Reality is Black and White

It is generally not a good idea to see things in black and white. It makes for over-simplification and polarisation – a metaphor for religious politics and population control – you’re either wrong or right; good or bad.

Paris 2054 Renaissance is a starkly black and white movie.

The script is pretty ropey and the plot is wafer thin.

I love it.

Director Christian Volckman has employed motion capture technology to give the characters realistic movement, meticulously hand drawn in high contrast black and white with filmed backgrounds of Paris graphically enhanced to portray a future city.

Renaissance ends up as a kind of techno cyberpunk film noir; a moving work of art; an animated sci-fi adult comic book consisting of a gazillion highly detailed frames, each embellished to a level of beauty befitting the French auteur.

At times I found myself so enthralled as to be watching without bothering to keep up with the plot (a conspiracy around scientific discovery of the recipe for immortality). In places the script is so bad as to be wholly remarkable: lines like “I, like Farfarrah, grew up in The Casbah” and “Without death, life is meaningless”.

In fact, where the clumsy dialogue fails, the visuals say it clearly.

• An opening shot of a wrinkled eye zooms out to reveal a perfect face on an animated billboard advertising ‘beauty, fitness and longevity’ for the corporate giant Avalon
• A Dali inspired superimposition of two faces, one through the glass and one reflected, to form one.

I guess this movie will not be for everyone since its attraction is almost purely visual – I guess it's a boy thing - but then, things are never that black and white.

The Cat That Got The Cream

Day and Night ~ MC Escher

She looks in his eyes and he cannot look away.
Brown and green she seeks to find where his head is held; where his heart resides wrapped and rolled by the years of exposure to the elements of social discourse and forked tongue negotiating.
He looks in her eyes and he does not want to look away, since she holds him in the calm that she does not feel; the calm that allows his fears to be shared; the calm that comes in trust; held in trust for the future’s narrow path.
And all a-jangle in the chaos of now and the dizzy head rush of tomorrow’s hoping, they fall again; each into the other’s arms so that there is no place to determine who is holding who up; who leads and who follows – a unity of opposing numbers – the square root of two.
And when he calls her name in the cold light of the day’s labyrinth; calls his anger; calls his fear; his disillusionment – she takes his tears on the webs of her lashes; on the lips to kiss away the morning; to warm the moon’s silver bed.
And when she calls his name in the heat of the night; leaving no syllable unturned; no strings attached; he wakes to her face; her fears and insomniac ramblings; taking her tears on his tongue like a man drowning in sand.
And in the chambers of their hearts - in comfortable rhythms and soft sofa habit; in the beat of bonds that are at once fragile and unbreakable; there walks the ghosts of all their dreams; there filed all the words of comfort whispered; there the smiling and gentle avatar of minds met.
And the pollen blown on the wind of time settles on the lip of day to proclaim itself sweet as the honey it could have become had it not chosen to travel; to see the world.
And those frozen embryos left behind in chambers of commerce and scientific exploration; what will they say when they meet the future that beckons finger crooked and smile enigmatic; what point is there to be made that hasn’t already been put to bed; tucked up to the chin with eyes wide searching?

View From The Treetops (23 Jan '07)

Howzit My China

Blood Diamond is not a Wilbur Smith adventure; not an Out of Africa story of colonial safari romance; nor is it a shallow attempt at charitable credibility as seen in the pathetically woeful The Constant Gardener ( perhaps better known as The Constipated Gardener).
Blood Diamond deals with the issues square on, does it’s best not to patronise, and although the ending is a rather idealistic romantisicm, it pulls no punches when laying the blame for Africa’s woes at the feet of those who in their greed for her natural resources have been raping and plundering for centuries.

First off, as an English speaking white South African, I’d like to say that Leonardo Di Caprio’s portrayal of an English speaking white South African is impeccable.
Until Blood Diamond I have not seen anyone do more that a passable celluloid impression of the master race.
Di Caprio hangs just the right combination of arrogance and macho bluster on the character of Danny Archer (pronounced correctly in the South African accent as Awe-cha) and slings all the right slang about to allow us to forget that he’s actually putting it on.
His dialogue is scattered with ja’s; howzit’s; my broer’s and I all but choked on my supersized box of popcorn when he called someone a doos.
In another scene, Archer opens up to journalist Maddy Bowen (Jennifer Connelly) about South Africa’s war on Angola:
“We thought we were fighting Communism but we were only fighting over who got what”
But the master stroke - and this is credit to the screenwriter as well as the research that has obviously gone into the character – is when Danny loses it completely with Solomon Vandy (played with great restraint by Djimon Hounsou) and all of the anger and hatred that sits at his core comes boiling out. Like the southern white man who, in a moment of powerless anger, dredges up the word nigger, Archer spews up the one word that sums up the Apartheid years: kaffir (even writing it down on this page fills me with guilt).
The moment comes like a blow to the gut, gloves are off and we’re down to the nitty gritty – racism – micro and macro – Apartheid and global attitudes to Africa – it’s all there in the brawl as Danny and Solomon attempt to beat the shit out of one another, ending with Danny pointing the gun...
…which brings us to the dirty game of arms and arms dealing.

