So the reason we had to start directing this late was - there’s a piece of shit that I fucking hate. Now let’s go - this next shot is a woman in - this next shot is a guy with - this next shot - this next shot was againandagainandagain. Let’s anticipate the shot pattern in the next important one.
So this next shot reminds me that recording this is mostly about producing something worth doing in the morning. And that wasn’t a joke about like, maybe being a middle aged man and having a child. This next shot worked in what I was saying because if you recall the coffee cup a couple of scenes ago you will feel again another fucking thing that mattered in the world I guess. So this next shot is going to remind us that we’re watching an action film out of the exasperation of what doesn’t actually happen when someone is at a concert.
Okay so this next shot is needing to become a sequence. Okay - that wasn’t true because that last shot was perfect the way it was but I think that that is my sin. Okay, so: this next shot is add more shots. Okay, so: this next shot has to do with what is the bare minimum amount of locale necessary for a street chase: cars. Look at that, right? So the thing is, what did I just explain just then, is just go to elementary school you shitty fucking failed actors. Okay, so: this next shot is remember that context is for the person who is stupid enough to let you say something. Okay, so: this next shot is I feel the spites of people more vividly when they are physically present and none more so than my own father. This next shot precludes a selection of a word choice loses if there is a choice. This next shot has to do with recording the eye records what my sense means. This next shot has to do with speaking poetically in the privacy of your home so that you can pray without having to pray. This next shot records that I don’t believe Molly Cruel saying “higher” meant that she wasn’t actually kind of like on two knees in a black Christian church over psychic psychotic ways of thinking. That shot. This next shot records that this has to have taken place in Los Angeles in my soul. (COUGHING). This next shot records that there is a way of writing poetry in the world that it is vivid in the world. This next shot includes that I fucking love this kind of action film, and I know it has to do with a film that I read about one time. This next shot has to do with actually I feel like my deal is different than the person who I can’t even say their name who does that to me.
This next shot was not that shot. This next shot allows me to remember my silence as the expression of my exhaustion, the strain to say something that means something to me reams me into misery. A failed actor is listening to everything I say on my cell phone and wants less jokes. But there is a cockiness, a kind of smugness of I listen in silence and I feel you in the loneliness of your house that makes him continuously ruin what is one important scene. This next shot is about a guy who appropriates black magic, a way of being a woman, that only people who are super weird and freaky who look like they have enormous breasts should be permitted to use. This next shot has to do with practicing in public is a lot different than practicing alone where everybody imagines it was in public. This next shot has to do with I’m pretty sure I was just giving the actors hell. This next shot has to do with it’s low and dirty and quiet was the term I wanted to use instead of dirty. This next shot has to do with an idea about film that is possessed by me, because only I know how to actualize it: this.1 That last shot had to do with my fucking heart in Trader Joe’s being told I was the most disgusting form of human life, and no one alive ever experienced more terror in the check out aisle than I did, and if you believe for a second that you crying about Coronavirus will DNA-download a better career for failed actor Fernado-whatever-the-fuck-his-name-is-I-hate-him-from-the-depths-of-my-soul Farmacia: he has a job.
This next shot has to do with preserving forms of critique. This next shot has to do with what I usually don’t like about these kind of films but what they are really about: selling weed. This next shot has to do with a form of essayship. This next shot has to do with attempts to relax when you can’t make your art aren’t possible. This next shot has to do with explaining things is important, and in any case, my microphone is always on. This next shot has to do with the drone footage imbricated with the medium-close up tight-shot duets remind me of something about myself, this sex has to do with a shot. This next shot has to do with a frailty based in heightened sense of reality: extreme responsibility. This next shot has to do with I am going to shoot you in the audience. This next shot has to do with a quietude, an impersonality, a nearness, that I will blow chunks. This next shot has to do with someone who is trying to bare their teeth when one guy says it was about fangs. This next shot has to do with what if each shot mattered. This next shot has to do with the very minimum amount of human indecency to expose yourself. UGH *moviebellisimo*. This next shot has to do with a shit bag who fucking stole my heart in film. This next shot has to do with I am vomiting over my responsibility to myself and to no one else in fact - my responsibility to others was. This next shot has to do with a form of excitation when you lose control. This next shot has to do with the consequences of that excitation being erotic. This next shot has to do with the consequences of that last shot. “All of these shots” has to do with I feel like there is a way of directing films that matters and other directors direct films for making cameras. This next shot has to do with you don’t need good actors you don’t need good dialogue you don’t need an important place you do need to have your microphone on at all times - and you need to destroy the soul. This next shot has to do with I am still upset about AHEM. This next shot has to do with I will never work a fucking job. This next shot has to do with I literally will put all of you people in my heart permanently if I have to get super happy when I see you. All of these shots have had to do with a sequence of expressing what was mostly about this director for me not as like a psychic wheeling out what was inside of the director but from just inking inferences out of the images: the form of production is obviated by the kind of aesthetic, and it’s beautiful to discover genre through materialization of container crates.
