Herman Hesse's "Steppenwolf"

Herman Hesse's brilliant novel, "Steppenwolf"

Several moons ago, however you'd like to label my past filmic leash of tugging, I was introduced to Herman Hesse's Steppenwolf, which, as most people are quite familiar with by now, is also a popular rock 'n' roll band (that lifted the name from the novel, of course, as if they couldn't be more original!). Unfortunately, the band is far more "known" than Herman Hesse's novel, but if I could take the two and stir them together, there really are no recurring similarities, unless one wants to familiarize the psychedelically-solarized scenes of the "Magic Theatre" from the film (which is essentially a bonus snack at the end of of the flick) with the band's song "Magic Carpet Ride," then that may have some merit, because, all in all, one is most certainly taken on a ride amidst the cinematic gulps and nibbles there, as well as within the book.

Steppenwolf, starring Max Von Sydow

Rarely does a film ever stay true to the contents of the story that it is being created from, but apparently Fred Haines wanted to do it "right" and thankfully for us dogmatic ones, we were served with a delicious feast. From Wiki: "The film made heavy use of visual special effects, which were cutting-edge at the time of its release in 1974." I would suggest reading the book first and then watching the film so that you can compare as you follow. This particular film, along with BBC's 1977 Count Dracula (starring Louis Jourdan), are two of the most faithful adaptions of book-to-film releases that I am familiar with, and both are well-worth venturing into ... of course, if you like this kind of madness as I do.

As The Hitch would spout, I think I'd better be trodding off. I just decided to have my head sanforized. Good night.

Steppenwolf (1974)

This film (starring Max Von Sydow as the Steppenwolf) is in my Top 10. One of the most underrated films of all-time (and the most bizarre, I do say) based on Herman Hesse's great novel.

Erwin Wurm

The Other "Mona Lisa" and Ponderings of "Abstract" Art:

PORTRAIT OF A PORTRAIT: This sketch, by Raphael,
was made while Leonardo was still working on his
masterpiece. Several features, such as the two columns,
are similar to the painting ("London's 'Mona Lisa'")
kept by Dr. Henry Pulizter in London.

As most are familiar, one of Da Vinci's "trademarks" and distinct characteristics in which made his work stand out in an iconic fashion, was that he held his paintbrush in his left hand and would often times smooth in the paint with his right hand to achieve a particular effect. One way in which one is able to authenticate his work is by looking at his fingerprints that would often show up very clearly in the paintings. That being said, experts have compared other prints on a version of the "Mona Lisa" jointly owned by a Swiss syndicate and London scientist, Dr. Henry Pulitzer, with those prints on the other Da Vinci paintings, and, of course, the verdict was out! The painting that was in the possession of Dr. Pulitzer is an authentic Leonardo, a portrait of Mona Lisa del Giocondo.

LONDON'S "MONA LISA": A version which bears
fingerprints that match up with those on other
authenticated paintings by Da Vinci. It is thought to be of
Mona Lisa del Gioconda, while the Louvre version is of
Costanza d'Avalos, "La Gioconda."

Backtracking a bit: I've always found interest in paintings that are shrouded in controversy, whether it be Oriental art, abstract art (especially that of "The Flowering of San Francisco" artists of the late 50's and early 60's), surrealism, Cubism, &c., whatever the "style" may be, interests me for the mere fact that, not only does my imaginative juices begin flowing, but my writing juices, as well. Of course, after studying one of the strangest paintings in the world, The Mystery of Mad Maggie (. . .as it's often called, though bears no "true name" — but the name of which it is acquired came from the earliest historian of Flemish painting, Carel van Mander, writing one generation after it was painted, called it Dulle Griet, which means "Mad Maggie". . .)

I realized that every image tells a story, and most usually, typically, suffers no loss of "mystery" (often considered by "non-understanders" labeling artists as raving lunatics, and fair enough!). Infinitely surprising to me is the notion that every object has to be "labeled" into a certain stimuli or nucleus before our brains can react from it with what we "know" from learning about it (elongated by the ''mathematics of communication'' - and we all know that we can and do enjoy certain sequences of quite abstract SOUNDS, [in this case, as an example] PATTERNS of pulsation of the air that we are almost devoid of human content). To me, everything is abstract in its own right; it's own existing mass. It's merely all how it's looked upon, and later, I will speak more about why "realistic art" and "abstract art" (as being said, the two offer no real logic as what should be debated as a particular art-form that is more superior to the other) can exist in the world side by side, even with one artist at the same time.

So, as I have been swept into another orbit (seeking an uprooted exploration); back to controversies and aesthetic expressionism ("Let no man under-value the implications of this work, or its power for Life — or for death, if it misused" — and what of the "now"; the "spirit of the place"?!) of Da Vinci and the false Mona Lisas.

The face of the "Mona Lisa" smiles mysteriously down, if you've ever noticed, and not only from the Louvre in Paris, but also from various walls (to this day, being carried around like a wallet, it would seem, or at least its "history" would speak of such). The latter, if you will, said by Pulitzer, but a completely different version by Da Vinci and his studio. And while there are more than sixty "alleged" Mona Lisas catalogued throughout the world, Pulitzer was most certain and positive that his own painting was of pure authencity.

Da Vinci, as he would point out, habitually did two or more versions of his portraits. The original sitter was Mona Lisa del Giocondo, who, at the time, was mourning the death of her baby daughter and wore a transparent veil during the sittings. Da Vinci spent fours years on the painting and he eventually left it with the Giocondos. Then, shortly before he went to France, at the invitation of Francis the First, Guiliano de Medici asked him to paint a portrait of his current mistress, Costanza d'Avalos. Coincidentally, Costanza not only resembled Mona Lisa ever-so-slightly, but was also nicknamed "La Gioconda" (which means "Smiler"). Da Vinci adapted his alternative version of Mona Lisa del Giocondo's portrait, turning the fact into that of Costanza. But, no sooner had he completed the work, Medici decided to drop his mistress in favor of a profitable marriage (good boy!) and so did not buy the picture from Leonardo after all. It was the second portrait, as Pulitzer had stated, that Da Vinci took with him, along with all of his other unsold works, to France. It is this version (of Constanza) that Pulitzer maintains, that graces the walls of the Louvre (or did, anyhow).

NUDE GIOCONDA: There were more than

60 alleged Mona Lisas, as is known, and here,
a seminude portrait of "La Belle Gabrielle,"
which is currently in the collection of Lord Spencer
of Northamptonshire, England,
and is "attributed to the school of Da Vinci."

In what case can be made that everything is abstract? To separate the two, firstly, would be silly. Secondly, there shouldn't be any other unequated progress that art should "stand alone" in one box, while every other label, mold, caricature, expression, dialect, critique, &c., &c., tries to dig that one particular thing out of the box to try and split it apart like a pecan. What lies inside that isn't as natural as we come to make of it? This isn't, of course, to decry the learning of various procedures and styles that are derived from the creative-forms of art, but to simplify it, as has been argued, to being something of which is subjected to that of one surface'd aspect of alienation, to me, is bland (the old attage, "everything is art," just as "everything is abstract," just as "everything is avant-garde," and so on. . .).

