By | 5 January 2008

This illuminated surface of events, this present tense, this staring at screens that we've been doing to escape the flatness of these deadpan days. This calling movies dreams, this calling memories Rome. The colors in Contempt, are they of the present? Are they historical colors? Certianly they come from a world with more minutes in each hour, a world almost remembered in this long celebration of a cult without dreams and without mercy. O record stores and train stations, O leaded-glass nostalgia for an innocent, artisanal form of this catastrophe. O recollected thickness of that one newspaper Franco calls 'the daily of my life,' O world where Coca-Cola has not lost its true flavor.


This entry was posted in 29: WHITE HOMES and tagged . Bookmark the permalink.

Related work:

Comments are closed.