productivity is the royal title bestowed on my brow at the moment. the bags under my eyes and dryness of the mouth all comes with due reward.

we're almost there.

california, i smell your salty ocean now.

seeing green grass reminds me of you; the sharp brightness. it's like a promise of blooming spring and blistering summer... how we embrace one and dread the other.

you don't want to step on it, but you want to know how soft it is between your toes. when you cave and finally mark your entrance with a dent on the blades, you almost cry from a combination of joy and sorrow.

the green is always temporary, and i mourn it's pending absence. just as i mourn yours.

Reflections from over 5 years ago, a movie scene analysis:

Movie: The Village
Director: M. Night Shaymalan
Composer: James Newton Howard
Scene: Those We Don't Speak of

Link: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GbJpJBKUf4k

Why: Once upon a time, there was a film that planted many ideas of visual beauty and it's combined grace with composed sound, as well as the power of love over darkness. These seeds were watered with each subsequent viewing of this film, and other's that inspired. But it always came back to this one. The precision, and obvious care that went into every shot composition, the psychological play of the edit and cuts, the color design, and homage to past arts; the individual character quirks for event the smallest of parts; the beautiful play of words, and the ancient arch of a hero'd myth. These seeds grew steadfast, into the passion which is mine--aspiring film maker.

Another reason: Because at one point, M. Night Shaymalan was a great hero of mine. He molded the greatness behind a simple story arch into something so symbolic and unique in presence, that you cannot forget his films (even if you do not like them). And then, The Happening happened, which I now prefer to think did NOT happen. It is in my hope that by rediscovering the beauty and thought behind his first films, that I can appreciate the upcoming film version of The Last Airbender. I expect that as a Hindu believer, he can nail the theological message with grace; I hope that he can return to the beautiful cinematography and flow of shot choices, as well as deeply intriguing character traits and flaws.


OPEN SCENE

We find that Finton Coin is watching, under the glow of yellow lamp light, shrouded in a yellow cloak. This is the "Safe Color." Under American culture, yellow is the symbolic color of happiness, as well as sunlight. In the native (eastern) Indian culture of M. Night Shaymalan, yellow is the symbolic color of Ganesha and Lakshmi. (To learn more about Ganesha, look here: http://www.shivashakti.com/ganesh.htm . To learn more about Lakshmi, look here: http://www.sanatansociety.org/hindu_gods_and_goddesses/lakshmi.htm) These gods, (essentially represented differently, but used as one and the same), represent luck, prosperity, and the pursuit of our desires.

When we view the "Good Color" in the respect of looking for our greatest desires, luck, and prosperity, you can understand the depth of symbolism in which M. Night Shaymalan initially infuses the essence of the village.

The lamp is in the foreground of this introductory shot, while Finton is cuddled, uncertainly and slightly out of focus, against the wall of the watch pyre. This represents both his weariness and discomfort, in that our vision of him is that of bleary eyes, and the composition of the shot is slightly askew. The lamp in the foreground is foreshadowing that which is to be revealed.

The focus is shifted from the lamp onto Finton himself, as his attention is claimed and he awakens alarmed, by the bump of the pyre stair-well door.

You will notice in the following shot, as he peers down onto the ground, the cross sections of the pyre, and the organized appearance of "security" are also slightly askew--nothing is as it seems. 

Then Those-We-Do-Not-Speak-Of appears, off beat, during the silence of the score. It is boldly red; what does this mean?

Red, in American culture, is stock full of twisted and contradictory symbolism. It is representative of passion, from different sides--both that of love and lust, as well as fear and violence. In Indian culture, the color red is symbolic of purity and integrity (as most brides are outfitted in red, with red henna paint on their finger tips and feet). With this double edged meaning, we once again see the depth of symbolism behind M. Night Shaymalan's motif--at first it seems harmful, but as you look closer you see the innocence of intentions behind the creation of Those-We-Do-Not-Speak-Of.

Finton's reaction is that of a the psychology humans can only share--by cloaking himself rather than immediately ringing the bell, he silently asks the question: do we really prefer the light of day, where horror is in plain sight, or the cloak of our dark minds, where we remain ignorant? Is the yellow really the protective comfort the Village seeks, or the very thing that brings forward their oppression and fear?

He rings the bell--a forewarning to those in the village, or a clear spotlight for the monster to pursue?

In the follow shot sequence, we watch as some members of the village scurry about in fear and panic, while others are methodical. Again, everyone is adorned in yellow lamp light, yellow tinged clothes, and neutral brown and yellow houses.

Lucius Hunt, our rebellious hero, is symbolized as such by being the dark silhouette against the yellow cloak of light. He is walking steadfastly, with a purpose. Lucius is not afraid. The tight shot that tracks him as he continues walking displays his level-headed attitude, and his peace within the darkness and fray.

