Panorama is an adaptation of a novella by Japanese detective fiction godfather, Edogawa Rampo [Poe-influenced nom-de-plume of Taro Hirai]. The story takes place at the end of the Taisho era, and follows an unsuccessful science fiction author with an uncanny resemblance to a former classmate/son of a rich industrialist family. When the industrialist's son dies, the author fakes his own death, digs up and hides the other man's body, then washes himself up starving on a beach in a town where the dead man's family lives. After some more intrigue and scheming, he proceeds to take redirect all of their money to build a mysterious pleasure palace island, and live like a sensual weirdo king. (quoted from Ryan Sands, translator) 2010110120100621
[mnemosyne] maruo suehiro: the strange tale of panorama island
Panorama is an adaptation of a novella by Japanese detective fiction godfather, Edogawa Rampo [Poe-influenced nom-de-plume of Taro Hirai]. The story takes place at the end of the Taisho era, and follows an unsuccessful science fiction author with an uncanny resemblance to a former classmate/son of a rich industrialist family. When the industrialist's son dies, the author fakes his own death, digs up and hides the other man's body, then washes himself up starving on a beach in a town where the dead man's family lives. After some more intrigue and scheming, he proceeds to take redirect all of their money to build a mysterious pleasure palace island, and live like a sensual weirdo king. (quoted from Ryan Sands, translator) 20101101
20100610
[quoth] samuel beckett: endgame
HAMM: Last night I saw inside my breast. There was a big sore.
CLOV: Pah! You saw your heart.
CLOV: Pah! You saw your heart.
[quoth] giorgio de chirico: éluard manuscript[1]
A revelation can be born of a sudden, when one least expects it, and also can be stimulated by the sight of something--a building, a street, a garden, a square, etc. In the first instance it belongs to a class of strange sensations which I have observed in only one man: Nietzsche. When Nietzsche talks of how Zarathustra was conceived, and says: "I was surprised by Zarathustra," in this participle--surprised, is contained the whole enigma of sudden revelation.--When [on the other hand] a revelation grows out of the sight of an arrangement of objects, then the work which appears in our thoughts is closely linked with the circumstance that has provoked its birth. One resembles the other, but in a very strange way, like the resemblance there is between two brothers, or rather between the image of someone we know seen in a dream, and that person in reality; it is, and at the same time it is not, the same person; it is as if there had been a slight and mysterious transfiguration of the features. I believe and have faith that, from certain points of view, the sight of someone in a dream is proof of his metaphysical reality--in certain accidental occurrences that sometimes happen to us; in the manner and the arrangement that things appear to us and awaken in us unknown sensations of joy and surprise: the sensations of revelation.
1 Manuscript from the collection of Paul Éluard, First Part, § V. In: Hebdomeros.
[quoth] giorgio de chirico: éluard manuscript[1]
One of the strangest and deepest sensations that prehistory has left with us is the sensation of foretelling. It will always exist. It is like an eternal proof of the senselessness of the universe. The first man must have seen auguries everywhere, he must have trembled at each step he took.
1 Manuscript from the collection of Paul Éluard, Second Part: The Feeling of Prehistory, § XI. In: Hebdomeros.
20100605
[quoth] unica zürn: das haus der krankheiten
In Das Haus der Krankheiten analogisiert Unica Zürn ihren eigenen Körper, der sich zur Zeit der Niederschrift des Manuskripts im April und Mai 1958 unter dem Einfluss der Gelbsucht befindet, mit einem Haus, in dem ihre Organe den Status von Zimmern einnehmen, die betreten werden können. Der Versuch, die Krankheit zu bezwingen, wird gleichgesetzt mit der Suche nach einem Ausgang aus dem labyrinthisch anmutenden Haus. Erich Brinkmann spricht im Nachwort von der "Erfahrung eines Störungserlebnisses an der Schwelle zum Psychotischen." Bezugnehmend auf die Leibnizsche Monadologie, nennt er das Haus "fensterlose Monade, [ohne] Blick nach außen, Theaterbühne des inneren Erlebens."
Die Texte in Das Haus der Krankheiten wurden mit schwarzer Tinte verfasst, denen einige Tusche- und Bleistiftzeichnungen anbei gegeben sind. Eine kleine Auswahl derselbigen findet sich im Anschluss an dies Häuflein einleitender Worte.
Die Notizen beginnen an einem Mittwoch und schildern eine von vielen Untersuchungen durch Doktor Mortimer. Mit trauriger Bewunderung erklärt er ihr, dass ein Meisterschütze die Herzen in ihren Augen mitten durch die Brust getroffen habe und diese nun entfernt werden müssten, um einer Fäulnis entgegenzuwirken. Mit müder Indifferenz hört sie seine Worte, ist in Gedanken vielmehr bei der Auswahl eines geeigneten Schlafplatzes.