The artist must impose some of oneself and one's ideas on the material, in a way that uses the material sympathetically, but not passively. Otherwise, you are are only behaving like the waves. There essentially must be a human imprint and a human idea.

Some people think that some abstract art is mistaken. However, all art, as said, is abstract in one sense. Not to like abstract qualities or not to like reality is to basically misunderstand what art is all about. Some artists are just more "visual," or get more excitement from nature in front of them, and they make a work of art from that. Certain other individuals do it from their insides; perhaps with a more "mental approach"; the actual image-making or image-designing can be an exercise disconnected from a relationship with the "outside world."

Every Portrait is always connected with another Portrait:
Here, "Coffee" by Richard Diebenkorn, 1959

Rosemary Brown: Music From The Immortals (Fraud or Medium?)

Rosemary Brown, transcribes music from deceased Composers?

After pondering (for a few days now) almost single-mindedly the notion that perhaps we are all in the sky before we are born, the fact that we could very-well be derivatives of the Giant of the "beanstalk," tossed down to earth after our ruptured births, the very tedious and untedious and imaginatively-focused buzzing in my mind—the fact that we may very well land on cardboard boxes with soft blankets inside for comforting our newly-fresh bodies—the imagination had me swinging open the revolving-doors of my mind towards other "spiritual" things (perhaps even a promiscuous folly of sorts, beyond the groupuscules and mascots), all-the-while, as will be said, all characterized by a certain ambiguity between interiors and exteriors with regards to what one wants to believe versus what, and where, the Reality is fastened in one's hula-hoop of idealogies and sophisticative-"thinkership."

With such a broad and somewhat silly notion (depending on what one wants to consider "silly"), I had recalled a memory in which, after listening to various classical music pieces for the evening, had linked my Birth-ideas of imaginative story-telling with other spirit-mediums (which I often find to be completely demonic, more than "ghostly"), and this time, with a fascinatingly-interesting story that has always held speculation (Dave Von Kleist: "If you're not on somebody's watchlist, you're not doing your job"), as with any subject, whether broad or shrinkable, the peculiar (and very obscure) story of Rosemary Brown (27 July 1916 - 16 November 2001), who "was a spirit medium who claimed that dead composers dictated new musical works to her. She created a small media sensation in the 1970s by claiming to produce works dictated to her by Liszt, Brahms, Bach, Rachmaninoff, Schubert, Grieg, Debussy, Chopin, Schumann and Ludwig van Beethoven."

Dead musicians that she communicated with providing her with "unwritten" pieces of music for her to learn and to perform? How uniquely-refined (and shaped) I had thought—this immediate fascination with perhaps a perfect blend of drawing attention and making oneself feel empowered by creating controversy? Then again, where else would the "proof" come from if it weren't right there before our eyes?

From a selection in her autobiography, Rosemary wrote:

"The first time I saw Franz List [sic] I was about seven years old, and already accustomed to seeing the spirits of the so-called dead. For some reason he never said who he was that morning. I suppose he knew I would eventually see a picture of him somewhere and would recognize him . . . He then said: ‘when you grow up I will come back and give you music.’"

Franz Liszt

When Igor Stravinsky appeared to Rosemary 14 months after his death and dicated 60 lines of music, she was not surprised. For he was, she said, the 20th dead composer or author to use her extraordinary talent.

It was only at the age of 7 that she was introduced to the "wonderful world" of dead musicians (imagine!). A spirit with long white hair and a flowing black cassock appeared and told her he was a composer and would make her a famous musician one day (perhaps an angel?). Rosemary basically didn't have any idea who this "ghost" was until around 10 years later when she saw a picture of none other than Franz Liszt.

Rosemary's Mother and Grandmother were both psychic (although I personally don't believe in psychics) and she had supposedly told her parents of events before her birth, and when she was asked how she could know, she would reply that her "visitors" had told her. Listz, being that it may be the case, wasn't one of these "visitors," and in fact, he didn't appear to her until 1964. By this time, Rosemary had married and raised two children, while living in a beautiful Victorian terraced house in London; not to mention the fact that she was now a middle-aged widow.

Before 1964, she paid very little attention to music and had had very minute and small amounts of "instruction" in it. In fact, after the war had subsided, she purchased a second-hand piano and began taking lessons for about a year, even though many people were thoroughly not impressed by her "playing skills." Then, suddenly, in 1964, Liszt returned and "renewed" his "contact" with her, and original compositions began flooding in from a random-array of great musicians of the past. Rosemary transcribed these pieces from Beethoven, Bach, Chopin, Schubert, Rachmaninoff, and, of course, Listz himself (all of these as previously mentioned before). Of these included a 40-page Schubert sonata, a Fantasie Impromptu in three movements by Chopin, 12 songs by Schubert, and 2 sonatas by Beethoven, as well as his 10th and 11th Symphonies (both of them unfinished).

Apparently each composer had their own "special way" of dictating to Rosemary. Liszt, for instance, "controlled her hands for a few bars at a time, and then she wrote down the notes." Others, such as Chopin, "told her notes and pushed her hands onto the right keys." Schubert, is said to have tried to sing his compositions to her, but she stated that it was impossible for her because he didn't have a very good voice. Beethoven and Bach "simply dictated the notes, a method that she disliked since she had no idea of what the finished product would sound like." From the source, it states that they all spoke to Rosemary in english, which, as she says, didn't surprise her whatsoever: "Why shouldn't they have gone on learning on the other side?" she asked. However, when agitated, "they were liable to relapse into their native tongues" in which Beethoven would often spout Mein Gott! when they were perhaps hard at work and the doorbell would ring, disturbing the dictations.

Here and Here are two wonderful, wonderful sites in regards to it, in which you can actually hear some pieces from these so-called Transcribings!

Rosemary Brown

______________________________________________________________________
Criticism: "The opinions of musical critics were varied on the merit of Rosemary's transcriptions. But most agreed that in their style they bore a great resemblance to the composers' published works. Forgeries and imitations had frequently been made in the past, but considerable musical knowledge is thought to be required for this. Mrs. Brown maintained that she had never had any musical training aside from a few piano lessons. It was suggested that she may have had advanced musical training but then forgotten it in a bad case of amnesia. This suggestion was, however, described as preposterous by the Browns' family doctor. Brown's musical skill was such that she was unable to play many of the pieces she claimed had been dictated to her. Rosemary was thoroughly investigated by both musicians and psychologists. None could find any way in which she could be cheating.

Other explanations were put forward. One was that the composers had left behind them unknown, written music and that Rosemary was able to read these sheets, unwittingly using a form of telepathy.

Another suggestion was that she picked up music from people around her by telepathy. However, she did not spend her time in the company of musicians who might have been composing works in the manner of Bach and Brahms.

Of the music itself, Richard Rodney Bennett, the British composer, said: "A lot of people can improvise, but you couldn't fake music like this without years of training. I couldn't have faked some of the Beethoven myself."

Hepzibah Menuhin, the concert pianist and sister of Yehudi Menuhin, was also impressed. She insisted: "There is no question but that she is a very sincere woman. The music is absolutely in the style of these composers."