As he is revealed in the somber glow of lamplight, we watch Lucius run into the fray, to assist a child who is stilled by her fear. She is adorned in a yellow night gown, and Lucius' path is slightly askew, not entirely straight; even in his certainty, he has doubts of this situation and his misstep reveals such.

The next shot sequence is of the Walker residence, where Kitty is caring for a group of children as well as Noah Percy. In tempo with what might be her sudden reaction to the situation, the shot is handheld and rough, following her body about the house, in preparing to hide from the monster. The shot follows her in a circular pattern, as Noah is overjoyed at the sound of the bells--we are being directly lead to our perpetrator with this shot, as he dances around in lunacy.

The women begin to descend, as we take notice of Ivy Walker in the scene.

Lucius continues his purposeful plan, going from house to house and securing each entry way. He runs into the shot, slightly off center, and again silhouetted. The shot tracks and pans, as he walks more fully towards the camera; everyone is secure, and it is now that we more clearly observe the monster. Shielded by the side of the house, Lucius seems to be divided--he remains in the safe of the shadow, as the monster becomes more apparent in the yellow light of house's porch. We end this shot sequence as he stares to the side of the camera, listening for the next move of the creature.

Ivy Walker's back is to us, as she begins the last shot sequence. The door to her home is still open, and in the light, we are revealed a bit of irony--Ivy's hair is red. The shot is still and steady, as if to contemplate the situation. This is disrupted by the visual representation of Kitty's thoughts--the shot is wild and hand held, unsteady as she descends and begs her sister to come. The shot refocuses on Ivy, steady once again. Ivy's mind is made up.

The banter is followed with the different shots, going back and forth between Ivy and Kitty. Finally, Kitty realizes that Ivy is not going to come into the basement without Lucius, and he still remains outside. The camera trembles with Kitty, yet is focused as Ivy's hand slowly rises outside the door frame. There is a line of lights, leading in an obscure pattern up to Ivy's house, all out of focus. It is the pathway of the creature.

When we hear the creature, the camera shifts from Kitty's terrified face to a corner in the house, this time confirming our fear of the unknown. This time the camera shakes slightly as it pulls focus from Ivy's hand to her face. Her confidence is wavering, and the creature comes closer.

The agony begins--we watch as Ivy's hand remains in focus, and the creature finally appears, approaching yet remaining out of focus. Is the ugly appearance of the creature in our minds? Why do we not see it more clearly?

Then our dark hero appears, taking Ivy's hand in slow motion, and pirouetting her into the house. Her skirt twirls, and the door closes. The score rises. Lucius has broken his silence with the whisper of his palm.

The shot is less intense, loosened up to a medium wide, at level with our characters, and not askew in the least bit. We focus on the unity of the two, their hands intertwined and diagnally cutting the shot into segments. There are no more shaky shots, and it subsides between still medium wide and medium close up shots of their hands and feet--the journey together is more important than alone. 

End Scene


WHY THIS IS SO GREAT:

First of all, our tension in this scene is built up by the shot composition, shot choice, lighting and color choices, and character dynamics. Not once do we get a clear view of the monster itself. IN FACT, the monster occupies less than 10% of this entire scene. It is not once in focus for us to see clearly. We create the creature in our minds, and the psychological response we have to the scene as a whole.

This was a perfectly, and precisely planned scene.

Also, the multiple layers of symbolism are mind-blowing. We have the symbolism of Ivy and Lucuis--the balance of light innocence and dark knowledge. You have the red and yellow--the appearance of order that is then stripped away, moment by moment. 

This is classic Shaymalan.

I cry when I see this scene... the build up is so powerful!

And in homage to passion, and that which ignites it... I salute this movie. It still has the power to move me emotionally, as it did when I was 16.

With that.. Good night. :)

my magical birthday happens to be tomorrow. that's right, i will be turning 21 on the 21st of january. 

i'm not sure what to do with myself.

your voice startled me into a irregular rhythm my heart barely kept

it was the same in my dream. i’ve never met you. i’m tumbling against my will, but i’m not fighting all that much either.

it caused me to stumble over my words, my hands shook, my lips pursed.

you made laughing easy.

you are surprising… and terrifying…and…exactly the way my mind contemplated it while sleeping…

lord help me.

this is forbidden; it must be why i crave it so much.

then again. talk is cheap; it could go like this for ages and change with the quickest of look-overs.

why must life be live?

wrote this so long ago...but i feel it today like it's fresh.