"Ich rate Ihnen, heute Nacht im Kabinett der Sonnengeflechte zu schlafen" sagte Dr. Mortimer. "Dies ist die goldene Mitte des Leibes, wo alles ruht, außer im Zustand der Liebe und des Bösen und für Zustände dieser Art sind Sie jetzt zu schwach, so daß Sie also ohne Störung in diesem Kabinett sein werden. Soll ich Sie begleiten?" Ich schüttelte den Kopf, hielt meinen Arm hin und ließ mir von ihm eine Schlafinjektion machen. An der Tür sah mich Dr. Mortimer starr und feierlich an, er reckte sich hoch und glich einen Augenblick lang einem Menschen, der mir sehr teuer gewesen war und um dessen Vergessen ich mich bemühte. "Er, [der Meisterschütze], hat von nun an Ihre Augen in seiner Macht. Die Richtung, in die Sie nun immerzu sehen müssen, das ist der Ort, wo er sich selbst befindet." Ich spürte, wie meine Schwäche stärker wurde und hielt mich an Dr. Mortimer fest. "Es ist lebensgefährlich", sagte er diesmal ohne Pathos, sondern in so heiterem Ton, als wollte er eigentlich sagen: Der Frühling scheint kommen zu wollen. "Seit ich in diesem Haus wohne, ist alles lebensgefährlich geworden", lächelte ich. "Gute Nacht, Doktor, passen Sie gut auf die Feinde auf."
Die Menschen teilen sich von je her in zwei Gruppen: die Opfer und die Mörder. Ich weiß nicht, ob es möglich ist, sich im Laufe des Lebens von der einen Gruppe zu lösen, um der anderen beizutreten. Mir ist es bisher nicht gelungen, zum Mörder zu werden. Ewig das Opfer zu sein, ist mein Schicksal. Natürlich bin ich wie jedes echte Opfer oder wie jeder echte Mörder dabei auch zum Hypochonder geworden. Messer erregen meine Abscheu. Wie oft habe ich mich schon geschnitten! Aber einem Holzschnitzer habe ich noch nie zugesehen. Vielleicht besänftigte sein Anblick meine Abscheu vor dem Messer. Ich ziehe den Löffel vor. Aber man macht sich lächerlich, wenn man das Fleisch mit dem Löffel zerteilen will. Vom Messer im Herzen las ich zum ersten Mal als Kind. Magua erstach Unkas, den letzten der Mohikaner. Heimlich wurde ich Unkas und spielte sein Schicksal an Sommernachmittagen im Garten. Als ich älter wurde, gab ich einem Mann, den ich liebte, den Namen Unkas. Sofort stieß er mir das Messer ins Herz und ich zog mich gekränkt zurück. Mein Herz, von dem ich nichts halte, weil es sich meistens wie ein Idiot gebärdet, ist seitdem noch oft durchlöchert worden. So, als machte ihm das gar nichts aus, will es immer von Neuem die Zielscheibe sein. Das ist verächtlich. Ich beachte mein Herz nicht mehr. Ich habe mich vielmehr meinem Sonnengeflecht zugewendet. Wie ich schon sagte, scheint es mir der edelste Teil meines Körpers zu sein. Mein Herz hat sich selbst beschmutzt. Ich möchte nichts mehr von ihm hören.
Die Texte in Das Haus der Krankheiten wurden mit schwarzer Tinte verfasst, denen einige Tusche- und Bleistiftzeichnungen anbei gegeben sind. Eine kleine Auswahl derselbigen findet sich im Anschluss an dies Häuflein einleitender Worte.
Die Notizen beginnen an einem Mittwoch und schildern eine von vielen Untersuchungen durch Doktor Mortimer. Mit trauriger Bewunderung erklärt er ihr, dass ein Meisterschütze die Herzen in ihren Augen mitten durch die Brust getroffen habe und diese nun entfernt werden müssten, um einer Fäulnis entgegenzuwirken. Mit müder Indifferenz hört sie seine Worte, ist in Gedanken vielmehr bei der Auswahl eines geeigneten Schlafplatzes.