Alan Rich, music critic of New York magazine, took a different line. Having heard a privately issued record of piano pieces allegedly by the spirits of several dead composers, Rich concluded that they were just sub-standard reworkings of some of their better-known compositions. In 1969 she was put to a test by the British Broadcasting Corporation, who set her at a piano where she waited for the spirit of Liszt to appear to her. In due course she produced a piece, supposedly dictated by Liszt. As it proved too hard for her to play, another pianist was engaged to play it. The piece was subsequently studied by a Liszt expert, who said it had definite similarities to the great composer's work. A recording of some of the music produced by Brown (The Rosemary Brown Piano Album) was released, and various books by her (including Unfinished Symphonies: Voices from the Beyond) were published."

Superman with eyes of a devil?

Spring-Heeled Jack, Leaping Away

In southwest London, mid 1830's, what was once a "rumor" for the most part had quickly became terrifyingly-confirmed in February of 1838, about the persisting reports of a leaping, bounding superman who was an alarming figure that flew through the air in great leaps across many paths. To most, naturally, it would seem like something out of one's highly-equipped imagination, but apparently this spring-heeled creature was more than that, and became something of a legendary tale.

Jane Alsop was young and pretty. She lived with her two sisters and their father on a London back street. She had heard of the bogeyman called Spring-Heeled Jack, but she was too "sensible" to heed such tales.

One night there was a violent knocking at the door. Jane went to answer it. The man standing in the shadows near the front gate swung around, blaring, "I'm a police officer!" He went on, "For God's sake, bring me a light, for we have caught Spring-Heeled Jack in the lane!" Jane thought about this for a moment: "The stories were true after all." She ran off to fetch a candle. "I'll see him being arrested," she thought, as she rushed back outside with the candle. But, as soon as she gave the man the man the candle at the gate, he grabbed her by the neck and pinned her head under his arm. Then he ripped at her dress and body. She screamed and tore herself away. He chased her, caught her by the hair, and clawed her face and neck. Her sister, hearing the screams, ran into the street and cried out for help. But before anyone could stop him, Jack soared away into the darkness.

Jane later described her inhuman attacker to police officials. "He was wearing a kind of helmet," she had told them, "and a tight-fitting white costume like an oilskin. His face was hideous, his eyes were like balls of fire. His hands had great claws, and he vomited blue and white flames."

This description that Jane had given was repeated over and over again in the following years. Always the leaps, the flames, and the eyes of hell were recounted. Lucy Scales, 18 years old, the sister of a butcher, had just left her brother's house one evening on her way home with her sister. As they walked along a lonely street, a tall, cloaked figure jumped out of the shadows. He spat blue flames at Lucy's face, blinding her.

During the 1850's and 1860's, Spring-Heeled Jack was sighted all over England, particularly in the Midlands. In the 1870's, army authorities set traps after scared "sentries" reported being terrified by a man who darted out of the darkness to slap their faces with an icy hand or sprang onto the roofs of their sentry boxes. Angry townspeople shot at him in the streets one night in 1877, but, as always, he merely laughed and melted away into the darkness.

"Where did he go so quickly?"

No one, even today, really has any idea who, or what, Spring-Heeled Jack was. For a while, suspicion had rested on the eccentric young Marquis of Waterford, but though the "mad marquis," as he was known, was one of the "wild ones" of Victorian society, he ws never vicious.

Jack's eyes of hell were last seen in 1904 in Liverpool (66 years after the first sightings). There he started a panic one night by bounding up and down the streets, leaping from the cobblestones to rooftops and back. When some of the braver ones tried to corner him, he simply vanished into darkness he came from...this time for good?

Carolee Schneemann

Carolee Schneemann performing Interior Scroll

Certain individuals are mostly interested in what such-and-such looks like (does the brain become "homesick"? - "but homesick for what?" in response), but if there is anything paralleling such cancerous wit, there must be a "corrective punctuation" somewhere (without stultifying the subjectory), without via the William Shatner-like talkative "song" [roar!]; art should only be addressed if personal-need be it debated or discussed (end the censoring, in any case, for the "female condition!").

A few years ago I came across Carolee Schneemann who is essentially "famous for [her . . .] fundamental contribution to the body" of the once controversially-experimental masterpiece (my own opinion) [and highly-poetic impressionism] "Interior Scroll." The eroticism here, could it perhaps be, a visual presumptuousness? One is often forced from Language by its ever-growing repetiveness, and not only this mindful-comeliness, but the "intimidation-factor" that oscillates between individuals whom teach it (or repress it) to others. For "Interior Scroll," there is a "dionysiaque sexuality" here; a "correspondence and fetichisation of (women), in which the concept, the idea, the physical-occurence lies upon a variety of taboos - a "vulvar space" and a "visceral experiment of the flesh." As ART AND FEMINISM states: "Your Body is a Battlefield."

Interior Scroll Performance, 1975

From site: "Performed in East Hampton, NY and at the Telluride Film Festival, Colorado. Schneemann ritualistically stood naked on a table, painted her body with mud until she slowly exracted a paper scroll from her vagina while reading from it."

Carolee's explanation: "I thought of the vagina in many ways -- physically, conceptually: as a sculptural form, an architectural referent, the sources of sacred knowledge, ecstasy, birth passage, transformation. I saw the vagina as a translucent chamber of which the serpent was an outward model: enlivened by it's passage from the visible to the invisible, a spiraled coil ringed with the shape of desire and generative mysteries, attributes of both female and male sexual power. This source of interior knowledge would be symbolized as the primary index unifying spirit and flesh in Goddess worship."

I think that her work goes beyond just the term "Art." Another piece of hers that really turns me up and down like some botanical garden, is her own personal body-garden known as Eye Body: 36 Transformative Actions.

C. Schneemann's Portrait Partials, 1963

The fuses, the dreamorphologies, the meaty landscapes and experimental monickers of haphazard-beauty ("testing the limits") are all like suave leaves of abstract forests. One of the most powerful (and one of the least known, for the most part) polyartists of all-time. Look into her work and you will see how this woman's work has provided "fuel" for many generations afterwards.

Carolee Schneemann, from More Wrong Things, 2001

Nina Katchadourian

Self-portrait of the artist as an artist

While I tracked myself across the unviewable landscape of poetsyville, I flooded my senses with attempting to pick more information out of the air in regards to the "Random Poetry" of the delightful Christian Bök. Though the trek was discovered, I found other unexpected backwashes of slippery-bait that struck my interests with an alarmist-jolt to the 'noggin-rut (as flimsy as a hammock).

Meet Nina Katchadourian. From there, her bio: Nina Katchadourian was born in Stanford, California and grew up spending every summer on a small island in the Finnish archipelago, where she still spends part of each year. Her work exists in a wide variety of media including photography, sculpture, video and sound. She is represented by Sara Meltzer gallery in New York and Catharine Clark gallery in San Francisco. Her work has been exhibited domestically and internationally at places such as PS1/MoMA, the Serpentine Gallery, New Langton Arts, Artists Space, SculptureCenter, the Palais de Tokyo, and the San Diego Museum of Contemporary Art. In January 2006 the Turku Art Museum in Turku, Finland featured a solo show of works made in Finland, and in June 2006 the Tang Museum in Saratoga Springs exhibited a 10-year survey of her work and published an accompanying monograph entitled "All Forms of Attraction."

