Submitted by diksoz.midi on Fri, 11/29/2013 - 08:58
what exactly is the catholic church? one must either worship or dismiss it as an excuse. an inefficient manufacture of meaning. this imaginary project, a capitalization on mythological text, the accumulation of untaxable wealth cached in opaque accounts, the discretionary spending of enrobed acolytes. an estranged papacy condemning an inequality by which it prospers; publicity stunts in opiate, sly anonymity of ingenuous stooges, and the pulpit tooting its own crucifix, nailing pre-adolescents in subversive declaration to its own doors. god as political immobility, sanctioned aposticism, frost-bitten camaraderie. old and expensive, demonstrating its artefacts, doing their solemnly choreographed marches, inundated with wine and snacks of the flesh. once, in mass, i felt a rush of blood to the head and nearly fainted - it was the devil maybe, or god Himself in debauched masquerade, indubitably a pornographic edifice this cult of men has built around the everything He made and is. a sham, judging man judging himself.
let’s go ahead and set arbitrary deadlines
all i see where the trees are supposed to grow
is bent bottlecaps and butts spent, sent flying
from faithless fingers into the mud “from which
we arose.” but of course they belong there, already
there grows a frenzied piling-on of refuse, the streets
the buildings themselves, the people
objects of consumption.
vatican citadel, original city on the hill (the hill was removed for your convenience). oh, the teeming hordes of worshipers. but wait, what light on yonder columns breaks? it is silent and empty, the mansion of pigeons, ants and cockroaches, rats and mice, bats and lost and hungry seagulls, the wretched of the earth housed in god’s great halls, polished plazas, melted wax, dusty mitres. the sins of the church are cleansed (and greased-up) in the balm of grace.
a monk walks alone in an autumn field. the hems of his robe rustle against the drying grass, the midafternoon sun touches. he picks a dandelion puff, single thoughts, his breath, shedding it to a slight breeze in the still air. later, he takes a drink. the liquor hangs suspended in his chest, behind his solar plexus, shedding itself. his eyes close. he touches the hair of his brows, which is soft and light. he adjusts himself, picks up some worn tome, begins to read. once again his mind wanders into stranger things. at night he pulls his blanket around him close, becomes antediluvian, an ancient fragment of radioactive onyx, he tries to be objective but he has not been programmed for objectivity. the hairs on his head grow longer, and white, until he tilts himself with the earth and shaves them all off at once, in a fit of ecstasy. something formless burgeons on the wasteland of memory, cloaked in fur, and skin, and bone. his bare white fingers when he slips quietly from his chambers to go searching in the night for the pieces of flower in seed tatters, scattered and lost.
“liquidate the catholic church.” deposit numbers & symbols into bank. collect zero dividends. withdraw entire account in large, unmarked bills. buy gasoline, matches. stack benjamins in the courtyard. douse. incendiate protest. take it all permanently out of circulation. then the hospitals begin to fail, close & lock their doors. all equipment sold. repeat incineration. open the doors of the empty buildings, let the masses have their fun. [possibly invest in spraypaint, large quantities.]
This summer was like no other I could imagine. Like so many of these summer films, they revolve around one or two ideas. In this case, a boy walking with a backpack. They are spur of the moment. Many things are not intentionally remembered because we are not trying to be professional, but rather experiment with the action of filmmaking itself. You can almost see the humidity sweat against the lens. The blacks and greens came from a place of deep purple and I was happy. Abraham showed up with his brother after Frank and I decided to post a casting call for a film that we had not written. I walked over to the Studio Theatre on 14th street and posted a call.
I got one call from Abraham, who was happy to come work with us. All I knew was that I wanted to show a character from behind walking. After that the film became easy. Abraham was coming home from school, and runs into this crazy guy. Frank made up all the lines by himself. We shot it in the park near our respective houses.
Perhaps the strangest part of the film is the end. I don't actually know what the two boys are saying. Abraham's mom made his brother come with us. I wanted to look like the boy was lost, but really he was just trying to get to the bus stop. I believe they are Sudanese, but I do not remember.
For two years after this Abraham called me almost once a month asking when we would shoot another movie. I was in school in Massachusetts at the time. I told him I didn't know if I would be coming back to Washington, D.C. Finally he gave up calling me. I lost his number. And then I moved back to D.C. So now....do I call him? Should I shoot another film? I found his number on my computer the other day. He should be about 16 now. Maybe we can shoot a sequel. With Frank as a tired Soldier who never recovered from his fall from the tree.
Submitted by spaceadams on Thu, 10/24/2013 - 17:06
I rose to greet the oncoming train.
I did not wear a hat, for I knew it would be blown off.
I did not leave my briefcase by the bench, nor did I forget my ticket.
I did drink white tea.
I did not anticipate the speed of the train, though neither was it wholly unexpected.
I heard the sound of miles rush by, the glance of travelers from windowpanes.
I felt the cold leather, the rough must of newspapers...
Inches of my eyes cover miles and miles, yet
I did not see the snowstorm rising in the distance,
I did not hear the whistle from the corridor -
the conductor's hands waving; the whistle, again,
a whistle soft like the way rice hums in boiling water,
or the rush when sand is whipped up in a wave
This film was made over the course of two days with the cooperation of everybody involved. However there are no credits at the end. It was found on my Harddrive 3 years after I made it. It was the afternoon of an uneventful summer. I was working in a bar which had a 'taste of jerusalem' that I couldn't get off my tongue. I texted a girl a had a crush on and argued with the cook. I gave the cooks daughter eyes as if to say help me, but she was too busy with her marriage. They all prayed three times a day, the cooks wife was silent.
The film was made with the Adams family and their friends. We had some beer and heard a story of how the boy got his lip cut open. Then I ran around the the older Adams. He is an actor and a professor of defense budgeting at American University. This was before Charlie learned to roar. There was a argument of some sort but I don't remember what it was about. I think the camera was a canon vixia, not really sure what music was in the background.
This is the third draft of the film. Took me three tries to really get it right. First draft was right after I made it. Second draft came a week later. But it never really worked. A couple months later I took a look at the footage again and realized that by ending with the monologue it would give a good ending to the film. In the second draft there was a different opening monologue, but had to be cut and replaced with the shot of the older Adams opening door.
It was always meant to be abstract. There was no intended narrative. It was just meant to be some sort of exercise in excitement on a boring summers day. The lip being cut open actually happened- it made for a good party. Now the older Adams are leaving. There are less chairs in the dining room. Less arguments in the dining room.