 Tim Barrus: In the End...
from recent posts - blip.tv (beta)
May 30, 2008
Cinematheque Films: Place Vendome: Paris: Cast/Crew: Paris Boy #1: Kilian Sullivan, Paris Boy #2: Aron Nilehn, Paris Dancers: Danser la Troupe de Gar ons d'Amant: Georges de Roland, Michel Duras, Jules Rousseau, Francois de Nerval, Andres Beaumont, DollieGirl: Valerie St. John, JerkBoy: Beatit Needit, Paris Hooker in Boots: Yrsula Escargot, TittieBoy: Nino Fabriano, Art: Janvier l'Un, Hotel Paris: Hotel du Nord, Photography: Nasdijj, Eiffel Tower: Eiffel Tower In the end, it's about the truth. Your truth. It belongs to you. Perhaps only to you. In the end, it's not about what culture deems as "beautiful." It's about what the individuals sees as "beautiful." My favorite Italian sculpture is not made from marble. It is not old. It is relatively new. It is cut from brass. It grows darker by the year. A male figure has had its heart cut out. I do not know what it is officially called. I do not care. I call it: the Last Judgment. Warning: In the end, if you are a child, go away. You are banned from this and this and this. You are cast out of here and here and here. This is the end of things as you know it, boy. You will leave all of that behind. The promise is one thing. The lips another. The lips only move. Mocking the wild universe of night and moons. In the end, you could not be fastened down. To a granite pedestal. Your moon and your darker nights just flew away on some jet off to Palermo. The years of loving you in the shadow's stairway poured the wilderness of us to bed. In the end, what bitterness becomes regret with its iron dragging of the long days. The moon's fate was always the witch and she was always waiting for us in camouflage and disguise and she had changed her lunar name. We sleep covered in one white sheet. The Sicilian river of your summer's wild onion smells. What shape was simple passion in the face of this. The ecstatic reds of your inner selves. Some people go their whole lives in nothing more spectacular than exhalation. No nights. No stars. No moons. This was supposed to be your childhood, but like most of them, your childhood was bankrupt, too, of stars. If there was a secret effluvial code to who we were, I never stumbld into it wandering through translations. Only the structural iron rivets of bewilderment. Speaking of the end. The beautiful ones come back to us. You dripping of moon opium and day old apricots. Listening to the rain at night where the roots dig in. Your nightshirt soft as raisins. Your smaller hole a pandemonium of irises, tangerines, churning and swabbing and opening and closing. Buried in the knots and looking down. The moon -- soft asphalt -- and the lizard tongues. Dreams. Graves. Flowers in the gritty dark and leaves upon the dirt. The snow drifts melt and the early autumn sun whispers blood in the gathering ponds of rain and sod. The moon itself is dust and rock. The haunches and the sleep and your soft moans of stars bearing my hunger for whatever ripens in the burnt folds of you. I want to say we were the smoke. Your underpants slightly stained with whiskey. Who says desire counts for much beyond the shame. What thirst was ever misbegotten or incidental. We wrote an entire history in the memorandums of surrender. The casual drift of moons and time and touch lick tongues along the milkweed pollen paths. Kissing stones and durability. Your dark, Florentine, deeply open eyes speak of benediction. Year in. Year out. Like a book you read one summer and now its winter and you're reading it over again. Moonshine bones and wanting. You and your wings climbing into my bed. My breast. From milk to whatever lies ahead. How fast time goes now. Solitude is an evening mist come in like children just before the dark. If I hadn't, you would have appeared within me. How the bean pickers bend beneath the labor of the sun in sweat. You had torn your Italian shirt. The one your mama washed and starched so carefully. In the end, we got in bed, laid our bodies fastidiously together like a topographical grid drawn face-to-face, sealing flesh; indivisible -- in the end, we are alone, staggering, tearing ourselves away from spectacle. From the narrow rooms where anything still alive is slaughtered. Bathed in blood upon the floor. Failing anyway by any stretch of afternoon. All you perfect people. The moral. The mystical. The misbehaved. I have seen their terrors come alive and eat the wind. How will I remember you in June. When the boys have swept their rooms of the ditch-burrs. In the end, the sleepwalkers are nothing much and I will take my chances with you and your moons and nights where the line of march twists and wheels and a million years is nothing much. Nothing much. In the end, the moon. -- Hotel Basilea via Guefla, 41 -- Firenze, Italy. -- I was not expecting them. But when they showed up at my hotel in Florence, I can't say I was surprised. I asked them where they were staying. In Florence. "With you," they said. My room was filled with backpacks. And a few computers. They had made (what they claimed) was the final cut to a Cinematheque video they had been working on for some time. Usually, their stuff was not much longer than the typical YouTube Time: ten minutes. This one clocked in at half an hour. They wanted me to see it. They wanted to be there when I saw the thing. They're calling it -- In the End... This is not America. The fact that they are not eighteen and had made this thing is irrelevant. Mainly, they're young French and Italian Filmmakers. This is code for saying they are fifteen to seventeen. Or. Fourteen to seventeen. Whatever. What does this mean. It means if you are an American child under eighteen -- go away. There. That is done. The cover art they've gone with is a photo of one of them. The newest addition. Nino Fabriano.
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