narrative progressions....

(w)Holy Moses

I'm looking at pixels and all I see is your eyes. Maybe it's the fat lips on filament that I'm craving most afternoons. Sometimes your face looks smashed. Sometimes it looks cleaner than elbows. I don't see those ridges and revines past my hat rim. Did I really know back when you were giving lip hair and height measurements? I've grown to not lunch shorter than you.

Thank you for telling me what not to do last week.

My ankle is better with zest and pepper. Your face is redder with Bengay. Buckle up and drive me off the deep end of the Jacuzzi sunrise. Summer breeze had me hanging in the window on a Friday night.

Let me know every thing's alright.

That smile waiting in the kitchen, butter and warm won't leave my pancaked fingertips and focal points. I'll relearn my body with the black and blue. It's just my contact endorsing moisture partial blindness. You might have to put a bag over her porcelain head and close your lids and think of me.

You can be my hero

then I put a bag over her head and closed my eyes and thought of you...

"The film of tomorrow will be made by adventures."

In this essay "You are all witness in this trial- French Cinema is withering under the burden of false legends," Truffaut reacts to the cinema of the time, May 1957. He's striving for the future, he's talking about us.

The film of tomorrow seems to me therefor more personal even than a novel individual and autobiographical, like a confession or like a personal diary Young filmmakers will express themselves in the first person and will tell us what happened to them: it might be the story of their first love or their most recent one, their finding a political consciousness, a travel journal, an illness, their military service, their marriage, their most recent vacation, and it will necessarily be likable because it will be true and new.

Welcome to indy cinema. Tickets are 4 bucks and we have organic popcorn from a machine we bought at the thrift store. What is this film that I am making? It is my love story with the city, or through the eyes of others who I have fallen in love with. That's where the previous selfish line comes from. But would Truffaut say I am selfish? Maybe I should be French.

The film of tomorrow will not be made by functionaries behind a camera but by artist for whom shooting a film constitutes a formidable and exalting adventure. The film of tomorrow will resemble the person who made it and the number of spectators will be proportionate to the number of friends the filmmaker has.

This is when advertising your films on facebook and myspace comes in handy. This is also congruent to the activities of YouTube. Sending links to your friends of the video that you made in response to the new Britney Spears fuck up. And then the loop begins.

Where from this does my loop begin? The loop from the gateway to the the roof, recycled through the free ways and the bridges until expelled out towards the ocean. Where does one sit, stare, dream, masturbate, touch, pick some one else's nose? Yea, I will admit to being guilty of taking experience as a generator. Is this movie about me or LA or our existence together? The city is trying to kill me. The city is trying to devourer me. The city can't stand to have me or let me leave.

The film of tomorrow will be an act of love.

escape_2_exist_exist_2_escape...

Here is the mash up of the films of la.

Cleaning up..

Here is the mash up that I made for Entourage and Wattstax. I was drawn to the position of the voyeur camera.

reactions to love in lala land

here are the responses from the video that was posted before:

yes it is selfish.;.) but also full of humor. the one of the rare ones in the class that could go to absurdity.
i think you owe to yourself to blow this piece beyond recognition. it is not crazy enough yet, but has the ingredients.
look into Dada...
i prefer the exterior shots over more tasteful pictures of personal interiors which has a hint of petite bourgeoisie. fine, whatever it is, you can blow it out of proportion. thanks, it is courageous.

by Orhan Ayyüce


Tittsburgh. This piece is really great. Silicone city ... editorially it is really nice. The use of montage is pretty effective in delivering a story, a reality and ultimately somewhat of a position. I like the conjured subject matter (marriage, divorce, etc.)

I think while the photography is effective in its human eye quality "wash" it could have been a bit more worked out (possibly through more thorough scouting followed by more involved storyboarding). The points of view taken up are nice though.

The interior of the apartment seems to carry no role. Maybe the way the building was managed (slightly a la Polanski) could have given a clue.

The sound mix is very nice, but the mastering could have been worked out a bit more. The bathroom scene is a bit out of range.

That said, it is beautifully recursive, very poetic, has a side of humor without relying on it is to the point. In and out.

!!

j.a.

parti me en dos

As I am collecting and sifting through the accumulation of sites/times/actions, I feel more and more as a detective. I am on the hunt for the narrative, where does and how the cards fall? What is the order of the events of this roller coaster through this boardwalk of neon, salt, shit, and fire escapes.

What are these autonomous agents/occurrences and how can I use them as a kit of parts for decoding this narrative? A possibility that I am entertaining is an old favorite, sentence diagramming.

Back track flap jack

I forgot to post this up here. This is the first catalyst product that I wrote on a field trip to the Hollywood Reservoir. To explain how I write poetry: it's a collage of words. Ideally it's just ink on page, pixels background(0). The meaning is what you make of it. When we reviewed it in studio Juan Azulay interpreted it as a suicide. Another valid attempt to escape in the land of drift.

Hawk bite

Forget those cacophonies that I sucked out of your hot sauce gums twisted and sistered under the Hollywood sign. I choked on cellophane and gelatin while catching splinters in my knees. Your taco tainted tongue left lime stains on my upper inner thigh.

I was one of the first.

Dandy candy lovers on the carousel poles look up for loose light bulbs and Edison flytraps. Polaroids caught up with infinity and unbuttoned my jaw. The stories in your pockets tasted inky and dry. It was petrified lashes that dragged me to tears.

I haven’t laughed for you since December.

Dead berries on a crooked branch hit my diaphragm with more bounce than nights you traded me. Hold on to that token keeping the laundry machines bulimic and warm. Maybe in an hour you can spit serotonin back in to my aggressive spores. It’s all relatives around the toe of the lamb ass boots. Won’t you hold my breath while

I can’t remember when to leave.