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Reflections at night when the dark is good and we see further. A short meditation.
Brief Tales on a Whim.
Meditations on the 60th Anniversary of Hiroshima What would the end of the world entail? Do we boast that we can imagine such a thing?
3 short stories. $3
In the apprenticeship period hopes are high.
The manuscripts are under $8.
THE POET OF MY DREAMS[[in the movie theater]]
Ull loved movies, he loved them more than literature. "Oh, literature is old hat, I don't even know why they do it anymore." And then he would explain how the modern brain had been seduced away from language to image and image drove to the center of the brain and didn't need the pause of interpretation. When a spate of sex films would come out he would go to each one, then the theme would change to a science fiction one and he'd go to all of those. Cops and crime came into vogue and he dutifully attended those movies and then would seek people out to analyze what these films were about, what the characters were really about and so on. Now it was super-heroes from comic books when they were kids. "See, what we read and was a flat piece of color, now has fullness and animation because flesh and blood is enacting the story." As long as Batman was on flat panes of paper he was a fantasy. But once he was embodied by an actual human being and enacted among real objects he became real. And Ull would rock back and forth, laughing at the inside jokes of the movie.
We got there early during the week day when no one is in the theater. During the previews he gave me some instructions for how to view the upcoming movie:
"Love or a sense of failure raises the question, "in relation to what?" What braces that sense of love or sense of failure? Who is making the judgment of failure and who is making the judgment that this is love? If it is internal then who or what brought that internal sense into being and what keeps it constant?
"Penetrate the illusion behind this consistent judgment and you are susceptible to many forces, some of them benign and some of them not so benign. Doesn't that describe a problem when all the illusions are down and great susceptibility is opened up? There is great opportunity but great danger as well because in place of the broken illusions may come something far worse, may come something far more treacherous and illusory.
The screen lit up, music played, the first images appeared, a few names. He leaned over and whispered, "There is wonderful pleasure in overcoming personal mythology and overcoming the inherited tensions thrown out of a society you did not make."
[under the campanelli]]
The movie did not deserve its reputation and had wasted millions of dollars to produce. But if not that what? The movie spent millions, it filtered back into the economy. Nothing lost, it was all good. Rather than an art, the film was an economic necessity like professional sports. Where was the problem?
We now arrived on the campus. We had leapt the little creek where the squirrels played and walked up to the wide plaza more in litter than students.
"Power, power, power. If one is not strong look out! If one is not strong! Look out. It is a lot easier to be inhuman, which the world is often about. Ironically, the inhuman which is played out is so insipid, so foolish, and so ultimately weak that it's wiped clean in one generation. It twists this way and that way, gains and loses but it's always wiped clean, captured, twisted, and wiped away again. The problem is with the persistance of the inhuman." Then he saw someone he knew and waved and turned to me. "I need to go now. I had a wonderful day of it. Great movie!"
Go to the From the Start: The Poet of My Dreams
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