It Ends Where It Begins

The Textelcine rolls forth, lulling the viewer to blissful joy.

 It is finished.

 You exit the theater. It has left its mark. Happiness swells and bitterness lingers, a moment gained forever, a moment lost forever.

 Forever. 

A moment unique to you, and unique to a multiplicity of yous. Moments unique to a multiplicity of others, similar in atmosphere, never quite the same. The cinema is an experience, a book to be read, a message to be addressed.

 How it is 

read, 

viewed,

 portrayed, 

interpreted, 

themed, 

characterized,

 specialized,

 criticized, 

epitomized, 

is up to you. 

The viewer.

The captive audience. Viewed for free or charged an arm and leg by the evil corporate overlords, it matters not. Not in the here or the now, the forevermore and no more. Cinema has been called a cheapening of creativity, and that is fine. It is a criticism, a unique experience of the one and the many. But to the many and to the you it is something more.

 It is an

 unleashing of burdens and expression of the soul,

 a piece of the puzzle,

 an escape from the harshness of reality or the realization of it.

Textelcine isn’t merely a mush of images thrown together with sound to couple with it. It is uniqueness exclusive to you: this moment will be engraved forever in time, forever on the continuum that can only be experienced by you.

 Make of it what you will.

 Think of it what you will. 

Do with it what you will. 

That is the textelcine.

 That is what it means to be film.

 That is what it means to be art.

 That is what it means to be text. 

What is a text?

Escapism is the Word

I am but your mind.

 Ingenious incarnation of the soul, manifest itself unto the thoughts of your daily life.

 Escape, my dear friend, from the reality surrounding you.

Block the noise of the mundane; transcend the physical taxation upon your shoulders.

 I offer to you a solution: rest and enjoy textelcine.

 The cinema shall feed me, and thus shall fulfill you.

 Your dreams are the projection upon the screen, your neverland to which escapism is achieved.

 View and observe your darkest desires, reflect upon your past, the present, and the unknown future of which you cannot predict.

 To escape to the movies is to enter a dream world, the crux of society and its lessons to which it shall impart unto you and all others.

"A rhizome ceaselessly establishes connections between semiotic chains, organizations of power, and circumstances relative to the arts, sciences and social struggles," (Deleuze 7).

 It is your own piece of heaven amongst the rhizome that is cinema.

 An inception of frame unto frame, film unto film; melded together into your subconscious.

 But to all dreams an inevitable reality denies continuation, and neverland returns to the mere land.

 It’s lessons, however, are retained.

 They are me, and I am you.

 Escapism is the word to which we all strive to leave this world and enter another.

 Let not the escapism leave you, for it is you who shall suffer if you were to slip away from you.

Frames Per Second

Imagine if you will, the structure of film. Each frame is slick, compact, slim. It slides by, undetectable to the naked eye, and gone until repeated in viewing. Thousands flash before us and we are absorbed by the illusion produced. The illusion, upon completion, is retained in the memory of the body. Time passes. The memory fades, until the film is viewed again. The thousands of still pictures flash by yet again.

 Gone. 

Back.

 Gone.

 No one looks to the individual frame, but the film as a whole. They view this as the essence of the cinema. But it isn’t. It’s the details. If one were to interchange each individual frame with a random image, and commence viewing of the film, an incomprehensible mash of indecipherable images would converge. Anxiety would build, followed by frustration, anger and a sense of loss. It would feel incomplete. The Jes Grew of film isn’t the structure of the film as a whole, but the tiny details. Each frame.

 Per.

 Second.

 It is the little moments, the ones that flash before your eyes before you know it, that complete the film, and make it something worth viewing.

 Without.         

The.   

   Frame.   

      You.     

   Diminish.  

      The.       

Whole.

A Search for...

In the pursuit of happiness, one searches for ultimate meaning in that which they love. Religion, politics, theoretics, philosophy, art, sport, the list goes on and on. To look back, one reflects on actions taken. Nostalgia flairs, the hairs of the nose recall scents, sights and colors forgotten suddenly burst to life in the sub-conscious human being. To recollect, to aid, one constructs means to remember.

 Cave paintings, symbols, letters, language, story telling, the oracles of history craft new ways to weave their webs. Art, photography, film, video, recording; the record keepers are always kept busy. To film is to record photos upon photos within a second, compounded upon minutes, upon hours, until the film collection, the film chronology, amasses in the billions of hours. FPS, as they call it.

Space Jam [Film]. (1996). Retrieved from www.hwdyk.com

They who are the oracles of film, of cinema, aid the human in its task to recollect, to look upon, to reflect, to move forward, or backwards, or nowhere. To recreate history in the way IT wants. To establish a base to latch the soul upon. Film is the marvel of the world, to all it grants the capabilities to create memories as they see fit. “Walking up to it was humbling, just another triumph of human ingenuity” the crowds would say, approaching the theater at its conception, ignorant of the role IT would play in the crowds of then to the world of now.

Cinema As Text

Double Indemnity [Film]. (1944). Retrieved from romancedame.blogspot.com
Enter el cine. The Cinema. Black, then light. Colors. Projector emitting picture upon picture. Sound comes from nothing, yet surrounds everything.The lone man stumbles. Shadow, mist, crippled. Slowly enters. Approaches. Silent. The noise rises. Doom. Death. Is it bearing down upon you? He moves forward. Why crippled, big man? The Shadow Man exits. Darkness. Enter the war over stars. The tale unfolds. Once upon a time... War. Victory. Defeat. Death. The tale begins, then ends. Exit. Darkness. Boulders rest, brown upon brown. Suffering. Death. The sound, it contradicts. Scars. The past. The future? The unknown. Forward walking. Never stopping. Silence. The silent ones march. Darkness enters. Then white. Exit. Images, nothing of meaning, compact upon one another. Frames by the millions, the billions, some emit sound while others remain silent. The silent ones ushered the beginning, while the colorful noise continues forth. We watch yet for naught? We, the silent watchers, stare, absorb, and gather what? The markings persist when left. They linger, persist, diminish, impress. Dare deny the cinema its power? Crushed, defeated, the outspoken are silenced. The crowds continue. Pictures upon pictures. Produced, sold, repeated, viewed, silenced, heard, shuffled, forgotten, remembered. Lay the script bare. Behold. Exit el cine.