occam

S O N

La vie nouvelle reflects me, parts of me, plain violent intelligent male cinema. I let go, i look at the reflection, put myself into it and let it go. Intense, as i like it.  Short deep breath, scene by scene, feeling it all, but not understanding any word, any story. The memory of joy as flickering strobe on fast forward, not being able to hold it, out of reach. Seconds of joy vs. the constant tone of obsession. Its over, french end-titles, S O N, short deep breath, i get up, my heart is pumping, taking the fire out in the open, in the silence and freedom of these days, senses on maximum. Every bit of music takes me with it. Standing on the roof in the storm and attracting the wind like a magnet from all sides. Reflection feedback loop. Shower, hot, cold. cold. Routine, this place, my known cave, blind automatic movements, keeping the intense, in focus. Plain raw me.

This strength. intense, drives me. If we love i bite and claw you to me, get you so close to feel it all. If you are sick, i will hold your head and let it go, giving you the breath back, the peace, calm, against the pain. It always helped my mother. Senses. Its not my myth or science, not my believe but my being.

Don’t ask me to relax. Don’t ask why i am always so serious, controlled, calm and watching. Don’t ask, you can not take the answer. You can not take me like this, you can not take my question about the ground you are standing on. How real are you? Tell me? How true can you be to yourself? How true can you be about your mistakes and fake useless values. Show me the strength of your religion, how many questions can it take? One?

What is the root of your culture. How much do you know about it? Who was the first to marry? Who made the music? Would you stand behind it? Would you defend it? Its not yours. Yours is the Television, your choice of products.

Can you take the contradictions of this world? Can you divine them. What is it? Too many roads? Cant you decide? I am not talking about overcrowded roads. You are stuck in fear of change. Get off the roads.

No, its not strength, don’t tell me i am violent. You just don’t want to feel me.

Ohne Worte / Without words

You might notice, i don’t often write here. But these last two postings, described perfectly well, a situation i wanted to share. Me swinging under a tree, with the feeling of “not being around”. Thats how mario oucci described that moment. Yesterday i woke up and was in that state, went out in that state, walked around, hardly able to grasp anything. Thats what came to mind, that photo.

That sort of connection, its very common with many of the bits, pieces and findings i collect here. They reflect a feeling, something words can hardly describe. It often takes a hole movie, song, moment, expression.

And so is San tiao ren (1999) aka “Away with words” still my favorite movie. Because it also deals with words and languages, but also communicates a feeling i can only name “global” and “modern”. And those two words don’t describe it at all.

But i can’t, i can’t find the right words for it. Not for you, not without knowing you, not without knowing your background, your culture, your way of talking, your opinions.

So words end up being a connection for me, “tags”, a point of orientation. Words that are common, so everyone is able to understand them.

obsession

How sad your heart can be if you have to give up a dream. Or was it wishful thinking, illusion? It became a obsession. And i decided to stop it, to start again, to get away, at the top of it, when the  longing went over the edge.

Without asking questions, that would lead into a dead end anyway. Without getting answers, that you would not believe anyway. Because you trust your senses more then the spoken words. And so it keeps being a obsession you carry around, avoiding to feed it, to trigger it.

Three years ago i wanted the freedom i have now, after brazil, the need of feeling new skin. Where is that now? All buried down under the obsession? under this sad heart?

from blog import text

Copy / pasted some posts from a old blog. Check out the occam tag for all my writings. Also, got occ.4m.ru from freedns for this site, but dunno how stable that address will be. Just stick with http://occ4m.tumblr.com/.

the cemetery and the second hand store

you get used to so many things. walls around cemeterys for example, only in the city of course, since here it is all crammed, house by house, cemetery by second hand store.

would you like to be buried here? you can find good books in the store, a diplom work about gender studies, sorted in between the art books because of the cover. culture, sex, gender.

you learn to ignore, to accept it as it is. does it still serve the purpose? is this a spiritual place? the only personal thing we had at the funeral of my grandpa was my sister singing. she was the strongest person on earth at that moment. And anything else, the speak with errors of somebody i have never seen before, a ritual where i only feel distance.

But you have no choice. You don’t do it by yourself, you dont stay in the hospital until he died, you dont wait until you got the feeling that everything is gone, and if it takes days. You dont build a new bed, you buy a coffin, you dont dig the hole, you pay the helpers, you dont speak, you just listen and cry, you dont prepare him, you just come and sit, and walk and shake hands and you go away. Distance by rules and money. would you like to be buried here?

bike

It was the first sunny sunday since weeks, everyone was one the streets and walking on the waterside of the river. After the arcades comes a row of banks and the entry to a tunnel, to pass the wide and busy street.

A old woman stands up from one of the banks, slowly, she waits there for a second, watching nowhere and walks away leaving a open box on the bank. Everbody is relaxed, happy about the sun, but she walks slow, knowing every step, looking down, and not looking back.

It is around 1am, a old homeless man comes out of the tunnel, packed with 4-6 plastic bags. A white long beard. He sits down beside the box, the bags placed all around him. In the box a closed plastic pot, two round breads and more stuff wrapped into paper. No cutleryor or dishes. He starts eating while she walks away.

Thats his bike, it was parked on the other side of the tunnel, in a not so busy alley.