This next shot has to do with the recording of my voice that this is making. This next shot has to do with I am as despised by the kindnesses of the people I despise as their despicable behaviors, when they arrive insincerely, as relief from my hatred. This next shot has to do with me imagining that that’s what the director of this movie feels, sounds like, talks like, looks like, will be like, when I meet them in human forms. This next shot has to do with a kind of broken speech pattern that produces so much character in an instant it is awesome to discover. This next shot has to do with an expression of a storytelling form in this story is really when you build a beautiful story for me, and for maybe only three people watching this, a kind of film that matters: this one. This next shot has to do with the genuine thing that needs to be preserved in life, the actual refugees from catastrophes, Scott Motherfucking Weintraub. This next shot has to do with having fun is okay but less fun is good. This next shot has to do with being a professional, a human with a computer, a builder of scenes, a violator of the human feelings of computer indecency. This next shot has to do with the sudden feeling of a human face where I didn’t have to put psychology in it like it was a fucking trash can without a fucking can. This next shot has to do with when plot is from the Christ and if you suck Christ in purple cups you cry in bought weed to. This next shot has to do with thinking about someone who I had a crush on in this building is the only thing between me and being homeless, as far as I am really considered, and if my dad interrupted me it was one of the kinds of things that distract me because they’re so fucking annoying - and I have to throw machine guns at them - and that’s what I don’t want to do anymore, I don’t want to just read the story off the script in this.
This next shot has to do with being, feeling, and learning things through. (APPLAUSE). This next shot has to do with a corner store you’re just listening to the crowd applauding, they’re just having a moment, they’re just feeling their own impressions: their own impressions feeling is the feeling of them seated in the audience. This next shot has to do with being ignorable in a form of stepping out of a vehicle into the face that we built for your computer. This next shot has to do with I want every film to actually just be about the things that happen to me and to no one else and I feel like that is just the qualification for a good film before even any of those things happened to me was true and forevermore I want better movies to be made only if they make me feel details about my story they only could have found out through eavesdropping in mythical ways. That’s the match-doubled shot-on-the-top-of-the-head red-dot-sight shot. This next shot has to do with you are filled with so much hatred for people interrupting your art that you actually get so angry you have to become this good at doing the kind of thing which this is, which is not acting like a drunk drug-addict: living in directing shred is very tricky because if you have to bend the will of people in being a total bullshit artist in time and space with literally nothing - you have to, literally - you don’t pick up the camera, you don’t move the lights, you don’t move the person, all you do is bullshit artist. If that’s your art then you will stay up till 4:30 AM every time your dad gives you a phone call where he tells you "you’re going nowhere! Drive!”1 This next shot has to do with being, like, abused into a shape of living where you only have to be good at things and you can’t believe in anything else. This next shot has to do with how many stupid things do I have to believe I pepper into saying a smart thing before I just realize it’s just a stupid thing to say, is what’s-his-face telling me to be skewed. This next shot has to do with me speaking over a silence that I speak until I genuinely build a silence into the two people in the conversation. Whereas before I used to say the premise for speaking was silence. And all I did was feel silent and deliver silence - now I kind of see it’s in time as: we are just going to have the feeling we rewarded ourselves with.
