12/29/2021 08:29 PM  ✰beating narcanicuss in a holy arena✰ Цирк мышей доят около моей головы; Они по-французски бормочут, ура-у-у-у-у-у-у-у-у-у-у-у-у-у. Могут ли они прыгнуть через скакалку, колесо телеги, повалить меня на пол? Могут ли они кормить меня фосфором, литием и сдавать меня милорду? Могут ли они вздрагивать, пеленать, плакать над грудью, расслабляться после ящерской ярости? Пусть они плачут. Кричать. Могут закопать? Они могут поговорить со мной, мышка Аделаида? Я не пойму, и это защитит меня, ведро со скотом в кулаке, на параде одуванчиков. Я бы хихикнул? Могу, но в моей груди мыши не живут, так что поклон дает глазу, конечно, не мое лицо, но лучшее. Шкуры поднимают мою голову, необрезанную, и обратно, И я могу видеть свое тело только на скрученной кнопке на экране. Так что нет, благородный язычник, которым я не мог быть. Ужас под моими ботинками, между пальцами ног, мыши, скрипящие под моей кожей. Босс не должен видеть и не может знать давно Шрамы под длинным, нижним бельем. Молотковая пятка миссис скулит, а обтянутые кожей руки не могут этого хотеть; Очистить кожуру соком, застояться, проткнуть пищевод; для откорма фруктов, чтобы насмехаться. The circus of collar'd mice are milking about my scalp; They, in their Frenchy murmurs, yip, yop, and yalp;  Shall they jump rope, cartwheel, hopscotch me down to the floor? May they suckle on phosphate, lithium, and junk me up to my lord?  May they wince, be swaddled, cry over their breasts, mouths loosen'd after lizardly fury? May they weep.  Shout.  May they Bury? Can they talk to me, mousy Adelaide? I would not understand, and it would defenstrate me, a bucked out cattle curled in my fist down the dandelion parade.  Would I giggle? I may, but no mice live in my chest.  So the bowing provides to the eye, not of my face, but the best.  The pelts pull my head up, uncircumcised, and back, And I may only see my body in a silvered screen thumbtack.  So no, the genteel Gentile I couldn't have been.  The dread, under my boots, between my toes, scitching under my skin, The boss cannot see and should not know long'dt  scars under long, underwear. The missus's hammer heel whines, and cannot want; Clean peel juice, poke my stagnated esophagus, for fruit, fattening to taunt.     0 Comments

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04/01/2021 01:26 PM  青い春 tr. blue spring ✰✰✰✰✰✰✰✰✰✰ 青い春 'aoi haru' 10/10 dir. Toshiaki Toyoda available free w. eng subtitles here There is such an intimacy in violence, such a domesticity, such matyrdom, such monarchy in touching with claws. Within boyhood, there is a fraction, or perhaps a hereditary gene that denotes this struggle for social power, this structure of predator and prey, king and court jester, man and wife. This social economy deals only in respect, which in itself is earned in ones ability to curate a legend for themself; we are all familiar with highschool legends, the bully rumoured to have killed a man with his bare hands, the girl who has never said no to a dare, the kid who claims to have fingered Janey Q. in the janitors closet. In your teenage years, your projected self is your most valueble asset, and ultimately, a waste of time. Kujo, Aoki, and other such characters embody style of rough-glamour protagonists of 80s action movies, but with a self-conciousness that begs the question of truth, gall, and presentation as they influence control. The bravest is king, and the stupidest is the one who fails in his attempts to gain kingdom. There is much to be appreciated in the use of language in the film, the combination of english and japanese graffiti and slang is one of many signifiers of the influence of american idealism on the non-american world. The boys, many involved with or terrorized by gang violence turn to increasingly vicious attacts and dares after losing their baseball championship. 'Americas passtime' has promised these boys livesw as pilots, mathmeticians, presidents, and ripped it clean from their fingers. Excuse the reach, but it could very easily serve as a critque of the 'american dream' and a worldwide facination with it. You just keep trading bullsh*t for more bullsh*t, except this time youre a long way from home surrounded by a very unforgiving and delusional people. Another admirable feature is the masterful costuming (first created by Taiyō Matsumoto, whos manga served as the basis for the film), especiallly notable since each of the boys' are restricted to an identical uniform. the attitude and attention to detail both contribute to and, if i may be so vain, form the boys identities; you could see the crowd of schoolchildren from an airplane window and be able to call each of them by name. this is not, as some might feel, a grasp at action hero hairspikes or the loose-tied bad boys of the 70's punk scene, rather, it is a rebirth of rebellious fashion in a hierarchal setting, each dye-job, cufflink, and shoelace signifing a members role in the social structure.  