This is what the world will look like if I leave my house today.

i stir up scraps of paper like syllable soup, sprinkle in laced ribbon, dried leaves and a handful of sage.  the sky the other night looked almost white, snow glowing up from the ground. 

What shall be rigid but gems and details
While all dimensions dance in the same air?
And what am I if the story be not real?
W. S. Merwin

notes from Bergman’s The Silence

What’s he saying?
I don’t know (puppets fighting).
He’s scared so he speaks in a funny language.
Can’t punch sing instead?
Yes, but not while he’s still angry.
(Tank moves on.)

How nice that we don’t understand each other. 
(kisses his three wounds)

e said i am going to make a palindrome project i am going to make it a love poem i am going to work on it for so long that i think and see everywhere in palindromes, i am going to live my life as a palindrome starting…right…now.

In Bergman’s German Expressionism/film noir/classic horror pic, The Hour of the Wolf, Heerbrand (?) explains ‘One returns to the scene of the crime, so to speak, and commits new crimes.  I’m a psychiatric curator.  I finger people’s souls and turn them inside out.’  Other notes I took when watching:

Pamina, an incantation, Pa-mi-na, a sorceror’s formula…

…and I answered as many strokes as possible…

Now you are yourself and yet not yourself – the ideal state for a meeting between two lovers. (bats fly through hallway)

You see what you want to see.  The mirror has been shattered.  But what do the splinters reflect?  Tell me that.
(Like in The Snow Queen  n Yet Another Example of the Porousness of Certain Borders XXIV n my Moonlighting short story n on n on n on…)

Soon youth…or never (immortality)…

It’s not dark anymore.  You can find your way.

You came…you stay…you go…You have complete freedom (with the ghosts)…

Thousands of red winged blackbirds fell from the sky, their lungs imploded as though from the enormous pressure of vertigo, their wings spread like black fans as they splashed to the pavement, their shiny beaks opening and closing, some still alive.  In the water, thousands of drum fish hit their final binary fit.  In the earth, a buried creature with dirt in his eyes sang along to it.

A picture lives by companionship, expanding and quickening in the eyes of the sensitive observer. It dies by the same token. It is therefore a risky and unfeeling act to send it out into the world. How often it must be permanently impaired by the eyes of the vulgar and the cruelty of the impotent who would extend the affliction universally!	”
	— Mark Rothko

What did the tiger lily say?
“Do you hear the drum? Boom, boom! It was only two notes, always boom, boom! Hear the women wail. Hear the priests chant. The Hindoo woman in her long red robe stands on the funeral pyre. The flames rise around her and her dead husband, but the Hindoo woman is thinking of that living man in the crowd around them. She is thinking of him whose eyes are burning hotter than the flames-of him whose fiery glances have pierced her heart more deeply than these flames that soon will burn her body to ashes. Can the flame of the heart die in the flame of the funeral pyre?”
“I don’t understand that at all,” little Gerda said.
“That’s my fairy tale,” said the lily.

from The Snow Queen

and this is the hardest game.
more from What Matters Most is How Well You Walk Through the Fire