"Ich rate Ihnen, heute Nacht im Kabinett der Sonnengeflechte zu schlafen" sagte Dr. Mortimer. "Dies ist die goldene Mitte des Leibes, wo alles ruht, außer im Zustand der Liebe und des Bösen und für Zustände dieser Art sind Sie jetzt zu schwach, so daß Sie also ohne Störung in diesem Kabinett sein werden. Soll ich Sie begleiten?" Ich schüttelte den Kopf, hielt meinen Arm hin und ließ mir von ihm eine Schlafinjektion machen. An der Tür sah mich Dr. Mortimer starr und feierlich an, er reckte sich hoch und glich einen Augenblick lang einem Menschen, der mir sehr teuer gewesen war und um dessen Vergessen ich mich bemühte. "Er, [der Meisterschütze], hat von nun an Ihre Augen in seiner Macht. Die Richtung, in die Sie nun immerzu sehen müssen, das ist der Ort, wo er sich selbst befindet." Ich spürte, wie meine Schwäche stärker wurde und hielt mich an Dr. Mortimer fest. "Es ist lebensgefährlich", sagte er diesmal ohne Pathos, sondern in so heiterem Ton, als wollte er eigentlich sagen: Der Frühling scheint kommen zu wollen. "Seit ich in diesem Haus wohne, ist alles lebensgefährlich geworden", lächelte ich. "Gute Nacht, Doktor, passen Sie gut auf die Feinde auf."
Die Menschen teilen sich von je her in zwei Gruppen: die Opfer und die Mörder. Ich weiß nicht, ob es möglich ist, sich im Laufe des Lebens von der einen Gruppe zu lösen, um der anderen beizutreten. Mir ist es bisher nicht gelungen, zum Mörder zu werden. Ewig das Opfer zu sein, ist mein Schicksal. Natürlich bin ich wie jedes echte Opfer oder wie jeder echte Mörder dabei auch zum Hypochonder geworden. Messer erregen meine Abscheu. Wie oft habe ich mich schon geschnitten! Aber einem Holzschnitzer habe ich noch nie zugesehen. Vielleicht besänftigte sein Anblick meine Abscheu vor dem Messer. Ich ziehe den Löffel vor. Aber man macht sich lächerlich, wenn man das Fleisch mit dem Löffel zerteilen will. Vom Messer im Herzen las ich zum ersten Mal als Kind. Magua erstach Unkas, den letzten der Mohikaner. Heimlich wurde ich Unkas und spielte sein Schicksal an Sommernachmittagen im Garten. Als ich älter wurde, gab ich einem Mann, den ich liebte, den Namen Unkas. Sofort stieß er mir das Messer ins Herz und ich zog mich gekränkt zurück. Mein Herz, von dem ich nichts halte, weil es sich meistens wie ein Idiot gebärdet, ist seitdem noch oft durchlöchert worden. So, als machte ihm das gar nichts aus, will es immer von Neuem die Zielscheibe sein. Das ist verächtlich. Ich beachte mein Herz nicht mehr. Ich habe mich vielmehr meinem Sonnengeflecht zugewendet. Wie ich schon sagte, scheint es mir der edelste Teil meines Körpers zu sein. Mein Herz hat sich selbst beschmutzt. Ich möchte nichts mehr von ihm hören.20100603
[quoth] anne sexton: small wire
As it has been said: Love and a cough cannot be concealed. Even a small cough. Even a small love.
20100527
[quoth] samuel beckett: enough
He was not given to talk. An average of a hundred words per day and night. Spaced out. A bare million in all. Numerous repeats. Ejaculations. Too few for even a cursory survey. What do I know of man's destiny? I could tell you more about radishes. For them he had a fondness. If I saw one I would name it without hesitation.
We lived on flowers. So much for sustenance. He halted and without having to stoop caught up a handful of petals. Then moved munching on. They had on the whole a calming action. We were on the whole calm. More and more. All was. This notion of calm comes from him. Without him I would not have had it. Now I'll wipe out everything but the flowers. No more rain. No more mounds. Nothing but the two of us dragging through the flowers. Enough my old breasts feel his old hand.
We lived on flowers. So much for sustenance. He halted and without having to stoop caught up a handful of petals. Then moved munching on. They had on the whole a calming action. We were on the whole calm. More and more. All was. This notion of calm comes from him. Without him I would not have had it. Now I'll wipe out everything but the flowers. No more rain. No more mounds. Nothing but the two of us dragging through the flowers. Enough my old breasts feel his old hand.
20100520
20100515
[aesthetics] kōdō / the way of incense
In episodes 8 and 9 of Mononoke, known as the Nue arc, we witness an interesting practice of Japanese aesthetics: the so-called kōdō. It is the ceremony surrounding the appreciation of incense, and is counted as one of the three classical Japanese arts of refinement, the remaining two being kadō/flower arrangement (more commonly known as ikebana) and chadō/tea ceremony. Often practiced in a playful manner, in comparative games like genjikō and kumikō, participants sit together and take turns smelling incense from a censer as they pass it around the group, trying to guess what kinds of incenses are included in a blended scent.
