what fuels the passionate lust for unknown frames?
what if this were a book? what if i could turn the page back and read what i did before, and relive those moments without finding out the end. and the end were already written, steeped in the past. we can enter the past by walking forward into the said future.
there's a reason why i'm typing like this, i'm reading Susan Howe's essay Sorting Facts, and its supposed to be about a documentary film maker. unfortunately, she's a bit of a linguist or some other unimportant discipline, that she writes in a very non-linear way. it pisses the hell right out of me, stupid intellectual types. they create a language and go break all the rules. ra ra ra, if you were the only intelligent one in the world and nobody could understand you, would that make you stupid? thus, the smart people in this world are really telling us the things we want to hear. and we give them all the credit.
film maker. that word can't exist for me. i don't think i'd ever want a pretentious title attached to me. then again, what else could you call it? i don't know, i don't really care. i do know that i want to get my hands on a film-based SLR and start taking pictures, put them in a scrap book, like a sort of non-moving picture documentary. but without the documentary.
but why would i want to archive certain moments in time? i don't know, maybe it's an illusion that we can last forever in our mortal coils. but even pictures fade away.
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