Tuesday, January 21, 2020

A Second Dose of [The Body Canvas]

Perpetual cold and misery; products of a bleak existence. And of this
existence, the writer knows all too well, all too perpetual. In the sphere of
creative urge, there is only mere interpretation, myths of the mythomaniacal,
places where one assumes the maneuver of doubling, adorning a godlikeness
in a world of nothingness in need of vital construction, or else, a pivotal
refurbishment. And this one, presumably a man, in all his persistent aspiration,
he’ll be murdered during the eve of the final victory which aroused in him a
debt no longer certified as absentee and to maintain and manifest the vague
life he’s survived thus then, thenceforth, henceforth, always to be equally
unfree in irrational force, an unshakable neurosis, suffering from the
appointed Philistines who wrongfully appropriated an era most bitter and
better served to have been forfeited, as an allele with a hot foot, strangleholds
erroneously hypothesized that to be freed, the one desirable of freedom
collapses by way of decapitation. You have to put skin in the game; that said, I
am no longer the young writer who once made slaves of them all and left his
wake of annexation, punch-drunk pussies, bruised and to date, begging again
deep penetration, badges of crimson-spilling avulsions to reinforce their
bombasting of having been had in the worst possible way imaginable. The
other Victorians who came before me smile from their sepulchers and warm
the vacant one engraved with my name.
Every woman I’ve loved has discovered in dire, unfortunate theatrics, to
be loved by me is to be runner-up to what I am and al muses have died with
the fading image of me, drastically realizing to be a muse of the pages I
compose means to be loved and hated simultaneously, idolized, worshiped
and inevitably put out to Pasteur with yesterday’s whores whose vaginal tears
still can be detected on the shaft all future victims will taste. The insalubrious
life all writers sympathetically and uncontrollably lead is a primitive one with
drug-laden semantics, proposed methodology to heal in hypothesis defiant
since Pandora went to her grave refusing to warn the people on earth and the
future generations that was to come, of what the writer would do to
everything in his wake. If there is no chaos, the animal in him will inevitably
create it, if chaos happens to find itself already standing, he’ll play the tune to
make it dance, pyrotechnics so unique with clinical scapegoats are no so
dispassionate to mention, not the slightest power soon at all to be discovered
within, only savagery, cannibalizing his own in written word to extend
longevity. The more he writes, he destroys and the more he destroys, the
greater the ashes to throw into the air and decorate the breeze with the
stench of the deceased made his pen-sword. The map of hysteria should by
now be apparent as the last 19 years o the greatest and most consummate
American writing has been written by these two blood hands because I and I
alone, have proved to be the only artist sure of the commitment to something
both in and outside of myself, stacking skyscraper-high Pyrrhic victories to a
satisfaction so egregious the question of whether enough can be consumed to
cure the bottomless hunger…..
..so let’s be clear on one thing, I do the fucking and a damn good fucking at
that. I harbor not the slightest pity for those at the wrong-end-of-business to
this gargantuan fuck; it could be the most akin to raising the dead through
necromancing immediately following the bullet I’ve driven into their brain
stem and the ones who’ve been executed were not just victims to my own
need for amusement nor a way to get my dick hard; they were examples,
slaughtered in full view of other observing muses, slave to my literature in this
life and the next, that karma, despite the clichés so tremendously repeated by
mindless cliché-entials, is an idle belief; even if the kind, the altruistic and
philanthropist circulate goodness, they remain equal to us all; we all take a
taste of misadventure. What you send out, good or bad, everyone receives the
wrath that is the cost of being a hostage to this existence.





Dontrell Lovet't
from, [The Body Canvas]

A Taste of [The Body Canvas]

  On day one, man came from the dust, saw himself in form,
without formation. On day two, he started imprisoning, oppressing and waging
war against his fellow men. The following day, the lineage that Prometheus
would become of discovered fire, and of Sada Abe, tool construction. On day
four, the marching orders were given, what warmed and prepared food,
brought arson into linguistics and tool construction was a more efficient,
effective way to reign murder over the opposed and conquered. It wasn’t until
this man with his knowledge and know-how of tool construction impaled
himself, was bit by the very flames he used to incinerate his enemies that gave
birth to the artist, when he used his own blood to paint upon the cave walls his
story of campaigns and discoveries. On day six, he watched in completed
amazement and astonishment all the ashes rising from behind the horizon, the
amount of mayhem and horror which could be harvested by his hands, and
with everyone in his wake dispersed, dispatched or cut down, he rested, gave
pause to his siege of all foreign, all unfamiliar, so that the earth could
replenish, the population could reproduce under occupation, forget its former
short-lived chiefdom, so when he wakes, he can return to the madness all
artist become accustom to in one way or another.




Dontrell Lovet't
from, [The Body Canvas]

Friday, January 17, 2020

[Genius or Madness] How the effects of Syphilis Influenced Literature & History



 




by Dontrell Lovet't
         


       Syphilis is a sexually transmitted infection caused by the bacterium Treponema Pallidum subspecies Pallidum. The signs and symptoms of syphilis vary depending in which of the four stages it presents (primary, secondary, latent, and tertiary). In the primary stage, the disease is most infectious and communicable to be passed along, the secondary stage turns the bacteria inwards on its host, halting its ability to be infectious to others and begins to destroy primarily the cardiovascular and Integumentary systems. In the Tertiary stage, the bacteria breaches the Blood/Brain barrier, entering the brain and begin to make mangle-work of the Cerebral Cortex, which eventually, inevitably, causes madness.


       Syphilis, more so than any other disease, has intertwined with the fate of the Who's Who of literary and Musical geniuses in our human history. Beethoven's deafness in his later life was in fact due to advance Syphilis (deafness being one of the side effects of the progression of the disease), Mozart's reoccurring illness and painful death was at the hands of tertiary Syphilis (spending many years searching for a cure of what was termed "the Pox.") Guy de Maupassant, the French novelist, not only often bragged that he contracted a "real disease" but went on boasting of his repeated sexual encounters with young boys whom he knowingly infected in North Africa. Gustave Flaubert (known for his timeless yet dry novel "Madam Bovary") was not bashful in admitting his sexual exploits in his travel writings with Turkish girls and male prostitutes in Beirut and Egypt, noticing a chancre (the initial symptom of Syphilitic infection) on his penis. James Joyce, in surviving letters, discussed treatment for what he called "Pox" which stemmed from his various affairs and frequenting Parisian prostitutes; his greatest novel, Ulysses, was written under Joyce's body complete compliance to Syphilis, calling into question, how much of Ulysses was genius and how much was madness?