The extraction of natural resources is not the only global crime being committed in Africa by the ex-colonisers; AK-47's are not the only weapon being used to butcher innocent people; gun runners in Europe and America, many of them either in government or very close to government, are responsible for a continental genocide that is being blamed on the African psyche rather than on those who exploit for money.
The guns are however, secondary to the greater piracies of rape and plunder
An old man sitting amongst the corpses in a village recently destroyed by bandits says to Solomon Vandy
“I hope they don’t find oil around here, ‘cause then we’re in BIG trouble”

Although the character of Archer is deeply flawed and mostly unadmirable, Di Caprio’s performance filled me with a warped sense of pride – it reminded me of why I left South Africa – not because I hated Africa, but because I hated what the colour of my skin represented in Africa.

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Gore Vidal Interview

"There is no lie that our government will not tell and has not told"

Gore Vidal talks to Rosa Miriam Elizalde in Havana about history; conspiracy and the American Empire.

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Television Propaganda

Jack takes time out from saving the free world to rescue an innocent child

I have commented on a number of occasions that the TV show '24' is nothing short of propaganda designed to instill the view that US behaviour in the Middle East is not only justifiable, but also wholly honourable.
One show went so far as to show Muslim parents indoctrinating their own son to become an assassin (of course the son, having been raised in the US, could not go through with it and turned against his evil parents, as any good person would.)
But most obviously the show repeatedly portrays the use of torture as acceptable - just as long as we know that the bad guy really did kidnap the president and that if we don't get the answers from the prisoner pronto then innocent people will die.

Of course when innocent people die as a result of any action by the good guys, it is known as 'Collateral Damage'.
My comments on this subject to work colleagues are generally met with blank 'what the fuck is he on about now' looks
Well at last, somebody agrees with me:
On GNN the author of a new book on the CIA's rendition program explains why Jack Bauer is a real man.

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Nick Cave - As I Sat Sadly By Her Side

Celestial Routine

It hangs in the sky, its tail blazing in static silence
Here in still life
There in vacuum roar
Here a spot of light in the sunset sky with a dusty fan upward splayed
There a colossal furnace where the gods go their swords to forge
And there a big fish in an pond of infinite dimension, a passing fad for superstition loadstone portent the second coming on primetime news
Under the dome we stare for moments transfixed; streetlights glare to obscure; trying to be impressed by the mental translation in scale and awe; then turning to the sound of televisual hands boney beckoning; return to what is real; to ennui’s immediate requirements.
The mind reluctant to contemplate movement of cosmic insignificance.


Inspired by the sighting of Comet 2006 P1 (McNaught) in the SW evening sky.

Comet McNaught as seen from Hokio Beach, Levin, New Zealand. Jan 17 2007. Photographer Trevor Heath.

Pinups #1

If you look over there babe
You know you might find
Somethin' over there
Gonna blow your mind

Keep On - Shawn Phillips (1970)

Etching On Glass

"For now we shall see through a glass darkly, but then face to face.
Now I know in part; then I shall understand fully, even as I have been fully understood."
I Cor. xiii, 12-13

Here where I wash your feet in pearls of gothic vision
Here between X-ray cataract and surgical incision
Here where black curtains occlude all the light
Here where you’re ready to put up a fight
Here where your sickness comes home to heal
Here where the voices whisper but never reveal
Here where rusted-hinge doors refuse to close
Here where it’s never a crime to oppose
Here where spiders claim their right to spin
Here in the shambolic mess that we’re in
Here in the cold light filtered through bones and entrails
Here where illusionists blow holes in your sails
Here at the centre of the new ideal
the cutting edge, the scalpel’s cold steel

Here where the embalmers massacre clocks
the body pale marble in the wooden box
drained of blood, hope and need
and failing yet to concede

Here amongst taffeta and raw silk skein
Here where the needle hits the vein
Here where you think that you know what you want
Here between the mascara-ed lashes of Mary Quant
Here where your kimono is guilt gilded green
Here in the shadows of the silver screen
Here submerged in sweet truth and bitter regret
Here where the hammer strikes the firing pin
...the finger to direct
Here in your dreams of Inuit existence
Here on the edge of gravity’s persistence

Here lies your world - built from the ground up
Every stitch unravelled and rethreaded in understanding
Every nail wrought bare from the furnace of your thirst
Every decorative curlicue imbued with purpose

Here your obsession
Here the concessions
Here your compulsion
Here the revulsion
Here your visions
Here your decisions
Here is your lease
Here your peace
Here what you’ve done with it
Here your sharpened wit
Here your open head
Here the books read
Here the things you have seen
Here the places you’ve been

Right here and now.

View From The Treetops (9 Jan '07)

Apocalypto Lies

Christian Fundamentalist/Right Wing Propagandist?
Saddam Hussein stunt double?

