Icarus, LXI Issue 2, 2011

This Friday was the Icarus LXI Issue Two, 2011 launch night. There were tables of and tables of the edition and plenty bottles of wine. I had a truly great time

meeting the editor Joanne O'Leary. Above are the two poems that

were published, Dream Vision, Dublin and Untitled.

 I am pretty sure I nursed a bottle of wine

for the whole party, consequently

 no photos were taken.

The proof is in the stack

of fifteen magazines that

appeared in my purse when I got home.

It really is an honor

to be published in Icarus

and I want to thank the editors 

for this really cool opportunity. 

Comic Book Vs. History

Comic Book VS. History
(1949, 1969)


On the blackboard map your country
was erased, blank, waiting
to be filled with whatever shapes
we chose:

tense
needle turrets of steel
cities

heroes
lived there, we knew

they all wore capes, bullets
bounced off them;
from their fists came beautiful
orange collisions.

Our side was coloured in
with dots and letters
but it held only
real-sized explorers, confined
to animal skin coats;

they plodded, discovered
rivers whose names we always
forgot; in the winters
they died of scurvy.

When I reached that other
shore finally, statistics
and diseased labels multiplied
everywhere in my head

space contracted, the
red and silver
heroes had collapsed inside
their rubber suits/ the riddled
buildings were decaying
magic

I turned back, search
for the actual, collect lost
bones, burnt logs
of campfires, pieces of fur.

Margaret Atwood

No Man's Land

Progressive Insanities of a Pioneer


i
He stood, a point
on a sheet of green paper
proclaiming himself the centre,

with no walls, no borders
anywhere; the sky no height
above him, totally un-
enclosed
and shouted:

Let me out!


ii


He dug the soil in rows,
imposed himself with shovels
He asserted
into the furrows, I
am not random.

The ground replied with aphorisms:

a tree-sprout, a nameless
weed, words
he couldn't understand.

iii

The house pitched
the plot staked
in the middle of nowhere.

At night the mind
inside, in the middle
of nowhere.

The idea of an animal
patters across the roof.

In the darkness the fields
defend themselves with fences
in vain:

everything
is getting in

iv


By daylight he resisted.
He said, disgusted
with the swamp's clamourings and the outburts
of rocks.

This is not order
but the absence
of order.

He was wrong, the unanswering
forest implied:

It was an ordered absence

v


For many years
he fished for a great vision,
dangling the hooks of sown
roots under the surface
of the shallow earth.

It was like
enticing whales with a bent
pin. Besides he thought

in that country
only the worms were biting.

vi

If he had known unstructured
space is a deluge
and stocked his log house-
boat with all the animals

even the wolves,

he might have floated.

But obstinate he
stated, The land is solid
and stamped,

watching his foot sink
down through stone
up to the knee.

vii


Things
refused to name themselves; refused
to let him name them.

The wolves hunted
outside.

On his beaches, his clearings,
by the surf of under-
growth breaking
at his feet, he foresaw
disintegration

and in the end

through eyes
made ragged by his
effort, the tension
between subject and object,

the green
vision, the unnamed
whale invaded.


Margaret Atwood

The Temptress, Kodak Tri-X Reversal Film

This post is just to re-live the glory of the Super 8, my baby. I had two rolls of Kodak Tri-X Reversal Film sent over to me in Dublin, and the first roll is kaputtz. Which basically means that the four films I want to make here are now down to two. Well what can you do when the world is obsessed with digital, and well I can't seem give in to the starving artist mentality (I really love brunching, I really do). Anyways, I have had a nice increase of viewership, which is incredible, and I am in the midst of revamping the blog into something that will be easier to read and locate older posts. So with that silly introduction, here are two films that I have been over-promoting.

Cemetery of a Boy's Childhood

Going Home to Mayo, Winter, 1949

Leaving behind us the alien, foreign city of Dublin
My father drove us through the night in an old Ford Anglia,
His five-year-old son in the seat beside him,
The rexine seat of red leatherette,
And a yellow moon peered in through the windscreen.
‘Daddy, Daddy,’ I cried, ‘Pass out the moon,’
But no matter how hard he drove he could not pass out the moon.
Each town we passed through was another milestone
And their names were magic passwords into eternity:
Kilcock, Kinnegad, Strokestown, Elphin,
Tarmonbarry, Tulsk, Ballaghedereen, Ballyvarry;
Now we were in Mayo and the next stop was Turlough,
The village of Turlough in the heartland of Mayo,
And my father’s mother’s house, all oil-lamps and women,
And my bedroom over the public bar below,
And in the morning cattle-cries and cock-crows:
Life’s seemingly seamless garment gorgeously rent
By their screeches and bellowings. And in the evenings
I walked with my father in the high grass down by the river
Talking with him – an unheard-of thing in the city.

But home was not home and the moon could be no more outflanked
Than the daylight nightmare of Dublin city:
Back down along the canal we chugged into the city
And each lock-gate tolled our mutual doom;
And railings and palings and asphalt and traffic lights,
And blocks after blocks of so-called ‘new’ tenements –
Thousands of crosses of loneliness planted
In the narrowing grave of the life of the father;
In the wide, wide cemetery of the boy’s childhood.

Paul Durcan

"Cut Ups" with a Twist of "Elegy"

A Pair of Embattled Hills in Korea were Named after Her

Jane Russell 1921-2011
March 2, 2011, When the Guardian Forgot Libya

Wherever she went

backtracked from her
belligerent beauty

dislodging the opposition

with that shot of her

reclining in the hay

all for some bullet wounds

waiting for the 
people to turn away.

