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[peacockss]

when i die i shall not have died because i have not existed in your mind perhaps, within the minds of others, i have moved and been consumed by movement

[peacockss]

You come to understand travel because you have had conversations, not vice versa. What is the fear inside language? No accident of the body can make it stop burning.

a handful of wanted dynamics and vibes under the cut. not extensive ofc, just me throwing out thoughts and Vibes into the void.

acceptance, or: Have you ever had a hunger that whetted itself on what you fed it, sharpened so keen and bright that it might split you open, break a new thing out? Sometimes I think that’s what I have instead of friends.

it's probably not friendship! but it's understanding. that mutual recognition of ruthlessness. hunger festers in both of you, some keening need for something more that curdles in the stomach. it's like this: the gentlness of sharing a space with someone, the still hush of working in tandem, or creating an intimate room and letting another person in, even as you dig parallel graves. sometimes there is comfort in the quiet of comprehension. OPEN.

admiration, or: couldn't get the boy to kill me, but i wore his jacket for the longest time

it's not once upon a time. it's not a fairy tale, nothing fine and true and made of polished filigree. but once, emran admired someone. not in an aesthetic way, not in the manner that they might considered in emotional slices for the nature of his art, but admiration, pure and simple. something about their moral character, something about the bright light that he saw within them. it's likely a vestige of the past now, likely a memory seen through rose-colored glasses, but the echo of the thing -- the remnant and not the reality, still reverberates through the present moment, leaves a quiet trace upon the space, pulling together and apart and together again. OPEN.

companionship, or: When you can't win the game, knock over the board.

a very dramatic quote for a very undramatic thing (unless??). here is the thing: whirling minds need a balm. you two play a game. one that has been long on-going. is it play by mail chess? is it a crossword puzzle, traded back and forth? are they riddles, passed on letter by letter, hinted at in odd objects, in snippets from books. whatever it is, together, you've constructed a common tongue and understanding, secret and sacrosanct and limited to the boundaries of your shared game. until, maybe, that knowledge of the other becomes less a game and more a simple matter of survival. TAKEN // LARS - FALCONET. 

confession, or: my heart is drenched in blood / i'm almost ready to be born again

confession is a two-way street. i hold open my chest for you, you hold yours open for me. it’s quid pro quo in the strangest way. anyway, in some way, emran has decided to bare some of his doubts, some of his regrets to someone else! if they want to do the same, by all means, let him hear them. when he isn’t being a dick, he’s a pretty decent listener, and pretty good at understanding. is this messy? could be! is it nice? could also be that! i just like giving characters people and spaces to drop their shields in, especially if it’s good fodder for hurt down the road. OPEN.

forgiveness forgetfulness, or: Oh, we’ll still hate each other, my dear, we have hated each other too long and too passionately to stop … but my bones will rest easy next to your bones.

this one is even looser than the rest but GOD it’s a vibe i deeply want. it’s a well of mutual hurt that runs clean through two lives. somewhere, at some young age, two people hurt each other (i’m going for a platonic hurt here, but i am OPEN tbh) and it left and ache that won’t go away, that traced winding river of emotion through the heart. it's all very I speak in the smoke signals and you answer in code // The fuse will have to run out sometime // Something here will eventually have to explode. it’s something where there is not hope of forgiveness on either end, but maybe there’s space for time, the healer of all wounds, to intervene. OPEN.

misc vibes:

[peacockss]

The narrative is sentient and it is coming to GET you

[peacockss]

Interior with Kontoglou poster    -   Niki Karagatsi , 1985

Greek,  1914-1986

Oil on canvas

[peacockss]

me, when i can’t organize or plan for shit: nonlinear narrative sequence enhances the dreamlike atmosphere of this tragicomedy

[peacockss]

how is a Greek chorus like a lawyer / they're both in the business of searching for a precedent / finding an analogy / locating a prior example / so as to be able to say / this terrible thing we're witnessing now is / not unique you know it happened before / or something much like it / we're not a loss how to think about this / we're not without guidance / there is a pattern / we can find an historically parallel case / and file it away under / ANTIGONE BURIED ALIVE FRIDAY AFTERNOON / COMPARE CASE HISTORIES 7, 17 AND 49

Antigonick, Anne Carson p 33

[peacockss]

“It’s a story about people who don’t trust each other. If you were their therapist, you’d be telling them, ‘You need to learn to trust.’ And they would say to you, ‘What are you fucking talking about? Have you even been listening to who we are? If we trust one another, what’s going to happen? The whole house will burn. Burning burn. People will be able to see it from several cities over if we trust each other. Are we paying you for this?’”

