing, then you can weave amazing stories for all people.  

So, when you watch the electric grid or cars on the highway or stock market frenzy, you can, there we are. This is who we are. Comprehensively. Those expressions on their faces, doing what they actually do in the one time, are insanely real.  

From the Real one can create compelling conclusions about who we are, and tell stories in such a way to at least have the listener, reader or viewer think of a specific way of seeing, that is true for at least one person, but in fact hold for any living being whether they think about it or not, or believe it or not. Because there is only one Real. And so from every shot we extract meaning or critique, at least as regard a certain question, or perspective. And so you offer your own interpretation from your own framework. And this true, if actually what you see and actually Real, then it is also true. There are infinite truths. Now imagine that you see them at once. All seeing, every moment or side or eternity. I know what I know when I see your face doing what you do when you’re doing it full bore and not acting. When you are you, I know your universe. I’m not worried about when you hide your You from me. I’m not interested in those moments. I’m interested in the powerful you and the vulnerable you. You, alive, are always only your true being. I know when you’re lying, or playing, and I know when you fear death. Flow being flow, the only we know, then she who understands Moment can see you in your entirety. And this will only be the thing that is the thing. And you agree with it because you know yourself.

You, person, already are your best self.

Knowing this, master your now, master yourself.

Rise for the bar is high. Which story do you want to believe and which story do you hope to manifest? This understanding explains comedy’s importance. And poetry’s. And those tale makers who pierce our hearts. Because we want to know, aim to know, that there are others out there thinking and experiencing exactly what we are. Be brave enough to know your true self. Be brave enough to express your absolute.   

The song at 46 is intense. Worth listening to again.  

Do consider increased digitization in this, trippy flow shots through computer circuitry. But one could ask is this just throwing stuff at the collage without the effort of the first two films to capture and share magic? I think this then they show me atomic bombs exploding.  

Brands fly through the data stream universe. These followed crash test dummies. And not just for cars, these dummies, but airplanes too. To simulate a desperate moment in flight and look at those bodies, those heads, those hands. We should not have the images of New York in our brains, our spirit selves, our good selves. We should not know this Event. And so a culture event becomes psychic, spiritual, cellular. There is no escape from the happening. How you absorb it, heal it, embrace it, reject it, ignore it, fight it, annihilate it, reinvent it, give it a new name, erase by re-calibration – these are superb skills to have as a living person in wack land. So sayeth God, and so brayeth the brand.  

Now religious symbols.

Iconic historical symbols. National symbols.  

The Burger Bite is incredible. Look at her go! 

Dude, this is a Showing. And you know this is true, the thing he is saying.

            When you view Humanity Symbols like that, this says something, this is the saying thing, the Humanity Story in symbols. They tell all the stories; they offer all conclusions and one conclusions. You should know what it is. Able to share it clearly.

            This is semiotics.

            These are Humanity Symbols.  

This is anthropological.

Humans are violent.

Humans possess technologies of awesome violence.

We are angry. The animal unleashed.

After violence, the Art Flow. Classic artwork in speed collage.  

Faces of Real Suffering.

We’ve lost ourselves.

And yet

Here we are. You found yourself. You found us by becoming yourself. There we are.

Look at the real face. Know beauty and pride, dignity and alive, suffering, anguish and pain; and joy, childhood, comfort, watching your sons being born. And watching them being, and being with them. Recognizing patterns, living the wonder. There it is for you, the one true path. Don’t neglect notice.  

Though there is suffering, we must conclude inspiration, we must end with belief. There is only the day and how well can you live it. The divine rest on its own. A Being, not an Event, rather an Essence. There exists the thing. And so you must leave inspired. You must leave them with inspiration. Otherwise there is nothing else for you or anybody.  

Those falling air dancers are ridic.

            How? Shall one describe absolute wonder?

They are falling from what seems to be 30,000 feet. They dance-fall. Dancing so beautifully that the radical speed of your descent doesn’t matter. The dance is itself against the sky, as if you were weightless. But you’re not weightless, you’re a falling body. This aerial ballet. Na qoy qatsi from the Hopi, Kill many life, a life of killing each other

War as a way of life

Civilized violence.

 And the film ends with the dancing free fall. Watch her perfect falling body. There falling a boulder, a ballet meteor. But also there, a parachute. The parachute is hope.  

Write a novel called Parachute. What would it be about? I’m not there yet. A parachute. The film ends with a falling human, a fallen angel, a dance during a hopeless moment in the immediate. But the story (much like David Bowie’s death plan, and Uncle Burton’s for that matter wonderfully) is bigger than the moment. Because there is forethought, there is planning and cunning and daring hope, daring brilliance, daring survival while in a freefall. And so dance during a freefall. Dance during your freefall with a parachute. Dance during your freefall with a parachute. I see now, I see what it is you do. It’s not exactly poetry, but it is. It’s seeing, and then expressing this seeing with words in the English language, according to the whim and training of my own peculiar particular mix of subjectivity and objectivity. But I saw that clearly and believe I expressed it expertly: Dance during your freefall with a parachute.

