My tongue is thick and sour.
The sharpest razor couldn't endeavor to loosen it from it bridge.
"…when you encounter certain things in the world, the evidence for certain things, you realize that you have come upon somethin' that you may not very well be equal to… When you've said that it's real and not just in your head, I'm not all that sure what it is you have said."
"Portrait of a frightened man: Mr. Robert Wilson, thirty-seven, husband, father, and salesman on sick leave. Mr. Wilson has just been discharged from a sanitarium where he spent the last six months recovering from a nervous breakdown, the onset of which took place on an evening not dissimilar to this one, on an airliner very much like the one in which Mr. Wilson is about to be flown home.
The difference being that, on that evening half a year ago, Mr. Wilson's flight was terminated by the onslaught of his mental breakdown. Tonight, he's travelling all the way to his appointed destination which, contrary to Mr. Wilson's plan, happens to be in the darkest corner of...himself." - Nightmare At 20,000 Feet.
Click here to watch the remake.
Part Fifth Chapter IV
The morning after the arrivial of this sad, strange child into their lives, Jude and Sue make a more concerted attempt to get to know him.
"Him they found to be in the habit of sitting silent, his quaint and weird face set, and his eyes resting on things they did not see in the substantial world.
"His face is like the tragic mask of Melpomene," said Sue. "What is your name, dear? Did you tell us?"
"Little Father Time is what they always called me. It is a nickname; because I look so aged, they say."
"And you talk so, too," said Sue tenderly.-
The "Jude the Obscure" rose. It is extremely difficult to author ideas or thoughts when it feels like there is something lacking to my very sense of existence. It is ostensibly, that I have become a homo sacer in a microcosm. This seems strange on the surface but I wonder if such specific political/legal term can be applied, in the more intimate level of the unit of the social immediate. I am finding it increasingly more difficult to produce anything resembling a narrative in the absence of a narrator. I wonder if there is an ability to establish return. Real return.
Part Sixth
"... And she humbled her body greatly, and all the places
of her joy she filled with her torn hair."
--ESTHER (Apoc.).
"There are two who decline, a woman and I,
And enjoy our death in the darkness here."
--R. BROWNING.
'Done because we are too menny.'
"It was in his nature to do it. The doctor says there are such boys springing up amongst us--boys of a sort unknown in the last generation--the outcome of new views of life. They seem to see all its terrors before they are old enough to have staying power to resist them. He says it is the beginning of the coming universal wish not to live. "
That Obscure Object of Desire
The terrorism in the film produces "a climate of insecurity and imminent disaster—an atmosphere we all recognize, because it is our own.”
Not only is this senseless violence a satire of the absurdity of the bloodshed that Buñuel witnessed in his lifetime (the main terrorist group in the film is named the Revolutionary Army of the Baby Jesus reflecting the Catholic fascism of his youth), but it also acts as the excess of reality that is in conflict with Mathieu’s desire for his metonymical order. To show that Mateo’s desires are only illusions rendered completely useless by their removal from reality, Buñuel ends the film with an explosion, illustrating the power of excess over Mathieu’s delusional attempts for order.
A hidden connection is stronger than an obvious one.
All men are deceived by the appearances of things.
- Hereclitus (the Obscure)
"I am but that I can not exist,
a variance of productions
and upholdings.
Gone but residue and longing"
There is a key. The key explains nothing.
Perhaps it's done already, perhaps they have said me already, perhaps they have carried me to the threshold of my story, before the door that opens on my story, that would surprise me,
if it opens, it will be I, it will be the silence, where I am, I don't know, I'll never know, in the silence you don't know, you must go on, I can't go on, I'll go on.
Nothin'. A handful of nothin'. You stupid mullet head. He beat you with nothin'. Just like today when he kept comin' back at me - with nothin'.
In the end everything is about belief. Science itself is contingent upon searching until the search is exhausted, yet it is we who become exhausted. Science is what we use to destroy mysticism; the fragility of wonder crumbles underneath the tonnage of explanation.
The difference between the mystery of the conjurer and the malice of the con artist is the indiscernible membrane of our own longing. There is an incomparable beauty in the construction of illusions. Magicians practices years, laboring to perfect the art of misdirection. This manner of misdirection entrances us, but many times while entranced we are lightened of our possessions, if not led to our demise.
"I believed I’d gained supernatural powers. Ah well!
I must bury my imagination and my memories!
Sweet glory as an artist and story-teller swept away!
I! I who called myself magus or angel,
exempt from all morality,
I’m returned to the soil, with a task to pursue,
and wrinkled reality to embrace!"
This Magus, or the plural Magi, are considered wise men, the kings of the Orient, pursuers of the young Christ. Magicians trekking to witness the great magician himself, the ghost-in-the-machine. How wise is it to begin to believe in one's own prestidigitation? Can the Magus be both wise, and susceptible to magic as well?
Living, which is strictly confined to the present, we forget the past we lived within the myths we have made to uphold that present.
To what danger do we apply ourselves to when we threaten to unmask the great confabulatoris nocturni.
"...and has given the appearance of solidity to pure wind."
With enchanting tongue, one can create such mystifying phantoms swirling around the heads of the entranced; entranced but not calumniatory. Follow the pointing finger that guides our eyes towards mysterious brilliance.This same finger also misdirects to a hoodwinking of sorts. In the past we were bamboozled by Mr.Whiskey, hoodwinked by Mr.Hutchins, and baffled by Mr.Barnum. These men were half showman, half crook and all con-man. But the audience is to blame for this swindle. The con-man's power is entirely dependent upon what the audience permits them to get away with. The viewer is taken by their own desires.
"At long last, sir......." the failure of your tricks and illusions can not be delayed through your act of exposing or outing others. There is no honor in that form trickery."Testifying" to such things as the repertoire of another magician is tantamount to the greatest of betrayals. Exposing another to save oneself from criticism is deception for the purpose of malice, soon everyone will see that there are no names upon the list, the king has no clothes.The mere wagging of a finger certainly does not make one a "Little Tree," the reality- the accumulation of empirical data- belies this. The numbers and testimonies gathered into the dossier(e.g.7.8.78/3) forbids the ability to profit through deception using such schemes. Some day, some day soon Mr. Ponzi, the chickens will come home to roost.
The seeds that one sows are their own. Revenge is pointless, it benefits us none to destroy another in retribution.
The cost of our science is the loss of our sense of wonder.
If you want to view paradise,...to be continued
No- there is no attribution. Assume everything here (images, video, music, writings) is stolen and re-applied.
