The production of my rushed poetry and prose has to an end. Flippant and obviously last minute literature, that is, quite frankly both tiring to read and to produce, can no longer be considered ‘work’. From here I shall not digress the purpose of what I wish to produce and only aim to operate as a window to something with a little ledge to at least lean on in its reverence. My goal here is to achieve something worth looking into as well as finding a securely artistic way in which I may look out onto the world. Every attempt must reflect that of the anatomy of literature. It must include all the working parts whilst taking care of the skin-deep packaging it comes in. It must act as a consummation of my thoughts and others that I have forced myself to become familiar with, and those that I have not. I must create as if I were to be organising a whole new being, the swelling and staving of myself must begin if I am to breed another brain. It must be created separately from the self unlike you or me and it must hold itself up unlike a baby, entirely aged like a newly dimensional being. What it may be capable of under this unnatural summoning, uncanny by manor of truth and disbelief, should articulate the meaning behind the designated spot of loss.
Thoughts which exist and are articulated but not yet apprehended mimic the least various thing known to man: Time and human suffering. These things make up our homes and inside these homes we create our modern cables of communication and they assemble themselves as our new horizons, appearing as the same thing. Underneath these things must lie something else, not just default poetic reason. The self made environment is home to load of self diagnosis, particularly educated in the psychosomatic cover-up. Ironically I must begin this creation despite these things working now. Aside from human suffering, as shown and consolidated through time, what might be residing between the close-knit screams? What might be watching the hurried trains skimming through the cities and stare at the paint as it dries all over the walls all over again? There is a smaller structure beguiled by the even smaller place behind it. Core ideals secrete their own meaning in a frenzy, and while the true face may become disfigured, the skull will remain as enthusiastic as its meagre muscles. Behind your own image lies a million smaller sea of images, and beneath an ocean of fury lies the coolest most forthcoming peace a world could ever know.
My desire to create films has come from this as I understand that I don’t indulge in the solitary space of my brain enough to ever become a writer. My eyes are too fixated on motion and my memory of words as the most devilish of things, always gets me into trouble. What I want to show has now become my freedom.
Sitting in the hospital, I overheard a neighbouring patients bad news about her health. The jokes about ‘eulogies’ and ‘being strong’ has inspired a beautiful thing within me, as I have heard beautiful strength in words despite a time bomb being planted instantaneously into many peoples lives. Lovely sounding, respectable people entered a whirlpool of things I could not even imagine, but became significantly strong in that moment. In the wordy and worldly world, they are indestructible.
It is unfair to listen to strangers as it is unfair to generalise their lives through a simple discussion, however if I could take the physical stuff and crush it away, I would. I can only interpret this, as many do when they receive news and information. Many people are simply interpreters of the physical, even when it’s personal. We read what we see or what we feel but can never truly grab it. Time and suffering ebbs on like we do.
Visual encounters, to me, are face value while words can be labelled thoughts and not augmented from the soul. Coupled together, I feel that a space is created between the lines of even the most complex body language. It would seem that my heart might sink for a person I cannot even see behind a curtain, a word of strength as strong as an invisible villain at play.
Most things physical are a severe blow to the mouth. However, I will always remember that despite the horizon being a huddle of imposing forces that have won, they represent the historical plain of future things. Suffering continues but new horizons are always being sought and created.
On a speedier level, a moving image is faster version of this, I believe, and through whatever these last few weeks has shown me, I wish to show in a way that is as vivid as possible. I wish to re-create all the subtle changes and divisions as they amass more on the eye and the soul. In a very over the top way, I wish to create an extremely alien horizon, where words fail to accommodate its fortitude and the human soul strives to exist. I want to force the brain to question why it’s ever lived anywhere else. Why do we even live anywhere? As we know, the mind is but is almost always on autopilot, and the television seems to watch us watching it, forcing us to forget to watch what could be beyond it. Like words, we have manipulated the visual to strip the immaterial of its scariness and accept it.
I have always wondered that if a mind were able to meet itself, would it tell it everything it needs to know or would it confuse itself with the visual and sabotage the moment with words? Is this what looking at a successful piece of art is like? Being completely dumbfounded and too eager to explain?
On the other hand, could it be similar to knowing a particular fate and smiling anyways. Telling yourself it would be fine, and laughing about it. Whatever the brain can produce, it will often simulate through words. I want to take these exact words (thoughts) and reveal the established flow of information through its powerful means of conquering and concealment.