        Vincent van Gogh's depression and self-mutilation (both too known to be common side effects of Syphilis) was noted along with his "pox" in letters to his brother. Mary Todd Lincoln, wife of the 16th President of the United States, Abraham Lincoln, not too long after his assassination, begin to exhibit signs of the tertiary advancement, as she knowingly wandered off, became delusional, aggressively erratic, which one can rightfully wonder; If Mary Todd had been infected, had Abraham? And if not for his untimely assassination at the hands of William Booth, would he too have fallen into a dead spin symptom of deteriorating? 

         Adolf Hitler, while serving as a soldier in the First World War, admitted his frequenting a Jewish prostitute, who undeniably, infected him. Mein Kampf, his novel and manual for the unification of the Aryan Race and the destruction of the Jews, is littered with Hitler's obsession with infected blood, mentions of pox and his primary care doctor, who kept him sedated when he wasn't on public tours of propaganda, recommending his Vegan dieting, was by trade a Syphilogist. With his documented late delusions and paranoia, all can explain Hitler's unvarying madness towards Jews (all representing the prostitute who infected him during the Great War) and his lack of initiative when surrounded and overwhelmed by allied forces in the last days of WWII.

          Charles Baudelaire, [The Flowers of Evil], too, was a frequented guess of local brothels throughout Paris, coupled with his usage and lifelong addiction to laudanum, a morphine tincture, caused him to age quite rudely, meeting his demise at the young age of 46.

            While most disease known to man had shaped the fates of nations and societies, Syphilis can be said to be one of the very few that influenced history and the course of literature, which brings to question; how much of the great works known the world over were drafted under infectious madness and how much under the madness of genius alone?

Preview of [Pillars & Porcelain Darlings] an Autobiographical travel novel




New York has the tendency to intensify whatever tendencies one has, as Cocaine inhaled and infused into the mind of the genuine genius. One never notices the sky, the “up,” beyond the high-rise, heaven-push of skyscrapers, peppered here and there with flocks of birds that now called “The Big Apple” its “only” preferred meal. Impressions of New York can be better said impressions needing no carbon copies; everything was decisively in carbon, made of carbon, even the kiss between man and woman is carbon-dated. It was enough to sour a trekker’s utopian nostalgia of leaving a lost era. The scavenger is made redundant, unnecessary, as a rising generation gathering its momentum and makes of the presiding, unnecessary; because for the scavenger, as for the corporate mongrel, the corner-hustling mongrel, all is conveniently in fingertip’s reach and what couldn’t be found in linear methodology, so happened to be accessible in happenstance and just juxtaposition. Dispassion is the passion taken by inertia and an emerged madness seen more so when the “no one” finds themselves desperately wanting to be “someone” and in the standard of today’s way, takes what has been done in futile attempt to make it their own; the first man to jump off the Empire State Building in a parachute becomes a spectated sensation; the second man walks away unnoticed, the cops themselves uninterested in his in legal infractions. Such a soft touch of miserable specimens find the Crow himself so harshly croaking a rolling dive into the netherworld of the melange of every world, murky reflections of pre-digested aura, blurred, impoverished travesty of true self. And behind those moulages, finely waxed and fixed to flesh and fowl, new kicks to the juvenile delinquents without materials for a riot arises, minds become limited as Afghan Hounds, any prices is entertain to pay the pills and such myth of people having costly to learn when their ignorance makes them suffer, could not seem so much more farther away As one installed with the human schadenfreude, turning away from all things ordinary when they’ve taken on ominous significance and suggestion would have been counterproductive, counter-revolutionary, a human against humanism. From that day forward, since my sole expenditure of New York, I’d carry the intentions to make a fuss, a most violent fuss indeed and the tea? I’ll take it with honey and a bit of venom, what’s it all worth without a habitual shock to the viscera now and then? The train back to JFK seemed so long, so tiresome, insanely insoluble, as I came to discover entertaining myself with the orbiting human race too came with its adverse reactions I failed to recognize, or care to avoid all together. With movement, there felt no movement but all motion. It was that very train returning me to the terminal which would close the final chapter on [The Naked Novels] and all books I’d written, forgot to write, wrote to discard, negligently left in the boudoirs of past lovers and discarded friends, when writing was rebellion and sing was a possibility unsinkable because it was unthinkable. I am singing as loudly as ever before, at this very instance, for those mentioned, those who will be mentioned, those who will never be mentioned and those I forgot to mention the same as those I have never thought to mention. And though I am now only talking to me and myself, walking against the flora of an unknown land, reciting a poem written on the sea bottom, a riot of color as Orpheus torn apart by women, to reflect everything and to see nothing, which has become the substance made of dreams; Or have you failed to notice the tears of conquest in my latest notes on this definitive novel?



Dontrell Lovet't
from, [Pillars & Porcelain Darlings]

Act I, Scene I of [Matilda Maddening] A Play on the Dissolution of Marriage

[Set opens with Husband at his desk and wife seated across from him, legs folded under. Wife is wearing a robe, as though preparing for bed and husband is fully clothed]


[There is silence between them for at least two minutes, as they both fiddle around with things around them, their hands and their movements, trying to find words to speak to one another.]


[After a long, almost seemingly endless silence, Husband sits forward as if to break the silence, then seats himself back and resigns again to perpetuate the silence already ongoing.]

