Solaris Free Fall
Free form ramble after watching the digitally restored print of Andrei Tarkovsky’s Solyaris (1972) on the big screen.
Is this space or where you go when you’re dead? Is this the sun that woke me up this morning or the sun from the other side of time? Am I dead or alive? Dreaming or awake? Time is collapsing. I need to wear a leather jacket in space. Everyone wears leather jackets in space. I think this is why I think this is not really space but a dream inside a house where a BW TV plays a story you’re supposed to watch but you can’t stop looking for the missing horse. This house is not mine and is mine. The horse is running towards apocalypse. This is the apocalypse. I can’t tell the difference between love and suicide. The ocean laps at the underbelly of my heart. The ocean swells in the short circuits of my tongue. I am running through Brueghel and standing still with the trees. Space moves slow and fast. Light is so much more beautiful splintered by fog and hallucinations. Is that you slipping down the drain hole? Why do I feel compelled to look cool in my lime green mesh shirt even when all the wires have been cut and my love keeps dying and living again? Does blood make a thing real? I have collected an inordinate number of crocheted ponchos. How long does limbo last? 167 minutes. But it doesn’t matter because time keeps collapsing on itself. History is both past and future. The clocks have stopped. Decay and fungus breeds hallucinogens. We are free falling though stars, through oceans, to our knees, crying. She’s back again. My nose is bleeding. Screens inside screens tell black and white stories of what has happened and what will happen. The line between the two disappears. I am in the screen. In the ocean. Floating. In a spaceship leaning. The future is not clean, but a messy mess of decayed technology transmitting our dreams into nightmares. Don’t forget it. Don’t worry. You will be reminded every time you wake up and it’s yesterday again.
