Ichikawa Kon's The Burmese Harp, a movie I'd desired to watch for a year, was exactly what I'd anticipated in content but as I learned again all too clearly today, the effects of spirituality on oneself is one of the most difficult things to describe to another especially when it's felt passionately. There's the fearsome risk of not paying enough tribute with one's words. While I revere passion and conviction of spirituality in others, I am also terrified of its power when it leaves the internal realm. How can one express oneself without transferring even imposing one's self-conviction on another? Well, it's been done before- I've read some and I haven't resented it but that's in literature. I must reach the level where I can discuss my love and faith in my beliefs without anger and revolt towards, or search for ignorance in another's beliefs. Differences are merely differences, not injustices. The last thing it should become is an argument. It is detractive to argue or impart one's religious beliefs on another, that's cardinal and today I'd forgotten temporarily. I'd faltered in my eagerness to tossle and blame. But allow me this, I'd been upset by Patrick Pearse's Singer and the connection between his Jesus complex and Easter Rising. I'd left Ireland House with my head throbbing between frowning eyes and a scrunched heart. In my anxiety to depart from the immediate discomfort, I should have meditated slowly to unwind and remind myself of truths but indulged all too eagerly into scapegoating established institutions. The pitfalls of impatience and the flailing throes within them were visited once more under soothing sunshine upon wooden benches.
Next, get Michaelangelo Antonioni's L'eclisse and Fassbinder's Ali: Fear Eats the Soul and take up BAM's Manuel Oliveira's marathon for as long as you can! If only Santa Fe didn't fall on such a possibly fun cinematic week. Remember, to ask Tony if he minds.
He wants to go see the Pillows on the 21st and hopefully, I can scrounge up twenty dollars for a ticket. I missed Hou Hsou-Hsien'd interpretation of Red Balloon (what?! why!?) and was able to see Christopher Honore and his Love Songs. It was... lacking but he seemed, in person, very amiable. Dans Paris is probably better. I like Romain Duris more than Louis Garrel. Garrel was there too, he's really good-looking (thank you, front-row) but haha so defensive about being a "marionette," "narcissist," and "sex-toy". Haha, complex? All in all, it seems movies right now for me are rewarding but also being used as a substitute for an unidentifiable something. I'm boring myself with names and fleeting, inconspicuous impressions... but I don't mean that about the Burmese Harp. It's one of those movies that the viewer knows was necessary for the filmmaker as an individual, as a person to make. And so, it becomes necessary to watch. In short, a masterpiece! I always feel lucky after reading, listening or watching masterpieces. The compulsion to exclaim to noone in particular, "Thank you! Somehow I needed that but didn't know where to ask and somehow you touched upon this search of mine and answered a minute part of it which is more than I could've expected. So, for an instant you've made me feel like I could comprehend all of it, that I almost did, that perhaps I did when I cried at the beauty you've allowed me to see. And even though, I've lost it and can only feel the retreating lingering pulses, what an experience!" It was one of those.
So following that thought, how can one share those masterpieces with others and not be disappointed when something that gives you so much foundational joy is not recognized? Well, not how because I've obviously done that before and people have shared with me too but in the purest of senses- if such feelings can be shared, the highest, and mutually recognized and respected, shouldn't love for this person fall into place? I think... when each side is at the same intensity level existentially and is aware of their own existential imperative, then yes. I think.
I saw Apes and Androids last week. I had no idea who they were before I went in. Then I danced because they put on a great show. We made the band members targets of our flashing sticks and when they finished, we left. I still have no idea who they are but they kind of remind me of young David Bowies...