relighting on flor

ive laughed but no one on the screen has laughed  really laughed  until about halfway through this enthusiastically monstrous epic and halfway through the equally mad episode three when casterman  who never laughs  laughs uproariously  alone  in his office of death  over a sleeping brussels  and a bit later our four assassins  who never laugh  after being told to stop the iron jokes by their maybe commander  begin laughing when she herself joins the joke  and then immediately of course the denouement  which of course isnt a denouement  a pseudoconsummation of over five hours of beautiful ridiculousness  as the killers confront their doom

thinking back over the films a little like thinking back over ones life  you cant hold it all at once  not even close  i try to go sequential but this quickly collapses into digressions and questions and capers and i realize the film has done its work  endlessly duplicating lifes endless distractions  as the film does this to life and in itself it also does in us  happily collapsing our solid safeties

it shouldnt work  i keep thinking the first time i watch it  theres no reason for me to be so consistently enthralled  and yet i am   the thing is hokey interminable anarchic  the actresses as assassins are absurd  their killings are painless silent bloodless  their individual stories impossible  beliefs never suspended  the b movie schlockiness of the first episode stretched through the first four in their mammothian twelve hours

if arts supposed to hide artifice la flor fails completely   its artifice is apparent and pervasive  finally bursting exuberantly in the fourth episode as the film itself experiences a mental breakdown just about the time we are and we all enter the asylum together and flap like chickens and take on pantheonic names and conquer like the shadow casanova through collapse

what doesnt la flor explore? it travels prodigiously  not only in time and space but theme and antitheme   it goes into the darkness of the heart and out to the darkness of the night and  as in extraordinary stories  threads of divine comedy and melancholy are always in the weave   so distant  in the screen  here  so close  in our attention

its perfect in its perfect imperfections  in its calm and joyful refusal to provide answers or closure  to even ask questions or tell stories   and yet it tells stories and asks questions and answers and closure are ubiquitous  tumbling over themselves like kittens

its a dance and painting  a song and poem  not a movie   critics cite borges as an obvious inspiration but its more the museum of eternas novel with its infinite prologuings that becomes a novel by not becoming one

llinás says he hates storytelling experts and psychologists  presumably in part because of their need  like so many professionals  to drag art into their domains and thereby possess it  to explain and commoditize and psychologize and clinicize and biographize and formulaicize   but fiction is the very grenade that explodes the oppositions   when 301 and angel are killing across europe and pretending to be in love and in love and not in love and pretending not to be in love  their pretendings more real than many realities  a pretense of course thats already in a pretense  and this nestedness of simulations  already innately a function of film  in la flor becomes an ouroboros of strange and infinite loops  it becomes ourselves

if we set aside the party of the credits  but who could?  the final two episodes seem to slow down  and not just because episode six cant be over that quickly  taking us directly into dreamspace and the rebelswitchesmountiescoquettesmodels transform through their absence in episode five into oneiric meditations of continual gestation and muted freedoms from inexplicable enslavements

what do we say about the four? who are everywhere and nowhere like good gods   havent their manifold identities silenced us through excess? havent their ungraspabilities gifted us with our own facelessness?

episode four is meta? the entire thing is meta

the director disappears  the actresses disappear  time disappears  we disappear

some speak of finding ones voice but whats voice here? who is who? who speaks what? nothings authentic other than the authenticity of play

from vertov and buñuel and deren through schneemann and brakhage and sharits and hundreds of others  actors cinematographers viewers characters  have questioned the usurpation of film by conventional forces  the expected story  and through these questions extended natures most necessary diversities

but here we have la flor  which doesnt technically fall into the experimentalfilm camp  buts more experimental than most experimental films  questioning through forms so entirely new  but entirely old  but entirely new  that its hard to grasp the radicality of whats not being done   of the smirking challenge to the very foundations of art philosophy politics love

the birthymeisters

if i were to reenter the comfified institutionalization of scholardomity ive been advised by team caffeine to get a pee eich dee in the epistomologies of crossspecies communication  which i would as i believe in communication less than god but more than whonymity and one should only specialize in what one doesnt believe

novel died a while ago  did you notice?      the end      probably not  hard to with all the communication going on   but novel like i and plagues and jesus keeps on resurrecting   were birthymeisters   i birthymeister  plague birthymeister  jesus birthymeister  novel birthymeister   one big happy fucking family

i mean  i understand coffee more than i understand whonyms   the grammars of styrofoamish are my kind of grammar and the syntices of catese the syntax of my synapses  i geekily read the dictionary of hericium erinaceus as if it were netflix

writings born from dramatrauma

and writing is a broken promise

and broken promises birth internal traumadramas

circle of strife

novel some say is novel as it maintains distance between itself and life  but i keeps no distance and calls it novel   the i of conventional autobiography is equally the cast of woebegone characters populating sadoo  the coffee im drinkings no different than this paragraph

novel didnt realize it was a novel at first and then it wakes up one day and says everyone elses a novel why cant i be too and gets a genre change because it says ive always been a novel even though i dont look like one and it wonders at fourinthemorning whether writing necessarily turns into novel or whether it always has been one and if in the future its going to turn into a gluegun or an undergrad paper on intersectionality and it says now im novel now im not which means im really a magician and if magicians and novels are the same thing what does that do to time and science and war and love? and nothing sleeps much that night

all my characters are glyphs

my storys an unhinged typography

heresia bitibotom  an illegal employee of Scrubbers International  cleans the filthy toilets of wholesale asparagus buyers at the 29 hectare food terminal in thamog city  and as it sticks its scrubbie in the eternal excrement it thinks dont i contrive a spontaneity which i mistrust but ritually enter to simulate a false identification with the consuming narcissism of the present? and as she says this we realize she shust meet qinci rubatiti in chapter 496209445 though we confuse years and chapters and urination all the time and sadoo stays far away

what can we do about the whonyms who adore all thats new

even when it goes against their deepest convictions

or about the inane herd that sees beauty in something

thats no more than an impassioned call for murder?

