Laura Palmer has doe eyes, and when she meets the big bad wolf, her pupils dilate, her eyelids flutter and they fill with tears. Is that what love is? She surrounds herself with coloured light, distorting the true face of God, because we cannot look into the eyes of Our Father without losing hold of what he really is.

I don’t remember what happened yesterday, and I couldn’t make sense of it if I did, but I do know how I felt. Feelings are even more elusive than events, but they are my own, and they are contained. Where will I spend my last hours? Will you remember me in the morning?

She asked how she even got into bed last night, and I didn’t know how to answer. I’m not ashamed of what happened, but I’d rather not talk about it. I don’t remember you being so soft and vulnerable, even though you were so bold last night. We can be one, but you can never be me.

Where was I? Oh right, there was a dream, and you were there, and you were there, and you were there. It was quiet, and yet everyone was speaking very strangely. All through our life we are walking through the valley of death, and its shadow is continually upon us. Of all my commentaries there is but one that agrees with me, but that makes no difference.

The man cracks a smile and leers. He revolts me, but I fear the day when he no longer looks at me as though I am all his, and nothing is coming between us, not even clothes.

Kiss me one last time, I need your breath inside of me.

Comparing an experience with great art with a religious experience is old hat and perhaps inappropriate. As someone with no formal education or connection to religion, my use of the statement seems ignorant, if not outright hypocritical. I’ve never had a profound experience relating to religion or theology, any profundity I’ve felt in my life has been through art. Therefore, any religious experience I would have, could only logically be equated with an artistic experience.

We cannot be shaped by who we want to be, we can only be measured by how we accept change. Do we lack the capacity to form and shape what comes? No, we have some power, but part of that power is our ability to accept that we have no control.

It’s impossible to measure the value of our actions, there are an infinite number of outcome to an infinite number of possibilities. Or is there? Some things are most certainly impossibilities, there are moments, things and situations that could never occur no matter what series of events take place. And then, despite the number of infinites involved, there is still only one definite reality (some might argue this). The infinite alternatives are theoritical, and inherently impossible. There is a limit to our existence, and yet, our greatest struggle is accepting this as a truism.

If we have no control over the future, how can we believe to have control over the past?

The beauty of Kieslowski is inspiring the awe in the intangible. Sometimes the unknown or something beyond us can inspire a sort of feeling of belittling, like we are nothing in a world that continues to spiral out of control, as everything drifts further and further apart. Kieslowski’s use of light, colour and music… things that feel very real, but that you can never hold onto.

You can’t hold onto a kiss. It’s real, you feel it, but it’s not something you can hold in your hand like you would an apple or a book.

I wish I were a poet and could evoke that feeling through words. I think we underestimate how much like music poetry can be. Great poetry is like great music, it is just as powerful and just as elusive.

Why is there such peace in Blue? Even at it’s most angry and heart wrenching, it feels like a trance… a dream. Like the softest kiss, the softest touch. Something that is barely there, something you cannot touch, cannot hold, but is everything. What is love?

Breezy (Clint Eastwood, 1973)

Was this the face that launched a thousand ships, and burnt the topless towers of Ileum?

-Christopher Marlowe

What can I say, I’m bored tonight. I take requests, though I might not get to them until tomorrow.

# Films Seen: 11

It’s difficult to describe the true effect of a film where so little happens. On paper it’s a film that’s been pitched and seen a thousand times over, as two cars race across the country for pride, honor and the other’s car. Neither party seems particularly involved in the race though, and their obsession with cars seems to be a replacement or a metaphor for something… they seem to speak and live according to a private language and code that is seemingly impenetrable.

The film does not emphasize the rush of their lifestyle. It’s appeal is largely due to the high of laying life on the edge. The nameless characters are constantly pushing their cars harder, trying to get faster, further, and better. That being said, the filmmaking is so understated and the characters so private, that the audience is never allowed to feel the excitement of the open road.

What is the appeal of the film? It lies in brief moments of great emotion. Contrasting against the three young people in the old Chevy, there is the larger than life Warren Oates who seems to have a different story about who he is for every day of the year. He chews scenery like few others, but he is perhaps the most tragic of the characters. There is an incredible desperation in his actions and voice, and I’d argue he is one of the truly tragic characters of cinema. What is he searching for? What is he running from? We never know, but we feel the anguish and suffering boiling under the surface. His attempt at winning over the young and quiet girl who rides with the other two men is especially marking. She looks young, too young in fact… and yet there is nothing nefarious or creepy about his apparent advances, perhaps because we never trust him to act out his fantasies and desires. He exists only through his words, his actions are meaningless and completely non-aggressive.

She is the center of everything, and easily the most elusive. The film, more or less, begins when she sits in the back of a Chevy and they drive away with her. She is the eternal drifter, any relationships she builds with the people she rides with are somehow completely shallow and naive. Yet, this is why they are so beautiful and pure. We can often know strangers more deeply and passionately than people we have known for our whole lives, see and live with everyday. The anonymity allows for more freedom, though it also robs us of the comfort of knowing someone and having them know you.

She is a blank slate, an image of innocence and trust. You can love her and she will love you back, even if it means nothing. Even if you get involved, she never will, but you’ll be able to have her and memories of her for a moment in eternity.

Three favourite moments;

James Taylor comes back to his hotel, hears the girl and the mechanic making love. He sits outside, waiting for them to finish. It’s so quiet, impersonal and even sad… for all of them.

The scene where they set up the race. They’ve all stopped at a gas station, and the girl sits in Oates’ car. She plays a cassette of Me and Bobby McGee. You can really feel how much he wants her.

The mechanic tries to teach the girl how to drive. Their hands meet on the gear stick. They play with each other’s fingers, and she asks if he’s playing a game. “Maybe”

Gilles Graton

Believe it or not, there was a time in my life that I hoped to make a career of designing goalie masks. It was never meant to be, but I still appreciate the artistry and personalization involved. It is one of the appeals of hockey for me, a sport that I feel is founded by personality and grit. I’m not the fan I once was, but there is something brutally exciting about a good hockey game, and it always reminds me of a time when I hoped to be somehow involved in capturing that energy through art in some way. Time changes us though. Hmm.