[Suddenly, the wife, Matilda, breaks the silence]

Matilda: Say it.
Husband: There’s nothing to say.
Matilda: So you say nothing?
Husband: What else can I say if there is nothing to say?
Matilda: You always have something to say, saying nothing means everything.
Husband: Then let my saying nothing say what you believe I should say.
Matilda: [Lets out a sigh/laugh, brief] I knew when I married you, you were a coward. Naively I believed you’d acclimate to what a man is suppose to be.
Husband: Sure, sure, if that makes you feel better, consider me what you must and consider my silence as my words. But let’s not be so coy as to pretend you had no part in this.
Matilda: A part in what?
Husband: You know what.
Matilda: No, what exactly should I know? Say it for Christ’s sake.
Husband: The night in question, you were engaged in your own bit of deception.
Matilda: [sits forward closer to the desk] You can’t be serious.
Husband: As serious as I ever have been.
Matilda: So you use this so called deception as your blueprint to commit your unspeakable crimes?
Husband: Who said I committed any crimes?
Matilda: I say.
Husband: Of course. Not only did you name yourself my wife, but also judge and jury.
Matilda: Don’t do that.
Husband: Do what?
Matilda: Return to your pathetic position of cowardice. My mum always said, “A tyrant always finds a pretext for their tyranny.”
Husband: So now I’m a tyrant. First a speechless coward, now a tyrant. [Sits back with sarcasm] Mon cher, you’ve got to make up your mind, that is, if you can ever can.
Matilda: Even with my scatter brain, I can focus in on your non-sense, that tucked tail between your legs and that fucking yellow belly.
Husband: Does it make you feel better? To belittle? Deface? The whole world that stands and the next that will has to be in flames before you can ever begin to get to the place where you will begin to think of smiling.
Matilda: In point of fact, since you’ve mentioned it, it would make me outright blissful if everything in that world you stand for goes down into flames and something you love dearly is murdered.
Husband: I love you dearly.
Matilda. Not that night you didn’t.
Husband: [Gets fed up and jumps to his feet to walk away] I’m not going to do this with you, not again, there’s got to be some point we’ll have to end.
Matilda. [Gets upset from his attempt to walk away] A point to end, a point to end, it’ll be tonight, right now if you don’t sit you ass back in that seat and show me that fucking respect I deserve!

[Husband stops in full step, contemplating]


-from the 2018 play by Dontrell Lovet't,[Matilda Maddening]

Wednesday, January 15, 2020

[Delight in Delirium] a poem




Adore who you are,
I too, who you are,
in this moment,
a sophisticated shape sharing a joke
& smoke on the stairs,
the lady with an ear for Jazz &
a mind for me Together,
we are a gather,
alone,
lone drones flying low to
a riotous earth much too
starved to pass up an assured
meal-
delirium decides,
chaos drives,
a delighted flush to the face,
leaving all blurs that never
knew what should be known



Dontrell Lovet't
from, [AutoErotic FatalitieS]

[Self-made Legend] a poem



I look back upon it; &
smile upon it, really,
ruffles & reflections,
far-out fetches, horizon injured complexions

A soul a-flame,
suffocating by smolder,
admit to nothing
& takes nothing, other
than life from limbs,
truth from whole-cloth,
peace through psychological terror

We’ve become the mysticism
of our legend,
the snake bite to Irma Blue,
stringent strings struggling,
winding wide for a bend
in the wind,
smiling on no longer us




Dontrell Lovet't
from, [AutoErotic Fatalities]

[Unique Tastes] a poem



I must have licked every follicle from
your lips to your toes,
and with every brush of taste,
a taste so unique becomes

If you’ve no heard of me,
or hear tell of the infamy that
englobes me;

I am the intrepid ruinous,
the self-destructive sole species
surviving that lingers and thrives on
the pursuit of every taste a woman
can offer

So offer deeply,
offer abruptly,
offer abundantly



Dontrell Lovet't
from, [AutoErotic Fatalities]

[Her Lies] a poem

[Her Lies]

She lies;
we both know;
it’s unspoken between us;

she lies
& I’ve grown fond of how well
she lies,

even if they are lies she’s told a
thousand times over-

-I’ve always loved setting
myself up,
not in the best of manners,
habitually in the worst of sorts,
where triumph is always a far cry
so feel bad not,
feel never sad,
your lies are necessary;
I remain to hear every
tidbit of deception.




Dontrell Lovet't
from, [AutoErotic FatalitieS]

[E Minor] a poem

[E Minor]


If not for friendship,
Intimacy would have no true life,
breathless leaving the womb,
faceless
beyond the relentlessness
of infanticide.

Warmth burns deeper,
river runs shallow, the
woes of the world brings to his knees
all men who have ever attempted atonement.

-a friend shares compulsion,

Enables love, joy and
destroys all that may appear to be
love and joy without restraint,
without apology

-they lower themselves into the
precipice joyfully to join what
could very well be the drift
into the end of the century



Dontrell Lovet't
from, [Self Portrait]

Monday, January 13, 2020

[Aloneness] a poem




Only too happy to see
the dissipation of daylight from
her eyes- from my eyes,
the mirror, myself in her

Narcissus afloat
in the marvel of downfall

One separates only to die alone
but dying alone is just that the dehiscence of the soul
from the body, the cells that
begin to die when one has given
up & surrender the ghost




Dontrell Lovet't
from, [Self Portrait]

[5 Years Gone] a poem





For H.S.


-she’s still there,

After 5 years has diminish,
fled into the night as disarmed daylight

Children given to another man,
her womb fraught and tarnish

I kiss only now- the ghost,

The pillow, a perfume in the
haunting breeze-
-she passes




Dontrell Lovet't
from, [Self Portrait]

[L'Histoire] a poem




a source of you,
brilliant, bourbon, bright,
exists everywhere I go;


in the bedroom
with disheveled sheets
still telling the tale
of how those bruises mounted,
may be enough to explain a history of us





Dontrell Lovet't
from, [If It Be You]

[We Know Only of We] a poem





If we're honest,
we both know no love
story exists in me;
the fellow to draft a naturally careless
tale might be a man who doesn't
know any better;

I know of you & you of me
& we of us & of us,
whirling like fumes of flowers &
a mystic fragrance,
adventurous bodies hung
like veils,

simpering sentiments of
unintended slight




Dontrell Lovet't
from, [If It Be You]

[Packed Bags] a poem



as midnight glower,
twitching curtains become
a twitch of certain,
sure of something,
not someone else,
amused,

in contempt,disdain dances just
over my should;

men never fail to disappoint,
you say-



Dontrell Lovet't
from, [If It Be You]

[Lies; with a side of Pastry]



Can you smell the
second-hand smoke every
time I’m given second-hand lies?
Aware of the wary,
why worry if I’m unaware?