Get this: She dissected Maps. Yes. She dissected road maps for an art-installation piece that absolutely floored me!

Map Dissection I

She explains: "I dissected a AAA road map of the USA, removing all the land and leaving only the connected road network. The map was sandwiched between two large pieces of glass and suspended."

Map Dissection II

She explains: "A second dissection was made of an identical map, extracting those places were the roads came together to form small knots or clusters and placing them between glass microscope slides. Many of these extractions became quite figurative."

A glass-slide from the Piece

Oh, but there is plenty more from where this brilliance comes from. How about Talking Popcorn?

Talking Popcorn

She explains: "Talking Popcorn is a sound sculpture that evolved out of my interest in language, translation, and Morse Code. A microphone in the cabinet of the popcorn machine picks up sound of popping corn, and a computer hidden in the pedestal runs a custom-written program that translates the popping sounds according to the patterns and dictates of Morse Code. A computer-generated voice provides a simultaneous spoken translation."

She continues (in regards to the "Popcorn Journal"): "The Popcorn Journal is a running record of Talking Popcorn's speech. Each day during the exhibition, a sample of popcorn is placed in a capsule alongside a text output of the machine's complete speech for that day."

Dabbing through the handkerchief of her work is like sneezing and not blowing it. The collection builds and builds, therefore a reinactment is needed to actually sift through the chaotic-beauty, like sifting for Kleenex (er!). The symphonies of this amazing woman's art could never sound better and the fresh pulp is completely (and satisfyingly) refreshing.

From Here: Nina Katchadourian is a conceptual artist, famous for her eclectic projects, some of which involve her mending a spiderweb or sorting a bookshelf. Often her work consists of either a whimsical intervention into a geographic mapping or an uninvited modification of an ecological terrain. She might, for example, dissect a travel map [as previously showcased!], extracting all the landmass, while retaining, intact, all the highways—or she might augment a car alarm, installing a new bullhorn, which screeches out a birdcall instead.

It's worth a visit. The wide-range of work includes mediums such as Video, Sound, Photography, Paper, Sculpture/Mixed Media and Public projects.

Killer of Sheep (1977)

Killer of Sheep

I first heard about Killer of Sheep when Turner Classic Movies were previewing it for what was to become a festival of Charles Burnett films that were to be shown in the following days. Everytime I am subjected to something as fresh as a new film director, I am always interested in viewing the films that will be showcased. On January 21st (Martin Luther King Jr. Day) TCM had Burnett on as a guest and host Robert Osborne interviewed him before the movie was presented (the world broadcast premiere!). What I found interesting is that this film wasn't supposed to be as famous as it were to become. Burnett made the film as essentially a "project" for the school that he was attending at the time. When the film was completed it was unable to be released because the filmmakers "had no secured rights to the music used in the film," however (after all of this time) late last year "the rights were purchased in 2007 at a cost of $150,000." Soon following the film was "restored and transferred from a 16mm to a 35mm print."

The film is about African-American culture in the 1970s. The plot, as stated from Wiki: Movie critic Dana Stevens describes the film plot as "a collection of brief vignettes which are so loosely connected that it feels at times like you're watching a non-narrative film. There are no acts, plot arcs or character development, as conventionally defined.

Stan (Henry Gayle Sanders) works long hours at his job in a slaughterhouse in Watts, Los Angeles. The monotonous slaughter affects his home life with his unnamed wife (Kaycee Moore) and two children, Stan Jr. and Angela (Jack Drummond and Burnett’s niece, Angela).

Through a series of episodic events—some friends try to involve Stan in a criminal plot, a white woman propositions Stan in a store, Stan and his friend Bracy (Charles Bracy) attempt to buy a car engine—a mosaic of an austere working-class life emerges in which Stan feels unable to affect the course of his life.

Scene from Killer of Sheep (One of my favorites!)

I knew from the very opening scene of the film that I was in for a real treat. After viewing the film for the first few minutes I was immediately reminded of John Cassavetes-cinema, especially his neorealistic film Faces (which was shot in Cinéma-vérité style of film-making). Before I had any knowledge that this film was compared to Cassavetes I wasn't particularly stunned to find out that Burnett had been mentioned in the same light. Cassavetes, as is it well documented, was once a part of Hollywood where he directed two films and also acted in various features. He essentially became annoyed and frustrated with Hollywood so he quit and started making his own films independently (which really catapulted him as a great film-maker). Faces was a film that was completely unconventional and about as Non-Hollywood as one could imagine (which was apparently his intention). Killer of Sheep is shot in the same style: Documentary-like, Unconventional with peculiar compositions and off-the-wall lingo.

The film is piercing and moving. The Bluesy soundtrack really added an extra-boost towards my interest. Killer of Sheep is one of the best films I have seen in quite a long time, and after a "limited release" and random showings in various theaters across the nation, leave it up to TCM to make certain that America is able to see such stunning films in their restored quality, not to mention the interest that they have with showing "world premieres." A DVD of the film has been released which also includes other films by Burnett, including several shorts (which were also shown on the same night on TCM).

Killer of Sheep was chosen by the National Society of Films Critics as "one of the 100 Essential Films," and in 1990 the film "was selected for preservation in the United States National Film Registry by the Library of Congress for being 'culturally, historically, or aeshetically significant.'"

Also, as has been documented, "the film appeared on several critics' top ten lists of best films of 2007." The list includes #2 from The Arkansas Democrat-Gazette; #3 in Premiere; #3 from The Baltimore Sun; #3 from TIME Magazine; #5 from Slate and #10 from LA Weekly. Quite an honor, I feel, for a film that has been basically lying arcane for 30 years!

A must-see film!

Another beautiful scene from Killer of Sheep

Dead?

Fly

Millions of Americans share this nagging problem, but many, wrongly, are too embarrassed and humiliated to admit it. We can't cure death yet, but we can make it something other than a dirty word by talking openly about it and not being afraid to look for its symptoms. Be honest: Do any of these Five Warning Signals of Death apply to you?

{1} Your scarlet silk handkerchief was ripped in half by a ninja-knife.
{2} You are freezing cold.

{3} You have loved ones who are fighting over your belongings.
{4} You don't hate Bush anymore.
{5} You haven't washed your dishes in three weeks.

§

Camera On Policeman’s Revolver Snaps Evidence

"ATTACHED to the barrel of a service revolver, a compact motion picture camera enables a policeman to take action pictures of any person at whom the revolver is aimed. The pictures thus obtained can be presented as evidence at court.

The motion picture camera is triangular in shape and is attached under the barrel of the revolver by means of metal clamps. The lens is directly in line with, and under, the revolver muzzle. The camera is set in action by a slight pressure on the revolver trigger, independent of the firing of the weapon. Due to the compact size of the gun camera device, only a small roll of film can be accommodated at one loading."

Torpedoed, like the Lusitania in 1915. Far ahead of their time? Now the cameras are on the dash-board, which somewhat takes the fun out of the "snapping revolver," I think.

