Ricordata, Hollywood
28 NOV 024
Dear Lou,
On the eve of July 1st, 2019, after your brilliant concert at Le Poisson Rouge, I handed you my little book of poems, THE BARB CONCERTO.
By the time you sat at the merch desk for autographs, I had already drained the batteries of my camera, filming a pivotal sequence of a peculiar situation I had cultivated for over a decade — in which you play an implausible yet structural role. To mark our uncanny intersection, the cosmic clock struck the globe with a solar eclipse.
As it happens, L’ECLISSE (1962) is at the heart of this situation I will divulge artfully for personal and collective sublimation, transcending the ordinary with poetic magnitude from here on. To define and communicate a phenomenon that dulls magic like a blind knife at the altar of destiny, also entangling us, I had to invent the film-myth. It is the boundless intensity of life simmered down to a form of beauty in the infinite ambers of thought. It is THE ART OF SENSE.
A modern mythology in the age of rump, yes, but not centred around the shrine of Antonioni & Vitti’s film per se. Instead, through a cheeky metaphysical inversion, my life is the film —set on an active script that perpetuates the roles I inhabit, interacting with the continuous ripple of living mirrors within certain key films.
THE KID (1921), L’ECLISSE and ALPHAVILLE (1965) reflect the configuration of my psyche at levels too quantum for oral transmission. In the lyrical pond of imagination, if you trace a single thread that unites them all, you will fathom my essence as the amalgamation: pure poetry.
A poet-assassin, the wild child, in a prescient dystopia, wanders the hyper-connected world of alienation where certitude dissolves in the rapids of the vague, where romance is a multi-thread transaction and creative solitude is inevitably an existential act of rebellion. This Alphaville is real and run by the cold calculus of economics —THE ANCIENT ALGORITHM.
That imperial generator, built on false identities to advance the life-devouring black hole of historic power grids, now sets in the physical boundary of the so-called ‘West’. And guess who is right there, poised to short-circuit the fascistic SuperComputer with poetry.. in the court of The Silicon Valley, blasting open THE END OF HOLLYWOOD?
There it is! The super-premise of an interdimensional situation, emerging as a film-myth, manifesting a new phenomenon: metaphysical cinema! What is it? Conscripting reality to poetic inevitability of the spirit, imbued within the MOLECULAR CONSTRUCTION of the universal in the most personal LIQUID LABYRINTH. What is the true function of poetry, now eclipsed from humanity, anyone should ask, staring at the tragic void of the DIGITAL ABYSS?
What must a revolutionary poet do to hijack this microscopic irreality? There, I went to extreme lengths like a cosmic embrace, living and breathing THE PRETTY CHAOS, recording everything. Through the prism of the soul, naked and monolithic, what I retain is a myth that leverages from the passage of time to absorb all the myths. Why? Because the fragments recorded in stones, objects, words and dreams are connecting before our very eyes in a dynamic language that resembles technology. My CORPUS ÆNIGMA is the ultimate myth that started in the caves with the handprint. And you, Lou, you are already in it, before you know it.
Your first unwitting role is this orb of focus. You are now a narrative engine. Because I’ll TELL EVERYTHING TO LOU. Since you love reading, I reckon you will most certainly appreciate the concept of a live literature, expanding into all possible crevices of art. I also believe, we will create something together. It will serve the conscience of this extraordinary time we are living.. after all we are the surviving generation of the human race. We have a unifying mandate.
We shall meet under massive titles like A LION IN DANDELION.. THE WHIRLWIND ODYSSEY.. FOUNTAIN OF SPARKS.. and.. ONEIRIC EMPTINESS. The latter is what I inscribed in the sleeve of BARB CONCERTO. Hey, you made me sign it, even though I had queued up for yours on the beautiful tour poster of Lou Doillon in America, the memento of the musical feast you played.
You were supposed to sign it. But what did you do? You ornately inscribed “KiNo” next to your name, turning your poster into an unlikely token for our undisclosed collaboration.
“Well, aren’t you gonna give me your signature?” I proffered you my petit journal, my handwriting distracting you. You said ‘it was beautiful and made you ashamed of yours’. “Come on, Lou, give us the signature”. So, you took the moment and to my astonishment, gracefully left the only mark in eternity of permutations that would make the most meaningful blessing for this mythology’s crux: a full heart.. sought yet unfound.. in the physical realm by the very metaphysical Madamless Sir. That would be me!
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