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what’s the reverse of perceived phantom costs on technology because every time i read about one of these boosters, rockets, pieces of machinery, being retired after years of serving it feels like i’m witnessing and feeling the sorrow of putting down a dog too loyal to suffer, too ill to live any longer

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i just joined letterboxd and i’m so alone i will get on my knees and beg for some friends on there. i genuinely do not care about what kinds of stuff you like to watch i will read about anything consider any kinds of recommendations. the only people ive got on there are my friends from school and i love them but i know they just downloaded the app for me and dont actually use it at all and i just want some friends who actually record and rate movies every now and again 💔💔 (give me those usernames 👹👹👹)

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portrait of a lady of fire (yay movies)

The reason why I decided to watch ‘The Portrait of a Lady on Fire’, or even found out about it in the first place, is because of a citation in the footnote of a fanfic. The movie had been rotting away in my ‘to watch’ tab group for months, and when I’d finally gotten around to actually give it a go, I wasn’t as interested in that particular fanfic as I was at first. I feel that a huge reason for this is that I actually quite dislike the very ship it is about, however I liked it a lot back then, and with every morsel I got I was bursting at the seams. It doesn’t change the fact that it is still fairly well written, but upon rereading it, the spark in me failed to burst into flames. I blame the characters, not the writer nor the idea. The important thing, however, was for me to be as impartial as possible when watching the movie (I can never be fully unbiased but I can try my best to. I’m also far from a trained film critic of any sort, so feel free to take any of this with a pinch of salt. But I’ll really try my best.) and so I didn’t read any reviews of any sort before watching the movie or writing this, and I had no clue what I was in for. I also had completely forgotten which scene from the movie that part of the fanfic had been based off of, so I really was going in helpless. And honestly, I was and am glad of it. It’s always best that way. (Warning: spoilers ahead)

Of course- the cinematography. I don’t think I have to say much because the gorgeous shots throughout the entire movie speak for themselves. I’m sure that there’s some deeper meaning to the placement of the characters in each frame and an art to the delicacy of the lighting that I am sorrowfully unfamiliar with, but to me it was simple, it was plain and there for me to see. And there was a charm to that simplicity. It felt like I was watching it through the eyes of the very characters in the movie. I was never bored, each pause was purposeful. It felt like life. It felt real. When I wake up on holiday, I have no backing track as I brush my teeth or walk along the seashore. I have no special effects or superhuman powers as I play in the sea. I have the the sounds and things I and the people around me make. The movie never really was silent, just like life never is. There was the sound of the sea cushioning sparse dialogue, and with the sparsity of dialogue I treasured every word, I mulled on them and I understood them like they were spoken to me. There’s always the risk of me getting incredibly bored when I watch these kinds of movies, but I am so glad that I wasn’t with this one. Not once.

Then there was the fire. There was the portrait itself on fire, there was her dress on fire, the very image of Héloïse that Marianne had remembered, and not just remembered but held so dear to hear that she had to see it again, had to paint out and stow away, there was the bonfire that boomed with song and the art done by candlelight. It felt like an ever pressing, omnipotent presence throughout the film, but despite its destructive nature, never once did it feel threatening. Just like fire, I don’t think it ever stood for a specific, concrete definition, never bloomed for specific purpose but served one nonetheless. A means of communication, of warning, of foreshadowing. To share a pipe, it must be lit first before two pairs of lips can touch the same mouthpiece. To see faces (or the lack of one) in the dark passion of night, we must play with fire to keep those impassioned stares held no matter the destruction it may bring. Because fire is bright and burns with a hope that demands attention, it was a perfect constant because it never felt constant- it grew, like their love with time, and longing too.

Even though I’m not a huge fan of the horror genre in films (mostly because most of the time all it composes of are jump scares and no substance that disconcerts me at my core), when included in subtle amounts in films that you’d think have no reason to have it really is the cherry on top. I don’t know if these scenes would even be considered horror per se, but it really did give me fucking chills because of how unexpected it was, even though I wasn’t scared out of my skin. The white garbed vision of Héloïse that appeared before Marianne twice in the film before the actual scene from which it was from (before she left for good), felt like some sort of warning. It always appeared right before a key moment between the two of them like some ghost of futures past and was genius. Whatever it was meant to do, I think it did perfectly.

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from here on out i kind of went a little mad and and completely ditched paragraphing and sentence structure and grammar laws and any sense at all. i don't know what happened because i wrote this like ages ago and left it to wither and die for some reason that has now escaped me, and i'm way too lazy to figure out what on earth i was trying to say. hopefully it makes sense for someone out there!

