Alice wraps herself up in a tune and jumps off the cliff with the fields of rye.
Holden watched on without moving.

what could I have done.

transcripts from the film,'Dans le noir du temps',Jean Luc Godard
a part of 'Aria',1987



'
In the darkness of time
Why is it dark at night?
Perhaps, before, the universe was still your age, and
the skies were shining with this light, but since the
world has got older it is going far away.
And when i look at the sky between the stars, i can see
only what has disappeared.

The last minutes of thinking
I think therefore i am, the game of being is no more the
same as the game of thinking, why?
The feeling i have of existence is still not mine. It's
a reckless feeling, it was born in me but...
Nothing lasts, there has to be some limits in the number
of books, all the throats together, all the spirits
together, and all their production are not worth any pittance.
Because this is the end of everything

The last minutes of memory
The unsuppressible

The last minutes of love
Yes, you are young, in the full of your strength, but i'm
going to die, farewell. I don't want to leave you, i don't
want to get you back, nothing, nothing.
My knees are on the ground already, broken, nobody tells me
about anything, you wounded me and i told you so.
We don't love each other anymore, we never did

The last minutes of silence
What was the number? What was the number?

Too little what one can say, always one has to speak

The last minutes of history

The last minutes of fear
I don't know what's going to come afterwards, i cannot and do
not want to know it. But if this is what i want, if i want
glory, celebrity, if want to be loved by men, i'm not guilty
of desiring this indeed, of desiring only this.

The last minutes of eternity
Live his life

The last minutes of Cinéma

Last vision

Evening, he says. Evening, she says, Evening, they say.
'

Alice will never learn.

'But these wordy coincidents cannot be without incident!'said Alice to the Queen.

this song has a strain,maybe the way he lets his voice sway at the end of the verses,like he's just sat through a conversation which went nowhere and came out to breathe and sat by the street.and lit a cigarette. and it is evening.and he didn't know because he was indoors. and he wonders why he didn't come out earlier.and the birds fly home overhead. a shoal of fish.
he watches them inspite of himself.
beyond the end,is nothing.


.
.
.
more of this sound here.

i was asked yesterday,what it meant to write,but not write everything,
how does one do it.
i had a reply..talk straight.don't spare the detail.
people can't see the absolute anymore.
you are safe if you write from that void,from that truthful void which only bears witness to you.
.
.
i don't know whether to be happy or sad.what solitary lives we live..
but i've never had patience with the tragic in the past,
and can't stand it of myself either
touché camus.
the rebel,maybe
but never fallen.
godard shoots 'socialisme' soon and I couldn't be happier.
lines from 'forever mozart'...
'...knowledge of the possibilty
of representation consoles us,
for being enslaved to life.
knowledge of life
consoles us for the fact that representation
is but shadow.'
'..It's what I like about cinema
a saturation of glorious signs
bathing in their light
of absent explanation.
My master once said,
"I conceive of nothing as infinite,
how can i conceive of anything as infinite."
"Listen,"I said,"imagine a space,and that beyond this space,is more space
and further on there's more and more,
it's never ending."
"why?", asked my master
I was stupefied,
"If it ends",I shouted,"what's beyond it?"
"If it ends,beyond it is nothing",he answered
My master was the only philosopher who was sincere.

viky,sits listening to mozart.
forever mozart.
un film de jean luc godard.

it's back to the goddamn drawing board.

i was just thinking about the day I asked you what your name was..
what a strange day

and if what was written down there were to be a song,it would sound something like this




☝courtesy:sukhbir singh sagoo

yoyo ramble relief

how many paths must I stray away from so I don't have to see you again.
.
you from the attic in the hill with the honey jars, you,of the cocker spaniel dreams,
of the home on the twin hills,of the horses..
.
you in the clothes store trying on the clothes I knew you'd fit just by seeing your photographs, the clothes which would have fit thAt loved one. you were that loved one, and you've never met me,but I knew,I knew you fit better into the frames I was being rammed into..do you know your photographs are still up there?
.
.
and you from the streets of Pune, you of the scrawled on wooden table tops,you of the war time tomb stones,you,you who had no questions.
.
and what about you of the wheat in the football fields,do you know about the film I shot in those same wheat fields?will you ever see it?
and you and you..

I don't mourn you
but you are parts of me still walking solitary ways
how many paths must I stray away from so I don't have to see you again.

month after a shoot and it starts all over again.
the pictures have started connecting in my head
fiction.. a story,this time
it's dusty in the pictures
these ancient silent figures seem to have found their outlet
I seem to only be a facilitator
facilitating with no compulsion
working in automation
drawing on some deep quiet vessels of calm
one step to the next
.
.
slow
.
.but I move

and I can still tell what doesn't fit.