Why submit to the truth, when
submitting is untrue to you?
If you are to lie,
be an extraordinary liar,
invent tales so extravagant,
even the lies detected within
are a soothing salt to a weeping
wound




Dontrell Lovet't
from, [If It Be You]

[Ingenuity] a poem



Toulouse-Lautrec sketched here
smug with bourbon in mug

morning after regrets is a nice color on him,
though a day late and a dollar short to
direct alternative accessories




Dontrell Lovet't
from, [If It Be You]

Sunday, January 12, 2020

[Origins of Smiles] a poem


How gorgeous would your smile be if we
can trace it back in time to the first to ever
see it; how innocent it would be to follow the Nile
to its non-existent source; water has no source
as this world has no reason to be.
It appears on a plain burning with
accidental atoms, widening itself with
the sun’s christening, blessing in
reciprocation all who are to look upon it
It is a source where no one can
create in its place an impersonation
nor reduce it to the degree of
debris

It has its own markers,
as DNA, as dactylogical identity believable
enough is the beauty that is
not interchangeable

What it is is what it was then,
a world of no reason to have become
but became to be as blessedness ensures
when it displays




Dontrell Lovet't
from, [They Took It All Away]

[Imperfecta] a poem



Commence with the feature, the portrait,
the dripping pointillism from the canvas, mirror image
of a fallen patriarch
wilted seeds from the enzyme of entirety,
the febrifuge found in a feather-edge feathered with
photophobia

-the act depends on the scene,
the scene illustrates the act, diatribes
of fact in which the playwright then
reacts, reacts with the last words,
the last doctrine before his legacy starts

-before it stands, as an edifice meant to
fall, against the bend of the wind, the
reign of the rain, the mind of time
the feature commences, the carousel turns,
the blood burns in fury and fail falls in flurry
until the plummet is met, until the
fall itself begets



Dontrell Lovet't
from, [They Took It All Away]

[Transfusion] a poem



….I take courage to grow up to what I will become,
a jackal in the rain, in the storm, sapling merely pulled from a root unknown;

-a deep secret, carrying my own heart, the growth more potential than the soul
can wish or the mind can go,

In the beginning, when light would have never been thrown,
hiding has become easier, the recessive gene, the teaching of method, when
intellect takes and all hearts around me would break, watering my Orchids until
they drown is the only way I know to love, taking light from those with light until
my world once again will be light

-lightning is again here, on the horizon, coursing through the earth as a plague
through the blood, the Cholera still sepsis in the viscera of Tchaikovsky

-the only tune still apparent is the dreaded transfusion I’ll need..



Dontrell Lovet't
from, [They Took It All Away]

Saturday, January 4, 2020

[Babaouo] An unpublished, Unfilmed Scenario by Salvador Dali









Introduction by Dontrell Lovet't




Salvador Dali was a surrealist painter from Catalonia, Spain. Best known for the "Persistence of Memory," Dali was known as one of the most influential painters of the 20th century. In 1929, he collaborated with the surrealist filmmaker and fellow Spanish artist Luis Bunuel on the masterpiece "Un Chien Andalou," Though contracted to do another film with Bunuel the following year "L'age D'or" due to personal disputes with Bunuel over a married mistress, Dali resigned from the film as a co-writer. The following is an excerpt from an unpublished film script first printed in 1958 by Gideon Dachmann in the hand-typed collection [Cinemages, Unfilmed Scenarios]




[Babaouo] Translated from the French by Jaume Miravitlles





Before the film begins and while the titles and credits are being shown, the tango "Renacimiento" is heard. This will be repeated from time to time during the film as a sort of leit-motiv.

 The corridor of a large hotel. The camera follows a bellhop, who appears to be in a great hurry, as he looks for a room. He finds it at the end of the corridor. He starts to knock, then stops in surprise as he hears coming from the room a veritable concert of strident, hysterical laughter, punctuated by the sound of violent shocks, as of very heavy objects being thrown against the walls and furniture. The laughter quickly becomes convulsive, giving the impression that about ten people are in the room.

(For laughter use Pathe sound effects record X 6285)


 After hesitating, the bellhop takes advantage of a moment when the noise subsides somewhat to knock politely on the door, but the laughter and blows are heard again with even greater violence. The bellhop, who should give the impression of continual impatience, begins to bang loudly on the door, but in vain.

When the noise dies down again, the voice of a woman is heard. Through bursts of laughter she articulates with difficulty, "Just a second, you can't come in now."


After an interval during which the laughter rises again and two even more violent blows are heard, the door opens slightly, just enough to reveal half of the figure of a woman in transparent negligee. Camera pans from rear view of the bellhop to the woman, who is extremely young and beautiful, with somewhat dishevelled hair and an open countenance. Her looks, in the artificial light of the room, form a sort of nebulous aura about her, an impression accentuated by the soft lens which is customarily used in such scenes. In an infinitely soft voice she asks, "What do you want?'

"I have an urgent letter for M. Babauo. to be delivered to him in person."

"I will tell him," answers the woman, and closes the door again. The noise and laughter, which have not ceased, now grow louder than ever. The door shakes under the blows it sustains, opens suddently as an object is hurled out, and shuts with a bang. The object is a decapitated chicken, which flutter down the corridor and finally collapses, its blood tracing its course across the floor. Close-up of the chicken in a sea of blood.

The bellhop who has paid no attention to the chicken, grows more impatient then ever.

The door of the room opens and M. Babaouo appears. He is extremely insignificant in appearance, yet not without a certain distinction. He is in his shirt sleeves and has just finished wiping his hands on an absorbent towel. He shakes off the straw with clings to his trousers and removes the bits which are tangled in his hair.

He takes the letter from the bellhop and without the slightest show of emotion beings to read it.

Text of letter; "All alone in the Chateau de Portugal for three days, I can't stand it any longer. Help. Your adored, Mathilde Ibanez."

