Still, Still

Maybe its the air, the dry-wet accumulation of so many intersecting droplets; the coming rain. Maybe the scent of just cleaned chalkboards, their hint of dust as the hint of heat leaps from the pavement and mingles with the teasing raindrop--a moment on the skin, and then nothing. The body is scented in nature's play. Part dusty sidewalk, part stillness. Post-performance, pre-rain.

Maybe its beyond this earth, the machinations of a grouping of planets, stirring a torment of desire inside me. Reminiscent of what I cannot yet see. What I long to embrace. What I cannot step into. Iatromantis. I belonged somewhere before. Of this I am certain.

I have just come from watching "I am Love," a film with Tilda Swinton. Her character reminded me in parts of her transformative performances in Orlando. She is, without a doubt, superb. And separate from this known fact, I have always felt a kinship with her. She seems endlessly youthful, as my spirit also attests. She is awkward and elegant in one step. Her energy is like no other. And she is so brave. And at once so weak. A characterization I have often fallen into.

The movie was very awkward at first, perhaps intentionally, as it was quite slow to develop and the characters weren't exceptionally interesting. Attractive, yes. It is Italian... but there was a moment, precisely when Tilda's character had an erotic experience with two prawns--cooked by her son's chef friend she then ends up (amid the flowers and syrups and insects and sun) lying naked with in various locations on a hilltop in Italy. Subtle, sweet, evocative. Raw. The end of the movie is superb. A fresco of finality, a slow, repetitive thud against identity. Magnifico.



Headshots tomorrow. Very exciting.