I’m not writing anymore about love, but I did make a Valentine. My valentine has ruins in it. Owl tells me there’s a fetishism for ruins called “ruin porn”. Amidst the outer-world’s compulsion towards youth, development and progress, there is a counter-fascination with what has fallen apart somewhere so unprofitable it is allowed to remain-an aesthetics of inevitable capitulation, a poetics of collapse. The stones that have crumbled, the rotting curtains, the empty rooms, the sunken roofs, all, all are ephemeral garlands upon absence. Absence: the presence of what is no longer present remains, a meta-monument to impermanence.
This valentine reminds me of an early conversation with the black swan:
…Is there a love otherwise made? Of stone?
Its architecture, yes, toppled in weeds,
though an entablature on slipped columns
remains to frame the inorderable sky.
I could think: Marking a grave. Or
Its austere grace! What time cracks falls away
to reveal a more essential beauty.
The ruins memorialize themselves.
Two might still walk among them hand in hand.
“Look on my works, ye mighty, and despair!” Let love, in its ruin, grace forgotten spaces, defy the spirit of our age which points, it would appear, only to annihilation. Its shrill, destructive euphoria spares no room for soul-deepening ruins, lovely and bittersweet.
Happy Valentine’s Day! May your love exemplify grace.
Another scene from my favorite movie (so far) HER GREATEST LOVE! This scene might follow the previous one, or it might not. This movie does not confine itself to orderly arrangements of space and time, which makes it extremely realistic, but difficult to transcribe.
In the previously transcribed scene, HAZEL discovers the white-eyed BOY with his arm around a pony-tail GIRL. Evil forces gather, cosmic libraries are ransacked, and to her shame, HAZEL sprouts wings. A spaceship-like car, summoned by the mirrors of pony-tail girls, aligns an inescapable magnetic field around the boy. (Click to read Scene 1.)
HER GREATEST LOVE
SCENE: An abandoned farmhouse, winter, late afternoon.
(Winged HAZEL on dilapidated porch watches a lone wasp buzz about its empty nest, a massive wad of wood pulp and spit stuck beneath the eaves. Stunned and slow, it crawls inside.)
(HAZEL slips through boards into the familiar house.)
(Inside, a center hall of half-open doors.)
(HAZEL walks the wide hall like a time-traveler, her warm breath an animation in the dim, slumbering cold.)
(Doves depart their rafters.)
(HAZEL touches a door and disappears. )
(An empty room. Large mullioned window. Floor glittered with broken glass. )
(Panes of late-light waver on the crumbling wall. One pane contains a dappled disk in which a tiny shadow furiously whizzes like an electron in an atom cloud.)
(Because, on the sill, a glass bottle, like a distilling flask, refracts the last low bit of wintry light.)
(HAZEL picks up the bottle.)
(CLOSE UP: HAZEL’s face, distorted by the glass bottle, peers inside. Fluzz. Tiny tinny whir.)
(HAZEL shakes the bottle into her palm.)
(What flizzles the glass shaft into her hand? Compound eye black as a nugget of tourmaline?)
(It relieves itself of its confinement, elaborates its miniscule wings.)
(Meanwhile, moonshine, a derelict joint. Pony-tail slips mirrors into a coin slot. Subsequent narcotic arousal accompanied by whining ache from head to bowels. Stupefying desperation to clutch something warm. Pony-tail skips and spins like a lousy record. The silence machines: semblant somnambule.)
(HAZEL looks up, out the window. Nightfall. Stars arrive like spectators.)
FROM WHENCE FROM WHERE THEY SOON SHALL COME.
(Blasting glare; light slashes in. Squint and shield. Mullions reel over walls, ceiling, floor–black bars, skewed panes of shrieking light.)
(HAZEL shrinks from window. Equine insect whizzes round about round about.)
(HAZEL and the tiny horse bottle fly urgent eye-to-eye.)
(HAZEL closes her eyes and opens her mouth as in AAAH.)
(HAZEL closes her mouth, convulses.)
(Outside, the spaceship car.)
(Its open door slams shut.)
END OF SCENE