[ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
couldn't sit there in time with her forever. I was wearing jeans and she was yelling at me for it.
Angry at my red shirt. She started hanging out with these mean looking industrial kids who had an
industrial computer band. She was with them at a party, they all glared at me. Joez, I said, catching
her in the hallway. I Don't Want To Be Your Enemy. You're not she said simply, and that was it.
They used to crank call me at 3 in the morning, threatening to kick my head in, telling me to brush
my teeth. I was hurt and scared but really I couldn't be too upset because I crank called people too.
Eventually they stopped.
Sunless
Chris Marker
This morning I was on the dock of Pidjiguiti, where everything began in 1959: when the first victims
of the struggle were killed. It may be as difficult to recognize Africans in this leaden fog as it is to
recognize struggle in rather dull activity of tropical longshoremen. Rumor has it that every third
world leader coined the same phrase the morning after independence: Now the real problems
start. Cabral never got a chance to say it, he was assassinated first. But the problems started, and
went on, and are still going on. Rather unexciting problems for revolutionary romanticism: to work,
to produce, to distribute, to overcome postwar exhaustion, temptations of power and privilege...
History only tastes bitter to those who expected it to be sugarcoated.
My personal problem was more specific: how to film the ladies of Bissau? Apparently the magical
function of the eye was working against me there. It was in the market places of Bissau and Cape
Verde that I could stare at them again with equality... I see her - she saw me - she knows that I see
her - she drops me her glance, but just at an angle where it is still possible to act as though it was
not addressed to me -and at the end of the real glance, straightforward, that lasted a twenty-fourth
of a second, the length of a film frame.
All women have a built-in grain of indestructibility, and men's task has always been to make them
realize it as late as possible. African men are just as good at this task as others, but after a close
look at African women, I wouldn't necessarily bet on the men.
He told me the story of the dog Hachiko: A dog waited every day for his master at the station. The
master died, and the dog didn't know it, and he continued to wait, all his life. People were moved
and bought him food. After his death, a statue was erected in his honor, in front of which sushis
and rice cakes are still placed so that the faithful soul of
Hachiko will never go hungry.
Tokyo is full of these tiny legends, and of mediating animals. The Mitsukoshi lion stands guard on
the frontiers of what was once the empire of Mr. Okada, a great collector of French paintings, the
man who hired the chateau of Versailles to celebrate the hundredth anniversary of his department
stores. In the computer section, I've see young Japanese exercising their brain muscles like the
young Athenians at the palestra. They have a war to win (the history books of the future will
perhaps place the battle of integrated circuits at the same level as Salamis or Agincourt) but are
willing to honor the unfortunate adversary by leaving other fields to him: men's fashions this
season are placed under the sign of John Kennedy.
Like an old votive turtle stationed in the corner of a field, every day Mr. Akao, the president of the
Japanese Patriotic Party, trumpeting from the heights of his rolling balcony against the international
communist plot. He wrote me: the automobiles of the extreme right with their flags and
megaphones are part of Tokyo's landscape, Mr. Akao is their focal point. I think he'll have his
statue like the dog Hachiko, at this crossroads from which he departs only to go on the battlefields.
He was at Narita in the sixties: peasants fighting against the building of an airport on their land, and
Mr. Akao denouncing the hand of Moscow behind everything that moved... Yurakucho is the
political space of Tokyo. Once upon a time I saw a bonze pray for peace in Viet Nam there. Today,
young right wing activists protest against the annexation of the Northern Islands by the Russians.
Sometimes they're answered that the commercial relations of Japan with the abominable occupier
of the north are a thousand times better than with the American ally who's always whining about
economic aggression.
On the other sidewalk, the left has the floor. The Korean Catholic Opposition leader, Kim Dae
Jung, kidnapped in Tokyo in 73 by the South Korean Gestapo, is threatened with the death
sentence. A group has began a hunger strike, some very young militants are trying to gather
signatures in his support.
I went back to Narita for the birthday of one of the victims of the struggle. The demo was unreal. I
had the impression of acting in Brigadoon, of waking up ten years later in the midst of the same [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
zanotowane.pl doc.pisz.pl pdf.pisz.pl aikidobyd.xlx.pl
couldn't sit there in time with her forever. I was wearing jeans and she was yelling at me for it.