Gibson brought Apocalypto to life on the propaganda front of a spiritual war, a deadly serious culture war between those who would protect and defend the Earth’s ability to live and those on the Christian Right who want to “bring on” Armageddon.

Over at The Fourth World Juan Santos questions Mel Gibson's agenda.

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Why did Ethiopia invade Somalia?

All you need is love (his name lives on)

While DAVID WHITEHOUSE at Socialist Worker reports on why Ethiopia went to war against its similarly poverty-stricken neighbour - and why the U.S. government supported it.

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South America: Toward an Alternative Future

And at ZNet Noam Chomsky contemplates South American unification.

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The Mars Volta - Televators



...someday his chalk outline will circle this city...

Good Weather Tipped to Lift Spirits*

Well I’ve been to the crossroads and I didn’t get no deal
The devil said I didn’t have the balls
And Bob Dylan’s sixty-first apocalyptic dream
Did nothing to alleviate these closing in walls
The world is a woman without any clothes
Ogled and pawed and taken up the nose
My heart is a damp and delicate rose
A mechanical construct that don’t make house calls
On the eve of the future, in the words that I scream

Ech… more of the same old shit. I’ve been stoating around trying to get my head around a positive future; trying to break this dark cloud. The muse, reticent bastard that he is, has been moody and non-cooperative so I kicked his arse with a couple of beers and plugged myself into the Afro Celt Sound System in the hope of getting it all off my chest.

The future is hanging by a yes/no thread of the contractual kind that caused the holiday period weather to be a vague limbo, notwithstanding the Australian sun.
Back in the land of the long white faces (most of whom I don’t want to look at) the sun has finally come to burn and I can hold no interest in a country that I have already declared spiritually dead.
The future cannot come fast enough – I’m tying knots in baggage costs and sweeping dust from long lost hopes; I’m riding high in daydream tomorrows – the Northern winter; the faces of real people; with real lives.
I don’t ask for much – only that you say what you need to say to my face – don’t feed my paranoia with conspiratorial whispering – if I offend your delicate house of cards then at least have the balls to pull me up; spit in my face or beat the shit out of me.

The past is now blotted with these last two years wasted in a place of dead roads.

Funny, all I want is to settle my arse in a chair that doesn’t rock; fill a house that is foreseeably mine with the music (old and new) that feels like it knows me – where Sagittarius and the twin stars of wonder may laugh and fight and frustrate me (and I them) – where the road may stretch out ahead; long and straight. I don’t want to run any more, I want to walk, I want to stroll.

This is the wilderness; and I’ve been so fucking deep that there were times when I couldn’t see the sky; times when I didn’t want to see the bastard sky with its ozone deplete factor fifty-fucking-five skin cancer and photo fade future; times when the green consumed me; the knots in my log house leering demons of wood memory and skin crawling alien-ness. From this place have tumbled words intertwined with the buzz that comes from creating and the gut wrenching fear that comes with middle age.
Tell me you don’t know what I mean and I’ll envy you your youth; tell me you know where I’m hanging and I’ll salute you for hanging beside me and doing your best to admire the view.

Self analysis is a narrow ledge; unforgiving and all empowering; awe inspiring; humbling; hurting; denying deluding – it teaches you nothing but that you know little of how you got through – on a wing and a prayer; by the seat of your pants; by the grace of your god; on the words of your mother and the approval of your father.
And those dark corners where you dare only to fleetingly look: leave them behind for they are but small blots on the face of the years; don’t hang on to that which is now cast in mud to slowly erode with the loss of each cell to the calling earth.

Heh…more of the same old shit.

But here I am in the face of my infinitely better half; my guiding light; my challenger; my conscience; my co-conspirator; my sand in the Vaseline; my captain; my crew; above me; below me; in all of my lines; where I bleed and where I shine; here in the face of the one who is growing beside me; intertwining branches of thorns and of roses (sometimes the thorn, sometimes the rose) – here where solitude and trespass collide; on the cusp of the moon; in the spaces between minutes; in sacrifice and defiance; here where there are no excuses.

It’s difficult to be brutally honest; even with strangers, especially with oneself.
The mind cannot judge itself; it needs the distance of another to correct those over compensating swerves; those doubts; those touch-up jobs; those swept under the carpet corners of rust and of rain and of self-serving gain; while she soars I glide, swim with the tide.

I took occasion to swim in the sea; all adult fear and paternal paranoia; and it threw me around just as I remember it doing when I was a boy. It felt like an old acquaintance; it remembered me.

And even so the world turned: they hanged a man corrupted by power (possibly corrupted before he had power) and even though it was all fucked up (no truth was served; no justice beside that biblical revenge served) even though nothing has changed; no surge of revolt in middle class classes; no popular rising off apathetic arses – even though it’s business as usual – I find myself not caring that much - this demon has personal business to attend to.



* This is the Headline on the New Zealand home of MSN today - no really!... ugh! tell me I'm wrong about this place - ten months of winter.