Yesterday, a genuine conceptual and artistic film pioneer who was also possessed of an earnest conscience saw his final day on Earth. His genius work remains, and here's one of my favorite of his films, Mon Oncle D'Amerique, for your viewing pleasure.
After some success with his short film, In the Name of the Son, Harun kept crisscrossing the country, traveling ceaselessly as he'd done since landing in the United States, taking pictures of landscapes and skies.
It is tempting to think of the self as simply a home for the identities we adopt over our lifetime, but on reflection, this, too, falls short. Our self is also the source of the identities that sally forth as our proxies.
Ruth Stone's poem ends with the line: "I cannot live without you, oh brief and inconceivable other." And then we're brought to Bianca's reality: writing poems on typewriters, drinking wine, and the line to start it all: "This is your love speaking."
In not knowing, just for a moment, you can directly discover yourself. This discovery does not arrive by thought, but by your own immediate direct experience. What is here, before every thought, after every thought and during every thought?
In anticipation of 12/21/12, this past year saw a return of the doomsday film. Melancholia was an okay end-of-the-world movie, but for this fan, it was not a very good Lars Von Trier film. Perhaps a third viewing is in order.