Giuseppe Arcimboldo (The First "True" Surrealist?)

The Great Giuseppe Arcimboldo, Self-portrait

McLuhen once noted: "the need for a ratio and interplay among the senses as the very constitution of rationality." A few years ago I was rummaging through a large collection of books in the far-corner of an Antique shop in a small town, digging through 70+ year old rarities and gems (the years were spread throughout the time-line) that had me soaring into some invisible obstacle (strange to most people) of some supramundane seraphim (and this wasn't "Angels and Antecedents," either! - amorinis and the deity-like feeling of floating amongst such a miraculous spectacle of magnificent book-love; completely swooned over) that my "en route" was about as common as the Titus Andronicus, for the most part. Upon arriving, eyes growing operatic, like a body-song, and I always felt as though I was out picking private plums for my Grandmother (we used to pick raspberries and blueberries together; much love, much love), books in my presence, like something burning within!. . .(Napolean once said that he would cover his Josephine "with a million kisses burning as though beneath the equator."). . .promptly entrained (drained) all of my energy into searching for hours on end (all-the-while wishing [and muttering to myself] how I wish I were "rich enough to purchase these books").

Vertumnus (portrait of Rudolph II), 1591

Some of the books I gathered (a must-need) were the rarities entitled, Horizon: A Magazine of The Arts (but in hard-back book-form!), which, from my knowledge, were at least published throughout the 50s and into the 60s (though I am uncertain of their stopping-point). One of these books [November 1960 * Volume III, Number 2] had an interesting painting that I still haven't "gotten over" that was the very first image one sees when they open the book (before the contents-page); ie: the Frontispiece.

Of course, after aspiring to find out who the painting was by, I came across the small write-up on the following page of the painting, which says the following:

The Trojan Horse, that eternal symbol of deceit, was an innocent-looking
wooden effigy filled with armed and waiting Greeks. When the Milanese painter
Giuseppe Arcimboldo addressed himself to this idea, he carried it a step
further: omitting wood, he composed his horse entirely of the writhing bodies of
soldiers. Its eyes are two dark heads, its mane a row of flaming torches.
Arcimboldo's grotesqueries were much admired by the Hapsburgs, who made him
court painter at Prague from 1562 to 1587. Today he is admired by the
surrealists, who look at him as a precursor.

Summer, 1563

At that time, which seems like so long ago, I had already been studying the surrealists, so my eyes gleamed with joy when I read the final line of the frontispiece-contents, "Today he is admired by the surrealists, who look at him as a precursor." The keyword for me in that sentence is precursor. "Amazing!," I thought to myself, which I said a few times in my mind. For me, it was like the singing-scene when the Queen enters from the play, The Play of Daniel, in which she sings, ". . .with sonorous tones of strings and voices let music now be made." And, oh, my heart was certainly singing!

After researching this amazing Italian painter, I was completely struck by the surrealism of his portrait-work, and then concluding that this fellow was far ahead of his time (which, I imagine I am not the only one whom has concluded such ideas!).

Perhaps the first Surrealist of all-time? Salvador Dali, mind you, was a fan of his work, which should tell you a little something. From Wiki: "Arcimboldo's conventional work, on traditional religious subjects, has fallen into oblivion, but his portraits of human heads made up of vegetables, fruit and tree roots, were greatly admired by his contemporaries and remain a source of fascination today. Art critics are now debating whether these paintings were whimsical or the product of a deranged mind."

Since these events, Arcimboldo has gone on to become one of my favorite painters. I periodically find that I want to paint in similar elegances. Apparently I am not the only one. Check out Jan Švankmajer (a Czech surrealist) who has, himself, influenced such famous names as Tim Burton, Terry Gilliam and The Brothers Quay to name a few.

Other good reads about Arcimboldo here, here and here. (I want those models!)

Flora, 1591

Chris Marker's "La Jetée" (1962)

Poster for La Jetée

Chris Marker, a French film-maker (and writer and photographer, among the thrips and ranges he possesses) created La Jetée in 1962; a short, 28-minute masterpiece (black and white) that was created using mostly still-images while a narrator fills the viewer in on the going-ons (the "voice-over") of the story. The only non-still image that is in the film is when a woman flutters her eyes to the camera as she wakens from a dream (!!!). La Jetée tells the bizarre story of a "post-nuclear war experiment in time travel"; not to mention, of course, a film about war and memory. Or, perhaps the lack of memory, depending on the science of observation (undifferentiated slaughter of the eyes!).

The story takes place in (or "during") War World III, in Paris, under the crumbling chaos of the city. Van Gogh once said, "I am painting infinity," and somehow this particular film allows me to reflect back on that comment. But in reverse. However, the film, to me, is like disassembling permanence. In all of this, where is the body politic[?], I thought. Anyhow, a man (the man in the image above) is sent back to the past and back to the future to supposedly save all of mankind.

From Wiki: "In the movie, the survivors of a destroyed Paris in the aftermath of World War III live underground in the Palais de Chaillot galleries. They research time travel, hoping to send someone back to before the devastating war to recover food, medicine, or energy for the present, "to summon the past and future to the aid of the present". The traveler is a male prisoner; his vague but obsessive childhood memory of witnessing a woman (Hélène Chatelain) during a violent incident on the boarding platform ("The Jetty") at Orly Airport is used as the key to his journey back in time. He is thrown back to the past again and again. He repeatedly meets and speaks to the woman who was present at the terminal. After his successful passages to the past, the experimenters attempt to send him into the deep future. In a brief meeting with the technologically advanced people of the future, he is given a power unit sufficient to regenerate his own destroyed society. On his return, he is cast aside by his imprisoners to die. Before he can be executed, he is contacted by the people of the future, who offer to help him escape to their time, but he asks to be returned to his childhood. He is returned and finds the violent incident he partially witnessed as a child was his own death as an adult."

The arrangement of the film is stunning, and when I first saw this film (during TCM's Short Film Festival) a couple of years ago (though I had read rviews about it long before realizing TCM was going to be showing it), I found myself questioning my own creativity (!!!) and Imagination (!!!). McLuhan: Imagination is that ratio among the perceptions and faculties which exists when they are not embedded or outered in material technologies. The mayhem in this film is "haunting"; not only with its consolidation thrusted in original-style, but also the film's sheer brilliance in allowing the viewer to be somehow intertwined puzzingly (without being able to actually see the "motion" of each "scene"), like some Apocalyptic-undercutting that could flip shade and shadow into pancakes of light! The mightily measuring-tape was out from my mind as if I had been measured (and, as I imagine, the viewer, as well; all viewers; everyone who has had the opportunity to view this film) by the mere surge at which somehow decontructs our stricture of imagination. Or, perhaps this is my own 'awareness' or Jack-knife!

Interesting to note some of the influences as well (via Wiki): "The scene in which the hero and the woman look at a cut-away trunk of a tree is a reference to Alfred Hitchcock's 1958 film Vertigo, which Marker also references in Sans Soleil." "A famous tiny bar in Tokyo is named La Jetée and is decorated with posters of the movie (I must visit someday!). "The music video for Son of Sam (song) by Elliott Smith (directed by Autumn de Wilde) was inspired by "La Jetée"." Terry Gilliam's 12 Monkeys was also inspired by La Jetée. {to name a few}

In closing, this film must certainly be experienced, if anything for the totality of the diversified field at which is portrayed (running around with Fred Flintstone feet!). On of my all-time favorite films. Top 50, at least.