Babaouo tosses the towel away, looks at the time, gets his jacket and hastily leaves the hotel. He is constantly followed by the camera.

As he crosses the hotel lobby, a grand piano falls down the elevator shaft from the third story, crashing loudly on the marble floor.

He has no sooner reached the street than he meets a friend with whom he has a long conversation, as follows: (1) about the transformation of certain rooms in a former "agricultural syndicate" in Figueras, a small town in Catalonia (Spain), in the Province of Gerona, three hours from Cerbere; (2) about the difficulties which has risen in connection with a certain book-binding firm, which are such that they agree the only solution is to rebind all or at least three-quarters of the catalogues in question; (3) he and his friend decide on a rendezvous, in turn dependent on the very precarious situation of certain of his associations.

During this conversation the two men, who are walking slowly and stopping often, are followed by the camera, after panning, the camera stops, at which point the men, still walking, come back into full view. A veritable deluge covers the street, and the two friends are seen walking in water up to their ankles. The torrent brings with all sorts of debris and dead animals (donkeys, cows, horses.) In order to advance, the two men are frequently obliged to kick these objects and animals out of their way, and to protect themselves from them are at times forced to climb up onto benches or embankments, which hinders their conversation and prolongs it. Finally they take leave of each other.

Babaouo then proceeds along with absolutely dry street and reaches a large square which is covered with cyclists slowly weaving in and out. Their eyes are bandaged and they each carry a heavy stone on their heads. The celebrated little white cape, very clean, hangs from their shoulders.

Babaouo, threading his way carefully among the cyclists, crosses the square.

He goes down a subway entrance, not falling to greet with a familiar wave of his hand a woman of mature years, in her chemise, who is loudly sawing wood at the top of the stairs.

The camera follows Baraouo, who is shown in a long sequence descending the stairs. A pair of tango dancers several times cross the stair in a single exalted glide.

Baraouo reaches the platforms, where a large crowd is waiting for the train, mingled with the members of an enormous orchestra which has assembled and it about to begin playing the Overture of "Tannheuser."

The music starts, the members of the orchestra ignoring the crowd, who walk among them and talk audibly, oblivious to the presence of the orchestra or the music.

The musicians show exemplary self-control in the face of the annoyance caused by the incessant coming and going of the indifferent crowd. The faces of the musicians and especially the conductor, as well as their slight gestures and expressions, reveal their perfect training and patience, a resignation, which is not without dignity and even pride. The people in the crowd as they move back and forth knock over the music stands, and the musicians, already forced by the continuous jostling to play wrong notes, restrain their understandable anger and meekly bend down, with bitter smiles on their lips, to pick up the sheets of paper soiled and crumpled by shoes of the crowd. With the utmost sincerity and professional discipline they begin to play again, taking up at the point in the score which their colleagues have managed to reach with scarcely less difficulty and annoyance than they themselves have endured. This spectacle is prolonged until the arrival of the subway. The crowd stampedes to get seats, running over the musicians, who are almost obliged to stop playing altogether. Some of them are even forced to clutch their instruments to their chests to protect them, while others look for their instruments to their chests to protect them, while others look for their under the feet of the crowd, which kicks them around like footballs. Others try desperately to continue playing, turning to the wall to protect themselves from the chaos. The conductor on his podium; towering above the disorder, grips his baton as though he were about to resume conducting at any moment; from time to time he impatiently raps the desk. Whenever the confusion and tumult become particularly unbearable, he shuts his eyes and bites his lower lip.

The train leaves and the musicians regroup almost instantly to begin playing where they left off. But before they are able to do so, at the very moment when the whole orchestra is waiting for the signal to start, another train pulls into the station and a new crowd, as heedless as the first, pours headlong out of the cars and swarms over the orchestra, creating the same confusion and deplorable incidents as before.

Baraouo is seen sitting in a subway car. He frequently consults his watch (soft). Among the passengers, at the far end of the car, a woman is standing, entirely nude. Next to Babaouo sits a mailman, his legs are crossed, his hands in his pockets. On his shoe, which does not reach the floor, are poised two "eggs on the plate"* (without the plate). At a sudden stop the eggs onto the floor. This scene lasts three minutes.

Babaouo gets out to change trains. He is seen for five minutes waiting for the next trains arrive. The only other persons on the platform are two or three women, each carrying a child in her arms. Babaouo sits down on a bench, gets up and walks around, sits down again, etc...Finally he notices a small legless cripple in a wheelchair advancing with difficulty between the rails and stretching out a hand for alms. Babaouo gives him a franc, but, as the beggar's hand is already holding two eggs on a plate (without a plate), the franc punctures one of the yokes. The beggar, closing his hand around the coin, squashes the two eggs. Beyond, in the darkness of the tunnel, several seals can be vaguely discerned.

Arrival of the subway trails. Babaouo gets on. He is shown for two minutes traveling on the train.

Babaouo comes out of the subway station and walks for several moments towards a taxi stand. He gives a driver the address of the Chateau de Portugal and gets into the taxi, checking to make sure that his revolver is loaded.

The taxi is seen driving through a rural landscape, when suddenly the driver stops and gets out of the car without a word. He puts on an Indian feather headdress (from this point the film is in color and approaches a large fir tree. He beings to climb the tree slowly and when he reaches the point where the trunk divides he sits down meekly, turning up the collar of his jacket as though to say "What do you want me to do?"

After a brief outburst of anger, Babaouo realizes that there is no time to lose, and seizing the wheel of the automobile, drives away.

Babaouo reaches the town where the Chateau de Portugal is situated. He is seen driving the taxi. The streets are absolutely deserted.

Babaouo stops the car, gets out, and goes into a cafe which is completely empty. The camera follows him.