fickle
tickle
tears that run
slowly
quickly
just to young
love
hate
war
and peace

a piece
a piece
a piece
(of me)

memory
never more
running for
forever gone
obliviate
fucking hate

cut
cut
slash

fears
pills
passion

crush
crushing
crushes
crash

stare
stun
blush
blush

don't speak
no
hush

shiver
tremble
fawn
and weep

a piece
a piece
a piece
(of me)

scream
shake
silent fear

no one

nothing

disappear

dreaming
drumming
running free

a piece
a piece
a piece
(of me)

attack
refute
omit
abuse
submit
conclude
shove
pull

take

stealing
wanting
breaking
flaunting

screaming
"let me be"

where's your piece?

a piece
a piece
a piece
(of me)

what difference does it make if i tell you my essence,
when you can't drink it in; you're full of yourself
and what compliments your own ideas

drink up an idea and chase it
with the backwash of your mind
you aren't listening but you hear oh so well.

singing songs like they echo
back up a treacle drenched ditch
deep deep down they tumble, incubate, but never burst.

and you hope of this from me?
so small and simply watching
wandering from one thought to the next and listening
rather than letting something be heard
in one ear and out my neck.

i'll let you hold my hand,
burn my tongue with your liquor words
stretch my thighs with sky-drenched eyes;
your pupils were so big.

and it keeps spilling out of my veins and into my fingers

twitch twitch

it felt so good.


and so do you.

you'll wonder where i went,
but you should know,
grand provocateur.

 
never sit still and i'm bored of this place
i could never bore of you like you bored into me
but if i stay for too long ill staystuck.


on my knees deep

muck mire mud with you...

being dirty (with you) wouldn't be so bad;

(fingers slip slid, drip drop on my skin
recycling the sun's cloud lover)

only, i love the chaos of rain/not the aftermath.


that was fleeting.

the frost of my own breath woke me up this morning... it was gloriously cold.

you never understood why i was so alive in the dead of winter. it's that part of me that you can't touch. i mourned that fact when my eyes fluttered open, and my skin crawled with the ghostly caress of the air.

if you were beside me, you would have curled around me, sucked the eminent warmth that's inexplicably missing in the heat of the desert i reluctantly call home, but burns deep when i'm touched by snow, wind, and alien blue sunlight, reflecting from every surface.

i welcomed it with avid delight, into my body with each bottomless recess of breath, my chest heaving, and my skin's heat creating a strange fog from the cold bouncing off of it's porcelain surface. but you aren't here; you were once that inner heat that burned me... now you don't touch me, not even with your hands.

i am alone. the snow is too.

and we relish each other's company.

i went to wake you with a brush of my lips against the crag of you cheek. i softly whispered merry christmas, and you deftly turned to reject the icicle of my lips. you'll learn. i'll wait.

i fold into myself, and keep that ice where i want it. i'll remember this. i felt it this morning, and i feel it crush me in the diaphragm, taking my breath and voice with it now. she would want it this way. she remained in her solitary sandstone, surrounded by ice her whole life. i take that piece with me.

and she was alone. so was the snow.

and they relished in the company of one another.

i never knew how i channeled my great grandmother; but i feel it creeping up inside of me. lord, give her strength. lord, give me here strength.

when we would walk on the moon-like red stone, and the snow looked like slushed out blood, she would hold my hand and guide my mind to things no one looked at. at that moment we were together... 

and right now i relish in the company of that memory.

you'll learn. we both feel it. and i'm glad she doesn't see this piece of us silently moving a part, like drifts of snow carried by the wind. we'll land where we should. and i'll wait patiently for that to happen.

why did I have that dream?


i'm losing my mind, this i am certain of.


i suppose it isn't losing, if you willingly give it up though; right?

i never questioned the deftness of your fingers or the slick patronage of your tongue. you stood over me like a proud lord; it was your birthright, i was your queen.

the sighs came out in hurried puffs, and the laces were torn from their place; your face twisted with anticipation, a soft feral growl escaped my throat.

your skin was as smooth as alabaster, and it was sweet torture, the way you took your time, learning every shape of a body that i barely knew.

when you opened your mouth to speak, i hushed you with a finger.

let's not ruin this with lovely words. 

sculpt me with the ready eagerness of the artist you are; carving bodies into your mind was your eternal haunt, i don't want to be forgotten.

you could toy with my hormones anytime you wished, but fingering my emotions was out of the question.

i saw in your eyes the burning question, and i turned away. you convinced me with your fingertips that tonight we could pretend.

and the question lay with us, tendrils running up the walls like climber vines.

what if you do?

obsession is turning into a dust that fills my lungs

this cloud that envelopes my brain is anything but recreational;

in arizona, the storms i lust are

always

preceded by hasty dust storms and devils

hungrily pursuing the thought
of ultimate destruction.

this house won't bend
to it's wicked demands.

eep.

let redemption come
in the form of cumulous
perspiration;

honey from the heavens
dripping like a promise
from the lips
of
God.

taking your dripping
fingertips out of the jar


i enjoy the overwhelming
sense of becoming
teacher

to you


discover the riches of earth
and learn only through
sensory perception
the folly of man's
manufactured materials.


