"As a European in the movie industry," writes actor W. Morgan Sheppard, "I've learned to think in terms of questions (as in European films) rather than in terms of answers (as in American films). That's why I love this quote from the play 'Marat-Sade,' which I use when I'm teaching acting: 'For me the last word cannot ever be spoken. I am always left with a question that is open.'"

Labels: passages

Labels: film, jargon, notes, theory

Today, seemingly ordinary, harmless, still and complaisant objects seek their revenge, after lifetimes of indolence: a window rams down on my fingers, a chair runs corner first into my tibia, white walls fall where my memory used to be and alien material pokes my humerus.

Danger lurks everywhere.

Labels: alarming truthness, festival, suspicious activity here

The truth is, I didn’t want to see you. Remember, silence? The key to the kingdom, isn’t it? It lets me go where I want to. It gives me the liberty to build my own city of nests. Meeting you was a chainsaw against a bark. Your cold metal against my mossback rings. Nobody was there, not you or I, to hear the pretty picture fall.

The camera in the face. How is it done, so mechanically and so quietly? Burned. That is what you smell, the ashes of a cage that I took care of burning when midnight fell upon our feet. Did you notice the sign language? The fingers I held up? (It was a white flag.) At that moment, you thought nothing of it, or maybe you thought of the awkwardness... But we maintained the play properly and stoically. Who wouldn’t be the one who gives up? This play, which started before we met, with actors who portray us all. Who act what they are afraid to live on their own. Who sing the words they could not say alone. Who wouldn’t be the one who gives up...

A lover once confessed to me that he believed that I was the muse in “this song” and asked me if I knew the one who wrote it. I don’t know if it was jealousy that pushed him to see me in that light but I answered him “I don’t know anything about this person.” and thought to myself “What a cruel thing to say.”

Labels: confession

Part one:

Sweet room temperature wind... walking around the port today, going to visit the key master, I put one foot in front of the other. Without sunglasses, I thought of this last day of summer like the beginning of a new year. A new cycle with more ideas to tend to.

I also spent some time outside on the weekend. But most of it was spent in my living room, with my keyboard, my mic and this computer. I started working on what was to be a very short film, but after four hours, my computer froze and I was left with only 33 seconds of edited footage.

I will have to archive most of my folders and remove some programs (like Myst4) in order to give it another try.

Sunday breakfast with friends was nice, as always. There were stories to tell, one that included a thief that chooses to steal some weird ikea-like deco art (a white ceramic fist) instead of a dvd-player. We talked about my trip... I don't know if I will end up going. All this "plan ahead" business is giving me stomach aches. We also talked about my ability to step into someone else's state of being and articulate their feelings with words. (Look up sweetheart. (Header) If you weren't there, I wouldn't be here.)



I saw this movie friday. I want to see it again. Here is my favourite scene. ( I actually recorded it so I could listen to it on the bus tomorrow morning...)

Labels: conversations, film, folk, video

now i know
who you are
a stick in the mud
no
i know who
a firecracker
a burning bush
a raging leaf

and this corner
my covered desk
the candlestick
yes
the silent wick
the spark and flame
is gone
and i am set

Labels: artform

Strange Orange:

Filles-fleurs étrusques
soleils-éclatements
fruits de mer, herbes, grêles
de l'orange
de l'orange
du rock, un crabe, du pop'
elle n'arrête pas de travailler
pythonisse industrieuse
le scandale effarant du village-clinique
un sourire en écharpe sur un mal d'être incurable
qui lui donne cette beauté déchirée qui déchire
et rassure
à l'image
de la mitraille géologique étoilée
qu'elle plaque facile sur la laque
mais fallait le faire
le faire
bel oiseau noir
et femme du manuscrit trouvé à Saragosse
faite de vieille terre et de brumes de Pologne
et de canicule mexicaine
de Paris et de la Californie
et de tant de Haut Sauterne
le délire allègre
l'ironie et les larmes en un même clin d'oeil de lune
à boire une terre plus promise jamais
la radio fonctionne même toute la nuit
dans le petit bungalow de la rue Olive
perché haut sur l'océan
bathyscaphe qu'elle remue d'étranges grouillements
une tendresse dingue
moulée
au long du long d'un rock qui fouille nerfs et tripes
ces éclats vertiges de guitatre électrique au coeur
des Beatles des Rolling Stones
du Paul Butterfield Blues Band du Jefferson Airplane
surrealistic pillow
le sommeil ce que vive?
et elle m'a fait un portrait The Doors
dans
de l'orange
de l'orange
couleur d'un perpétuel mourir
où nous échangeons d'étranges oranges d'étrangers
complices d'un exil à jamais
la Stellouchka mon hirondelle-tournesol
au long du Buffalo Springfield et de Country Joe & the Fish
et des Fugs et de l'Hour Glass
demain elle prendra un amant
et j'attendrai au No Name Bar
qu'elle surgisse une nuit
hurlée-hurlante de solitude
et trop d'alcool
et nous rêverons ensemble
de bicyclettes
de l'orange
de l'orange
Mamas and Papas et Mothers of Invention
ce qui est assez parfaitement merveilleux
pour un peu de tendresse être sentimental
quand le cirque fatigue puisque sans surprises
et se le dire en graffiti
Haut Sauterne "Strange days" tu sais de l'orange
as we run from the day
to a strange night of stone
et peut-être je dis mal cet accord bel
mais peut-être sont-ce les autres qui ne savent plus leur âme
brutes hystériques et petits épiciers des mensonges
acharnés à se désincarner
et le bungalow de la rue Olive
la Stellouchka mon hirondelle-tournesol
l'orange
l'orange
je le dis comme Godard dit comprenne qui voudra
comprenne qui
voudra

c'était le dit
d'un paradis
artificiel
un coin de ciel
mais moi j'y crois
folk-rock à moi
car tendresse jamais
n'abîmera le vrai

Haut Sauterne "Strange days" tu sais de l'orange...

