Black

October 18, 2017

It’s said you can’t walk
at midnight forever.
At some point,
you’re supposed to hit
dawn.
It’s said you can’t wander
in fog very long
before ambush
or mind snap,
you see ambush where no bush exists
and aim is very bad.
Tar slickens you like sweat.
Sexton went pretty fast.
Plath had to try.
Buk and Poe took eons.
In the end,
eight ball sweat
slit their breath.
Black lung suffocation without

benefits or acknowledgement.

Trina Stolec

hag of the mist

October 18, 2017

The “hag of the mist,” as she is called, is a wamer, who, by her shrieks, foretells death to those who see or hear her.

Encyclopaedia of Superstitions

Lost Highway - david-lynch

WITHIN THE PAST EIGHTY YEARS, the dialogue between American and European cinema gave birth to various interesting fusions of Hollywood’s ‘commercial aesthetic’ with the more European concept of ‘cinema as art’. While many European and then later also American independent film-makers turned away from their art-film origins in order to adjust their ability to a capitalistic comprehension of art, David Lynch, who had proven already to be capable of producing entertaining mainstream cinema, decided with Lost Highway (1997) again to turn his back on a successful goal-driven narrative conception; the conception that characterises Hollywood’s history, valid for its early films of the classical period and still present in most of todays blockbusters.

Lost Highway offers an impressive self-reflexive example of an American filmmaker implicitly questioning his own background and cultural basis. An attitude that would be more closely related to Jean Baudrillard’s post-modern discussion of America as a ‘hyperreality’ and supporting in parts perspectives of European scepticism towards America. In the independent filmmaking sector of the United States, the influence of British, French and German art-cinema is apparent. This short study is concerned with an interpretation of Lost Highway‘s non-linear elements and what I see as its cinematic critique of a fundamental contradiction at the heart of Western capitalist countries: on the one hand, the immaculate realm full of possibilities and, on the other hand, the ground for distorted existential nightmare and profound anxieties.

Its combination of both sceptical deconstruction and overcoming of scepticism, undermining and questioning the central notion of progress in America’s history and culture, is constructing the discourse of Lost Highway. David Lynch’s $15m production enjoyed more success in Europe than in his home country and one reason for that is definitely Lost Highway’s textual deconstruction of cinema as pure entertainment that can easily be consumed by the modern spectator. Lost Highway is offering ‘onto-logical’, European style art-cinema, questioning man’s existence itself, in presenting a pessimistic and much more challenging screen experience.

Manuel Dries
David Lynch’s Lost Highway: Perpetual Mystery or Visual Philosophy

Leyland watched it come crawling through the dirt towards him, making its way erratically around the edge of the dying campfire, shuddering unsteadily on the makeshift legs which had been attached to its flesh by whatever dark magic lay within the vagabond’s book.

As it rounded the last vestige of flame and placed one sharpened leg atop his outstretched thigh, Leyland stared down at the head and felt his brain go fuzzy. The wrinkled lump of pinkish filth suddenly seemed to him to resemble the shape of an unborn foetus, wrapped up tightly into a ball, slowly advancing unbidden towards him like the future he was not ready to accept.

Carl Baker
From Chatterton Hill

Ghost trains

October 18, 2017

ecstatic

Nothing is known for certain, Isarda. All knowledge is illusion – purpose is a meaningless word, a mere sound, a reassuring fragment of melody in a cacophony of clashing chords. All is flux – matter is like these jewels.

She throws a handful of gleaming gems upon the golden surface; they scatter. When the last jewel has ceased to move, she looks up at him.

Sometimes they fall into a rough pattern, usually they do not. So as this moment, a pattern has been formed – you and I stand here speaking. But at any moment that which constitutes our beings may be scattered again.

Michael Moorcock
Phoenix in obsidian