Tuesday, July 16, 2013


"In the total darkness, poetry is still there, and it is there for you."

words: Abbas Kiarostami
image: Ferdinando Scianna


Been away. Mind and body. Fuck knows where and how the days are passing. Working on finishing off a new script. Tying up loose ends. Working out what just happened? Taking stock of the months and years past. Been writing poetry for fuck's sake, for the first time in many moons. And, of course, waiting for the premiere of Galore and The Turning. Waiting for the film festival to start so I can get high on a supply of Farhadi and Denis, Zhang-ke and Cohen, as well as docos on Kathleen Hanna and Slavoj Žižek. Waiting for friends to come to town. Waiting for slow cooked meats to stew. Devouring flicks and books and bad TV. Wandering through mountain temples. Sitting in the same bars. Getting drunk on a medieval level. Watching winter sun sets. Getting a sore back from horizontal couch slouching. It's been those kinds of weeks. Here's a small catalogue of the hours and days from badly taken snaps from an aging camera on it's last legs.