Rock Hudson in "Seconds" (1966)

scene from the eerie, psychological-thriller, Seconds

Once stated: "One of the ultimate psychological thrillers, as if sprung from Kafka, about a man given the ability to start his life over with a new identity and career. Goldsmith’s wonderfully eerie and disquieting work was a key element to this film that looked and sounded like nothing previous." And one must be certain, you won't be the same after seeing this bizarre film (buy it here for an amazingly-low price! A steal!) that featured the underrated Rock Hudson! It's almost like some "agony of passion" that is partnered within this film, and one must un-pop the cork and then chew on it.

The Plot, as following, from the ever-wonderful Wiki: "Arthur Hamilton (played by John Randolph) is a middle-aged man whose life has lost purpose. He is disengaged at his job as a banker, and the love between him and his wife has dwindled. Through a friend whom he thought had died years earlier, Hamilton is approached by a secret organization, known simply as the "Company", which offers wealthy people a second chance at life. The Company, in the person of Mr. Ruby (played by Jeff Corey), interviews Hamilton, and resorts to blackmail to convince Hamilton to sign on, foreshadowing the unfortunate consequences of accepting the Company's assistance."

"The Company makes Hamilton appear to have died, by faking an accident with a corpse disguised as him. Through extensive plastic surgery and psychoanalysis, Hamilton is transformed into Tony Wilson (played by Rock Hudson) As Wilson, he has a new home, a new identity, new friends and a devoted manservant. The details of his new existence suggest that there was once a real Tony Wilson, but what became of him is a mystery."

"The remainder of the film follows Wilson as he copes with the consequences of his new identity. Relocated to a fancy home in Malibu, California, where he works as an already established artist, he commences a relationship with a young woman named Nora Marcus (played by Salome Jens) and for a time he is happy, but soon becomes troubled by the emotional confusion of his new identity, and by the exuberance of renewing his youth. At a dinner party he hosts for his neighbors, he drinks himself into a stupor and begins to babble about his former life as Hamilton. It turns out that his neighbors are "reborns" like himself, sent to keep an eye on his adjusting to his new life. Nora is actually an agent of the Company, and her attentions to Wilson are designed merely to ensure his cooperation."

"In violation of Company policy, Wilson visits his old wife in his new persona, and learns that his marriage failed because he was distracted by the pursuit of career and material possessions, the very things in life that others made him believe were important. He returns to the Company and announces a desire to start again with yet another identity. The Company offers to accommodate him, but asks if he would first provide the names of some past acquaintances who might like to be "reborn."

"While awaiting his reassignment, Wilson encounters Charlie Evans (played by Murray Hamilton), the friend who had originally recruited him into the Company. Evans was also "reborn", and also could not make a go of his new identity. Together, they speculate on the reason for their failure to adjust, attributing it to the fact that they allowed others, including the Company, to make their life choices for them. This realization comes too late, as Hamilton learns that failed reborns are not actually provided new identities, but instead become cadavers used to fake new clients' deaths."

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In my opinion, John Frankenheimer is one of the most underrated film-directors in the history of cinema, and I truly believe that, for a vast number of reasons. The man who directed such masterpieces as Birdman of Alcatraz, The Manchurian Candidate, Seven Days In May to name a few, doesn't often get the acknowledgements that he naturally deserves. Then again, maybe I am just beating around the bush, and am unaware of it if he has, but to my knowledge, it seems almost faint. Seconds is a must-see. You won't be let-down, believe me...

The Poster for Seconds - This is a Must-See!

Henry Irving, Bram Stoker and Dracula's Castle

left to right: Bram Stoker, Henry Irving

A couple of moons ago, I was introduced to Henry Irving through a relatively quick systematic-casuality (meant in the best possible presentation) which came upon me while visiting my uncle for a spell one summer evening. Amidst such discussions, merely to raise the question, or questions, of whatever-we-could-think-of at the time; late and challenging; tired and evidently shredded from countless hours of experiments (not to mention the primary reasoning behind this sudden lapse of unanticipated content: sleep-deprivation), of course "Dracula" came to mind. In all actuality, it was somehow Bram Stoker that stitched the path (being my uncle has been a fan for years and years, since he was a young tot) of conversative-direction (the science of ever-moving Language!) this night, if only for a brief moment of dispersity. In any event, the frequences moved upon Bram Stoker, as mentioned, which lead to my uncle going for the book-shelf to pull off his undusty copy of a biography about Mr. Stoker (I say "undusty", in this case, essentially to describe how often these things, these books, these documents actually get used, like Shelley's Frankenstein, or the biography on Shelley, as well), in which he had wanted to know more about the man named, "Henry Irving", who was naturally mentioned in the book. Of course, knowing of the possible influence, the book didn't particularly give a complete recollection of the entire spectrum of what Mr. Irving "was all about."

Further-on, it is learned that Henry Irving, the trained Shakesperian actor (and friend of Stoker) who performed on many a-stage, was apparently the inspiration for Bram Stoker's character, the gothic-God, Count Dracula. Henry Irving, known for his "dramatic presence, gentlemanly mannerisms and affinity for playing villain roles", was essentially thrown directly into the pot. It is said that Irving never agreed to perform the role on-stage, and I often wonder why? I mean, after-all, he did once perform as Mephistopheles, amongst the many. Perhaps he was somehow sentimental in this realm? Perhaps overwhelmed? Intimidated? Either way, if one studies his facial-characteristics/external composition, and if you are familiar with the descriptions from the book, then you can really see a chemistry of emphasization here, which is all so beautiful to me.

It's also interesting to note that The Dead Un-Dead "was one of Stoker's original titles for Dracula, and up until a few weeks before publication, the manuscript was titled simply The Un-Dead." Apparently Stoker's original name for the count was going to be "Count Vampyre" (too simple!), but while he was supplying himself with a vast accompaniment of research, Bram Stoker came upon the word "Dracul" (Romanian meaning "Devil"), which intrigued him enough, obviously, to essentially plop an "a" at the end and the rest is history.

Earlier this year, I was astonished (but not really) by the occurrence of events that took place in regards to Vlad Dracula's castle. That being said, of course, The Castle Came Up For Sale! Naturally, this lead to my infatuations/imaginings of living there, somehow obtaining the 78 million dollars needed (not to mention a few extra mil that would be needed for the insane taxes that would be quite costly) to purchase the home near the Transylvanian city of Brasov. Apparently there have been eerily-bizarre sightings of spooky-happenings there, so that would be all-the-more worth-while for me, since that is essentially right up my alley. "I ain't afraid of no ghost!" La-la-la. For a while there, I was jokingly asking various people for a "78+ million dollar Loan", but not telling them why. Or, well, not telling them "right away" the reasoning, allowing their brains to wonder, to float upon the sea of ponderism.

Vlad Dracula's Infamous Castle in Brasov; Ah, If only

Way Out (1961), and Lucia Pamela!