"Well, then... Tonight's contest will be Genjikō."
(topleft: medicine seller, topright: Nakarai, bottomright: Ousawa, bottomleft: Muromachi)
The four of them gather around a table and Ousawa introduces the rules of the game:
"In Genjikō, you must hear five fragrances in turn, then try to discern which are the same. You use five blocks (genjimon) to signify which of the fragrances [are] the same. " Nakarai adds that "there are fifty-two combinations in total. Each combination represents one of fifty-two chapters of the Tale of Genji, with the exceptions of the first chapter, Paulownia Pavilion, and the final chapter, Floating Bridge of Dreams. For instance, if these two and these two are the same, it would represent Wood Pillar, as you can plainly see."
Lady Ruri and her old servant then go about preparing the first scent by filling a porcelain cup with unperfumed rice ash, placing a piece of burning charcoal in the middle and covering it with more ash, smoothing the surface with a press and drawing a delicate pattern. The heat is being channeled through a small hole right in the centre. After positioning a mica plate on top of the heat source, a single piece of wood (commonly Agar or Sandal) the size of a grain is added to the plate. A more detailed rundown of this process can be seen here.
Each of the contestants, now, take turns smelling the prepared scent, the first being Ousawa. Notice how his hands carefully cup the censer to ensure he inhales a vivid waft of fragrance. Overwhelmed by the peacefulness it exudes and filled with joy, he feels like having met a new friend. As you can see from the montages below, the experience of inhalation is stylistically enhanced by the colorization of the characters who hitherto had been nearly bereft of any color just like the environment around them.
Nakarai, in turn, is struck with nostalgia, thinking back to a sunny day in his home, when his father scolded him for not attending to his studies.
Muromachi who has initially already admitted a certain weakness in the art of incense is pretty much clueless throughout the whole procedure and as the contestants continue on with the remaining four scents, only one of them reminds him of something definite: horse dung.
After having tried all of the scents, each of the contestants secretly places the genjimon according to their estimation of which scents are the same. Ousawa believes that Lady Ruri simulated the situation at stake and intentionally chose fragrances which represent the Genji chapter Tamakazura, in which a lady is approached by four suitors.
Nakarai comes to the same conclusion. In order to win, however, Lady Ruri had stated before that two contestants cannot have the same answer. Seeing as he has to chance his luck, he arranges the genjimon in a different way, representing the chapter Tokonatsu.
Muromachi, clearly lacking any proficiency in kōdō and out of resignation, concludes that all the scents are identical. The structure he composes of one long horizontal bar over five small ones represents the chapter Tenarai.
Generally, we don't see much of the medicine seller's reaction and reasoning throughout all of this and we shall not disclose the plot of this arc too much. But to give a vague idea of this show's premise it should be noted that his presence at the ceremony serves an entirely different purpose: to expunge a mononoke, a malevolent spirit of sorts which takes hold of a person's mind. A mononoke results when an "ayakashi", a spirit that simply comes into being, unites with strong human emotions such as vengeance, sadness or fear. The medicine seller is capable of defeating these spirits by using the sword of exorcism, but in order to unsheathe the sword and slay the mononoke he must find the shape ("katachi"; its true form), truth ("makoto"; the reason for its existence), and regret /reasoning ("kotowari"; what it hopes to accomplish) in order to defeat it. This exorcism technique is based on the Mikkyo Buddhism concept of "san himitsu," which translates to "The Three Secrets."
At the beginning of the eighth episode, a disembodied voice states that "[i]n our art, it is said that incense is heard, rather than smelt. Seeing, hearing, eating, drinking; there are many pleasures in which men can engage. To hear a scent is certainly the most refined of them all." The idea of "listening to incense" stems from the Chinese wenxiang which was consequently adopted by ancient Japanese incense connoisseurs under the term monkō (cf. Morita: The Book of Incense, 15).
Lady Ruri, the sole heir to and only practitioner of the old Fue-no-Kōji School of kōdō, is faced with the decision to marry one of four suitors. They shall be judged by way of an incense-guessing trial.
"Well, then... Tonight's contest will be Genjikō."
