Tuesday morning, ten minutes spare in the office. My stupid notes read: doors creak open by themselves, objects rool about and fall to the floor, they rattle, bird's wings flapping in alcoves, a bird breaks a pane of glass, a lamp goes out and relights itself. Notes from some book or another (which one?)
They continue: dialogue: few looks between people establish a relationship. Protagonists look down wearily or look away from one another. No reaction shots.
And then a quote from Dante: 'in the middle of life's path/ I found myself in a dark forest'. And a quote from Klee (what does it mean): 'distance is time'. And then Tarkovsky (and now I get it: these are all notes from a book on Tarkovsky. Still, though – which one?): 'Artistic creation is by definition a denial of death' (Tarkovsky himself …)
And a dictionary definition of chiascuro: 'darkness used to enhance sense of light'. And notes about films: Asafayev, weeping and whistling. Kris has a white streak in his hair, like Stalker, like Gorchakov. Off screen sounds used to enlarge space (a train whistle, birds, dogs barking). Flaky, scumbled, textured walls (notes from a book, but which one?).
Ten minutes: I would like to pan through the notebook as Tarkovsky pans. 360 degrees, a writing pan (a post) and take in everything, all the notes and the whole of my life. To open – what – within the day? To open the day itself around a kind of sacrifice, a writing burning. There's a kind of boredom that blows upward like methane released from permafrost. A boredom (is that the word?) that wants only to catch fire.
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