Way Out (article from FILMFAX, continued on the site...)

In 1961, this creepy television series (hosted by the great Roald Dahl [he's everywhere it seems, in similar fashion as to how Richard Matheson, credits-galore, can be found on many, many various noteworthy publications, television shows, films, &c., &c.]) followed The Twilight Zone, which to some people, is even more bizarre than Rod Sterling's once unlimited series of the excessively-weird.

However, Way Out unfortunately didn't last as long as Twilight Zone, which was limited to only 14 episodes. What is even more remarkable, to me, is that these episodes are quite obscure, and yet to exist on any DVD-format (not even VHS for that matter!) and people have been ranting and raving for this series to be released for the longest time, but nothing has come about. Thanks to the greatness of YouTube, rarities can be re-discovered (though a DVD-set would be much more fluent, of course), and luckily (or thankfully) a few of the episodes can be seen there. Start here with "The Croaker" and carry on with the others. From that particular video's "About This Video" section on the right, the following is stated: "This rare series has never aired since 1961 and never released on video. Of the 14 episodes, 5 of them (including this one) have been floating around on the net, but the only way to see the other 9 elusive episodes is to pay a visit to The Museum of Television & Radio in NY." Ah, such a shame.

Another great "artifact" about this series was the fact that Dick Smith did all of the make-up works, which is another reason to check them out (and keep all fingers crossed that this series will be rightfully-handled and properly-satiated in the future for a DVD-release!).

Read more about Way Out here and here. The second link has images that can be clicked on for the bigger version (well worth the viewing-pleasure, in my opinion!).

~

In other thoughts; everyone should listen to Lucia Pamela's Into Outer Space With Lucia Pamela. From Deuceofclubs.com, it says: Former Miss St. Louis Lucia Pamela was obsessed with the moon. She wrote songs about the moon. She claimed there were animals on the moon. She even claimed her album was recorded on the moon. They used to say that people obsessed with the moon weren't quite right. (Hence, the word lunatic.) But I think they weren't quite right. Lucia's pretty much out of it these days, which is a damned shame. But her grandson Kenny is carrying on the tradition with Spaceship Kenny.

In fact, she has since gone on to her reward now. She once said: You can't live life going backwards. You must go forward. She lived up to the age of 98. Apparently she thoroughly stood by her positive quote! Find out more about her here. Another interesting site about her here (which has sound, and animation!).

Lucia Pamela

Divi-divi

Caesalpinia coriaria

The coolest tree, ever. My absolute favorite tree, ever.

Wiki says: "a leguminous tree or large shrub native to the Antilles, southern Mexico, Central
America and northern South America. It grows to 9 m tall, often much less and very contorted in exposed coastal sites. In other environments it grows into a low dome shape with a clear sub canopy space. leaves are bipinnate, with 5-10 pairs of pinnae, each pinna with 15-25 pairs of leaflets; the individual leaflets are 7 mm long and 2 mm broad. The fruit is a twisted pod 5 cm long. (2nd stanza) The Divi-divi is one of the more well known species of Caesalpinia; it is a symbol of Curaçao and is very popular in Aruba where it is called "watapana". On the islands this tree is never straight because of the wind."

As mentioned, the coolest tree, ever.

Fernando Pessoa (Poet, 1888-1935)

I wonder if I am the only person who finds Fernando Pessoa one of the most depressing poets ever? The apoplexity of some of his idealogies and thought-processes are so negative that I can't merely stand to read some of his works/letters/thoughts. Go here to get a glimpse. When he was plagued with a fever, lying in bed, he wrote:

I am nothing
I shall never be anything
I cannot wish to be anything.
Aside from that, I hold within me
all the dreams of the world.
Today, I’m defeated, as if I’d learned the truth.
Today, I am lucid, as if I were about to die.

Though the customarily attempts to say "I am nothing" or "I shall never be anything" is a sign of pessimistic-indulgence and negative-bolts of vexual-rage, there is just "that something" that he was apparently missing. ""I'm defeated, as if I'd learned the truth" indicates to me a man of consistent-longing? Or, perhaps a bold statement that protrudes out of the sockets of a man who looked for the darker corners instead of the ones with the dust-bunnies of light? "I am lucid, as if I were about to die." And, well, as the phrase "misery loves company" comes into play, I can say that it is safe to say that "death loves company" as well. If you speak of such matters, it can only be inevitable.

That said, there are a few of his poems that strike a chord with me. I especially like this quote by Mr. Pessoa: Poets are fakers. Hm, I'd love to read Ron Silliman or Charles Bernstein's commentary about such a quote. A sentence or two would do.

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Not too long ago, Questions about: "Which fog is better", came to mind this morning (sweatingitoutgastoolowandoverpriced). Now, this coffee must be glazing me over, like the sky when night fades into white. Over-cast. Saw a suspicious man wearing all-black walking down the street towards my house this morning. "Maybe it's the coffee, again." No, he was really there, and walking towards my house. Closer, closer, closer. "Oh...it's just the neighbor in his work uni." Whew. Weird. That was the first time I ever saw him walking down the street like that. Well, the second time ever, actually. The first time I saw him walking throughout the maze of the neighborhood was when he had his baby with him, rolling her/him around in the stroller. But, walking around in his work-uni by himself early in the morning somewhat threw me off. It's difficult to trust people these days. Maybe I just have "flying saucer eyes." I wish it would rain. We're in a horrible drought. The lakes and rivers and streams are way below their normality, and it's a real shame.

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The "corolla, intensely grape-colored" Morning glories that were growing in between the crack of my drive-way and the road have been re-planted near the mail-box. 1) This allows the chances of the beautiful morning glory plant to Live and not get smashed by uncaring tires (or uncaring people); 2) Hopefully the plant will "live" after being re-planted, not to mention the hopes of the plant to begin growing and twisting itself up the mail-box's post. And, since this particular plant is a "common morning glory" (Marubaasagao, Ipomoea purpurea (Pharbitis purpurea) Budouiro, Dark red, purple, Wine color) and a "vine", the chances are quite operative.

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Rudolf Sponsel, Erlangen's (?) Frankenstein's Logic
(Looks more like a 'breed' of Dracula to me)

One of a few images of (...) "the cycle of Anti-(G.W.F) Hegel pictures..." Hm, I wonder what Mr. Sponsel had against Mr. Hegel? A matter of opinion, I suppose, like everything else. From the source, states: The text on the picture on the pillar on the head Hegel also comes from above, Section 323, Auxiliary, p. 274: The electricity is the purpose of pure form, which is exempt from it, the shape, their indifference Lift begins; Because the electricity is the immediate salience or even from the shape Coming, they still conditional existence, or not yet the dissolution of the shape itself, but the Superficial process, in which the differences the shape leave, but they have to their condition, And not to them as self-employed.

"All clear?" - Uh, not particularly. From Hegel himself ('aesthetics, Volume 1, p. 60): "Because the artwork is not a content in its generality as such, but this individualized general public, in front of the few sensual outlook. If the artwork is not from the principles, but it underlines the general public with the purpose of abstract teachings, then it Bildliche Sensual and the only one external and unnecessary jewelry and artwork in a broken himself, in what form and content of no more than to grow into one another. The sensuous individuals and the mentally General are then each other outwardly."

