Monthly Archives: July 2011

At last it’s getting serious

It must finally become serious. I’ve often been lonely, but I’ve never lived alone. When I was with someone I was often happy, but at the same time it all seemed left to chance. These people were my parents, but they could just as well have been others. Why was this brown-eyed boy my brother and not the green-eyed boy on the opposite platform? The taxi driver’s daughter was my friend, but I might as well have put my arm round a horse’s neck. I was with a man, I was in love and I might as well have left him there and gone off with the stranger I met in the street. Look at me, or don’t. Give me your hand, or don’t. No, don’t give me your hand, look away. I think there’s a new moon tonight. No night more peaceful. No bloodshed anywhere in the city. I’ve never played games with anyone, and yet I’ve never opened my eyes and thought: now it’s serious. At last it’s getting serious. So I’ve grown older. Was I the only one who wasn’t serious? Is it our times that aren’t serious? I was never alone, either when I was on my own or with others. But I would have liked to have been alone at last. To be alone means: I’m whole at last. Now I can say it: tonight I’m alone at last. I must put an end to coincidence. The new moon of decision. I don’t know if there’s such as thing as destiny, but there is such a thing as a decision. Decide! Now we are the times. Not only the whole town, but the whole world is taking part in our decision. We are now more than the two of us. We incarnate something. We’re sitting in the People’s Square and it’s full of people who are dreaming the same dream. We’re deciding the game for everyone. I’m ready. Now it’s your turn. You hold the game in your hand. Now or never. You need me. You will need me. There’s no greater story than ours, that of man and woman. It will be a story of giants, invisible, transposable, a story of new ancestors. Look, my eyes, they are the image of necessity, of the future of everyone in the Square. Last night I dreamt of a stranger, of my man. Only with him could I be alone, open up to him, completely open for him, welcome him completely into me, surround him with the labyrinth of shared happiness. I know you’re that man.

– Handke, Wim Wenders, Wings of Desire

Escape

As soon as I turned up, our life became a search for ways to escape from each other, to die away from each other by painless increments. And this? Why write these words at all, why bother? Perhaps because we both envy those who find escape in writing, who can push themselves off the banks of everyday life and let the stream of writing find them. Because that’s our dream – a dream because it would require a unity, a concentration we don’t have. We write, one or the other of us writes, in spurts, in barely conscious spastic movements. But as soon as I summon you we’re doubled up, as soon as you put pen to paper or touch the keypad we’re split apart. You’re no longer yourself, throbbing man: life is elsewhere, and we’re right back in the moment when you said goodbye to your father and walked down the concrete path, between the dark-green thistle bushes, to your new room, to a different life. When I turned up… Yet in another sense we write all the time, in another sense our life is made of writing, has been nothing but writing since that moment, meaning that only writing can mend it. We write: we gesture at escape with the same tools that lock us together.

I dream of a mirror. I see myself with a mask, or I see in the mirror somebody who is me but whom I do not recognize as myself. I arrive at a place, and I have the sense of being lost and that all is horrible. The place itself is like any other. It is a room, with furniture, and its appearance is not horrible. What is atrocious is the feeling, not the images. Another frequent nightmare is of being attacked by beings who are children; there are many of them, very little but strong. I try to defend myself, but the blows I give are weak.

*

I haven’t arrived at anything. I am just a man of letters. I am not sure I have thought anything in my life. I am a weaver of dreams.

Borges

Fraudulence

Sometimes, I confess, I think these words belong to me and that you’re a kind of clerk whose time, too, belongs to me. Sometimes I envy you, the throbbing man, to whom things happen. Or I pity you, the lost man who’s hardly there, whose words aren’t his own. But these words I dictate to you, that you scribble, type, delete, rewrite and labour over to make me look good, give me a presence I can’t maintain. They’re fraudulent to the core, that’s the thought we must both hold on to, even as we flee from it, flee from each other, push each other away.

*

The one who lives and the one who — what? Watches, criticises, dictates. Fraudulently: even as I manage to make you sit up straight and scribble what you think you hear, what you think I’m saying. Do I even know what I’m saying before you scribble it? Fraudulence upon fraudulence. Let’s write from that fraudulence, then, out of and into it, like falsely accused plaintiffs waiting for the real thing, the liberating judgement that’ll never come.

*

What am I reaching for, in these words you type for me? You: my Kaspar Hauser. The misted-over image in the mirror. You who can’t live, and without whom I can’t live, without whom I too am a Kaspar Hauser. Then let’s write from our incompleteness, let our writing – our waiting – be a reaching for each other that might somehow reach others.

I have to have a mental picture, an image, to start. I never reach this image, but it’s good to begin with it.

Form is all we have to help us cope with fundamentally chaotic facts and assaults. Formulating something is a great start. I trust form, trust my feeling or capacity to find the right form for something. Even if that is only by being well organized. That too is form.

Strange though this may sound, not knowing where one is going, being lost, being a loser, reveals the greatest possible faith and optimism, as against collective security and collective significance. To believe, one must have lost God; to paint, one must have lost art.

I want to leave everything as it is. I therefore neither plan nor invent; I add nothing and omit nothing. At the same time, I know that I inevitably shall plan, invent, alter, make and manipulate. But I don’t know what.

Gerhard Richter

One should never hope for anything.

If you know that I am an unbeliever, then you know me better than I do myself. I may be an unbeliever, but I am an unbeliever who has a nostalgia for a belief.

But I do not believe in a metaphysical god. I am religious because I have a natural identification between reality and God. Reality is divine. That is why my films are never naturalistic. The motivation that unites all of my films is to give back to reality its original sacred significance.

When I make a film, I shift into a state of fascination with an object, a thing, a fact, a look, a landscape, as though it were an engine where the holy is about to explode.

Pasolini

Prison

The word we, when printed or pronounced on screens, has become suspect, for it’s continually used by those with power in the demagogic claim that they are also speaking for those who are denied power. Let’s talk of ourselves as they. They are living in a prison.

John Berger