After some time passed wherein I abandoned this project for seemingly more urgent, important things, it hurts a bit to think of writing...to remember how to eek it out so fluidly...swimming aloud in one's own thoughts, like a child splashes out dirty bathwater...though it cannot hurt for long. Sensitivity felt from the interior end of the creative act seems pitifully casual compared to the tension exuded in two creations I watched this weekend, Pialat's Van Gogh (1991)...an exercise as usual in tempered violence, butter churned...and Christophe Honoré's AIDS denoument coming-of-age gentle bluish melodrama Sorry Angel (2018)...experienced in wretched succession. These films made me want to go nowhere, do nothing. See everything...feel everything. Whereas writing wavers hieratically before that binary of somatic desire, as an imperative it never really goes away, or when it does, it really just happens in observational silence.
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