He comes out of the cafe and walks through several long streets, all deserted. Large sheets hang from the house-fronts as though deposited there by a strong wind, which picks them up and sends them whirling down the street again. The tango "Renacimiento" is heard faintly, Babaouo penetrates farther and father into the city, which appears to be immense. His footsteps ring loudly on the pavement. Dusk is beginning to fall. Babaouo hastens his steps, turning frequently to look around or behind him. His face, which expresses growing anxiety, is covered with sweat. He finds himself once again in front of a large cafe, which he enters. He looks intently, one by one, at the hundreds of absolutely deserted tables and suddenly emits a piercing cry of terror. Covering his face with a convulsive gesture, he rushes toward the door. It becomes apparent that his fear is caused by the discovery he has made on one of the tables of a coffee cup containing a neatly folded napkin. When he uncovers his face, he sees in the window across the street the upper part of the body of a standing woman, her naked, beautiful arm hanging in an attitude of fatigue, moving slightly. With a gesture of relief Babaouo goes toward the window, but as he approaches it he seems again to be frozen with fear. After a long hesitation, he is seen rushing into the house, and almost immediately comes out again in the same attitude in which he was seen at the cafe, his face in his hands, uttering a cry of terror. The tango "Renacimiento" fades out and the lights grow noticeably dimmer.

Babaouo, followed by the camera, now proceeds along a street almost entirely covered with flowers. Seeking to avoid treading on them, he hugs the wall, for the roses grow more abundantly in the middle than along the sides. At a crossing he has a choice of two streets. One is a continuation of the rose-covered street, the other is without flowers. In spite of himself, he takes the street covered with roses, which leads to the open door of a large theatre.

He climbs to the fourth floor of the theatre following the roses, which are strewn along the stairs. From a window on the fourth floor Babaouo contemplates the panorama of the city with its deserted streets. The sheets blown along the streets by the wind are again seen; Babaouo, his eyes wide with terror, draws back, biting his hands. He backs into the door one of the boxes, which gives way under the impact so that he falls into the box.

When he picks himself up he sees that the theatre is empty. In the center of the dimly-lighted stage he sees a violinist literally transfixed in the impassioned attitude of a virtuoso, balancing on his head a wardrobe of medium height out of whose open doors and drawers linen is tumbling in tumultous disorder. The violinist in his fanatic pose should be balancing his entire body on one legs; the cuff of his other trouser-leg should be carefully rolled up, the bare foot plunged into a plate of milk.

Brusquely Babaouo looks at his watch (soft), rushes headlong back down the stairs, and goes out into the city. From the outskirts he begins to discern the Chateau de Portugal, which should be of as nondescript an appearance as possible, but enormous.

As Babaouo approaches the Chateau a rhythmic sound is heard which suggests some monstrous, exhausted breathing. It grows louder.

Coming near and nearer, the sound is deafening, terrible and Babaouo is assailed by fright. Covered with sweat, advancing in almost total darkness, he reaches the end of a long, high retaining wall.

Huge waves are breaking on a pebbly beach which has been hidden by the wall. The sound that suggested anguished breathing is produced by these waves. It diminishes gradually as Babaouo moves away from the water on a road which is seen to lead to the Chateau de Portugal.

Babaouo reaches the gate of the Chateau which is adorned on either side by a work of sculpture placed symmetrically, each representing a chicken with its head cut off. Inside the garden gate, on a lawn, a bed fifty feet long is seen, on which is lying a cypress almost as long as the bed. In the background, the Chateau; through its half-open main door a coffin is silently passing.

Babaouo hastily crosses the garden and enters the chateau.

Mathilde, a very beautiful and distinguished woman, throws herself into the arms of Babaouo, who consoles her and assures her that she is no longer alone, that he is with her. Then he turns toward a room the entrance to which is covered by a large curtain. But Mathilde, with a supremely tragic gesture, throws herself in front of him to prevent him from entering.

Babaouo, shaking Mathilde, forces his way into the room.

On the bed, something considerably larger than a corpse is lying under a white sheet. Babaouo tries to draw back the sheet to see what is underneath but Mathilde stops him with a coquettish laugh, saying "You musn't do that. It's too horrible. It's been there for six days." Babaouo, won over by Mathilde's coaxing tone, gives in to her with an affectionate smile.

Mathilde informs him that her mother is probably arriving, as well as several friends who, she hopes, have been notified. In any case, in the likelihood that no other people will come tonight, it would be best for him to take off his clothes and make himself comfortable.

Babaouo and Mathilde go back into the other room and begin to undress. Mathilde puts on a luxurious pair of pyjames. Suddenly a handerkerchief falls from a dresser onto a black armchair, and Mathilde, uttering a piercing cry, almost faints.

Before Babaouo has time to take care of her, someone is heard running mechanically in the neighboring room where the object under the sheet is lying.

Mathilde and Babaouo runs toward the room, and at the same time an aged woman with white hair appears from behind the curtain. She throws herself into Babaouo's arms, crying horribly. It is Mathilde's mother, who has just arrived.

At this point a group of friends enters, men and women dressed in evening clothes, who crowd around the old woman lying almost unconscious in the armchair. Some of them seem alarmed, others perfectly calm and indifferent. One of them starts the phonograph and several couples begin to dance.

The old woman, her head resting on the chest of the kneeling Babaouo, recovers her senses and says in a plaintive tone "I want to see him just once more." She seems to be about to go into the room where the strange object is lying.

Mathilde and Babaouo rush toward the room, and at the same time an aged women with white hair appears from behind the curtain. She throws herself into Babaouo's arms, crying horribly. It is Mathilde's mother, who has just arrived.

At this point a group of friends enters, men and women dressed in evening clothes, who crowd around the old woman lying almost unconscious in the armchair. Some of them seem alarmed, others perfectly calm and indifferent. One of them starts the phonograph and several couples begin to dance.

The old woman, her head resting on the chest of the kneeling Babaouo, recovers her senses and says in a plaintive tone "I want to see him just once more." She seems to be about to go into the room where the strange object is lying.

Babaouo, his eyes filled with tears, tries to dissuade her, but Mathilde, with a roguish wink, advises him to let her pass if he wants to see something amusing. Going ahead of him, she runs into the mortuary chamber with a young man who has been embracing her in a corner a few minutes earlier.

Babaouo, whose tears have been succeeded  by an indulgent and mocking smile, gives in to the old woman's pleas, and leading her gently toward the room, he parts the curtain himself.

Mathilde and the young man are seen swinging the object, one by the head, the other by the feet. When it has gained enough momentum they throw it at the old woman, who utters a mournful cry and sinks to the floor under its weight.