Bergman's "Cries and Whispers"

Heart-breaking scene from Cries and Whispers

Do you want to know the most difficult film for me to watch? Would you like to know of a film that ruptures my tear-sacs into almost phlegmatic-weariness, yet strikes me with the accomplishment of the habitual-emotion of blatant pliancy? Would you like to be informed of a film that is painful for me to view, yet a film that has me yearning for more of the same pain? That almost peculiar feeling of "pleasure" and "pain"; the seemingly realistic frequencies of a film's believabilities, of the human behavior: the power of emotion, the melancholies of sickness and Death; the bizarre submissiveness of Life; "the world of women" that "is very open of (...) gender and sexual politics" at the turn-of-the-century (19th); one of the most moving films I have ever seen? The "erotic mystery" (the "physical decay") of four sisters ("each representing a different aspect of a woman") that embraces you immediately with their presence, traits and idealogies? Ingmar Bergman's Cries and Whispers is this film. Bergman himself explained from the initial script: What it most resembles is a dark flowing stream: faces, movements, voices, gestures, exclamations, light and shade, moods, dreams. Nothing fixed, nothing really tangible other than for the moment, and then only an illusory moment. A dream, a longing, or perhaps an expectation, a fear, in which that to be feared is never put into words. It's really all there. I find every emotion seeping out of me when I watch this film. I find that I somehow become those faces, movements, voices, gestures, exclamations, light and shades and every bit, ounce, degree and shape and folds and formations of those moods and dreams...

Filmomisialism & Lgtru.

Scene from Carnival of Souls (1962)

It's the imagination of originality that ("the day the world gets [more] round?" - God Bless George Harrison!) that gets the loudest ovation and the most hands clapping with an applause. The unaimlessly-multitudinous psyche'-befoggings that sketches the cipher, the imaginationist (God fobid being a little loopdeloopy, eh?!), but ekeh, the 60's produced some of the most critically-acclaim'd cheeseball flicks in history (the "horror genre" dancing to the tunes, shakin' and twistin' and shoutin' to this omnipresent upheavel), though "cheeseball" is slightly over-used like the "Let's get outta here!" quote in films (an ungorgeous nourishing?), yet I Remark, in this corpulence, the 60's-tenure to the bestest celluloid evah, evah, evah. One of those wonderful films from that said underrated Generation (or underrated "film"), is 1962's Carnival of Souls. I imagine the Looking-glass had an entirely regulated mockery, in that the "scare-factor" was at the highest peak during this Era. In this lucious-60's classic, there are quips of surrealistic-boombasticness, and the often over-looked starkness of black and white cinematography (which is quite exquisite, I'd say). No Sven Nykvist here, but even so, it's certainly noteworthy.

Mister Buddwing, 1966 (Only image I could find)

1966's Mister Buddwing (how many petitions must it take to release this wonderful masterpiece of a film?! [There's not even a poster available anywhere and hardly any imagery, either!]) - The begging-audience can certainly be conquered with a happy-hand of obligement from the "Production Gods" if the manifestations erupt properly. Someone release the lightning! Be Zeus for a moment, will yeh?) is another one that comes to mind (though the 'cheese-factor' in this film doesn't exist. How about sufficient entree's of tasty-desire, perhaps?). James Garner plays "a man who finds himself on a bench in Central Park with no idea of who he is. He proceeds to wander around Manhattan meeting women as he desperately tries to figure out his own identity. Based on the 1964 novel Buddwing by Evan Hunter, the evocatively shot black-and-white drama with a lively jazz musical score was written by Hunter and Dale Wasserman, and directed by Delbert Mann." (Thanks kindly, Wiki). This film is a delightful trip. From the very opening scene, you will know that you are in for quite a peculiarly-enjoyable ride! A Must-see.

The Unforgettable Head (1968)

I watched this film years ago (in which I was intrigued by the idea of Frank Zappa being intertwined with his short-lived cameo-magic) and the super-glue of its uncontrained existence is relentless in taking a chunk of my brain with it. Overburnedstrain of excessive-transsubmergencies! The horrible films of today will never, ever, ever, ever come close to the magic of older gems of set-aside past-years. The old paralyzing, "everything's been done" statement, somehow vibrates through the quelling lands, it would seem. I cringed (and still cringe) when I see previews for films like The Heartbreak Kid that come onto my television-screen, or if a group of people are speaking of its "greatness." Please. Someone pass me a hammer and a nail. If I could echo The Silver Apples for a brief spell: "Where do we go, I don't know," about sums up such a bubbling Yucca!

~

Don't confuse "cloud tracks" with actual clouds. Aren't most things deceiving? Just ask Charles Thomson Rees Wilson and his Wilson Chamber about it. However, I must now go crawl upon the cloud tracks in the sky.

Lock me in and throw away the key!

More Randomania

The Gates of Paradise
(interesting site if you enjoy Visual Poems, &c.)

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Wake Not The Dead
(One of the first vampire stories ever written
by Johann Ludwig Tieck)

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Laynie Browne's "A Mullein Sceptre in My Hand"
(a wonderful collection of poems)

Atanta's own Laura Carter and some of her poems
from Typo #9: BRICOLÈ

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Tachistoscope Blog: It's worth it to begin from the first post.
Now if only he would provide updates. It has
been almost two years.

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Charles Olson's "Projective Verse 1950"

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Hilarious, I think.

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Robert Grenier's "10 pages from 'R H Y M M S'"

Randomania.

Kenji Miyazawa

*
Old men with hyper-thick beards always appear to me as being 'lonely' fellows. Sometimes their faces show it. Perhaps even sad fellows, too. I'm not certain the "reasoning" behind this thought, though. Often, seeing said individuals provides me with a persuasion of some ominous "category" (often unintentional), though it may very-well be that these particular individuals whom have the face of a decay'd wharf at the edge of some uncertain embankment, are essentially the Jewels of our Generation (whom grew up [some, unknowingly] with The Who's "My Generation"; ["their"], in other words: a coordinate of the esteem). Slicker than Grace Slick, even. ("Thing"). The ever-present Canvass of Counterculture.

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Recently came across a highly-obscure
(and apparently rather "mysterious)
band from Japan, Les Rallizes Denudes.
Heavier Than A Death In The Family
is of notable deliberation.

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Odd Nerdrum

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12 PIANO COMPOSITIONS FOR NAM JUNE PAIK,
by George Maciunas, Jan. 2, 1962.

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Oddmusic.com
is a delicious site for lovers of unique, odd, ethnic, experimental
and unusual instruments. I would love to own a
Kaisatsuko or a Harmonic Generator, if anything, just as art pieces.
Don't miss the Bowafridgeaphone, either (made from used
refrigerator grates, and other things!)

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Incredibly Strange Albums (and covers, to boot, oot, oot)



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Thobias Fäldt Photography

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Have fun.

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djalma primordal silence

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In the meantime:

All you need is love (RrehRaRrehRrehRreh)
All you need is love (RrehRaRrehRrehRreh)

Thumpity-thumpthump!