            This understanding, borne by this film, offers hope, intelligence, bravery, and harvest. A living human and dancing while living this time.  

It’s got dancing while alive

It’s got calculation, intelligence, bravery, and probable survival. Joy while surviving.

 And a plan for joy while surviving. And choreography. And art. Art in life, art during your freefall with a parachute. Art and a Parachute. That’s the novel, Art and a Parachute. This being, of course, the Life That Is. And with that life, what do you do. You must have hope and you must inspire.

Powaqqatsi

No, their legs look like that all of them. Because they climb the pit mountain all day carrying weight. They are soccer players legs all, athlete legs all. They wear shorts without underwear, and you can vividly see their butt muscles, ripped ass of man, climbing, climbing, carrying that what-are-you-doing weight.

These people, this is what they actually do.

People carry weight.

We Carry Weight

We harness wind.

We Do the perfect version.

We domesticate animals.

We Use Resources. Most of us local resources.

We domesticate plants, the world around us. We use the world around us. We domesticate, harness, and employ other humans. We create the master. The Landlord. The overseer. Someone to manage for the man. We terrace the steep land. From terraces to farmhouse on the Rhine, we organize land. We live off the land. We cultivate joy. We build. We make the perfect version. A thatched roof or a skyscraper. We build the perfect that. And why not line up fifteen young children six and under and have them race. Race them five times. There will be a five fastest. The three fastest. And there will be the fastest. We notice them, and they notice. We do these things, we survive these multiple ways. We see, learn from our elders, master the thing that is that, that magical perfect thing. Gravity and sand and life cultivating you and the way you stand. We carry weight. We harvest the sea. We fly around and fly others. We buzz, we hum, we hiss. We struggle, we labor for love, labor for necessity. I see the rain. We hear the music. We sing., We run races. We cultivate the land. We sow and harvest on terraces and plots and the concepts of big ag. Someone is the master. Someone sets the terms. Sometimes these set by you and me; sometimes we fit the master plan. So climb the mountain and sail the sea. We carry weight. We rest. We love.  

Tools

Harvest

Teamwork

Imagine riding that donkey

A Day

Labor – And what is a day? For a person? The sustenance of life, of learning, of movement.

 The Market

Boundaries - Markers

Herding Camels

            Imagine being the shepherd

            In the real, the real role of life

children

Religion

prayer

Controlled fire

 Shelter

The Journey

Consciousness

Agriculture

The journey through consciousness

 Yeah, but he actually got the camera on the helicopter.

 The multitude

Millions

Billions

(love that shit)

ritual

dance

contest

We do this, this masked parade we assemble for this and take this shit seriously. We gather for this.

 How do you do it all the time?

Do it every time.

 We swarm 

Hand-powered Ferris wheel

 We move earth

Our patterns

 Patterns

 We become good That. 

Obscurity Reality

Clarity Reality

 See their Reality

As their absolute Real

Identify with it

Empathize, and envy

See another seeing, vividly

And you will know another soul

And will in turn know yourself better

By learning to see. 

Go Western White Man, see all.  

See the miracle of all things.

Notice how the mass cross the urban crevasse.

Notice the crows – or some other scary trash bird.

See the ferry.

Do you know anything white man? Do you know anything western man?

See the overloaded train in India. Love your Humanity. Love yourself and understand.

Notice clothes you will never wear.

See a masculine man, a stud really, in Pakistan.

See your fellow’s yawn.

Note the limitations of their ferryboat deck stand. – five in a square foot. [Speak the time, now the time, sleep.] Wonder too about starting in “verse” – by that, for me, I mean the spirit line, separated from others – ideas separated by other ideas with a line jump. But, not sure that’s the right way, as I always imagine that allowing lines to follow one another is better, where the rich line, rather than separated, joins the one before it in a string that becomes more impressionist and persuasive. And yet again, sometimes I think a line is worth separated from the mass of words, important enough to give its own space on the blank page. You understand, my friend.

            If you love it, teach them to love it too. Or, more, show them, inspire them to see what you see, because it matters, and it will matter to them, appropriated in their own way, because they are sentient real, and they will understand for themselves, in their own way. Rest & Night Club. Some notice more than you. And that’s okay. Because every Seeing has its own level, its own line, and dives to reaches others do not – they are their own unique plain, their own pattern, their own insane. That’s what you learn; and that is what you share. Endo.

            And what the fuck are those birds? And the ferry. My goodness. The world’s you don’t understand, White Man. But you can know the Eternity by living your own.  

Know Eternity by living your own.

Ride that eternal train with humanity.

Ride with them, with them, eternally.

Know the ferry’s edge and their stand, what they hold in their hands. Their sweaters and their spit. A purse and sockless sneakers. Why? Why the foot away from ferry’s edge? You know why. And why the old lady with the yellow and white dress, old lady, carrying a bundle on her head and behind her the young people wearing but T-shirts and underwear jogging? Why the young girl with the red lunch box? Because you drive to New York Because she saw you, that’s why she pauses under large red graffiti and a barred window ten feet off the ground and Muslims praying listen Jesus you can’t fuck with that. Embrace their prayer, embrace the prayer wall, miracle with the rest of them with your own vital seeing.  