This next shot has to do with my dad being not-white enough - that we are totally good - and my mom being white enough - that we’re totally okay. This next shot has to do with dreaming of a film, it delivered to you the impression your impression mattered, not even a little bit, it mattered so little - it mattered. This next shot has to do with physical expressions of being like, basically freaking out in your apartment so much you miss the shot and stop trying to achieve this in practice. This next shot has to do with your life story is good enough for this kind of film and this kind of film is, and other sorts of films were fucking the definition out of the canister, out of the DV, out of the fucking cyclone television - imagine the film was outside instead of in your heart. This next shot has to do with a super inviting essay that was honestly delivered to me by the director themselves because of how compacted and vivid the art was the whole time for me, and in every single thing I needed it to be and every single thing I hoped to achieve from it, that now I have a similar thing from this kind of film, and it’s containership, splinterict.2 That last shot had to do with achieving a kind of decadence. And this next shot affirms the decadence in blood and fever.
This next shot has to do with the second-to-second feeling of catching did my impression in the film receive my entire heart - or - did the director build a film about himself and not me? This next shot has to do with if I just fucking watch this movie with my mouth closed I would be way too inside of it to not feel vividly terrifying to the people who put me in situations that make me think about that. This next shot has to do with thinking about the simplisti- - excuse me - this next shot has to do with me not quite knowing what kind of word-thing-at-the-end-of-the-word I needed to put onto simplicity in order to explain only three things are vivid in a kind of anybody-watching-a-movie-I-am-a-critic type of movie critic: sound, movement, dialect. This next shot has to do with I feel the surprise of art in your face where it says to you “no no no no no, you captured the sense” hurts like I didn’t make sense, at all, period.
This next shot has to do with a sense of control in spatialization of just basically being a person who likes films a lot. This next shot has to do with this movie would have worked even if the lighting sucked because how good was this street, how good was that other fucking train-thing-stop-whatever place, how good was that fucking apartment complex, how bad was that old lady knocking at the guy’s door, how good is it that the guy is selling me impressions in my head were his impressions instead of my own just because it’s in Italy. This next shot has to do with going all the way big-brain-lady way you’re doomed to feel nature is just saying ha, ha, ha-ha-ha… This next shot has to do with I hope the kind of stunned into myself feeling that certain images deliver to me - honestly, it’s everybody elses’ fault - will avail me of ever having believed I betrayed a guy when I told him I didn’t love him anymore so badly that I lied about something I knew he never could do. This next shot has to do with considering the time it takes to record this, in relation to what I hope to feel in the morning. This next shot has to do with the kind of practice that this was was not a deep practice, but again, the depth of the answer from a film that was a good one enough continuously makes me feel that only one shot told me the whole story of the film, the one that made me feel like, listen, the entire world does matter, and we should protect it, in pieces, until I say exactly every fucking word I’m feeling and thinking without having to like, catch more words from feeling that the words that I wasn’t able to say before mattered so much that they’re squeezing more words out of me by the second: that doesn’t make any sense, I hope you kill yourself, I hope I kill myself, why why why why why. This next shot has to do with being, like, a poet this. This next shot has to do with somebody telling you to be quiet so you can just hit that on whatever-the-fuck-it-was because you know that there’s something about even if nothing is happening in the movie if you just say this is the one where the thing happens in response to the previous thing I said thing, it will build a beautiful vivid explosive feeling whether it made any good sense or not. This next shot has to do with me having like, I’m feeling myself time, in a recollection of vivid impression scattering, a kind of slip-n-slide down all of the bad times into a good time feeling that is sort of increasing with the velocity of what is a bad time, just the next next next next next over and over again, me in that shot is this next one wishing we could have me to return every item of comic book that you took me to Christ - this shot, the next one - why do I keep saying this next shot? - because it’s the shot that’s the next, the next one, the next shot that doesn’t increase without saying how many times we live in Hell. This next shot has to do with juxtaposition explains any sense I ever kind of made. Maybe movies were the kind of sense that I make.
