Tiananmen Square 2003 - by Yin Zhaoyang

Published on 09/08/07 at 08:21:52 am using 409 words.

Tiananmen Square 2003 - Yin Zhaoyang

I saw this on a sad Friday. The kind of Friday you want to share with someone who can hold you up because you don’t feel up to the task yourself. I spent it alone and found out I was. I walked into the exhibit expecting China. Fitting… Expecting to feel like I had crossed oceans, longing to feel like I had emerged from the last one dripping and renewed… clean. But found more. That is, more and less. We’re always in for something slightly different than what we expected. Different and the same. I went all the way around the world to a piece of China to find a painting that reminded me of a German movie… and of me… and of something I once read from a Polish director…

…a film about things on a macro scale, on a global scale. That doesn’t interest me in the least because I don’t believe societies exist. I think that there simply are, I don’t know, 60 million individual French or 40 million individual Poles or 65 million individual British. That’s what counts. They’re individual people.

(Kieslowski on Kieslowski)


I expected to see China and I saw people instead. Different. The same. I went in expecting art and found a mirror, inspiration, words I would’ve otherwise never used. Less. More.

The opening sequence of Run Lola Run…
Those blurry images of people, far too many people aggregated - the blurriness making it hard to focus on any one. A hazy day, clouds hovering above, a hazy confluence of hazy souls and their obedient shadows. They might as well have been standing on ice or walking on ice. Thin ice. Their existence, each individual existence so rife with uncertainty, so insignificant, so delible. A seemingly handmade blurriness to each and every figure. Two strokes is all it takes, I’d be willing to bet. Two fingers on the canvas while the paint is not yet dry. Left, right - and the haziness is there.
As though a mere breeze could sweep them off their feet and then away.
It so often does…
As though the mildest draft could make them dissipate.
Them… Us.

We shall not cease from exploration
And the end of all our exploring
will be to arrive where we started
And know the place for the first time.


Opening sequence of Run Lola Run

Opening sequence of Run Lola Run

Black & White images, no words

Published by Iris in Bubbledom ~, Miscellaneous,
Published on 09/07/07 at 10:09:28 pm using 255 words.

This is a period of estrangement from words. Not because the words are unwanted. Just unavailable. Made unhelpful precisely by how much more we need them. Part of it is the laziness that sets in at the thought of how much more there is to think and say and write on all of this every day that goes by. This is a period I’ll instinctively turn to the images in my head with more enthusiasm. The black and white shots I’d love to take of us. To keep us timeless. Older than we are now. And younger than we’ll be in no time at all. All possible images. The startled faces, the sleepy eyes, the rolling eyes, the sighs, the hungry looks, the smiles, the chuckles (the image that goes with the sound I love), the life in us. The one that brims and overflows and refuses to be contained. I dream of black and white shots that’ll look beyond your pinkness* and my blueness to find that which is not altered by color. The essence of what came to be what we are today, everything that conspired to make these two boats cross paths in the middle of the ocean and gravitate towards each other. Everything we are, were and may come to be.

*(Sorry, baby…)

Currently shattering window panes with a rendition of…
Damien Rice - Sleep don’t weep/9

A 'Long' List

Published by Iris in Bubbledom ~, Miscellaneous,
Published on 09/03/07 at 08:37:01 am using 461 words.

How to explain this? How does this happen? It feels so singular it’s hard to imagine it happens elsewhere, to other people… but we know it does. Like snowflakes or fingerprints… it might happen…. but not exactly the same. I long for you, long to know you, long to hear you, long to touch you, long to laugh with you, long to smile with you, long to see the look on your face when I show you the story of our hug that someone we don’t know came up with, long to pet your head, long to kiss your forehead, long to hug you from behind, long to rub your shoulders when you’re tired, long to drink passion fruit juice with you and taste it on your lips, long to draw you a hot bath after a long day’s work, long to cook dinner together, long to eat dinner together with a candle between us, long to make you breakfast in bed when you’re feeling sick, long to make you breakfast in bed when you’re not feeling sick, long to drink from our mugs EU & VC, long to show you all the places I walked by and spent time in thinking of you, long to hold you in my arms, long to show you all the places I haven’t seen since I was little that now I refuse to see again without you, long to caress your fingers, long to eat weird combinations of self service dishes with you… drink weird combinations of juice with you and feel weird all around, long to have you rest your head on my shoulder, long to see you in one of my classes even though you don’t need my humble services… long to show you the town where I grew up, long to go for walks with you, long to blush and feel nervous and ‘feel your eyes on me when I look away,’ and know that when you look back all you’ll see is such deep admiration in them, long to look into your eyes for so long we both melt, long to show you all the things about me no one knows, everything, everything… I long to see the day when we look at this paragraph and are no longer able to tell who wrote what or to see where one stops and the other begins. I want you to be the one who knows me like nobody else in the world knows me… I want to give you that.

Our Mugs


Currently shattering window panes with a rendition of…
Legião Urbana - Eduardo e Mônica/Dois

Happiness (The Hours)

Published on 09/02/07 at 05:11:44 pm using 102 words.

I remember one morning getting up at dawn… there was such a sense of possibility. You know? That feeling? And I remember thinking to myself: so this is the beginning of happiness. This is where it starts. And of course there’ll always be more. It never occurred to me. It wasn’t the beginning. It was happiness. It was the moment. Right then.