The chalkboard scene is striking in conversation and illustration- Kujo's graceful outline of something like a man, Yukios violent tag, overlapping 20 or so others just like it. One still salvagble by his society as a functional man and student, the other cut free by his own hand. The boys must deny themselves their humanity, their hope. Kimura in the depths of his criminal life, after baseball (white uniform, purity) is torn away for gang life (black uniform, corruption). He sacrficies his hope, his flower, his american dream, his failure. He climbs into the black car, devoured in darkness, and thinks about his mother, his youth, in a past tense. Yukio, as he is dragged away in a cop car, can finally confess his pathetic dellusion. "I am going to graduate".  His last words before 'death' willing to claim hope and accepting a desire for normality, a desire refused to him by an education system that simply does not care. The boys, recklesss, stupid, hateful, plant flowers. They bend to solve soil over unborn things, almost gentle, their lack in cruelty found only in passive obedience. It shouldnt be lost that the only adult they actually like is the school gardener- both are held at mercy of the more powerful factuliy figures of the school, both groups are left unappreciated, underestimated, seeing in each other their past and future. 'Stay in school kids- or else you'll end up like him'.  After the boys talk of unpromising grades (and under the guidance of Hanada-sensei), they are able to work towards growth in the physical, in the simple and nurturing. A race measured not in violence but in perserverence. In the walls of the school, the two are really the same thing. They label their flowers with a cigarette, each marked with the name of the boy assigned to it, a sign of boyhood and glamour-filth, a thing that kills next to a thing that lives to live.  The theme of clarity flows as an overcurrent in the boys' story, and can be found in the simplist of visual cues- who is allowed to look at the camera? Who is allowed to address the audience so boldly? Kujo, for one. He is clear in his continual re-realization that none of these playground games actually matter or mean anything, and that the only way on to adulthood, to freedom, is through. The other is Yukio, clear in his method of domination, outside of the Clapping Game- cruelty.  The act of cutting hair is striking in such a film. An act so consumed with vanity and domesticity, an act of brothers and mothers and sons and small children, an act in art and servitude, the soothing feeling of release, the quiet shocks when someone brushes a spare strand from your face, gentle in unconciousness. To cut hair is an act of love- to destroy that hair is an act of severance. To pierce a crafted being, to pierce a known face, to mark yourself as gone. It plays into kujo's ostracization and insult at the hands of aoki. image is everything.  Violence comes in many variations. The cold precision of kujo versus the manic carelessness of Aoki. Fighting boys who spit in your face, fighting boys calling for their mother, an enemy or an inferior. Naked boys being batted into deep water (a literal perversion of the sport) emasculation as the utmost tool for power. Violence in its most dehumanizing, and in the background, Kujo, playing soccer, missing goal after goal, failing in boyhood.  They erase a beaten boys face, literally taking paint to skin, removing guilt, removing empathy, removing harm. The very same paint erases kujos dominance, tags painting over old masters, replacing his marks with Aoki's. And what is this action halted by, none other than Kujo's ball crashing through the window- his failed attempts to relive his youth, the only thing to halt Aoki's tyranny.  Youth resurfaces in not only what is yearned for, but what is petty. Aoki passing notes in class, like a schoolgirl asking a playmate, "are you mad at me?". So insecure, all ties to the outside world forged on unstable grounds. This desperation restart sandbox love, this mourning over old friends, this willing amnesia in vain efforts to cure the need for seperation. Growing old is becoming lost to people you were once dependant on. Being torn between adolecense and adulthood is becoming violent towards those who claim to understand you. Aoki breaks a boys arm for even daring to think he is tied to this condescending f***er, this boy who has abandoned him. If love is violence, this film is about casualties.  