The ensuing confusion is indescribable. All of the guests are present, running hither and thither. Two individuals seize the object and throw it at a group of guests who are trying to flee. This act, which adds enormously to the general excitement, seems to have a contagious effect and is repeated several times.

When the confusion reaches its height, Mathilde and Babaouo, taking advantage of the wild disorder that reigns in the Chateau, take flight in a car driven by Babaouo.

Along the road patrols of communist soldiers pass at regular intervals.

The car now crosses an immense public square which is absolutely deserted. The sound of machine-gun fire is intermittently heard. On a small street leading downward from the main road is seen an enormous bus, five times life-size, filled with water, on which can be seen a little boat. In the boat three tiny legless Japanese singers with white eyes are giving a sensual rendition of the rumba "The Peanut Vendor." Babaouo stops to look at them.

The singers, embarrassed at being observed, burst out laughing, putting their hands to their faces, and in spite of their efforts they are utterly unable to go on with their song.

After a friendly wave and smile from Mathilde, Babaouo, very pleased with himself, starts up the car again.

The car is now seen going down a hill boarded by a thick forest.

Suddenly, without warning, Mathilde throws herself at Babaouo and ferociously buries her teeth in his neck.

Babaouo lets go of the wheel. The car crashes into a tree.

The car is completely smashed. Mathilde, thrown a distance of ten feet, is inert. Babaouo pulls himself with difficulty from under the wreck. He rubs his eyes. He is blind; He feels about him with his hands, veinly calling from Mathilde.

"Renacimiento" faintly is background.

Babaouo crawls on hands and knees, feeling trembling for the body of Mathilde.

Finally he comes upon a shoe ten feet away from her, which he supposes is still on her foot.

Sure that he has found Mathilde, he feels farther, and coming  upon a tire which has been out in half, he thinks it is her leg. Hardly daring to touch Mathilde's body with his hands, trembling at the thought of feeling her head and discovering, as he fears, that she is not breathing, he caresses a cushion which he mistakes for her stomach and breasts.

Then he grasps what he thinks is her head with its hair; but it is only the stuffing coming out in handfuls from a torn cushion in the middle of which are burning coals.

Overcome with emotion, Babaouo draws towards his lips the object he believes to be Mathilde's head, passionately uttering her name. Through his tears he murmurs all the endearing words he knows. "You are alive,' he says "I feel the warmth of your body." Suddenly with all this strength he clasps to himself the coals of the cushion, which is beginning to catch fire.

Horribly burned, he throws away the cushion, which is now all aflame and cries "Merde!"

Friday, January 3, 2020

[The Miscarried Might-Have-Been] on Truffaut's [Two English Girls, 1971]






by Dontrell Lovet't
from, [PsychoNeuroFilmography]







In the stylism so akin to the French New Wave Film revolution, Truffaut's 1971 romantic drama, [Two English Girls] is a film adaptation of Henri-Pierre Roche's 1956 novel of the same title.

The film sets in Paris around the turn of the 20th century, when Claude, the male lead portrayed by Truffaut's "artist fetish" Jean-Pierre Leaud, is invited by Anne (Kiki Markham), an old family friend to spend the summer with her family on the coast of Wales. But in quick succession and turn of events, Anne is not interested in Claud as a lover for herself, rather one for her introverted, bashful sister Muriel (Stacey Tendeter). The match becomes a fit, Claud and Muriel becomes closer, begins to grow on one another and with hopes of being married, both Muriel and Claud's mother agree that the couple should spend a year apart, Claud returning to Paris and Muriel remaining in Wales.

Now this is where Truffaut takes shape with his adaptation, do due-in-proper justice to Henri-Pierre Roche. Claud begins to meet very attractive women and begins to stray, which eventually led him to the bed of Muriel's older sister Anne, who came to Paris to study art. Claud then becomes hopeful of a relationship with Anne, until she leaves him for a publisher, going on a vacation with him to Persia. Muriel then learns about the betrayal of her fiance and her older sister (the responsible party which introduced the two initially), which whom Muriel forgives, once Anne is returned home by the publisher, as she dies in Wales.

Muriel, who had since accepted a job in Belgium, spends a night with Claud and upon waking, revealing to him that now they must part forever, only to later write of her pregnancy. Claud, believing now the door for a happy life with Muriel again open, is shocked and despondent when a second letter arrives from Muriel, confessing of the miscarried fetus and that she would not be returning to him again.

The film leaves Claud, just Claud, no wife, no child, a writer with only dreams, shattered ideals, scuttled hopes and fanciful fantasies never to have bore fruit. He, Claud, is a representation of all of humanity, of most who have lost and wondered on the "What ifs."

For Claud, as is for most today, the sunken dream is one swallowed by irreversible timescapes, scientifically improbable revivals. A single mistake by Claud set off the chain reaction, a rattle of senses to once and for all set in stone Muriel's aforementioned disposition of introverted aloneness, untrusting of anyone other than her own interior.

Truffaut, together with Roche, are two artist brought together by novel and by film, by sentiments and by personal experience, the Auteur Theory in full measure as the pen of the writer in full, broad stroke. What cannot be taken from the experience, the love triangle and deception between Claud, Anne and Muriel? One thing we can truly count on is that our actions tend to inflict upon us consequences we are seldom ready for and most of which we spend the entirety of our lives yet trying to endure.

