Hands are what connect us with the world; they are our main mode of association, not just with one another but with everything that surrounds us. Hands feel the fine, gritty grain of dirt in the bed of an old pickup, that slippery smoothness of mud from a shallow riverbed, the gentle heat reflecting off the water as you hold your fingers out to absorb the warmth. Hands were made to be interlinked. We transfer all that we feel, have…
Feelings as inchoate, amorphous, indefinable cogitations. Dubious tragedy in the temporal confines of vacuity—a love as non licet as it is requited. Morality becomes blurred, bodiless, like the stirs of the sea. In winter’s cold, dying light, the sky’s azure seems hoary, resembling so many discarnate lémures haunting liminal helots who’ve found themselves permanently ensnared within the complex nucleus of this forbidden predilection, each one chasing the other’s pervasive absence, trying (and failing) to let go of that which should never, ever be. Favored grains of sand, imprisoned on a gray, shivering shore, refusing to be washed away.
Analog desire. Reality and fiction bleeding into one another until every pixel is unrecognizable, indistinguishable from a truth or lie, actuality or fantasy. Between the raster lines on the screen are the facts; they slither away into themselves, melting in frame, converging with fabrications, until no one knows what’s real or fake. What we interpret as true is as powerful as any veritable certainty. Verisimilitude liquified by perception. Reaching through your reveries.
The party dynamic has always seemed an apt metaphor to represent the tumult of teenage limbo—a mix of excitement and intrepidness before and upon arrival, the entrance and the acclimation, standing off to the side, with the more bold and brave mingling immediately, to the shy types whose butterflies haven’t yet left their stomach still lingering on the periphery; that feeling of wanting something but, when it comes so easily, not wanting it anymore, and that being ok, knowing that…
This review may contain spoilers. I can handle the truth.
There is one moment in particular that I believe contains the key to understanding Erika.
It comes when she is talking with the mother of the girl who’s hand was brutally sabotaged and who can no longer play in the concert (or in any venue for a long while) forthcoming, thereby in effect ruining or otherwise severely hampering her young, promising career before it even had the chance to take off as it seemed so certainly poised to do.
The Intense Humming of Evil.
Mankind consumes itself while just outside, the acrid smoke of his misdeeds casts a sepulchral pall over this (un)happy home. One can repress their humanity only so much until one day they see that there’s nothing left save for the hollow resemblance of a person, unable even to purge the wickedness ingesting them from the inside. Symbols of beauty serve to distract, but even a blush dahlia or a superbly red rose does little to…