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their relationship. the secrets. the fights. the PIANO i mean harpsichord scene. the OTHER FIGHT. the whole dynamic in relation to the rest of the film. ever moving never stationary

THE STORY. the looks back. that was so genius and the new take on it n stuff DAWG

(i suspect i was talking about the story of Orpheus and Eurydice. i do remember that there were so many overlapping themes in the film itself, and every time i managed to pick the likeness of one of them out, it was so satisfying. and especially for this theme in particular. i had only vaguely heard of the myth before but after watching it i think that story has been seared into my mind for good. and i agree with past me- it was such a genius move to have the story be a reflection of their life. the shots of their last goodbye were STRAIGHT OUT OF THAT STORY. fight me. and the uncertainty of it all. LITERAL GOOSEBUMPS.)

the ending and teh conceert! is it a sad ending it s not happy but typica l sad ending - someone dies boo hoo but no theyre alive and they seem well but the thought of what couldnve been if if if

it just lies dormant and with these kinds of things you cant really forget (LIKE THE MOVIE NUOVO OLIMPO - where no one dies and theres no tragedy but instead this slow descent into, not madness, but like sadness and stuff and like you can do somethig but you cant at the same time and like UGUGUGUGUH)

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IM SO GLAD IVE MANAGED TO FINISH LEARNING THIS FUCKING (affectionate) SONG.

dont hate me for this, but i came across this song being played on the guitar on tiktok, but at that moment i knew that it was absolutely necessary that i, somehow, manage to play this song BECAUSE IT SOUNDED SO GOOD (it may have helped that there was a little sleepy cat in the video but the song’s nice too i guess).

anyway, i found a tutorial on youtube by MY SAVIOUR, stuart from marin music centre (i don’t know what i would’ve done without this guy) and i began to learn it, but the tuning was weird and there were so many string plucking pattern thingys (sorry im not a professional if you couldn’t tell) to remember and the actual recording of the song goes so quick. i was this close to giving up BUT I DIDNT. AND IM MAKING IT EVERYONE’S PROBLEM.

oh and the song’s called ‘the bug collector’ by haley heynderickx. LISTEN TO THE ACTUAL SONG AT LEAST ONCE IF YOU HAVE NOT HEARD IT BEFORE. i am telling you now, you will not regret it.

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what a fucking line. i think it speaks for itself. reading this thing has changed my life oh my god.

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i dont remember when i wrote this but it was written and id like to keep it thanks

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what's real and what's not?

I'm doing a lot of last minute studying for my exams right now, and over the close to, basically, a decade of studying for exams and quizzes and tests in school I have done (a lot of which, mostly recently, are more concentrated in the days or hours following the actual thing) I've only now realised how little I actually question. How much of what I force into my brain under the pretense that the knowledge of which will help me eventually (whether this is true or not is a whole other conversation) is true? I do ask questions, yes, but even I know that it is hardly enough. For every person who states something that is wrong, isn't it their lack of knowledge on that matter which leads them to believe that what they say is right and what others say isn't? This problem of being right and being wrong has a root in believing things without knowing why you should be believing it. I find that it is very easy to believe something that, though you have only heard it once, and heard it too from a source that is dubiously trustworthy, caters somewhat to the opinion on it that already exists in your mind; or even worse the lack of one and instead the presence of laziness to find the opposing belief. And yet that is what I do with textbooks, with lectures, with nearly everything in fact, because it's so tiring to have to doubt everything the sun touches and have no safe predictability to fall back on.

I'd like to think that we live in a day and age that things we read in articles and in the textbooks I, and the entire country, use in schools, would have been checked and verified to the point that there should be no mistake; that I should be able to trust whatever has been printed onto the pages with blind certainty. We are living in the now, and hasn't humanity as a whole come so far in our knowledge compared to who we were 200 years ago? But wasn't that exactly what our ancestors, 200 years ago, must have thought? When a majority accepts something to be the truth it often does become real, but it really is a funny thing for if something is real, or is seen as real, it does not mean it is the truth. Will people look at us 200 years from now and laugh at our folly? Will they ridicule us for believing in something just because everyone else did and swear upon the newfound that they will never be like us? Be as gullible as we were?

