alainjohns

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Mudbound (2017)

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René Magritte, The Survivor, 1950

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Meghan Howland.

Paintings by Meghan Howland.

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[alainjohns]

“I don’t know if I’m scared of dying but I’m scared of living too fast, too slow Regret, remorse, hold on, oh no I’ve got to go There’s no starting over, no new beginnings, time races on And you’ve just gotta keep on keeping on”

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Eye Colour, 1946, M.C. Escher

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karl bryullov, the last day of pompeii & phoebe bridgers, i know the end

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if i get shot do i own the bullet

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The change from maximally compact inner speech to maximally detailed outer social speech requires what might be called deliberate semantics –– deliberate structuring of the web of meaning.

Thought and Language, Lev Vygotsky (trans. by A. Kozulin). 

High Speech … is a subtle and complex language. Each word has multiple meanings which refer, simultaneously, to ordinary human interaction, to the web that joins the interacting individuals, and to the greater pattern of humanity’s past and future,

The Dark Tower: A Complete Concordance, Robin Furth. 

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1 / ?

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Singers who know what they’re doing when it comes to harmony. 

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being at an abandoned place knowing that years ago at that exact same moment there were people

When the snow comes in the mountains you dig yourself a hole and cry for the devil, as the old folken have a way of saying up here in the Shavéd. What precious little folken there are. Cuthbert swore he could count them all off on both his hands, the ones they had run into and the ones duck their heads and ogled them. Walleyed and gap-toothed and hands the size of bin lids. Down in the plains and in Gilead herself, folken say other things about the mountains.  Home to crossbreeds, they say. Half human half giant and no ounce of decency in em. When the snow comes let it come, let it eat them and wash away the sin of depravity. 

Cuthbert said different. Cuthbert said when the snow comes you eat the bird and find yourself a hole already dug, say thankya.

So they had: a shabby, derelict hole half caved in, barely a roof worth speaking, but an old-fashioned fireplace that still looked functional, if naught else, and a set of tall double doors lifted out of their hinges. By man or by wind, Cuthbert couldn’t say. Three walls still standing, though, and that was a gift. He squared the fireplace, gauged the distance to the nearest cluster of pines (already wearing a dollop of fresh powdered snow like a hat) and back to the fireplace. 

“I ain’t going out for firewood. Al, you go.” 

“Bert.” Roland said his name in a way that was both soft and sharp, at the same time, a marvellous linguistic feat. He probably had not an inkling of a feel for it, bless his precious little soul. 

“What? I rubbed down the horses. All three and a half of them.” They didn’t venture into the Shavéd this late in the year – Reap come and gone already – without a pack horse. 

Roland was hunkered down on the floor, running an ungloved hand over the rubble and the pebble. Cuthbert opened his mouth to ask what the hell he was doing when he came back up, his palm open. “We’ll draw sticks if it please ya.” 

If it please ya, alright, fine, Ro being mellow enough for that was good enough for Bert. If he were in a bigger, badder mood, he might have just made Bert go out into the confusticated snow again and that’s that. 

“Sure. Okay. That works. Al, come over here. Al?” Bert spun around. “Alain? Where the hell did he vanish to, a sun-kissed beach with cotton candy? Alain!”

Cuthbert crosses the room in a few strides (long legs came in handy like that) and peered around the fireplace that dominated the place. He let out a sharp whistle of air between his teeth, and took a step back. “Damn, Ro, look at this!” 

What he had mistaken for a craggy assembly of underbrush when they rode in now lay before them and half a foot below them, beyond the crumbling remains of the fourth wall like a line of ridged teeth. And from this vantage point, snow or not, Cuthbert could see, though not understand, a series of hedges clipped into the shapes of animals. A rabbit. A dog. A horse. 

A triplet of lions. 

He could see them, clear as day, because even under a dusting of snow they held their shape, sharp and clear. 

He couldn’t understand them because, in this abandoned hellhole that ain’t seen a living soul in years many and many-a, they had no right to hold their shape. Sharp and clear. 

And in front of him there was Alain, hunkering on the ground like Roland in front of the fireplace to gather their sticks. The cold, dilapidated fireplace. 

“Al…?” Cuthbert frowned. He reached out – but all of a sudden, felt a pull in his gut strong enough to stop him mid-air. All of a sudden, he didn’t want to touch Alain by the shoulder. Alain who sat stock-still, his head down. Cuthbert didn’t need to see him to guess he had his eyes closed. Cuthbert didn’t need to touch him to guess he was trembling in his winter coat. 

Right. 

“Let’s get out of this flophouse, then.”

Not a flophouse. The urge to correct himself was almost overpowering. A hotel. 

When the snow comes, you find yourself a hole already dug. Might still cry for the devil in holes already dug, do ya.

[alainjohns]

There Will Be Blood (2007) dir. Paul Thomas Anderson

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Garrett Hedlund serving looks in Mudbound (Dee Rees, 2017).

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THE DEVIL & THE HUNTSMAN.

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Engraved and gold inlaid North American Big Game Special Smith & Wesson .357 magnum double action revolver