This is what I do for a living.

Because they push the Ferris wheel by hand.

            Try it. Live it with the smiling real, that boy with a smile.  

Their real is poverty. 

Airplane flying one of the gnarliest images ever  - now – after 9/11. See the sideways shot and plane heading for land.  

People do sit in the cockpit and fly the plane. 

Live in one of those apartment towers in China, in Singapore, in Malaysia. Live at the random top. We carry loads. We carry weight. We do that carry with those feet. You think this is easy? Especially if you don’t pay attention, if you choose not to See as richly as a man can. You funny man! See! His feet, we carry eight, we carry hay.

Oh my God do we bend under the weight. We march in bands.

See the man, no matter the man.

See the man.

We carry sand.

Those are definitely dudes making out in the crowd.

They live in pipes. They stand in lines. Some become contortionists. They are poor. They bend in half. The fuck? The shattered apartment building lacks walls and windows. They live there.

In Peru they walk like that you walk like that and the little girl whips the donkeys with an organic stalk holds the reins while her dad/uncle/boss is passed out, drunk, or dead and she looks very concerned driving those donkeys in automobile traffic. She looks around for divine help and receives none, she chews her lips.  

Smoke and fire, for sure. And the dead car on desert highway. We rise and fall and rise and fall.

            And who doesn’t play music?

            And who doesn’t sing like that?

            And who does not pray at the wailing wall? That’s right, all beautiful motherfuckers, you don’t either. And we do. At the wall of all walls and the only way to be, you’d better bob and weave too, and bow, and tai chi, do you know your God? And your bod? Ha! Move your body White Man! Move like you know mortality. Your own. And his. And hers. And the poor man without sock actually not pretend, resting within the billion mass against a telephone pole on his haunches, which is exactly what you would do at that point as did he and you know the line. You walk the line. Everybody leans against that pole.  

He is a street performer, as are you. What role did he perfect? And what of you?

            What is your skill, man?  

See how serious follows the smile.  

See how afraid is the girl. She is crying, while your uncle is drunk/dead/asleep. She is afraid.

Oh my God, she’s afraid, and you felt her fear. You knew her fear.

I know your fear.

You can’t touch his song. Know your own prayer.

Listen to the voice.

Listen to the voice, and the voice fades out.

Why are there children?

Take care of the children. Give to the man.

            Look at him in death majestic. That’s the man from the mine. They’re carrying him out of the pit. They are strong men. He is a strong man. And he can’t carry himself out of the pit. There is a man. Know his mind. Know his anesthetized state near death, as you know your own mortality. And I master this power.

            But why?

Because we die. And we live.  

I have been dead before. I have died before. I have already died and was resurrected. I know what it’s like. I see the circle. I know the cycle. I’ve gone through the cycle, I’ve lived it a hundred times and I live it now.  

Powaqqatsi

A sorcerer, and entity, a way of life, that consumes others in order to sustain itself.  

Philip Glass jams the ethereal and lives there in order to.

Koyaanisqatsi

Microdata and time-lapse clouds.

Shots of freeways at night in Los Angeles, moving blood of man creation

We transport at our limits.

Imagine technology taking us to the next level

Automated (self driving AI vehicles on a grid)

Super fast movement, the fastest humans have ever moved

Linked to all other places

You fly

 The 747 on the tarmac holy shit

What sort of man does not do pushups in the dark on his patio and in the driveway then transcribe The Speech, at reasonable effort, and then see once again the carving rivers, demolished buildings falling straight down (like a ton of bricks), with Philip Glass offering his take on new psychic and spiritual levels. Rockets lift off, fighter pilots and bombs. A million marching men and a million tanks and industry and urban people sidewalk movements on a day in New York. There is no possible way to deny the ant colony and the super intelligent individual ants.  

Who Makes the Machines? Who Designs the Plant?

            We never hear about the people who designed the plant layout, the robotics and mechanics involved, but also the engine into the body the body to the chassis in one swoop, men and women standing along the assembly line tighten bolts, drilling; (or ladies grabbing Twinkies or men inspecting flying hot dogs); who designed the best moves from part to finished automobile? The best order, the proper desiring? You should find out.

Can You Hide the Eyes?

Just . . .Rocket That Shit Into Space

            You know, I don’t know, to get this missile or spaceship off this here planet, and beyond that there atmosphere, why, well, we’ll just rocket that shit up there, just blast it the hell off straight up into the air, that’ll do it.

 Koyaanisqatsi (Hopi Language)

 1. Crazy life; 2. Life in turmoil; 3. Life out of balance; 4. Life disintegrating; 5 a state of life that calls for another way of living.  

And so it flows.

Dr. Dopeness Sees What He Sees

Dinner table placeholder for this and MC Emerson by Haven ES Knapp.

Dr. Dopeness became, against sage counsel and broad consensus, a professor of Universal Humanity, a historian of Everything, and a doctor of philosophy.