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Aug. 10th, 2007 10:00 pmMe in all those places with all that time Bergman dead.
I don't really know how to not be happy, in the long term, though I imagine I'll find out. Seems to me most people are the same. What Bergman was usually up to was showing people pushed hard out of the nest by disappointment, a few shoves in a row often, then putting a second happiness together out of other terms in that wider world of fewer shapes but more textures. Usually: there are those other ones. Never redemption by pain, though, just new sorts of redemption now pain's in the room. New sorts of everything, really.
So much art, so many statements go out past the world, climb out onto other ones to go past all possible ones. I'm not into that, or into the glassglance into parts so deep it leaves the whole. One thing at least not porn or OCD, just at least one please. Sometimes you need the new arts so you don't have to scrape the crap off--presumably this is why there are new arts, though the art of making new arts has become a sad old art of late. Bergman is dead but so new. He's about where my skin is. His winds don't make stars move or leaves down the block, or stars and leaves in some miniature dark blue mind corner, but small hairs just outside and all over. This from movies, of all things.
I don't really know how to not be happy, in the long term, though I imagine I'll find out. Seems to me most people are the same. What Bergman was usually up to was showing people pushed hard out of the nest by disappointment, a few shoves in a row often, then putting a second happiness together out of other terms in that wider world of fewer shapes but more textures. Usually: there are those other ones. Never redemption by pain, though, just new sorts of redemption now pain's in the room. New sorts of everything, really.
So much art, so many statements go out past the world, climb out onto other ones to go past all possible ones. I'm not into that, or into the glassglance into parts so deep it leaves the whole. One thing at least not porn or OCD, just at least one please. Sometimes you need the new arts so you don't have to scrape the crap off--presumably this is why there are new arts, though the art of making new arts has become a sad old art of late. Bergman is dead but so new. He's about where my skin is. His winds don't make stars move or leaves down the block, or stars and leaves in some miniature dark blue mind corner, but small hairs just outside and all over. This from movies, of all things.
