This series of pictures was taken during a recent visit Mickey Rourke made to a Russian hospital in order to uplift some of the sick children’s spirits. This sequence is a perfect reminder of the good people can do this holiday season. Sometimes a sequence of photos can hold more then a movie ever could. As each picture progresses a touching heart warming story unfolds, with an ending leaving not even the most callous of eyes dry. Enjoy!
I found these first two books at a used book store recently. The Bergman on Bergman one is amazing. The third is a book on Rainer Werner Fassbinder I have out from the library. The book isn’t amazing, but the cover and title are. I looked up the interviewer from the Bergman book, I’ve read some other interview books by him and his stuff is top notch. It seems he made a Faber and Faber film series book with Lars Von Trier called Trier On Von Trier in 2005. But for some reason its out of print and impossible to find, except used for 100US$ on Amazon.
I can only imagine the things Von Trier has to say. I’m sure it is by his own hand that it is out of print…which only makes me want it more. I need to find this book somehow. I need to find a job. I need to find two Cobras, a Banshee and a Math Horse. Set us free and watch this city burn. And in the words of the world famous Math Horse “I will not be held accountable.”
This new film by Terrence Malick looks so beautiful that it alone will justify the torrential downpours, the high waves and the floods of utter filth that await all major theatres in the new year. As the floods of filth wash ashore our virgin and innocent futures, ever flowing from the mined pits of man. Above, alone, will shine a light that will continue to shine for years to come, leaving the other castrations of the soul in the dark shadows of the vacant minds from whence they came. Every ten years (even though it’s been five) Terrence Malick rises and releases something that comes from a place within instead of from a mirage called a destination that’s warped reality when reached is considered a justification of all that is sane and well. LONG LIVE INSANITY. I can’t wait.
Merry Christmas, here is a rap song by me and the Lord.
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Reading this book of poetry now. Written by the director of Salo.
A Desperate Vitality
Like a sick slave, or a beast,
I wandered through a world assigned to me by fate,
with the slow movement of monsters
that live in mud or dust or in the forest,
crawling on the belly or on flippers ill-suited
for dry land or on membranous wings…
There were embankments all around, and rock beds,
or maybe deserted railway stations in the core of cities
of the dead – with roads and underpasses
of dark night, where all that can be heard
are frightfully distant trains,
and the gurgle of drains circumscribing frost,
in the shadow that has no tomorrow.
And so, as I propelled myself forward like a flaccid worm,
repugnant in its ingenuousness,
something slipped into my soul – as
if on a clear day the sun were to darken;
on the sorrow of the breathless beast
settled yet another, meaner, darker sorrow,
and the world of dreams shattered.
“No one has any demand for your poetry!”
And: “Your time as poet has passed…”
“The fifties have ended for all time in the world!”
“You are fading together with your Ashes Of Gramsci,
and everything that has been life to you hurts you
like an old wound that reopens and brings death!”
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An Excerpt from Mother Night by Kurt Vonnegut.
I have never seen a more sublime demonstration of the totalitarian mind, a mind which might be likened unto a system of gears whose teeth have been filed off at random. Such a snaggle-toothed thought machine, driven by a standard or even a substandard libido, whirls with the jerky, noisy, gaudy pointlessness of a cuckoo clock in Hell.
The boss G-man concluded wrongly that there were no teeth on the gears in the mind of Jones. “you’re completely crazy,” he said.
Jones wasn’t completely crazy. The dismaying thing about the classic totalitarian mind is that any given gear, though mutilated, willl have at its circumference unbroken sequences of teeth that are immaculately maintained, that are exquisitely machined.
Hence the cuckoo clock in Hell – keeping perfect time for eight minutes and thirty-three seconds, jumping ahead fourteen minutes, keeping perfect time for six seconds, jumping ahead two seconds, keeping perfect time for two hours and one second, then jumping ahead a year.
The missing teeth, of course, are simple, obvious truths, truths available and comprehensible even to ten year-olds, in most cases.
The willful filing off of gear teeth, the willful doing without certain obvious pieces of information.
That was how a household as contradictory as one composed of the Nazi leader Jones, The catholic Father Keely, Vice-Bundesfuehrer Krapptauer, and the the Black Fuehrer of Harlem could exist in relative harmony.
That was how my father-in-law could contain one mind an indifference toward slave women and love for a blue vase.
That was how Rudolf Hoess, Commandant of Auschwitz, could alternate over the loudspeakers of Auschwitz great music and calls for corpse-carriers.
That was how Nazi Germany could sense no important differences between civilization and hydrophobia.
That is the closest I can come to explaining the legions, the nations of lunatics I’ve seen in my time. And for me to attempt such a mechanical explanation is perhaps a reflection of the father whose son I was. Am. When I pause to think about it, which is rarely, I am, after all, the son of an engineer.
Since there is no one else to praise me, I will praise myself – will say that I have never tampered with a single tooth in my thought machine, such as it is. There are teeth missing, God knows – some I was born without, teeth that will never grow. And other teeth have been stripped by the clutchless shifts of history.
But never have I willfully destroyed a tooth on a gear of my thinking machine. Never have I said to myself, “This fact I can do without.”
Howard W. Campbell, Jr., praises himself! There’s life in the old boy yet!
And, where there’s life-
There is life.
I just rented the DVD for Rubber Johnny by Chris Cunningham (If you haven’t seen it the video is at the very bottom along with my interpretation of these images.) It comes with a booklet with artwork relating to the film. Look at some of these pictures.
Dawn of the new age of Filth. Perfect Holiday Cards for Aunt Barbara and Little Cousin Tucker.
The new age of perversion will be yourself in your own room with equipment and editing tools. Creating these altered images of the self. Put them through Rendering generators, these mutants copulating in hyper space with other formations. Everyone is watching. Desire will be aimed at the physical inversion of the ego. New babies will come out through filters looking like worms. Each part of the worm body will be ripe with life, all of it flowing into itself. No discerning between mind and elbow. Slice them in half and they will mate with their other ends, bonding, the flow within increasing, the new fetus like glue, continuing to grow within themselves. Getting massive. Constant Fetuses for different purposes. Creating their own food within, joining up. There wont be evil and good, just energy for the life force. It will not swallow the planet but become one with the planet. Soon the planet will start growing throughout it and out of it. Forests and people and animals populating the surface and orifices. The planet will truly be alive, and horny. When the planet fucks you with natural disasters it will really be fucking you. Pubic trees being trimmed for their pulp by the inhabitants. Tornado Quiffes in Idahoho. Ejaculate and urine Tsunamis. Rivers of Saliva and Blood. OK, enough.
Excerpt from a 1990 interview with David Lynch.
Q Now, during Blue Velvet, When you were filming the scenes of Frank [Dennis Hopper] abusing and raping Dorothy [Isabella Rossellini], apparently you were beside yourself with laughter. You thought this was sort of funny on some level?
DL: I’m sure pretty near every psychiatrist could tell me right now why I was laughing, but I don’t know. I t was hysterically funny to me. Frank was completely obsessed. He was like a dog in a chocolate store. He could not help himself. He was completely into it. But I was laughing and I am a human being; there must be some logical reason why. It has something to do with the fact that it was so horrible and so frightening and so intense and violent that there was also this layer of humour.
I don’t know what it is, but it’s there, and it has to do with this degree of obsession, where people cannot help themselves. In New York, especially, you see it all the time. And because you see it on the street, you know it’s happening in their apartments too. But the poor people on the street don’t have any place to go do it privately. These kind of things strike me as humorous sometimes.