Even in their brutal confrentation, youth is apparent. The hair pulling, the sloppy hits, the threat of death. Even their violence matures, from trivial urges to a blind lust to cut themselves free from eachother. And yet, still unable to let go.  Aoki has covered their sanctuary, the music room, in darkness. He too, has been erased. His dream was to become a pilot. He wanted to rule the skies, and now he covers the world in a shade of richest earth, desolate, without life. He has become what the world believes of him, and what impending adulthood will make of him, a shadow, and echo of a person. He can't be blamed, not really. Its just bad luck. Kujo predicted it from the start- he knew that youth makes corpses of people who like to sink their nails into 'the good old days'. Aoki paints his hands black and crushes kujos domain in his palms, he paints the floor black in his shadow, his final stain upon the earth. He imitates a friend who has become lost to him, he wears his skin in hopes of overtaking him. He watches the world pass him by, in his costume. (i couldnt get the boy to kill me but i wore his jacket for the longest time) We hear Kujo and Aoki's first meeting, as children, plastered over footage of the two from the beginning of the film. We hardly recognize them, in the face of the echo of their youth, the pair who are strangers to each other now. A plane shadows aokis face- a dream just out of reach. His cheek-hands could almost touch it. His last thoughts are a plea; kujo. Take me with you into adulthood, because I cant let go of my youth.  Theres an image cherry blossom on aokis desk- purity, life, artifical grasps at the real thing, idealized images of the unattainable. While in the garden, only kujos flower blooms. He is the only one willing for persistent care, persistant love, even when they have been refused to him, even what fate has left his friends behind. It's about loosing your childhood, never having a childhood, having it ripped from your raw and stumbling fingers. That is the great tragedy of this film. Maybe some flowers never bloom, but all flowers are meant to bloom.      0 Comments

02/14/2021 04:24 PM  druk tr. another round ✰✰✰✰✰✰✰✰✰ druk  9/10 dir thomas vinterberg  available free w. eng subtitles here (quick summary; spoilers below. four danish teachers attempt to raise their alcohol level 0.05% every day from wake til 8:00pm to test the social and psychological effects of a perpetual drunken state) From left to right, Magnus Milling as 'Nikolaj', Mads Mikkelsen as 'Martin', Lars Ranthe as 'Peter', and Thomas Bo Larson as 'Tommy' In the beginning, sober-Martin is always isolated from others. His relationship to his wife is based off of a dusty legislation, debt, and apathy, his sons do not look at him, and in the dinner scene he is only shot in close up or in shadow, never with the other three in the light that comes to those who wish to be seen. Only once he gets drunk, he begins to be included in the light, in the group. He is recognized as a felllow man.   Mads Mikkelson as 'Martin' When he cracks the mickey, it could almost serve as an advertisement. It’s sharp, crisp snap, the nurishing slush of the honeying elix, the confidence of a new man emerging from the grimey school toilet. Perhaps with a drop of vod you could dig up an old lessen and have the gall to project your voice and be humourous- but closing the blinds and speaking poetically does not make a group harmonize. This too, is a trick of the alcohol- the world becomes brighter and perfect, but only for you. To your sober companions only your behaviour changes- you cannot manifest talent. Only modify your disappointment in mediocrity. Martin (drunk) teaching his history class There exists a perfect intersection of ego and greed- ego being of course, the idea that alcohol is the one entrance into a heightened version of the self, which, peeled back, is only a delusion seeking to soothe a deep insecurity. Another is the greed, the idea that more is good. Not unfounded- after all you only feel your greatest the shot before you spill your guts on the pavement. The greed is what keeps you addicted. You feed only the ego- all dying things are willing sacrifices, all prosperities feed the cycle. You drink so you can be comfortable, you drink more so you can be charming, you become an alcoholic so you can live in a constant state outside of self consciousness. Which is fine for curing the hole in your heart- but quite sickeningly perfect for enlarging it. An alternative poster for