poetry

what do you know of water’s worth while standing on the banks of the euphrates

in , , , , , ,

(if inclined, please watch the work first...it runs 15min.)

Tomorrow marks the online premiere of my latest work (today for you) which I have conveniently embedded the link in this post. (if you prefer, on vimeo here)

This project functions as both a standalone film and also, a visual single for "Moonlighting MIssion Man", the latest release from my music project MIRS.

Two birds, one stone on the shallow end, a postmodernist twist on a Rene Magritte expression on the pretentious end. Both, equally as valid.

This is the working synopsis or thesis put through a press release blender:  "The film captures an intimate sliver into an Iranian American Sufi Muslim poet (Mahsa Hosseini) as she goes about finding meaning in her life. The visual narrative, shot in a classic cinéma vérité style, provides a strong counterpoint to the hidden, synth-driven, processed vocals in "Moonlighting Mission Man". The video eludes to a dual narrative between the film & the music, though kept hidden from plain sight."

Ultimately, this project started with this question, "Is this a short film or a music video?". And for me, ended with identity. (an ephemeral thing, with real-world consequences). 

But back to Magritte, and equally, Jean Baudrillard. Why is the opening question important to me? Media (and its contents) by in large is an open-ended question nowadays, and while I'm personally working through the details of this new paradigm, doing so with a dichotomous media might be my best way of processing it. What is a film? What is a tweet? How are they different? These are important questions in hyperreality when words have less direct meaning, and content rules all. 

melatonin days - some type of way

in , , , , ,

the day was filled with heaps of molasses
brain function, enslaved by an under the influence and angry source
a day where "you just can't fucking do anything"
except think of the scattered-ness of everything
and all worldly things
like an old, cool nikon lens you found in your grandma's attic
that just doesn't focus 
and even though it's kind of hip with that softness, deep down you know
it's only producing shit
but where do you take it
are there such things as camera stores anymore

 

wanderlust

"way to go", was the last thing I heard from her.

it was over, like the proverbial blink of the eye.  no closure, nothing.  the pain, it was excruciating for a bit, but you know what, it was bound to happen anyway.  and I've always wanted to travel.

i was a Sagittarius and she was some other shit.  i forget which it was, maybe the crab or the bull, or whatever, but i know now, that we weren't compatible.

how come i didn't know that at first, like right of the bat. what a shame, a real life shame?  
she was real pretty though.  that part hurts the most, because, well, her personality wasn't as pretty.

technology.

in , , , , ,

the woman worked at a bar in little tokyo

and she loved her phone so much

and one day, on a cold and rare rainy night in Los Angeles, she made love through her phone 

but the very next day, the phone broke

and it broke her heart

"love is fleeting" , she concluded

but I think she's a bit immature

generation gaps.

in , , ,

“you got some molly?"
“actually no, I don't.  back in my day they called it ecstasy.”
“back in your day, you were young. now your old so shut da fuck up.”
“that’s not nice.”
“neither is your face.”
“so mature.”
“yeah.”
“i got coke though.”
“ok.”

 

your ghost.

in , , , , ,

the full moon frightens me.
i remember that last terrifying night.
that one whispering night.  the haunting.
your dead soul.
rummaging for the last morsel.
leaving me option-less.
leaving me hung.
the breath escaping.
the squirming.
that last gasp.
a ghost.
your ghost.