Angry at my red shirt. She started hanging out with these mean looking industrial kids who had an
industrial computer band. She was with them at a party, they all glared at me. Joez, I said, catching
her in the hallway. I Don't Want To Be Your Enemy. You're not she said simply, and that was it.
They used to crank call me at 3 in the morning, threatening to kick my head in, telling me to brush
my teeth. I was hurt and scared but really I couldn't be too upset because I crank called people too.
Eventually they stopped.
Sunless
Chris Marker
This morning I was on the dock of Pidjiguiti, where everything began in 1959: when the first victims
of the struggle were killed. It may be as difficult to recognize Africans in this leaden fog as it is to
recognize struggle in rather dull activity of tropical longshoremen. Rumor has it that every third
world leader coined the same phrase the morning after independence: Now the real problems
start. Cabral never got a chance to say it, he was assassinated first. But the problems started, and
went on, and are still going on. Rather unexciting problems for revolutionary romanticism: to work,
to produce, to distribute, to overcome postwar exhaustion, temptations of power and privilege...
History only tastes bitter to those who expected it to be sugarcoated.
My personal problem was more specific: how to film the ladies of Bissau? Apparently the magical
function of the eye was working against me there. It was in the market places of Bissau and Cape
Verde that I could stare at them again with equality... I see her - she saw me - she knows that I see
her - she drops me her glance, but just at an angle where it is still possible to act as though it was
not addressed to me -and at the end of the real glance, straightforward, that lasted a twenty-fourth
of a second, the length of a film frame.
All women have a built-in grain of indestructibility, and men's task has always been to make them
realize it as late as possible. African men are just as good at this task as others, but after a close
look at African women, I wouldn't necessarily bet on the men.
He told me the story of the dog Hachiko: A dog waited every day for his master at the station. The
master died, and the dog didn't know it, and he continued to wait, all his life. People were moved
and bought him food. After his death, a statue was erected in his honor, in front of which sushis
and rice cakes are still placed so that the faithful soul of
Hachiko will never go hungry.
Tokyo is full of these tiny legends, and of mediating animals. The Mitsukoshi lion stands guard on
the frontiers of what was once the empire of Mr. Okada, a great collector of French paintings, the
man who hired the chateau of Versailles to celebrate the hundredth anniversary of his department
stores. In the computer section, I've see young Japanese exercising their brain muscles like the
young Athenians at the palestra. They have a war to win (the history books of the future will
perhaps place the battle of integrated circuits at the same level as Salamis or Agincourt) but are
willing to honor the unfortunate adversary by leaving other fields to him: men's fashions this
season are placed under the sign of John Kennedy.
Like an old votive turtle stationed in the corner of a field, every day Mr. Akao, the president of the
Japanese Patriotic Party, trumpeting from the heights of his rolling balcony against the international
communist plot. He wrote me: the automobiles of the extreme right with their flags and
megaphones are part of Tokyo's landscape, Mr. Akao is their focal point. I think he'll have his
statue like the dog Hachiko, at this crossroads from which he departs only to go on the battlefields.
He was at Narita in the sixties: peasants fighting against the building of an airport on their land, and
Mr. Akao denouncing the hand of Moscow behind everything that moved... Yurakucho is the
political space of Tokyo. Once upon a time I saw a bonze pray for peace in Viet Nam there. Today,
young right wing activists protest against the annexation of the Northern Islands by the Russians.
Sometimes they're answered that the commercial relations of Japan with the abominable occupier
of the north are a thousand times better than with the American ally who's always whining about
economic aggression.
On the other sidewalk, the left has the floor. The Korean Catholic Opposition leader, Kim Dae
Jung, kidnapped in Tokyo in 73 by the South Korean Gestapo, is threatened with the death
sentence. A group has began a hunger strike, some very young militants are trying to gather
signatures in his support.
I went back to Narita for the birthday of one of the victims of the struggle. The demo was unreal. I
had the impression of acting in Brigadoon, of waking up ten years later in the midst of the same [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]