Druk, Martin is pictured floating in a glass of whiskey  You forget your pre alcoholic state, and willingly. You were a bore, a virgin, a hack. Now you are everything. Take a way the alcohol and what’s left but a deflated suit of skin? You know because it tells you this. This is the ego. You need the suffering, you need that social lubricant, you need to be able to look at yourself in the mirror, at any cost. This is the greed. note on the cinematography as they descend into greed: When Martin suggests to up the dosage, he is once more cloaked in shadow, separated from the group. In fact, a wide shot between him and them, in this crowded hideaway, is a rarity. Mads Mikkelson pictured (blurred) in the background Lines spoken by Martins (Mikkelsens) collegues In his initial rejection of “the point of oblivion” Martin is once more isolated from the group, seen only as a blurred figure coated in sunlight at the other end of the room. Of course, in his jealously and curiosity (greed, shown by his close face, hearing only the satisfaction of his offscreen companions) does he join their Icarian play. (image exerpt from film) Soviet Leader Brezhnev (left) U.S President Nixon (right) share a drink, 1973 The Greats serve a perfect excuse for this greed- Tchaikovsky, Hemingway, Johnny Cash. They all drank themselves to death and they were marvels of the human capability. What we do not realize is that suffering provides nothing more than a rotted lens. flashes on the screen of world leaders, lawmakers, congressmen. the rulers of the world. making perfect fools of themselves. We forget this most of all- it is a foolish thing to stake your faith on the piety of chemical reactions. It will not make us good. It will not make us great. It will only change the flicker between the pink beast that lays rest between our rushing drums. It is nothing more than a lilting tempo- nothing more than a riddled, pulsing, sickness. Than a stumble and a cry and a wash. If we subscribe to the belief that to be alive is to relish the senses our bodies provide, then to alter this state past the point of function is in itself a rejection of life. Bash your nose on the wall why don’t you. Kill your wife why don’t you. Save the world why don’t you. You won’t feel it. You won’t remember. The characters discuss raising the daily intake of alcohol We think we are better than people, than addicts, because we see ourselves outside of them (there is a definitative cultural aspect to this- as a child of europeans i have been drinking since before i had any consciousness of what alcohol was or did. this constant drinking is the very thing my family claimed kept us from delving into alcoholics- because we drank every night, we would learn moderation. of course this is baseless. of course i still drink anyway). Alcohol is an unloving god but her blessings are a blameless sugar.  From left to right, Magnus Millang, Lars Ranthe, Mads Mikkelsen There is something so enticing about milking this slow killing magnifier. What they don’t, won’t tell you is self destruction, any kind, but especially alcohol, is the most fun thing. You want to understand the depths and heights of humanity? Read an idea or a retelling of one thing. To reach it you first must die and rebirth yourself. You can reach enlightenment, find a ruined world to build yourself, become enriched in a horrid, passionate love. Or, you can drink. Madds Mikkelson, portraying 'Martin' The terrible thing is that maybe our greatest selves can only emerge in this altered state. Maybe some of us aren’t meant to be pure. Maybe as we grow old recapturing past selves is all we can do, all we should do. But mostly it’s not. Mostly it’s futile and stupid. Mostly you end up making a fool at the supermarket, mostly, always, it is a lie (or if you're mads mikkelsen, you end up looking totally hot while your friend plays the piano half-naked in a dive bar. mostly it’s a lot of fun, too.) As seen with the philosopher, the greed can and will kill you. But not directly. That would be too kind. It kills everyone around you and it wears your face to bear its shame. A rotten thing you know.  Magnus Millang in the role of 'Nikolaj' The musician plays naked, the gym teacher steals, and the philosopher cheats at games. Martin trust falls into a crowd of strangers- this is his oblivion. Earnest faith in others. Martins rock bottom being carried inside by his son- once more, his vulnerability (both psysical, in his injury) and emotional, in their knowledge of his devotion to alcohol. And his knowledge that everything wrong with him can never be fixed this way. And it never will. We get one shot of everyone- battered, cold, cloaked in shadow as the experiment comes to a grand close.  