(topleft: medicine seller, topright: Nakarai, bottomright: Ousawa, bottomleft: Muromachi)"In Genjikō, you must hear five fragrances in turn, then try to discern which are the same. You use five blocks (genjimon) to signify which of the fragrances [are] the same. " Nakarai adds that "there are fifty-two combinations in total. Each combination represents one of fifty-two chapters of the Tale of Genji, with the exceptions of the first chapter, Paulownia Pavilion, and the final chapter, Floating Bridge of Dreams. For instance, if these two and these two are the same, it would represent Wood Pillar, as you can plainly see."
Lady Ruri and her old servant then go about preparing the first scent by filling a porcelain cup with unperfumed rice ash, placing a piece of burning charcoal in the middle and covering it with more ash, smoothing the surface with a press and drawing a delicate pattern. The heat is being channeled through a small hole right in the centre. After positioning a mica plate on top of the heat source, a single piece of wood (commonly Agar or Sandal) the size of a grain is added to the plate. A more detailed rundown of this process can be seen here.
Each of the contestants, now, take turns smelling the prepared scent, the first being Ousawa. Notice how his hands carefully cup the censer to ensure he inhales a vivid waft of fragrance. Overwhelmed by the peacefulness it exudes and filled with joy, he feels like having met a new friend. As you can see from the montages below, the experience of inhalation is stylistically enhanced by the colorization of the characters who hitherto had been nearly bereft of any color just like the environment around them.
Nakarai, in turn, is struck with nostalgia, thinking back to a sunny day in his home, when his father scolded him for not attending to his studies.
Muromachi who has initially already admitted a certain weakness in the art of incense is pretty much clueless throughout the whole procedure and as the contestants continue on with the remaining four scents, only one of them reminds him of something definite: horse dung.
After having tried all of the scents, each of the contestants secretly places the genjimon according to their estimation of which scents are the same. Ousawa believes that Lady Ruri simulated the situation at stake and intentionally chose fragrances which represent the Genji chapter Tamakazura, in which a lady is approached by four suitors.Nakarai comes to the same conclusion. In order to win, however, Lady Ruri had stated before that two contestants cannot have the same answer. Seeing as he has to chance his luck, he arranges the genjimon in a different way, representing the chapter Tokonatsu.
Muromachi, clearly lacking any proficiency in kōdō and out of resignation, concludes that all the scents are identical. The structure he composes of one long horizontal bar over five small ones represents the chapter Tenarai.
Generally, we don't see much of the medicine seller's reaction and reasoning throughout all of this and we shall not disclose the plot of this arc too much. But to give a vague idea of this show's premise it should be noted that his presence at the ceremony serves an entirely different purpose: to expunge a mononoke, a malevolent spirit of sorts which takes hold of a person's mind. A mononoke results when an "ayakashi", a spirit that simply comes into being, unites with strong human emotions such as vengeance, sadness or fear. The medicine seller is capable of defeating these spirits by using the sword of exorcism, but in order to unsheathe the sword and slay the mononoke he must find the shape ("katachi"; its true form), truth ("makoto"; the reason for its existence), and regret /reasoning ("kotowari"; what it hopes to accomplish) in order to defeat it. This exorcism technique is based on the Mikkyo Buddhism concept of "san himitsu," which translates to "The Three Secrets."
20100509
[quoth] jean-luc godard: weekend (1967)
When your foot slips on a frog, you have a feeling of disgust. But if you even lightly graze a human body, the skin of your fingers splits like scales of mica beneath hammer-blows. And just as a shark's heart beats for an hour after death, so our guts throb long after making love.Spoken by Kalfon's character during the end sequence of the film, citing Lautréamont's Chants de Maldoror (Chant IV):
Quand le pied glisse sur une grenouille, l'on sent une sensation de dégoût; mais, quand on effleure, à peine, le corps humain, avec la main, la peau des doigts se fend, comme les écailles d'un bloc de mica qu'on brise à coups de marteau; et, de même que la coeur d'un requin, mort depuis une heure, palpite encore, sur le pont, avec une vitalité tenace, ainsi nos entrailles se remuent de fond en comble, longtemps après l'attouchement.
Quand le pied glisse sur une grenouille, l'on sent une sensation de dégoût; mais, quand on effleure, à peine, le corps humain, avec la main, la peau des doigts se fend, comme les écailles d'un bloc de mica qu'on brise à coups de marteau; et, de même que la coeur d'un requin, mort depuis une heure, palpite encore, sur le pont, avec une vitalité tenace, ainsi nos entrailles se remuent de fond en comble, longtemps après l'attouchement.
