On my stay in Solaris
Saturday, October 15, 2005
Remove Broken Aux From Car Input
Solaris Sometimes, with the arrival of autumn, I remember my stay in the small station set up near the planet Solaris. What can you call or Tarkovsky Soderbergh to its full pleasure and taste. Both seemed equally glorious and not for me to start a senseless war to try to point the greatness and the misery of either. In both received me with equal sadness and both ran the same experience, something unsuspected when considering the abysmal differences between them. Two seasons, two stories, and yet both so small beside the giant planet. Paseo
through the streets of Madrid, now it's raining, and I see people close their eyes and quicken the pace. I wonder, perhaps, if one of my anonymous passers ever traveled too Solaris and, therefore, if they could see the terrifying sadness and despair that runs the planet itself, the very idea of \u200b\u200bthe planet, their dirty tricks. His interminable slowness.
Slow Solaris (usually highly criticized by film buffs and fans of science fiction, position yourself where you like) is the slowness of life itself, the loneliness of life. Solaris is but a pale reflection of those balconies where people feel and see life pass (see pass death), to smoke another cigarette and take the first coffee in the afternoon. From the balcony of Solaris you can see naked bodies also joined us, the forced and violent ejaculations inside shed, the rituals of conquest and of the disappearance, the boredom, the oral sex bad (or good) practiced. And even the apparent serenity of sex and its success can help us to establish a distant throb of peace or hope.
In Solaris, all the women we've fucked, and even all we want, are dead and are still damp and cool shroud of his recent death. His lifeless body, his smile and forever frozen in the photographs albums, his passion and as a joke in bad taste, as a laugh in the middle of a cemetery. The places that we went back to build on Solaris, so we dressed in comfortable, padded coats. The streets, the same rain, the same way to hold your hand and give a "What are you thinking?" or "Tell me," and that if anything were attentive women who might be concerned about you. The streets, the same winter, the same autobiography fresh and healthy body as functional daguerreotype.
Life is a repeat on itself
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)