From left to right, Lars Ranthe, Mads Mikkelsen, Magnus Millang, Thomas Bo Larsen  The thing of it is though, sometimes alcohol does make us better. It makes us nicer. Easier. Louder. It allows ultimate ease at the cost of ultimate confidence, and mostly that is good. And I am no preacher of moderation- perhaps reckless indulgence is the only way to assure balance of personal failures and triumphs, if only in extreme pendulums of rotten behaviour. Maybe we should look at each ebb and flow as individual- good things and bad things in the end are really only instances of emotion. In no way must they be compared or combined into a dull glaze over ones time.  Mads Mikkelsen, pictured center All in all, Druk portrays an inticing, nuanced tale of cultural alcholism, aging, and reinventions of the self. With each passing day, I become more grateful for the films creation.   0 Comments

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12/08/2020 06:09 PM  god the holy father a dumb little poem i wrote about hamlet and fate and humanity  The world of the tragic hero is a carefully constructed cage. You can thrash and cry and philosophize and pray and try and try to get it right. But we know its useless. The tragedy of the hero is not himself- it is his narrative. His fate is sealed to his skin. Trying to break free only bears the bond to bone; careful, there’s blood on the floor. Careful, there’s sweat on your back. Careful, son of son of god, it’ll all be over soon. Close your eyes, honey. Try not to think about the cracks in the skull. Try not to think of the swan sing song-ing angels. Try not to think of burning. Try not to think of drowning. Remember- this is bigger than you’ll ever be. Remember, Michael was a holy weapon. Remember, a weapon is forged in fire. Remember that it breaks eventually. Michael never had a mother. Remember you are born in sin. Remember how god washed the earth clean, all those, all those years ago? Remember? You were there, too. Remember drowning? Remember the oak-dust-stained behemoth? Remember how it passed you by? Remember the salt, creeping into your lungs and veins and backs of eyes and pits of stomachs? Remember how it tasted like violence? Remember how the dirt was lifted from beneath your fingernails? Remember how softly, wholly, purely it burned? That’s it. The glowing grace of god- as close as you’ll ever come. Remember how Michael did his job- he didn’t live to the end, but he wasn’t ever born. Remember the peace before life? Before sin? Before pain? Go back. Go back. You have to get back. Claw your way from hell, if heaven will not pull you up you will drag it back to earth, arms torn from tendons blue-black bruised and ragged red, white clouds curled atop the dust of a thousand thoughtless atoms, halos circling the fresh turned earth spread over milk-stained remains of rusted looking-glasses, harps plucking tales of gods and devils tune carried corner to tip by heaving sighs howled by our holy Mother Mary, careful, son. There’s blood on your hands.   0 Comments

12/03/2020 01:28 PM  hiding in the school bathroom watching twin peaks Current mood:  angsty yever get so f***in angry u feel yrself falling apart like yr skins shredding n yr spurting blood n yr brains buzzin like a million mad bees. i scribbled some swears under the school sink 2 get it out but now i'm just empty n sad. everything's f***ed yknow n i feel lonely as sh*t  1 Comments

11/01/2020 12:57 PM  31 days of horror: day 26 day 26: the last house on massacre street/the house that cried murder/the bride dir jean-marie pelisse 7/10 available free here i just think its neat! its basically just a bitch x wife haunting her a**hole ex husband. some cool costumes n cool shots n some of the dream sequences were actually kinda nightmarish and terrifying (tho the blurry quality n sh*t sound helps the scares seem more surreal) but this movies best played in the background while yr doin some other sh*t   0 Comments

11/01/2020 02:09 PM  31 days of horror: day 25 day 25: thoroughbreds dir corey finley 9/10 available free on seriesonline.io the inherit homoerotiocism of wiping blood on your best friends cheek and laying on her lap n holding her hand while u frame her for murder 0 Comments

11/01/2020 01:42 PM  31 days of horror: day 24 (poster by matt talbot) day 24: jennifers body dir karyn kusama 11/10 available free on seriesonline.io . yeah ig u could say i like this movie a regular amount.  anway jennfier check can jennifer body check me into the next universe 0 Comments

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