Patrick Straram, poème extrait de la revue Les Herbes Rouges #2

Labels: jargon, passages

In honor of www.inrainbows.com, I will be replying to all my emails with appropriate Radiohead song titles as the subject line.

Labels: music

Ricky is a young man living in Montreal. He has dark hair and eyes, is thin and likes to drink coffee. I met Ricky today, for the first time. We met at a coffee shop. Two strangers, face to face.

A week ago or so, I sent out a message in a bottle, asking for a genie. Well he appeared when summoned and granted me one wish. Or was it a vision? This is part of what he wrote, some lines in the sand:

She is a beautiful soul like me. A keen observer of the world and our habits. An adventurer who understands that we must peer outside to really know what the temperature is like inside. His bloodstream is filled with nicotine and caffeine as mine is. I do it to cope with the terrors in my head. I can't say for sure if she feels the same. I drew a map of our conversation and future conversations to be had, locations on the map included the phrase "we are semi-automatic"a question mark, the internet, coffee shops to discuss more, and courage. Lots of squiggly lines connecting these things. There was much laughter breathed onto this map, and like a raincloud, it hovers over it and makes me smile to look over.

We discussed the internet, decided we love it and need to have a talk with the internet to help it improve itself. Its becoming slightly arrogant and needs a reality check. We discussed people and automatic responses and our laziness and fears. We talked about courage and what it is? She said we lack balls. I agree. I said its a courageous act to travel to the unknown. She asked if a soldier is courageous. I thought of my dad and moving to Canada with little money to start a new life with two young children and his courage to do so.

I start my own adventures. The rest, what happens next, I swear I could not invent it any better myself, if I was handed that control.

Read Ricky's journal entry here.

Labels: conversations, experiment, theory, titles

Dear Charlie,

Thank you for your letter. I love to wake up in the afternoon, roam around the house with my coffee mug and find a white envelope with my name on it at my slippers.

After placing it on my desk, I opened my office window to hear the wet sound of cars ride by between the bird conversations. It’s a calm grey day here, with a wind that would go unnoticed if you didn't take the time to look at the tall trees.

It was good to hear that you are back from your boredom. I must admit, all the stories about your dog trying to play Shakespeare was not all that interesting to me either. Speaking of animals... that reminds me that I must get some cat food before five. I will have to somehow get dressed and go outside in the mist. The eyes will be peeping comfortably from their cushioned seats behind their colorful blinds instead of watching me from their stoop, to my delight.

Have you ever thought about how, we as recluses, when we decide to go out we go out with a bang? You to London, I to Fes. When socially agile people go out on a regular basis, they go out with nothing more than a whimper of a reunion call to their local brewery. Do you ever think about going back, Charlie? The only letter you sent to me from London is still neatly placed above the others in the box, near the ceiling fan. It is probably the shortest letter I’ve received from you yet it is, I think, the one that says it all. Just one loud bang.

Well my heart is ticking, I have to care for something.

Labels: Dear Charlie

How will I see everything I want to see?
I don't know if there is another city that has as many festivals as Montreal does, for music, theatre, dance, circuses, comedy, fireworks... just to name a few. I was without a doubt going to see Matthew Good play next week, but today, I was thinking I might need to review the events calendar. Which is a thought that has never, ever, crossed my mind before. I also wanted to visit Central Park near the end of the month (maybe catch Day for Night) but with everything that is going on, I don't know if I'll have the time, energy or money to do it all. Not to mention what's already on the table... I may need some kind of stunt double, if anyone is interested. New item on the menu is the 36th nouveau cinema festival which will premier Jean Leclerc's Ice Cream. True to his art form, it's a film he wanted to produce his way, on his shoulder, free from "uncles and aunts" and, I assume, sticking to his own gunpoint vision. I would also like to see Anton Corbjin's first feature film Control and Ben Vandoorne's Incha Allah... If Neptune wills it.	Photo by Antoine Rouleau.
Related: The World's Biggest Shortest Film The 1 Second Film, a non-profit collaboration Withoutabox Free from restrictive distribution channels Cinéma Beaubien Vidéo Beaubien Cinéma du Parc

Labels: festival, film, montreal

My ribs hurt.

Labels: sun kil moon

P. says:

it's like, going up in an elevator.. it's the moment when the elevator is about to stop and your heart kind of hangs in mid air for a few seconds.. the 3 seconds after that line, that’s what it sounds like, a short peak i guess.

...she tries to speak musical.

How every mouth sings of what it’s without so we all sing of love and how it ain’t one dog who’s good at fucking and denying who he’s thinking of

Labels: book, passages