and don't be timid
in licking drops
of the whole honey comb

off of

my

skin

as i sit once again, in a gargantuan empty house, my poor high-heel scorned foot has seemingly fallen to sleep. i would want a nap too if i was subjected to being bound by one teetering accident of an everyday weapon.

and when i get up, it sounds as if i am a wounded tap-dancer, continuing the trade with an urgent need to display a properly functioning rhythm of movement on the exterior, only the sound gives away the damage.

reverberating off the walls like laughter, i can't help but smile. 

soon i will be home.

and in those final moments
when your skin flakes off
like snow

i pray your heart be
soothed and sheltered
with the love
that i bestow

as the wind carries
cross countries
the arcane remains
of lore

and centuries hold
puzzles
that be unlocked
with thorough
thought

if it is not
apparent now
let it become so

my love for
you
won't perish
it has room
only to
grow.

but silhouettes on the grass
crisp and clean; shadows never muss

soaking up every contact
velvet skin
of dripping black

expressively misinterpreted.

and i prefer it this way
this shade
of public complacency

what is between is
only
for you and me.

let them overlook
all the better
so we learn
to
look up
and out
and over
and in
at each other;

let us transcend, darling.

we sunk back
in bucket seats

the only material
portion of me

mourned

at the thought
this place, someday,
will no longer be.

even if we
are in
ancient graves

this place

will be
civilized
to shame.

reflective waters, shallow
palm trees, yellowed and sallow

the sun will be overcome
with grey.

fearing the discontinuation
the brokenness
of life
as if death
were the sight
everywhere you turn

only
we'll be in
ancient graves;
the cycle--i embrace!
and for now
has no
possibility
of change.

death is life is death is life is death is life is death is life is death is life is

death is life.

worn by weather
his leather
hand
gripped mine
in vice

this man appears as death
smiling with content
and it feels good
to peer into
its face.

little did
we know
death
was
so content
so happy
so warm

i take his sunken grin
and i'm not giving it back

this what i want
when the rays of sun
blind
and the winds soothe
with ache

to smile with death
inside of me
sweet breath
heavy
with minute age
and the wisdom
limited by
the mortality
of man

forget the urn
freeze it in
an iceburg

i'll travel
the earth
infinitely

it's a bit masochistic, how i seeped back into the past, as far as i could go. there it is, i found what i both missed (and wish i could embrace), yet restrained and am now so indifferent about.

it was so bitter sweet, and it still burns, going down my throat. it's like a habit, reading it out loud. i had to hear it to really relive it, i suppose.

you were always so good with words; god only knows how you understood me so well while others were so lost in the condensation known as me. it's like fog, with sunlight trying to burn through--all these memories. if the sun can eat it up, i think my soul would be re-birthed.

i don't think i ever told you that i thought you were my soul mate. the way we fit each-other so perfectly in every way. being so oppositely in-sync is what led to our demise; it was my ideals that separated the two of us. you sought the truth, and i sought... i don't even know what i was searching for. the over-riding compulsion was to search for you, and i placed you on a pedestal neither of us could climb, and eventually we both fell. ironically enough, soul mates are said to be incapable of being one for very long, or the universe would fall to it's knees. i've accepted that blindly, and i'm sure it will remain that way.

you were so much a part of me. was i that to you? this i will never know, and i think i might be okay with it. i've let myself believe in non-existent closure for such a long time.

when you left, i wasn't merely broken, i was missing. for days, weeks, months. you had taken that vibrance with you, and i let you, willingly. it was my gift for insufficiency.

i never thought about how i may have plunged you into inebriation the last few times, how i played games unconsciously, how i broke my own heart by breaking yours. 

for so long
i believed
i was the righteous
martyr
who suffered it
all for you.
the shroud removed
i realize that
we were equals
in the evil
we subjected
each other
too.

funny, isn't it? how your first love is so intense, and can either teach you to become better at loving, or teach you to recede back into the catacombs of a steel-trapped heart? 

i have both. 

you were the last i chronicled in such stark detail; down to the night you said those fateful words and trapped me inside of you.

at the same time, i have learned that forgiveness is boundless, if it is pure. and forgiveness is adjunct to sacrifice: you can't have one without the other, you can't give either partially, and should administer it impartially. 

expectations are like ghosts; no one else can see them if they don't believe in them. you couldn't read my mind; i couldn't read your heart.

in end, i'm okay with our mutual silence. or so i thought. then i broke it.

for old time's sake.

and under our headline
postscript reads "scribble"

our words are wrong
our hearts are stone

we are separately together

lace my fingers in your's
never let me go
hold my words in your heart
wrap them like a bow
it's all i have to give
so please take them; they're yours
lace my fingers in yours

never let me go