20100424
20100422
[quoth] maya deren, alexander hammid: meshes of the afternoon
Memory makes possible imagination, which is the ability to so accelerate real, natural processes that they become unreal and abstract. It can telescope into a moment's thought an evolution which might take centuries and fail to occur altogether. It can arrange desirable conditions which, in nature, would have to occur as rare coincidence. Invisibly, and without the critical failures of actuality, man, in his mind, shuffles and re-shuffles the elements of his total experience - sensations, ideas, desires, fears - into a million combinations. In works of fantasy we can see the process as it occurs: the curious and often fascinating energy of a mind at work. (Deren: An Anagram of Ideas on Art, Form and Film, 13)
20100421
[frames] akira kurosawa: 蜘蛛巣城
Kumonosu-jō or Throne of Blood, respectively, follows the story of feudal warrior Taketori Washizu who happens upon a forest spirit that prophesizes his ascension to the throne. Kindled by his ambitious wife, Lady Asaji, to fulfill his destiny, Washizu murders the current ruler Tsuzuki but is soon overcome by guilt and faced with the suspicions of others which ultimately lead to his own demise.
There is something supremely chilling about Lady Asaji whose stoic, controlled demeanor and way of speaking veil something much more abysmal. Before shooting, director Akira Kurosawa gave each of the actors a photograph of a noh mask, under the premise that "while staring at it, the actor becomes the man whom it represents [...] and in devoting himself to [the performance] faithfully, the actor becomes possessed." (Cardullo, 65, via) The mask he showed to Isuzu Yamada (Asaji) was the one named shakumi which personifies "a beauty no longer young, and represent[s] the image of a woman about to go mad." Kudos to Mrs. Yamada for her splendid performance. The actress turned 93 in February.
The following scene has Asaji suggesting a way to dispose of Tsuzuki to her husband which includes narcotizing his guards with drugged saké. Asaji, bearing a steady, blank expression on her face, leaves the room, disappearing completely into the dark, and shortly thereafter returns with a large carafe of saké. The only audible sound throughout this part of the scene is the regular slithering rustle of her kimono over the floor. This specific part starts about 3 minutes into the video:
There is something supremely chilling about Lady Asaji whose stoic, controlled demeanor and way of speaking veil something much more abysmal. Before shooting, director Akira Kurosawa gave each of the actors a photograph of a noh mask, under the premise that "while staring at it, the actor becomes the man whom it represents [...] and in devoting himself to [the performance] faithfully, the actor becomes possessed." (Cardullo, 65, via) The mask he showed to Isuzu Yamada (Asaji) was the one named shakumi which personifies "a beauty no longer young, and represent[s] the image of a woman about to go mad." Kudos to Mrs. Yamada for her splendid performance. The actress turned 93 in February.
The following scene has Asaji suggesting a way to dispose of Tsuzuki to her husband which includes narcotizing his guards with drugged saké. Asaji, bearing a steady, blank expression on her face, leaves the room, disappearing completely into the dark, and shortly thereafter returns with a large carafe of saké. The only audible sound throughout this part of the scene is the regular slithering rustle of her kimono over the floor. This specific part starts about 3 minutes into the video:
20100420
[frames] jean-luc godard: pierrot le fou
Tu me parles avec des mots et moi, je te regarde avec des sentiments. / Tu n’as jamais d’idée! Rien que des sentiments. / Avec toi on peut pas avoir de conversation. T'as jamais d'idées, toujours des sentiments. / Mais c'est pas vrai, il y a des idées dans les sentiments.
20100311
[juxtaposition] beyond / the wind-up bird and tuesday's women
(I started this entry over a year ago, but refrained from publishing it. It's nothing substantial, devoid of relevance, a muddy pile of pseudo-observational, non-reflective associations. A mind's meandering, without τέλος.)
There is something undefinably strange about Murakami's stories which as I've found during the years of reading his works, particularly his short prose, responds to me in a way no other author's writing does. It has an intuitive, irrational appeal, one that I cannot put my finger on. It's positively simplistic and yet, whenever I read a story from my favourite book of his, The Elephant Vanishes, a force of inexplicable nature starts minding its business on the terrains of my brain, ending in uplift. Its origin unknown, it's a sentiment not unlike the unease that befalls me at the sight of industrial parks, only that the latter is of course entirely unpleasant. Similarly, when I was younger, I used to have short episodic experiences during which I sensed an entity of sorts behind my back, out to haunt me, generating a feeling not unlike the one sensible in the Winkie's Dream scene in Mulholland Drive. In my mind, I must have personified that fear in the form of a wolf and during that time, I also happened to develop a dread towards listening to my LP of Prokofiev's Peter and the Wolf. End of misplaced detour.
