“death is always on the way, but the fact that you don’t know when it will arrive seems to take away from the finiteness of life. it’s that terrible precision that we hate so much. but because we don’t know, we get to think of life as an inexhaustible well. yet everything happens only a certain number of times, and a very small number, really. how many more times will you remember a certain afternoon of your childhood, some afternoon that’s so deeply a part of your being that you can’t even conceive of your life without it? perhaps four or five more times more. perhaps not even that. how many more times will you watch the full moon rise? perhaps twenty. and yet it all seems limitless.”
“before i was twenty, i mean, i used to think that life was a thing that kept gaining impetus. it would get richer and deeper each year. you kept learning more, getting wiser, having more insight, going further into the truth – ” she hesitated.
he laughed abruptly. “and now you know it’s not like that. right? it’s more like smoking a cigarette. the first few puffs it tastes wonderful, and you don’t even think of its ever being used up. then you begin taking it for granted. suddenly you realize it’s nearly burned down to the end. and that’s when you’re conscious of the bitter taste.”
here in the murky labs of farm fresh films, we’ve very recently become dissatisfied with the development of a trailer for the short film, depression served six ways, and so we turn to you, and appeal to you for a little bit of feedback.
as we edit and re-edit this trailer, we know that something is not quite right. we know that something is not working. we have our suspicions (which won’t be pointed out).
please tell us on this page what works and doesn’t work. your feedback will be greatly appreciated.
i was in bergen, norway the day that elvis died – i sat in the window seat of a regional passenger jet that was waiting on the tarmac when the announcement was made from the cockpit.
it was already in the newspaper, as i could plainly see in the hands of a man seated in the row in front of us.
an image of mr. presley on the cover of a norwegian daily: this mysterious semi-tragic celebrity, dead while in his 50s.
with the death of michael jackson, i wonder how it feels for kids today?
the memories of mr. jackson are a combination of bizarre real-life experiences (i met him at spotwelders in venice, california back in 1994) and the fact that i had my first school vacation crush while “Rock with You” was a top 10 hit, or how my brothers and i used to habitually freak out to “Wanna Be Startin’ Somethin’.” we improvised an oddball dance to that last number.
“do you not know that there comes a midnight hour when every one has to throw off his mask?
do you believe that life will always let itself be mocked?
do you think you can slip away a little before midnight in order to avoid this? or are you not terrified by it?
i have seen men in real life who so long deceived others that at last their true nature could not reveal itself… in every man there is something which to a certain degree prevents him from becoming perfectly transparent to himself; and this may be the case in so high a degree, he may be so inexplicably woven into relationships of life which extend far beyond himself that he almost cannot reveal himself. but he who cannot reveal himself cannot love, and he who cannot love is the most unhappy man of all.”
- søren kierkegaard
i’ve known many frauds in my life. this much is true. some of them have done immensely well for themselves. i wonder what makes them tick and if they ever find happiness? and then i put those thoughts away.
one day, however, i will write about some of these frauds. not out of anger or disdain, but sincerely, out of the desire to understand the root causes of their behaviour. we’ll see.
the full moon and smoking
“death is always on the way, but the fact that you don’t know when it will arrive seems to take away from the finiteness of life. it’s that terrible precision that we hate so much. but because we don’t know, we get to think of life as an inexhaustible well. yet everything happens only a certain number of times, and a very small number, really. how many more times will you remember a certain afternoon of your childhood, some afternoon that’s so deeply a part of your being that you can’t even conceive of your life without it? perhaps four or five more times more. perhaps not even that. how many more times will you watch the full moon rise? perhaps twenty. and yet it all seems limitless.”
“before i was twenty, i mean, i used to think that life was a thing that kept gaining impetus. it would get richer and deeper each year. you kept learning more, getting wiser, having more insight, going further into the truth – ” she hesitated.
he laughed abruptly. “and now you know it’s not like that. right? it’s more like smoking a cigarette. the first few puffs it tastes wonderful, and you don’t even think of its ever being used up. then you begin taking it for granted. suddenly you realize it’s nearly burned down to the end. and that’s when you’re conscious of the bitter taste.”
– paul bowles, the sheltering sky