like the onset of some cold glaucoma dimming over the world

This was supposed to be an autumn mix, but then it started getting a tad wintry (the music, I mean). Then I decided it needed to have some Orange Juice on it (in homage to Chris’ recent seasonal comp), and became intent on using this apocalyptic, not-at-all-indicative-of-any-solstice still from Tarkovski’s Nostalghia (‘83) as the cover art. So, the mix might be thematically confused, but the music is nonetheless good. (The title comes from the Shakespeare’s underrated Troilus and Cressida.)

Download Winter From Your Lips

Once you have the file, unzip it and drag the whole folder into your preferred digital music player application. Tracklist is in the comments section. This time I struggled to make sure my sequencing wouldn’t be lost in the transfer and it seems to have worked. Enjoy!

Raymond Depardon. San Clemente, 1979.

If you hadn’t noticed, the blog’s been on break for a while. This isn’t definitive. I have a job that requires much sitting in front of a computer, so I try to do other things once I get home. And until I can manage my free internet time better (i.e., responding with some semblance of promptness to e-mails from my dear friends—no wonder my long-distance relationships never worked out) I won’t feel at ease spending it blogging.

Until then, for the autodidacts:

Reading: Karl Popper, The Open Society and Its Enemies (Vol. 1); Shakespeare, The Tempest (Ed. Vaughans); Mikhail Botvinnik, 100 Selected Games; Gerard Genette, Seuils.

Listening: Booker Little, Memory Tapes, Maximum Joy, United States of America, Glenn Gould, Pimsleur German

Watching: L’Argent (Bresson, ‘83); Drag Me To Hell (Raimi, ‘09); Il y a longtemps que je t’aime (Claudel, ‘08); Beau Travail (Denis, ‘99); The White Ribbon (Haneke, ‘09)

Fall mixtape forthcoming. The blog will be back.

I’m visiting an ancient abbey with a large atrium. A large, holy spider lives in the rafters. It descends to the middle of the room and I heave a chair at it, dashing it to pieces. When everyone responds to the noise, I feign shock.

Went to see Andrei Arsenyvich Tarkovsky’s final film, The Sacrifice (1986), at a retrospective tonight.

Poland

(When Ivan’s Childhood shows next, I’ll have seen every Tarko pic on the big screen! Gotta catch ‘em all!)

France

I can’t think of another director whose work is so unpleasant to actually experience (especially when you’re groggy, hungover and packed in an airless cinema). Who can match his indulgence?

Germany

Even Bresson wouln’t make you watch someone walk a birthday cake across the bottom of a jacuzzi for ten minutes.

U.S.A.

And yet, once outside the theatre, you’re reeling; must be those interminable atmospherics, seeping into the subconscious.

Czechoslovakia

He is, quite simply, The Master. Even Bergman thought so.

As I sd to my friend,
because I am
always talking, — John, I

sd, which was not his
name, the darkness sur-
rounds us, what

can we do against
it, or else, shall we &
why not, buy a goddamn big car,

drive, he sd, for
christ’s sake, look
out where yr going.

Full thesis report coming soon…

I just might pull this shit off.

‘Imagine a small device that you wear on a necklace that takes photos every few seconds of whatever is around you, and records sound all day long. It has GPS and the ability to wirelessly upload the data to the cloud, where everything is date/time and geo stamped and the sound files are automatically transcribed and indexed. Photos of people, of course, would be automatically identified and tagged as well. Imagine an entire lifetime recorded and searchable. Imagine if you could scroll and search through the lives of your ancestors.’ (Techcrunch)

My high school philosophy teacher believed that there will always be one piece of technology which, once you resolve to never use, will signal the beginning of your transition into the afterlife. (Mr. Dykes, to my knowledge, still does not use computers.) I guess I’ve found mine.

I’m performing in a benefit concert with Bette Midler. Just before the curtain goes up, I stop her and say, ‘Bette, I know that we’ve been rehearsing for weeks, but I can’t remember anything I’m supposed to say. It’s just like an actor’s nightmare, but I’m sure this isn’t a dream.’ When the curtain does go up, I lie down behind one of the set pieces and no one notices.

* * *

The sunlight coming through the window is too bright and I can’t sleep in. I go to it to lower the blinds. There’s a plant on the window sill, and its only bud blossoms into a tarantula, its legs unfolding like petals.

* * *

I kiss Laure during Mass.