Walden, reel 3 (Jonas Mekas, 1964)

by Travis Jeppesen on July 18, 2013

Diaries, Notes, and Sketches – none of these are complete. Deep of winter, Velvet Underground grinds something out, a cat. This will noble to be blessed with the rest. He falls in love with a madwoman. Oh get more flow. The ethereal disaster. One theory of the cinema was/escape a bog. Wrapped in an American fag, there is no autumn. Only stairs. The machine joined this guild, soil owned hands (I think, believe.) He went all into the snow – glowing with hands. I thought his hands were on fire and I couldn’t much believe it. There was no precedent for that illusion. Or else it proceeds as though a dream. A patchwork. He remembers (reel 3) the women for peace, 42nd St. Nobody stopped, they were passing by. What the winter does in New York when it begins to break up, the street. Yet this pond does warrant a mention…Walden. My own private. A privacy trace. Film Culture gets mailed out Amy stops for coffee. From whence a beginning could be begged, down and diamond brite, the sentience like a strobe, peace and marching. Police violence for peace, I am marching. Blue jean legs the wrong direction. Night flow bravely exacter. Black power the construction site. Leslie sees it all through the coop window, red squirrels turned into hot dogs for fifty cent. Child’s foot massages glazed wood on chinese new year; become my favorite bastard. All the babies of filmmakers please. Benefits of democracy displaced dreams from a specific dreamer. What do I think sunwindslush. I love that ceiling. Dump the droll, enthusiastic boogiewoogie dimensionality, the cab driver’s breath. Jean Cocteau had a dream. Grown fuckers in the snow. I don’t care the love affair, tree. Sinful skipping bird moves so slow the sled slush. Whirrr. DON’T WALK. She doesn’t know how to. Stay. Don’t film the windshield. The city as seen from a boat. The city as seen from a moving vehicle. Jonas. People moving through the brushwork. Splaying with light. Could it be a funeral. For a man forgot to die. He went into midnight instead the rooftops. A man to breathe as the people crawl. Myriad impossibilities, this maggot being. Were a footprint in snow to be a lock. All fail the echoey considerations of this tumult. Still we climb, seeking a higher landscape. Hold on to this red sweater before the view slides by too fast; explosion. He smiles yes as it all explodes.

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