There is something undefinably strange about Murakami's stories which as I've found during the years of reading his works, particularly his short prose, responds to me in a way no other author's writing does. It has an intuitive, irrational appeal, one that I cannot put my finger on. It's positively simplistic and yet, whenever I read a story from my favourite book of his, The Elephant Vanishes, a force of inexplicable nature starts minding its business on the terrains of my brain, ending in uplift. Its origin unknown, it's a sentiment not unlike the unease that befalls me at the sight of industrial parks, only that the latter is of course entirely unpleasant. Similarly, when I was younger, I used to have short episodic experiences during which I sensed an entity of sorts behind my back, out to haunt me, generating a feeling not unlike the one sensible in the Winkie's Dream scene in Mulholland Drive. In my mind, I must have personified that fear in the form of a wolf and during that time, I also happened to develop a dread towards listening to my LP of Prokofiev's Peter and the Wolf. End of misplaced detour.
May it just be my deficient mind triggered by the coincidental presence of a handful of similar symbols and motives, but upon seeing Koji Morimoto's Beyond (part of the Animatrix collection of Matrix-related side stories) some years ago, I somehow felt it illustrated parts of Murakami's short-story The Wind-up Bird and Tuesday's Women (which is also the beginning of his novel Wind-up Bird Chronicle. Although the protagonist is nameless in the short-story, we shall go by the name used in the novel: Toru Okada.) Essentially, both protagonists, in search of their missing cat that went astray, stumble within a perfectly real surrounding into something surreal. As someone put it, "in the world of Haruki Murakami, bizarre events take place with striking regularity and, also with [striking] regularity, they are accepted as simply the stuff of everyday life."
The sense of something being not quite right takes on a more literal and empirically tangible form in Beyond. The old and notoriously haunted house and the yard surrounding it represent a glitch in the matrix, a blemish according to the official point of view, and all the consequences it entails. Rain coming from the ceiling despite a clear blue sky outside, glass bottles reassembling after being shattered, broken lightbulbs which flicker briefly, cans and kids floating in mid-air. The excitement the location inspires for the few children who know about it is but shortlived as a team of agents becomes aware of the glitch and immediately takes action to fix it.
Just to quench any anticipation you may have accumulated up to this point, as to the purpose and merit of this entry: there is not going to be any. Let's proceed then with my incoherent mental meandering. The protagonist's wife suggests that the cat is "in the yard of that vacant house at the end of the passage." According to Beyond, that's indeed where she is. During his search, the protagonist encounters a precocious teenage girl who smokes Hope cigarettes and says that maybe, three or four days ago, she's seen a cat of striped variety that could have been the protagonist's, tip of the tail slightly bent and all, stating that "our yard is a kind of highway for the neighborhood cats." She invites him into her garden, suggesting they wait together for the cat to appear. Similarly in Beyond, Yoko happens upon a young reckless boy who leads her to the strange run-down building he's found together with his friends, stating that he's seen her cat there.
Murakami often uses secondary characters more or less close to the protagonist or becoming acquainted with him through the course of the story, who certainly cause part of the puzzlement of both the narrator and the reader. In a good deal of cases, it's the wife of the protagonist who assumes said role and coincidentally, we don't have to look any further than Murakami's collection The Elephant Vanishes to find two examples of this. In The Wind-up Bird and Tuesday's Women, the protagonist's wife believes that the cat is in the yard of a vacant, run-down house at the end of dubious narrow alley, where she has already seen her several times before. The protagonist wonders what motives could have driven his wife to such a shady place, citing his wife's latent arachnophobia along the way, and by the end of the story, we still don't know anymore about this. Another example of such inscrutability is evident in The Second Bakery Attack, when an overwhelming and strangely unnatural hunger befalls the protagonist and his wife in the middle of the night. This triggers a memory of his teenage years when he and a friend robbed a bakery because they didn't have the money to buy bread. After relating the incident to his wife, she thinks that during that time he became infected with a curse and as the two of them lack anything substantial to eat, they decide to rob a McDonald's, to get rid of the curse and their hunger. The swiftness or "practiced efficiency," as the protagonist calls it, with which his wife tapes the numbers on the license plate of their car, the fact that she owns a Remington shotgun and ski masks when the two of them had never skied before, the confidence she displays during the burglary.
telephone, cat food, look out of window / veranda, wind-up bird / dove in slow-motion, vacant house, wall, asking neighbours
dog? rainbow?
"My guess is that the cat's probably in the yard of that vacant house at the end of the passage. The yard with the stone bird figurine. I've seen him there often enough. You know where I'm talking about?"