This next shot has to do with cheating. This next shot has to do with something I hope explodes into this film so beautifully. This next shot has to do with if the shots get closer it’s kind of like your faces are no longer curse-able. This next shot has to do with I am a sinner because of course, Nicholas Winding Refn is a good enough director to kind of make a movie like this one - but kind of not is what I will have to consider, in time. This next shot has to do with I don’t want to make any more jokes, but doing anything for two hours creatively like this involves states of lost consciousness that are to your previous selves drug addictions. And I have to engage with that. This next shot has to do with result so you don’t end up being committed. This next shot has to do with the game of this thing I am writing in my reporting was a pistol now has a soul, and I must see what happens to that pistol before the night is over, and I have to make sure that when the night is over I am delivered to sleep like a little normal human, and I’m going to define, before this next shot appears, what I hope a normal human means to me: I go to bed early as fuck so I wake up earlier than everybody else who believes in the work week, because as a kind of laborer where nobody believes you actually produce labor you just have to do fifty million times more work than they ever could imagine doing any time you set down to do one thing, writing. And writing for me when I’m trying to return to normal culture has to be a little less worth doing, it has to be a little more pointless, it has to be a little more depressing, it has to be a little more images of chaos and conflict but not the form of chaos and conflict expressing what would be more beautiful because I know the scripts will not be made until many years after I am gone, and the scripts that I am going to write, of course, are gonna be hot off the cooker into the toaster I made it or I blow you off the face of the planet earth - hiya hihihi - this next shot still hasn’t received any of the normalcy that I needed to receive, because I have yet to define what being normal means to me when I am going to sleep today. What it means to me is writing something that isn’t about impressing one guy, that isn’t about saying his name like he was spitting into your mouth because of other kinds of things that happen that made me feel like that was happening, but just has to do with, do I still envy him. Of course I do.
This next shot has to do with why I thought I understood him when I really didn’t understand him but I was hoping to come to understand him by keeping him in the loop and leaving him out of important developments in my life so that he could just deal with his own emotional problems and I could deal with mine like people are normal. And I still have not expressed a form of normalcy because I just don’t feel any kind of relief - I don’t feel relief saying things - I don’t feel like I should be allowed to just reach in my head to feel somebody else. I feel instead if I broke this project open I would fill with so much hatred at the person who had done that, we would have another fucking five hours of people knocking trees over. This next shot has to do with my voice explains the length of the phrase, and not grammatical constructions. Normalcy is basically realizing you mostly interact with people who are not thinking in writer ways. You were mostly dealing with people who, basically, fill you, and squeeze you out, and say things with your voice. You mostly are dealing with can I feel an explosive splinter second, really really really hoping for art to matter again to me, when I wake up tomorrow, when I know, it will be as pathetic as all the pathetic people who made me believe art is it’s just about being like ha-ha, agreed. Like that didn’t fucking matter in life. And the next shot has not happened yet because I got more to fucking put into my fucking hatred of anyone who ever was so in my feeling that they squeezed me out of the sentence I wanted to say and put their reaction in it, like I have to react to their reaction, like I gotta feel their building burning hatred, their super cool soul thing, to describe in terms that are functional to me, happening to them, the twitch in the eye of you’re-the-them-we’re-pointing-at when I’m just trying to describe, in terms that are functional to me, my dad told me the worst thing I can ever hear about myself, and I don’t think he understands there’s a lot of other people you cannot tell things like that to. That was a line we had before. And I feel that my father just can’t say that ever again. And it has to do with telling him anything about anything that would go in my art, anything that would be in a movie I like, anything that would be in a movie that he told me is the only kind of movies he thought were good ones as a joke, but really as a sincere thing because he had given up on liking art, because he had given up on explaining it to people, because he thought he was like so smart that he couldn’t explain anything to people. And I’m no longer like that and now I don’t have any friends. And I think it has to do with, most of my friends are vividly fascist to me and always were, and, I feel like, some of them aren’t, but they’re basically captured by three fascists at any given point, and I fully believe that I have, like, so much responsibility to actually achieve my dreams, like every one is fucking counting on me doing this because only I have the fucking heart to do this - is not yet the normalcy but it’s close and wholly shit I wish I was just watching this movie because this is just basically all the movie I needed - I almost felt well.
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