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“A darkroom sketch that became a film when I turned the sound up on the projector. And a pun.”—B.R.
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Life is in the shadows, in the light and out of view, a whispering gallery where the seen and the unseen engage in a fluttering exchange. —M.M.
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“Vinyl chairs stand exposed, on this windy upstate NY ‘day in the country.’ Other sleepy souls lay as light moves and lingers on the props of this found stage. The camera is never innocent and looking for its own ideas. While in the process that follows other conversations are looking for opportunities to reach resonance.” —V.G.
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“A super-8 portrait of a New Mexico ghost town. Narrated through interviews with the town’s former inhabitants; ghosts of water dowsing, train-hopping and racial violence provide living insight into the town’s possibilities and failures, while time lapse images of the desolate desert landscape and sky paint an eerie portrait of life on the wild frontier.”—T.D.
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“Aftermath... Hieroglyphs inhaled in the dust, nothing written in stone but upon blackboards as black mirrors.”—M.M.
Runic script from molding film strips found in the ruins of an abandoned schoolhouse. Seen through the mist of a pinhole eye. The slate is smudged and trembling and twombly. The past encrypted. The moment inscribed. The heart engraved. A letter stamped and sent, received yet forever returning.—M.M.
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“A film begun as a portrait of S, a 75-year-old man living in a remote part of Inverness-shire. S has been obsessed with Darwin’s works for much of his life. Since a child he has wondered at life on Earth and, though he never became an academic, found in Darwin many answers to his questions. The film images concentrate on the mysterious geography of his world; his garden—from the microcosmic to the grand; the contraptions and inventions he’s made; his isolated patch of land where he has built his house after a life of traveling and working around the world. The soundtrack has S heard discussing his take on life on Earth and humans place upon it. The film attempts to span from the beginnings of the world up to an uncertain future.”—B.R.
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“A single piece of paper, a second stab at suture, a story three times over, a frame for every mile. With words by Charles Darwin.
A long-distance dedication for a far-away friend halfway up the mountain.”—D.G.
He painted the mountain over and over again
from his place in the cave, agape
at the light, its absence, the mantled
skull with blue-tinted hollows, wren-
like bird plucking berries from the fire
her hair alight and so on
lemon grass in cafe in clear glass.
Dearest reader there were trees
formed of wire, broad entryways
beneath balconies beneath spires
youthful head come to rest in meadow
beside bend in gravel road, still
body of milky liquid
her hair alight and so on
successive halls, flowered carpets and doors
or the photograph of nothing but pigeons
and grackles by the shadow of a fountain.
—“Dearest Reader” by Michael Palmer, from First Figure
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When the trees were enchanted,
In the expectation of not being trees,
The trees uttered their voices
From strings of harmony,
The disputes ceased.
Let us cut short heavy days,
A female restrained the din.
She came forth altogether lovely.
The head of the line, the head was a female.
—from “Cad Goddeu” (The Battle of the Trees) from the 6th-Century Welsh Book of Taliesin.
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“He has poor ability to organize his thinking, he seems unable to scan or summarize his thought, becoming involved and sometimes lost in detail, and some of his thinking reflects a ‘magical’ quality, a disregard of reality.”
—Truman Capote, In Cold Blood
“A montage of mid-century found footage: mysterious strands are obsessively braided to create a poetic reflection about an anxious interplay of memory and projection.”—S.S.
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“Blinds the selected enemy creature so that it cannot move, attack or use any abilities. Blindness disappears if blinded creature is attacked. Spellpower determines the duration of effect (the spell does not work on undead, elemental and mechanical units).”
—list of dark magic, Heroes of Might and Magic V
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Henry James had his figure in the carpet, Da Vinci found faces on the wall. Within this Baltimore wallpaper: a floral forest of hidden depth and concealment, the hues and fragrance of another era. Surface decoration holds permeable planes, inner passages. There emerges a hypnotic empyrean flower, a solar fossil a speaking anemone, of paper, of human muscle, of unknown origin, delivering an unreasonable message of rare tranquility.—M.M.
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Eden vanished when we blew out the candles when we took the first step out the front door. (A little bird told me.) Time is untruthful and mirrors prick the eye. Timelessness weighs lightly, duration is hard to endure. Still the living are younger than the dead. The departed seem to speak from a calm remove with an elephant’s memory, more irksome and with greater feeling than we can command, Sometimes they miss being lost in these limited moments with us, smoking a cigarette, touching the earth, being short changed and anxious. Being. Fretting on the stage. It is then their remnants, their daily trivia and their questions haunt the air like a September song. And because we are breathing still, we think it is our breath and our song and because we are breathing, it is.—M.M.
"Halls, doorways: they do
what the gods did—
receive us without us
seeing them. When children
we entered and ran
thinking their mazes obvious
we return with less
than one life left
climbing a stairway
past the past”
— excerpt from “Treadwinds” (1993) by Walter Lew
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Sat Oct 4: 12
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