I go to the kitchen for that drink of water, turn on the FM radio, and trim my nails. They're doing a feature on Robert Plant's new album. I listen to two songs before my ears start to hurt and I switch the thing off. I go out to the porch to check the cat's food dish (0:30); the dried fish I put in the previous night hasn't been touched. Guess the cat really hasn't come back.
Standing there on the porch (1:25), I look at the bright spring sun slicing down into our tiny yard. Hardly the sort of yard that lingers fondly in the mind. The sun hits here only the briefest part of the day, so the soil is always dark and damp. Not much growing: just a couple of unremarkable hydrangeas. And I'm not terribly crazy about hydrangeas in the first place.
From a nearby stand of trees comes the periodic scree-ee-eech of a bird, sharp as a tightening spring. The "wind-up bird," we call it.
The sense of something being not quite right takes on a more literal and empirically tangible form in Beyond. The old and notoriously haunted house and the yard surrounding it represent a glitch in the matrix, a blemish according to the official point of view, and all the consequences it entails. Rain coming from the ceiling despite a clear blue sky outside, glass bottles reassembling after being shattered, broken lightbulbs which flicker briefly, cans and kids floating in mid-air. The excitement the location inspires for the few children who know about it is but shortlived as a team of agents becomes aware of the glitch and immediately takes action to fix it.
telephone, cat food, look out of window / veranda, wind-up bird / dove in slow-motion, vacant house, wall, asking neighbours
dog? rainbow?
"My guess is that the cat's probably in the yard of that vacant house at the end of the passage. The yard with the stone bird figurine. I've seen him there often enough. You know where I'm talking about?"
I go to the kitchen for that drink of water, turn on the FM radio, and trim my nails. They're doing a feature on Robert Plant's new album. I listen to two songs before my ears start to hurt and I switch the thing off. I go out to the porch to check the cat's food dish (0:30); the dried fish I put in the previous night hasn't been touched. Guess the cat really hasn't come back.
Standing there on the porch (1:25), I look at the bright spring sun slicing down into our tiny yard. Hardly the sort of yard that lingers fondly in the mind. The sun hits here only the briefest part of the day, so the soil is always dark and damp. Not much growing: just a couple of unremarkable hydrangeas. And I'm not terribly crazy about hydrangeas in the first place.
From a nearby stand of trees comes the periodic scree-ee-eech of a bird, sharp as a tightening spring. The "wind-up bird," we call it.
20100202
[juxtaposition] neontigers / mirror's edge
I'd acquired Peter Bialobrzeski's book, neontigers, a few years ago but I've only recently had the chance to play Mirror's Edge which proved to be an often tachycardic, at times frustrating (attributed to my lack of platforming skills) but ultimately rewarding experience. While the creators probably drew lots of inspiration from New York (in terms of street layout) and Tokyo (cf. here; the G-CANS drainage system etc) when designing the game's landscape, its clean, bright, geometric and futurist look also reminded me of megacities like Singapore and Shanghai as I had previously seen them presented in the photographs of Bialobrzeski.
(1)
"Neon is a natural product. And it is a rare one. Its concentration in the atmosphere is 1.8 x 10-3 by volume percent, or put more simply: 0.002 percent - this is all that exists of the gas, at least on our planet. Synthetic manufacturing? Impossible. That is the wonderful thing about neon light in its classic form: although it represents complete artificiality and cold modernity (very different from the twinkling gas lanterns in Julius Rodenberg's Paris), the raw material for neon tubes cannot be artificially manufactured.
The same applies to Peter Bialobrzeski's magical photographs in Neon Tigers. They too are - so to speak - from a natural source. Although they appear to be digital fiction, they are analogue. No mouse click has ever interfered with them, no picture editing has calculated them. Like neon lights, Bialobrzeski's images only give a hint of the chaos beneath their surface. The crowds that make their way through these megacities are often as invisible as the streams of electrons in the lamps that begin to glow on collision with the gas atoms. Because people are rare in these photo-graphs, the spectator's gaze is drawn to the artificial light. Sometimes the neon lights of Asia radiate from Bialobrzeski's pictures as if the concentration of 1.8 x 10-3 by volume percent were glowing all at once."
(peter bialobrzeski: neontigers. scanned and cropped. 1-3 singapore, 4-5 shenzen, 6-8 shanghai. introduction quoted from press text.)(2)
"If you lose yourself in the images in Neon Tigers, you can imagine the photographer as a kind of flying eye. Childlike fantasies are conjured up: of a man who is floating through canyons of high-rise buildings, defying gravity, without limits - like in a PlayStation universe."
(dice: mirror's edge. in-game shots from various sources such as.looks magnificent in motion!)
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