[Environmental/Elusive] a poem




The dungeon of this heart
has been molded
from the dungeon my heart
has retreated to
Imprinting is unavoidable,
a natural by-product,
as one who hates themselves stray
into aggressive mimicry for everything
they even, if only to elude their reflections

According to the sea,
the calm & the storm occur
within the same life form;
what I am is now what I am,
what I may have been all along,
trapped in a modeled ruse , forever condemned

If be the burrow,
if not the reclusive,
a sea swallowing the poison of a
disregarding species,
it can be said how splendid it is
to see one accept their sentence,
walk unaccompanied,
without shackles,
into a cell designed,
a cell chosen to house what will
become an eminent insanity


Dontrell Lovet't
from, [The Failed Writer]

[Anthropogeny] a poem

[Anthropogeny]


A story of
origins is but a
story of survival,
searchers themselves
consecrate all memories of
the frantic tale of searching
sensible fluttering
register wonderfully in prose,
polished the terrible
into a luminous tact,
software of subliminal context
& pieced up in times of almost no
leisure,
Is a brief decay of an individual,
word exchange,
inaction almost flawlessly maintained,
uplifted nonetheless,
by none other,
than a man whose shaken
the adornment of traditional chains
only to negotiate a bargain deal
for the latest trend of self-imposed shackles



Dontrell Lovet't
from, [The Failed Writer]

[Composites] on the Documentary & Documentarian







by Dontrell Lovet't
from, [PsychoNeuroFilmography]






 Nothing in history escapes memory; misadventure, happenstance, mirrored-images, bliss- this is the stain upon memory in which we want to escape, or savor. But the human brain, as effective as it is in its 10% functional capacity, it is fragile, plagued by degenerative disease, fractured by communicable disease, compromised by retrograde amnesia. So we photograph every inch or moments that are memorable to us, those we know we may never forget and those we know we may and in someday, be in need of a reminder. The Documentarian is the photographer evolved....and their art,doomed star-crossed lovers, destined to wonder for eternity.


....this evolved artist has gone from the still images formed in our minds far before the camera has capture an instance and transmogrified the stillness into motion, transgressed the black and white to color and regressed once again to black and white. As an adult in stress of their lives, regression is pertinent to the origin as the origin is the axis of the celestial sphere of art itself.

Subtle art demands only subtle attention; art must become radical if its demands is to be the same. With the documentarian, everything exists around memory, around what happens in our human history that needs to be remembered and brought to light. Figurative or abstract, it painstakes its claim to the documentarian in a haunting manner, until no longer they can ignore that the dream demands to be born from idea, from ideal.

 We confront time as we do the object, and the independent , intervening distances flowing from event into lens is not missed; every moment capture is captured intentionally, as in the dream, nothing is a mishap. If the documentary is to capture what the dream has, then both the composition and the documentarian must become a double of it, the devout agent who carries out a task and analyzes and asks not why it must be undertaken. In one form or another, silence comes over the auteur, a disquieted spell that removes them from actual time. The dream then is no longer the dream, there is no more dream. It has now become, stained itself in motion for the next thousands years. If it is not dreamed then it is no recorded, if it happens in the dream, then it is from an authentic, aesthetic stance that it must become, upright past the crawl, an embryo develops without chromosomes. The documentarian who lives in art is privy to the beginning and end of a dream, a specific dream, as one who lives in art becomes aware of their own demise.

 It is not clear whether the documentarian can explain the dream or the documentary can fully capture the dream as it becomes reality; what is clear is that the documentary is savors the integrity lost upon the major motions film. And slowly, a cult audience is eroding the mainstream zealous, bringing limelight
to a truth that some embrace while most deny and prefer their complacency in denial.

[The Missing] a poem





All is dead;
All remains to be dead,
of no use other than replenishing
dust beneath our feet,
the aura with spirits jacketing
our lack of perception
The deepest philosophy
is a dangerous foe
which does not kill us
but mangles
& leaves us at the mercy of
the merciless scavengers



Dontrell Lovet't
from, [The Failed Writer]

[Shared Tragedies] a poem




Yesterday,

I asked Orpheus the very
sensation of being torn apart by wild women;

and all he said was,

“It’s an empirical experience; all men take their turn.


Dontrell Lovet't
from, [The Failed Writer]

Thursday, January 2, 2020

[Suffer the Little Children] on Apolo Torre's [Girl on Side the Building]






by Dontrell Lovet't






            Street art can be defined as everyday reminders and representative of the beauty we can easily lose in melancholia during our everyday monotony. Perhaps the most fulfilling of mention, too, one of the most hideous of street art able to be found the world over, is Apolo Torres’s [Girl Reaching Above the City].

            There are skyscrapers, a sea-set in the sky above the city, an adorable child on the tip of her toes, extending herself, a backpack on her back representing growth in intellect and education. At the base of her feet, there is a snack she’s unaware of, winding around her legs and a Pit-Viper impishly looking up at her. We cannot assume but we can establish what snakes have always represented since biblical times and how childhood, that moment where the future generations grows, learns and blooms, are ensconced in potential victimhood, surrounded by a jungle of predators seeking to prey upon their naivety.

            Apolo Torres’s depiction, which can be found alongside an apartment building housing families, is a necessary image, a frightening image, the sort one has no desire to see yet find themselves unable to turn away when the event unfolds. If ever there are any visions the masses should take in, it is the art, representing life, representing danger, representing a will for longevity in the form of caution.

[Isolation] a poem





An easily tamed child
is an obtrusive, uncreative
becoming of an adult
In a facility so dark,
so empty,
so removed from this world,
anyone & anything can be conditioned
to cooperate with whatever, whenever



Dontrell Lovet't
from, [The Failed Writer] 

[To Write a Novel] a poem




I can hear the wind at
nightfall in a twist of imagination;
The door wide open,
as I like it;
Black smut has wrapped
itself around thousands of seconds,
consequences,
painted inclinations,
skin at personal cost,
progressing into the incredible novel,
transformation out of pill form
threatening directions it must be
swallowed without aide,
if daze is desired to
someday subside



Dontrell Lovet't
from, [The Failed Writer]

[I Knew to Know You] a poem








I’ve chased you before
though your face is new to me.
I dream of you so often,
nightmares have no place to be,
& intensely alive,
the news of your is always breaking,
the talk of the town,
unanimously unsaid & known
amongst friends who’ve witnessed
my descent into doldrum
faces forward in crowds
cannot truly ever reveal what’s
against an unconscious oppression-
then,

the ones insisting,
persisting on knowing,
flail in wait for a slave to
free them,
inventing little worth
to the mathematics well remaining
a cipher, where a glance stays
lit awaiting an apocalypse
ever-threatening arrival
the fantasy is not for sale,
so this stillness in soul,
this measured, meticulous hope,
can only be genuine
to the world-end degree,
inhaling what’s exhaled



Dontrell Lovet't 
from, [The Failed Writer]