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Published by Iris in Memory Lane, Places,
Published on 08/30/07 at 09:51:00 pm using 207 words.

Places keep us. Little pieces of us or great big chunks of us, I don’t really know… maybe clones of us in underdeveloped stages, parts we may not even miss. But they do keep us. When you find yourself in a place that has kept you, everything comes rushing back. You discover reciprocity. You discover having kept it in the smallest drawer, in the best kept of hiding places. And there’s such a sense of belonging, of history that comes with it; of a clear itinerary, stretching behind you all the way to the onset of memory, that links you to you, bypassing time. You get a sense of connected dots, of a jigsaw puzzle bestowed with a newly found piece. There’s a glint of wonder in your eyes as you look up and around such a place. There’s a rush of memories that comes flooding back after having been bullied into displacement, into misplacement for so very long. The memories come flooding back like unruly children from recess. You can’t help but smile at seeing them bounce off the walls.

Thanks for the ‘botw’, Stewart!

How do we keep the experience?

Published by Iris in Inspired by, Movies, Random Thoughts, People,
Published on 08/29/07 at 02:05:00 pm using 632 words.

I’m starting to feel ridiculous.

I hate that feeling. I hate the involuntary act of looking back and feeling ridiculous - of second guessing something that once felt right. It reminds me of something I read on a Michael Ondaatje novel – his take on remorse: “A strange word. It suggests a turning around on yourself.”

The last scene of Six Degrees of Separation always gets to me, precisely because I’m inclined to indulge remorse. Like Ouisa Kittredge, I ask myself more often than I’d like, “How do we keep what happens to us? How do we fit it into life without turning it into an anecdote? (…) It was an experience! How do we keep the experience?” There’s something so desperate and so noble about her wanting to hold on to what she feels. Desperate because everything we feel seems so fragile, fleeting and precarious. Noble because in this day and age it’s just so rare for someone to consider a feeling a treasure to be kept and fought for and protected from the merciless hands of time. A feeling shouldn’t be fated to either vanish or be the object of remorse. It should remain the feeling it once was, merely transported from reality to the old memory bank. That would be infinitely more dignified.

How do we keep what happens to us? How do we keep the experience?

(Originally written on March 16, 2007)

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Published on 08/29/07 at 09:56:00 am using 292 words.

It’s somewhere between dark and light now. Literally. Figuratively. I was asleep for three hours. Been awake for half, sober and lucid for five or six after having spiked my own tea - an extra drop every day, the dose increasing steadily - for something like five months.

It seems to me not much can be accomplished without contact with the ground. If you think about it, most everything requires contact with the ground as all things are subject to gravity. But all of us children (little children that we are…) insist on dreaming of becoming astronauts.

I both see the appeal and don’t.

There’s something mesmerizing in the notion of floating in space… flying in a way, something infinitely enticing in the freedom it seemingly affords. The power, the superiority of seeing everything bolted to the ground, trapped around you while you yourself manage to find a way to roam free, unemcumbered.

But the opposite can be equally mesmerizing… Learning to live with your limitations and just settle into the role of observer. A mesmerized observer. Feet planted on the ground, very much in control of contact - observing as every object in sight ‘enjoys’ zero gravity - no longer deluded by its visual appeal.

I feel fully awake here, between the darkness and the light. I feel awake to the fact that I’ve come a long way. I’ve gone from expecting to hoping to waiting. In my dictionary, they’re all the same word…

… such is the character of that morrow which mere lapse of time can never make to dawn. The light which puts out our eyes is darkness to us. Only that day dawns to which we are awake. There is more day to dawn. The sun is but a morning star.


Little Things (Before Sunset)

Published by Iris in Memorable Scenes, Little Things,
Published on 08/24/07 at 07:47:00 pm using 389 words.

Jesse: You know, I think that book that I wrote, in a way, was like building something. So that I wouldn’t forget the details of the time that we spent together. You know, like just a reminder that… that once we really did meet, you know, that this was real, this happened.

Celine: I’m happy you’re saying that. Because… I mean, I always feel like a freak because I’m never able to move on like… this, you know? People just have an affair, or even… entire relationships… They break up and they forget. They move on like they would have changed brand of cereals. I feel I was never able to forget anyone I’ve been with. Because each person had their own… specific qualities. You can never replace anyone. What is lost is lost. Each relationship, when it ends, really damages me. I never fully recover. That’s why I’m very careful with getting involved, because… It hurts too much! Even getting laid… I actually don’t do that… I will miss of the person the most mundane things. Like I’m obsessed with little things. Maybe I’m crazy but… when I was a little girl, my mom told me that I was always late for school. One day she followed me to see why… I was looking at chestnuts falling from the trees rolling on the sidewalk, or ants crossing the road… the way a leaf cast a shadow on a tree trunk… little things. I think it’s the same with people. I see in them little details, so specific to each of them, that move me, and that I miss, and… will always miss. You can never replace anyone, because everyone is made of such beautiful specific details. Like I remember the way… your beard has a bit of red in it. And how the sun was making it glow… that morning, right before you left. I remember that, and… I missed it. I’m really crazy, right?

Jesse: Now I know for sure. You wanna know why I wrote that stupid book?

Celine: Why?

Jesse: So that you might come to a reading in Paris, and I could walk up to you and ask: ‘Where the fuck were you?’