In year 1 our science teacher had taught us that taste buds on our tongue were separated, and only those certain clusters of taste buds in each of their separate locations could taste their respective, well, taste, be it sweetness, saltiness, sourness, bitterness or spiciness, and we brought chocolates, salty chips and coffee grounds to school to test it out. My conclusion; I could very much taste all five of those tastes on all the different parts of my tongue. But I didn't say I did nor did I ask why. I watched my classmates who did ask get told that they had just done it wrong, so I assumed I did it wrong, because the textbook said I was wrong. How could I trust myself, who didn't know anything, a mere student, and not this science text book of law that we all worshipped in the classroom. The fact is that, I should have asked because I convinced myself that that was real. That what everyone said it should be was real. And so it became real to me. But the entire time, it was not the truth. The tongue does not work this way, you can taste these tastes on all parts of your tongue, only to different extents, but those extents are only visible to machines, hardly to ourselves.

Most of the things I've learnt in school up until how have been true, and I would not trade this knowledge easily for it is beautiful and I am glad I have had the chance to experience it and keep it with me. But I only fear that there are cracks in this painting, and I don't know where they are. And I never may. They will haunt me till I die if that artwork doesn't crumble to pieces before I do.

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sonnet 60, William Shakespeare

Like as the waves make towards the pebbled shore, So do our minutes hasten to their end; Each changing place with that which goes before, In sequent toil all forwards do contend. Nativity, once in the main of light, Crawls to maturity, wherewith being crown’d, Crooked eclipses ‘gainst his glory fight And time that gave, doth now his gift confound. Time doth transfix the flourish set on youth, And delves the parallels in beauty’s brow, Feeds on the rarities of nature’s truths And nothing stands but for his scythe to mow. And yet to time in hope, my verse shall stand Praising thy worth, despite his cruel hand.

One night around a week ago I stayed up till a little past 1 in the morning to memorise this sonnet. I always end up doing something along the lines of this, with some piece of work my brain won't let me stop thinking of, before a language exam of any sorts, and for some (strange, maybe) reason it works wonders each time. Maybe some of my teachers don't believe so, but what matters the most to me is how happy I am with my work. I know to an extent what I am capable of if I be honest with myself, and the way in which I often write my essays can be quite unconventional (and it gets me in trouble loads), so I don't take their words as gospel.

Of the few sonnets that Shakespeare wrote that I managed to read that night, this I would say is probably my favourite. I still have shy of a hundred left to go and my opinion is swayed easily so I don't believe it will remain so for long. But whilst it is, I'd like to relive the world I built around this sonnet during that exam, I'd like to write down what I created as something I can keep; something I can share. It is impossible to rewrite exactly what I had that day, given it has already been almost four days since, and my memory, though not half bad most definitely does not have the capacity to remember a story written in a flurry of ideas though it was I who wielded the pen. But it was I who wielded the pen, and it was I who saw the house the tale took place in, and it was I who lived it through in my mind. So then I am perfectly capable of rebuilding it, flaws and all, and so I will.

Maybe not now though, for there is much of it to speak of and it will take a long time to write it all out with the level of detail I require, and time I do not have at the moment. But I will, eventually. Thankfully stories are timeless and when I do have time for it (in a few days I assume), it will be done. For now I shall only name it, so I can keep this outline as organised as possible with the aid of a tag, but nice names are difficult to come up with. How do I name the road down which a house sat, a house beside the seashore with innards familiar to me, which housed people with familiar faces but not behaviour? I do not truly know this place yet though it feels like I do. I know it, somewhere within me.

I shall give it a codename instead, until I can truly decide. I do know that in my original essay, as I had written it as if I had tried to bring the sonnet to life, I described that road and that house and that seashore as a place 'where time stayed his scythe', and so that it shall remain.

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losing my creation

It feels so uncanny that just a few hours ago I was writing like a dam had opened inside me and the words of ages before my time flowed out in incessant cascades upon the page. A whole world had been made known to me and I was forced to let go of it too soon and I will never get to lay eyes on the map that was so graciously revealed to me ever again. I've never been separated from a piece of my writing so permanently before and I despise this feeling. I think I left a part of me on that paper and now I desperately scramble to fill the hole it left I can only reconstruct the vague shape of it from a fading memory. It feels so misshapen. It feels so forced. It feels like I am only drawing the gap larger the more I scratch at the wound.

How do I relive it? How do I experience that inexplicable experience again? I want to try but the fear of failure holds me back.

I do not want to believe that I have lost my child before I had the chance to get to know it. Why won't the necromancers tell me their secrets?