— John Darnielle on “Nine Black Poppies”

[peacockss]

“There must have been a moment at the beginning, where we could have said no. Somehow we missed it. Well, we’ll know better next time.”

— Rosencrantz and Guildenstern Are Dead, Tom Stoppard

[peacockss]

Ikuhara's Episode Commentary: 14: "The Boys of the Black Rose"

I saw a certain horror movie when I was in middle school. There was a secret mortuary in an underground chamber, and the dead were electronically transmitted (!), still in their coffins, to the “other world,” where they were forced into slavery.

The movie’s story was utterly absurd, but the division of the world into opposite poles of “living” and “dead” felt real to me, somehow.

Our world has been spoken of in bipolar fashion for ages.

In my student days, there was a popular book that compared the “affluent” with the “non-affluent,” and sorted everything into categories called “loaded” and “broke.” It was the bubble era, and the aim of the book was probably to get a laugh by saying “They call us wealthy, but our lifestyle’s practically in the trash can!”

But for some reason, I couldn’t laugh.

Years later, the phrase “the winning side” was popular in the media. I thought it was horrid. And sure enough, people started using the opposite phrase “the losing side” as a masochistic joke. I still couldn’t laugh, though.

One day, a girl I saw on TV said, “There are only two types of people in this world: the ones who are chosen and the ones who aren’t chosen.”

That gave me a start.

“To not be chosen is to die,” said the girl.

I decided to try my hand at that.

The Black Rose arc.

[peacockss]

susan sontag, regarding the pain of others // becca de la rosa, mabel // john darnielle, devil house

emran khan. 36. he/him. film director + screenwriter. 

app. skeleton. pinterest. playlist. dynamics (tba).

(short biography + timeline below)

t i m e l i n e.

january 12, 1957  — born in oxford to pakistani parents; his mother helped run a film house (primarily catering to students), while his father worked in one of the cowley factories. as a childhood, it was one of little note.

1975   — begins at ucl. escapes one city to trade it for another. reads for english, but finds a community in the student film circles (for a time).

1979  — emran graduates from university & writes + directs his first film, touring it on the standard circuits. it is received to minor acclaim. this however, does not feel like it is enough.

1981  — emran is weighed in the balance and not found wanting; he accepts the summons, he askes for his desire.

1982  — said desire does not fill his lack. 

1986  — begins to repay his debt.

1990  — returns to his writing with a wild fervor -- the stories all seem to hold some hold in their center, some emptiness that is just out of reach. they are well received, highly regarded. and still, this is not enough.

1993  — once again, a return.

hcs + vibes.

when he was an undergrad, studying english lit, he absolutely wanted to write poetry/become a poet; sucks that he doesn’t have the right eye for it (a mar on his ego that he tries to pretend)

if he has a weak spot, it is for his parents, and his mother in particular. on occasion, he brings her to film events, going sunglass-less for the evening so that she might pass undetected. this is his folly, the center of his heart. it is perhaps the one thing that he would not fully cut through to find a story, and even then, he still cuts.

opts for a clean fashion style -- sharp and refined edges, only a few pieces of high quality. if he owns something, it ought to matter. only owns two pair of sunglasses, both identical.

is less meticulous about his home: while it is his set, the set upon which his life is based, it is also his space away from the world, and so reflects the more casual parts of his mind. in other words: it can be kind of a mess.

his films range genres, but tend towards sharp and stark imagery. all of his romances are never actually romances. his latest project is a documentary on the lives of oxford students. it is very much liable to be cruel.

YES he does watch bad reality tv shows. NO he will never tell anyone about this (please someone find out).

will down an espresso shot like a vodka shot. has vile habits re: caffeine.

is very, very quick to smile, less quick when it comes to smoothing over a situation.

in all honesty, is an introvert, but actively pretends he isn’t, especially since in his time at school, he became aware of how everyone was always looking at him, and learned to work with it. still needs his quiet, at the end of it.

(”what the dragon said: a love story” -- catherynne valente)