book possesses novel and novel i or i book and book book or book word and word void or void i or i i and something  whos sadoos protagonist  says we need more words  more contractions specifically  without that evil stupidity named punctuation   heres a short starter list

novel has opinions   you think it just thinks what its told to think but thats a dead idea   novel blabs eg endlessly to anyone wholl listen about the parallels between the early days of film and the internet and bemoans that as cinematic visionaries opposed the conservative and unimaginative transfer of narrative realism to this radical new medium of film  the first new artform since the gardenofeden  so a lonely few weep over the transfer of society and media from physicality to virtuality   the internets just product identity reputation name sex image confidence will money   whonyms move their shit around and call it progress      how depressing

a central question of novel is which abuse is mine? for were all born into abuse and novelers often have to travel through many different toilets to find their own to devote their lives to exploring that particular smelly plumbing that belongs irrevocably eternally to me

some still say  despite everything  novels more novel the more it reflects life  the more it reminds us of gossip & da nooz  albeit intensifying them   but what is this life reflected? sadoo simulates life too  sure  we can say  in the way we cont say anything  but as life simulated is already a simulation of amalgama of simulations of algae of stimuli and the mirror so broken into uncountable pieces that we now have competing apps that simulate counting them  what is it you say youre seeing? what validates novel as novel? aunty reals more real than real  nosadoo more sadoo than sadoo  noti the i that is ie eyes the is

how do i think of the dead?s a question central to novel but one rarely discussed in sophisticated & polite hypernetworks   for when i wriad the living are the dead and the dead the living  a hairyclitoral inversion  and i must think of you the living ie the dead when i write of the dead ie the living  not in any of those crass ie legal any resemblance is coincidental ways  which are patent lies as everyone knows  not in any of those crassy art draws on life ways  which is grey amateurism  but as those not in my novel  but who might these be? are the dreams of those in  and the evertings too   and the psychology of these relations in the wrader and reiter are what all real novels explore

it will take a long time to be born if it can be born

a fiction so murky

so rich in inaction

its getting dark and cold and rainy and lonely and sad and windy and foggy and sleepy and dark and novel doesnt know what to do

dao de jing 15

of old she who is well versed in the way

is minutely subtle, mysteriously comprehending

and too profound to be known

it's because she can't be known 

that she can only be given a makeshift description

tentative, as if fording a river in winter

hesitant, as if in fear of her neighbours

formal like a guest

falling apart like thawing ice

thick like the uncarved block

vacant like a valley

murky like muddy water

who can be muddy and yet, settling, slowly become limpid?

who can be at rest and yet, stirring, slowly come to life?

she who holds fast to this way desires not to be full

it's because she's not full that she can be worn and yet newly made

dear fifteens,

the one of the way is many, shapeshifters and polynumbers and drainings, remotely solid

in an age of the shiny and new the ones of the way are old and worn, babies of knowing

in the ascendancy of the regulated and defined and the balancing ascendancy of their transgressions morphing far from dictionaries and violation and law

they're like neglected nature, guardians of some vital unacceptability, otiose spirits of fens and ferns, barristers of water and disasters of human recognition, naïve and ironic forms of incomprehension, wandering in the eternal discards and at home in the anarchic orbits of unsigned voids

in relation to society they're unfamiliar formal hesitant weird. almost exiled (except there's no place left to be cast out)

humanity lives far from the river and the valley, often seeking expensive counsel and humiliating chutes to try to escape to the concrete steppes from those nameless darknesses, entering the neon culture of our collective and planet-wrapping desiccated dreams. for the river's stagnant and manic and the valley depressed, and the wayversed ones breaking down and fragments are their name. but one doesn't escape. for we're made of valleys and rivers, regardless of how much we've polluted them, and who can escape oneself?

holding tightly to air and water, desiring eclipsing and outcasting - unclear ragged used partial misunderstood unknown : no adjective one's taught to admire

what does it mean to be well versed in the way? where do i go to school for this? who are the mentors and what the urls that can sell me makeshift descriptions? which books can instruct me and who are the names that can guide the seeking in minute subtlety? what are the techniques for learning to simulate fear of my neighbours and how can i get a masters in the desire to fall apart? when's the optimum time to settle or stir and what the indicators and algorithms to encourage maximum efficient and timely movement between the two? why must i muddy and clarify slowly and cant i go faster and how do i distinguish among murkiness and limpidity? i must download the dao app to make me verse well in the wu wei way and to get sage points for achieving milestones in my mission. to enrol then in an ivy workshop that'll help me understand the matrices and trends and apply them to my life goals and specialties

where's nature in all the fences? where's the way in all the protocol and rites? are the ones hiding, like the animals and god? do they tend a fading distant fire like a character not written into a littered book?

my life hasn't been full, hasn't been empty. i don't know what to write in my biography - what's happened is more of an avoiding, a detouring around, a doubt and dullness, an accumulating silent striving to escape the nightmare of biography and the gaol of genealogy. any résumé i can conjure qualifies me for nothing but an awareness of trees and trees as we know are mean old things  laughing at our callow ways  just sitting back as they are  doing nothing  watching us destroy our home like drugged lunatics