the doctor of film, mulling
Uwe is talking, decoding, deconstructing, analyzing, placing into context, decodifying and classifying, qualifying.
It all looks like random footage of Uwe shooting zombies.
But he sees into it, has established a cadence and a working rhythm, making nuances like a symphony of violence.
He is in the same room with Wusso's 16 mil flatbed editing station, but he is working on a chinese computer with two large monitors, lights blaring out in the gloom and fans blowing. It is like a monster truck of computers.
He comes to the footage of Kristina Lokken going over the side of the truck bed. He freezes the footage with her feet in the air and the zombies closing in.
From behind him, Zombie Wusso growls hungrily. Uwe doesn't notice because this is the magic of directing, the magic of making film: realizing a vision, capturing a dream or nightmare, and here he has done that.
Uwe looks down at his phone. Phone service has become unusually spotty and haphazard since the zombie epidemic hit North America. He navigates to the contacts menu and erases the entry for Kristina Lokken.
On the screen: the red open-toe high-heels are pitched high in the air.
The Freudian forgetting of Proper Names: Spencer Tracy
Spencer Tracy: file under gone but not forgotten in the Twilight Zone.
Old shoe leather.
An appreciator, neigh a stalker, of Hepburns.
I had him incorrectly pegged as starring in Roman Holiday with Audrey Hepburn, as he completed his Hepburn Romantic World Tour.
Some people are just born OLD. But at least he carries it with dignity. And Kate Hepburn, as a queen, sitting in the shadows, pining for her Spense. That something burns within her frenetic nature, a sustenance for her hinting of madness.
Gary Cooper was one I forgot, too, after watching him in the Fountainhead. I was as ho-hum about it. I liked the words, but really, I've always thought Cooper was like a piece of Driftwood. In all that philosophy, there was a woman just wanting a strong man to take her. Okay, then.
The Dodge Avenger was another proper name forgotten. Wishful thinking?
Hunter Pence. A bit of a strange name. I could see him standing there waiting for a good pitch in his preying-mantis stance, but his name continued to elude me. I would have to use the internet to look up the team roster to find his name. Who plays right field?
Who plays right field?
Its like saying Who Is John Galt? Like left field is become a punishment for awkward people. All apologies to Pence. He really is a favorite of mine.
male nudity as the apology of the fallen
The promise of debauch.
Naked man asses.
Screaming to be chastised, slapped or spanked for the imperfections of the individual.
Defilement is best kept precious, precious valuable, precious dear, precious rare.
Male nudity is to look upon the true utilitarian ugliness of the being, to drink it in, bath in it, as it were, bathing in front of a naked man. Maybe this is an idea for a pictorial series with one of Charlie's Angels or something.
The wretchedness made plain.
We are no more than this, he screams. No more and no less!
I was naked earlier today and felt no emotions about it. It was a passing state through which I passed without incident. So you know.
As younglings, there was a water hose and our naked asses glistened, and again, we had a wretchedness even then that was made plain in nudity.
To be almost ugly and gyrate like mad puppets, yet we had our faculties us. What does that say about the youngling Mike? A slight bounce in the muscle, and I have to hide my ultimate shame from the other boys, that I am having to good a time.
"Mike is having too good a time again!"
Small and insistent.
I would erect a treehouse and make love to my friends, or at least make the overture, during quiet overnight outings. Playing cards towards midnight, then grabbing-up our blankets. "I sleep in the nude" I warn, being a gentleman at first.
"My own open nudity gives me wood."
I relent once more after the horrific.
My Mother Is A Fish
Christina Lokken is FUBAR.
John Wusso is FUBAR.
Beady is FUBAR and hasn't realized it yet.
Mist coarsed off of my shoulders as I chunked brush away from the trash pile. I was, as a wizard, or some other sundry miscreant, as I sweated, the drippings of which made my buttcrack itchy.
Madness comes to those whose buttcracks itch from sweat.
The flesh becomes rather red and inflamed, uncomfortable and it is inevitable, that when perfect privacy is obtained there will be a vigorous scratching.
A secret scratching, like the tiny impetulant scratching of a mouse in a forgotten corner of the cupboard. Stray thoughts pool and shape things, just like water will shape a rock in a stream, and somehow there come my assthoughts,
floating jaundiced into the unsuspecting world, like salmonella in the snack bar.
Beady rejects the one-sie, opting for imperfect and unwarranted nudity, as a statement of his own, that his soul has been bared to Burgersen, and his thighs, stomach, everything else.
The dark side of the Plutonian Moons. Black dots of varying sizes silhouetted with something like shavings of fingernail at the corners, a prod of white in the ebon orbs, along the fringe.
My thoughts have thusly ran their course. I relent.
The Chestershire Syndrome
Nigel Swollensworthy brings us a peculiar psychological phenomenon called the Chestershire Syndrome. It is evidenced across the culture in the facing of stressful situations, and achieving biological euphoria through abrupt and meaningless sexual acts.
A praying mantis watches a snake chase a rabbit.
We feel the thrill of the hunt, and maybe sympathize. From the comfort of the couch, we reach for cheese crisps to achieve a small satisfaction, a sated state even while our brains are excited and anxious.
A man, poo on himself, and a bullet wound to the foot, might not think of sex, but a resolution of his sorry state, while two somewhat famed persons might turn their tensions into wild, passionate love-making. Tongues on things and the like.
Man's need, to achieve a biological balance of endorphins, becomes lovemaking with the most convenient partner. And not like a law firm partner or a timber company partner, or even a partner-in-crime, but whomever is nearby, like a bagboy or a meter maid or the local postal employee.
Consequences are indeterminate, always, and even sometimes the act retreats backwards into the ether, away from the stage proper and even out of memory, with the act itself having no residue beyond the casual reaching for the cheese crisp.
Human need, then, is its own master, with its own controls and dictates. I was once caught up in these powerful forces, as I locked my keys in my Volvo and walked towards a public transport station. I was accosted by street toughs who had their way with me, made my sweet and sour their very own for a few minutes, and it only took a few minutes. They got what they wanted and fled away like dogs, while I, the cognizant participant, however unwilling, was left to deal with the consequences.
But to be like-minded in such situations is serendipitous.
-Nigel Swollensworthy, a small man in an only slightly larger bowl.