drifting in a sea of corpses

E is listening to his strange "noise" music on his walkman.
I hear the occasional ping and pop followed by a weird shrill.

"noise" it is, and I find it quite distracting.

I am usally alone when I type during one of my typing marathons.
Alone and quiet - only the clack clack of my fingers on the plastic keys -
that is somehow soothing
reminding me that I can find solace and refuge in my words that I convey to you,
my readers -
and to you -
myself - me...

I saw a disturbing movie last night - Shame by Ingmar Bergman.
Bergman is one of my favorite all time filmmakers in the world.
This film was different from the rest of his works.
It was quite disturbing.
Very disturbing in fact.

I woke up this morning with images, sounds - snippets from the black and white subtitled 2 hour visual and auditory session
existential residue on my mind map of consciousness.


Well, what's this movie about?
In short - can I sum it up in 30 words or less?

Gritty, brutal and supple, Ingmar Bergman's Shame (1968) stands as one of the best antiwar films ever made, a fact made more amazing by its relative lack of notoriety, even among Bergman aficionados. With a particular and refreshing abstention from art-house navel-gazing, Shame is an apolitical home-front horror show where life during wartime slowly shifts from existing in a state of petty complacency to, literally, drifting in a sea of corpses. Focusing exclusively on the way war unsettles and corrupts the lives of civilians, Bergman's film scans on a primal level like a "Twilight Zone" episode gone unstoppably, sickeningly real.

And I couldn’t have said it better myself.

I suggest you see it, if only to say you watched a Bergman film.

And yes, you might wake up with the same kind of morning breath dream sludge that is hauntingly difficult to shake off that i am experiencing now.


***

My mom's chemo starts on the 17th.

Life is going to change for us - life as we have known it up till now will shift. A foreign element will shake up and invade our daily routines, routines which we have come to treasure as ritual, normal and constant.

A foreign invader - aggressive and ready for battle.
We must be ready to flight or concede defeat.

I guess that's where the film comes in.

I have woken up with my Scandinavian colored glasses -
(bought at Ikea...lol)
and the world seems a tad bit sharper than usual.


I'll have to stay with her while she adjusts to the chemicals - gauge how ill she'll become, how weak she'll be, how much discomfort it will cause her.
The treatment will last for four weeks - taking us into mid - May.
Summer will be close by.

thank God for that

At least that.

***


I wish I had a guitar.

I used to be quite good at playing guitar - flamenco to be exact.
Good, well I am being modest.
go ahead - you so rarely boast about your abilities.

I was quite talented - at the age of 14, my teacher urged me to take a university exam which would have allowed me to actually teach as a certified instructor.

Did I ever follow through?
Naaah.
I got scared and she got pregnant.

One project ends, another begins.


I played for my own pleasure until a few years later when my father re-claimed my classical guitar. My only guitar. I didn't have enough $ to buy a new one, and by the time I did, the more important things in life such as balloon pants, pointy shoes and mesh tops were at the top of my priority list.

Ahh. Gotta love the 80's.


I came across some old music books the other day, one in particular that she had stolen for me from school. Spiral binding partially untwisted at the ends, worn pages yellowed, reproduced hand written notes alongside Spanish and Italian words woven in between passing tones and a perfect cadence.

Romance De Amor by Vicente Gomez .


I remember the first time I played this piece - in its entirety. Tears streamed down my cheeks as every note reverberated throughout the wooden body held close to my chest ; each note seemed so familiar to me. My fingers swept effortlessly across the warmed wood, the sweet smell of cedar taken in with each strum.


...

Good Lord.
That sounds so wretchedly romantic.
euck

but romantic it was - the mood, the tempo, the harmony.


Vivaldi was my favorite.
Perhaps it was the bittersweet melancholy and simplicity of his Guitar Concerto In D Major that moved me the most; but each time I heard that piece, a profound sense of resignation, akin to what I imagine a peaceful acceptance of death would feel like, consumed me.

Death.
Resignation,
acceptance.

War?

the deterioration of a relationship?
finding out that death is enviable part of life?

realizing that perhaps there is no God?
that there is no such thing as salvation?



I guess this Bergman film is effecting me more that I thought it would.