Thursday, June 29, 2006

an ode to the woman in the pale blue dress

an ode to the woman in the pale blue dress

as i walk along the peninsula
in my dark warm coat,
i admire the sanctity of it all

not life,
no, not that.

rather, its purest elements.

the fellow men of mind
and the lovely ladies of light
join me
on this cold distant night.

we are walkers in a world of motorists.

death walks by me
and curtly nods his head.
life holds his arm and smiles at me.
i tip my hat to both.

vengeance and peace argue on a nearby bench
while solititude sits
not alone. never alone.
but with everything around him
speaking in tones you and i do not hear.
yet we acknowledge
as we must

a woman in a pale blue dress comes along the path
the wind gently holds her hair to the side
never across her face.
the dress dances
and the shoes glide (they seem to interact with the ground, but really, they don't. you must understand that sound is the most untrustworthy element of all conciousness. even the heart is less deceitful.)
my peripheral catches her
and my mouth slides into a grin
and she stops.

i go for another two feet and decide why not.
i do so as well.
i look to the lady in the pale blue dress
and i see

you say to me what you said
the air takes hold of your words mid-flight,
changes them
rearranges them
and presents them to me falsely.

i mouth to her the reality of words
(the fact that they mean nothing)
she nods and silently agrees.

time passes.

we look, we admire, we acknowledge,


i remember now
that i've seen you
in my younger days.

your name...
is promise.
not promise, but close...

you'll forgive me for my shocked expression
i've just been robbed of your sight for some time.
you look good.

you take a step forward
i take a step back
and all the elements
and look
to me.

on earth
there is silence
for seventeen seconds.

sound no longer lies and you ask
"why do you reject me?"
my dear,
you'll have to forgive my lack of courteousness.
it is only because of the fact that you are
unrequited love.

i shall, for you,
yell for,
cry at,
and you will take no heed of me and my being.

only now
will i allow you
after the moment
you leave.
you go. and leave me to my ill-fated desires.

you nod and drop a tear.

i pass.

and then the elements give me three seconds where
not the mirage
sings with




and we kiss.
LIFE ends.
life returns.
your piercing look drives itself into my brain
and you wash your hair over me.

and it's us.

then it's you and me.

and then you walk away (notice that she no longer glides)
and i begin to move after only five seconds. (an accomplishment, i assure you)

that's where the story ends.

were she real
i still would've kissed her.
were any of these figments real
i'd have kissed them as well.
not just kissed
but held and loved and shaken and entered and climaxed and breathed and become and remained.

you have to understand.

it's not so much about who you kiss;
rather, it's about the fact that you can.

Tuesday, June 06, 2006

PTA's Punch Drunk Love

There has never been a director quite like Paul Thomas Anderson, and for that reason alone his films are worth their weight in gold. One of the best moments in a film-goers weekly adventure to the cinema is when one week, one lucky day, they are treated to something so original, so astounding, so go-for-broke, grab-them-by-the balls gleeful that you are gasping for breath when the whole thing is through.
If I have to compare PTA's Punch Drunk Love to anything, I'd say it's a healthy mixture of Luhrmann's Moulin Rouge! and the romanticism of the films from the fifties, with a hint of Kubrick's style invoked throughout. That's all open to interpretation of course, and you'll see different influences when you view it... but when you watch it, when you let all of the passion and emotion take over you, you realize that what your witnessing is totally different from anything put together in previous cinema.
Anderson puts his manic overdrive to the test in this film, invoking every scene with an energy similar to being on meth. It's by turns exhausting and exhilarating. There is an insane amount of randomness in this (the piano, the items he sold... some little thing said or done is intriguing because of its purpose, or lack of) but it adds to the films momentum. I'm not big on one-note characters, and am especially not keen to those who have no redeemable features, so you can imagine that I felt the sisters were nothing more than raging cunts. You look at this poor man, and you gawk in awe at the fact that he survived existing with them. It's just mind-blowing.
The performances are very strong, and Sandler does his best work ever. (A given, naturally... when you're in a film of Anderson's, it's doesn't really need to be said that he's gonna bring you to the top of your game.) Everyone else plays second-fiddle to his instability, but damn if they don't give it all they've got.
I wasn't sure how I felt about the film halfway through. The lack of explanation with the sisters, the seemingly random moments, all gave me a sense of weariness in addition to the increasing intensity with each passing moment. Does the film redeem itself? It does. Any moment having to deal with the romance between Watson and Sandler works wonders, and it's really only after he starts to come out of his shell that I managed to fall for the film. I'm of the sort who never likes to see good people get mishandled, even in film, and when I'm forced to I tend to get rather annoyed/distraught. And I did so here, but only till the moment he told off his sister in Hawali. You see the change in him, the deserved confidence and the knowledge that he has someone backing him up.
It's always been my personal belief that anyone can act out their wishes or their desires so long as they have someone behind them. We are only as good as the people we have in our lives, and we're only as strong as they are close behind us. When Lena is hurt in the car accident, you witness a positive change in Barry almost instinaniously. He learns that the anger of the human being is reserved until the moment where we see a threat being posed towards something or someone we care about. When such a thing occurs, the limitless strength of the person comes into play, and it's a glorious sight to see.
There is such an exuberant and passionate edge to this film that you can't really define it. While I do prefer his Magnolia to this film (its scope is larger, its intent in braver, its focus is more precise), there is a manic energy to this film... an entire, beautiful passion that lacks in so many feautres nowadays, that you forgive its faults. It has managed to combine color, clarity, sound and sight into an orgasmic mix of love and free-falling life that transcends typical cinema. It may not be perfect in terms of a film, but as a feeling? As an expression? It's quite, quite brilliant.

Thursday, June 01, 2006


Speaking with regurgitated words
Concepts thought long ago.
Struggle for originality
Fighting with fury as I flow.

This should be easier I think.
To say what I need to have said.
To say my idea of love
Is more than just your bed.
What frightens me, if I may be so bold
Is my complete infatuation.
Not that it may be real, but rather...
that it is an illumination.

To be lonely
Is to be flailed
For seeing life