We filmed her

over and over

dazzling numbers

the cameras continued to spread

and her legs

crossed flying circus

didn’t seem to want to leave 
undefended for the day.

The price of equality?

Well it’s the cheapest electricity,

More = Less

only when you hire

your killer

it's neither suicide
nor murder

democracy has always been 

bad at delayed gratification

she will only be remembered as

the queen of motionless pictures
not the born-again Christian bigot.

Because Everything Left is Already Said but Still Never Done, Paul Durcan

The White Window


Of my love's body I think
That it is a white window.
Her clothes are curtains:
By day drawn over
To conceal the light;
By night drawn back
To reveal the dark.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------

Paul

In the rush-hour traffic outside the centre-city church

I stood with my bicycle waiting for the lights to change—

A Raleigh bicycle with upright handlebars

That I had purchased for two pounds fifty pence in The Pearl—

When a priest in black soutane and white surplice

Materialized in the darkness of the porch.

He glided over to me:

‘I am about to begin a funeral Mass but I have no mourners.

Would you be prepared to act as a mourner for me?’

As we paced up the aisle, the priest enlightened me:

‘He was about the same age as yourself,

All you know about him is that his name was Paul.’

I knelt in the front pew,

The coffin on trestles alongside me,

Its flat abdomen next to my skull.

I felt as a mother must feel

All alone in the maternity ward

With her infant in the cot at the foot of the bed,

A feeling that everything is going to be all right

But that we are all aliens in the cupboard,

All coat hangers in the universe.

The priest—a seven-foot-tall, silver-haired peasant in his eighties—

Instructed me to put my bicycle in the hearse beside the coffin.

The two of us sat in front with the driver.

At a major traffic junction near the cemetery of Mount Prospect

We had to brake to avoid knocking down a small boy.

The car behind us bumped into our rear bumper,

Inducing the bicycle to bump against the coffin.

We saw a prominent politician in the back seat blessing herself.

At the graveside as the priest said prayers

I got the feeling that the coffin was empty;

That Paul, whoever he was.

Was somewhere else.

‘How do you know that his name was Paul?’

I asked the priest as we tiptoed away.

He handed me a creased sheet

Of blue vellum unlined notepaper—Belvedere Bond:

Dear Paul—Thank you for your marriage proposal

But I am engaged to be married in Rome in June.

Best wishes always, Mary

Queen of Loneliness.

 -----------------------------------------------------------------------------

A Vision of Democracy in the County of Meath

When I got up this morning, I went out

To look at the rain. I had planned

To spend the morning with my gun,

Thinking about the story of my life.

But I saw that it was raining

And I decided to go out and have a look at the rain.

What struck me about the rain was how lit up,

Illuminated and fluorescent it was,

A bright rain of democracy.

The sky was grey as sheep

And tumbling over itself on low legs

But the rain was wearing lights under its tights

And strip lighting in the stitching of its jackets.

I saw in the park in front of the house

A Singer sewing machine freshly painted black.

Its treadle was pumping up and down

When the woman who was sitting at it saw me look at her

She looked up and shaking her head a little

She smiled and shook her head a little again and stated:

‘I am just an ordinary democrat’,

And when I looked as if

I was about to reach for a quiver of words

She repeated herself without emphasis:

‘I am just an ordinary democrat—

Take me as I am or not at all.’

I began to walk across the park towards her,

Ready to hand in my gun, ready to vote,

Ready to vanish, ready to disappear,

Wanting only to be her servant in all things great and small.

I will take you as you are or not at all.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------

La Terre des Hommes

Fancy meeting you out here in the desert:

Hallo Clockface.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------

Aughawall Graveyard

Lonely lonely lonely lonely:

The story with a middle only.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------

The Difficulty that is Marriage

We disagree to disagree, we divide, we differ;

Yet each night as I lie in bed beside you

And you are faraway curled up in sleep 

I array the moonlit ceiling with a mosaic of question marks;

How was it I was so lucky to have ever met you?

I am no brave pagan proud of my mortality

Yet gladly on this changeling earth I should live for ever

If it were with you, my sleeping friend.

I have my troubles and I shall always have them

But I should rather live with you forever

Than exchange my troubles for a changeless kingdom.

But I do not put you on a pedestal or throne;

You must have your faults but I do not see them.

If it were with you, I should live for ever.

Paul Durcan

Text Testimonials

Leviathan
        or, The Whale 
by Philip Hoare


For thou didst cast me into the deep,
Into the heart of the seas, 
And the flood was round about me;
All thy waves and billows passed over me. Jonah 2:3


"I have always been afraid of deep water. Even bathtime had its terrors for me (although I was by no means a timid child)...I thought of my favourite seaside toy- a grey plastic diver which dangled in the water by a thin red tube through which you blew to make it bob to the surface, trailing little silver bubbles"


"Here, everything orientates itself towards the water- even the area in which I lived, Sholing, was a corruption of 'Shore Land'- yet at the same time the city seemed to ignore it, as if it and the element that is the reason for its existence were two entirely separate entities"


"Cities and civilizations rise and fall, but the sea is always the sea. 'We do not associate the idea of antiquity with the ocean, nor wonder how it looked a thousand years ago, as we do of the land, for it was equally wild and unfathomable always', wrote the philosopher, Henry David Thoreau. 'The ocean is a wilderness reaching around the globe, wilder than a Bengal jungle, and fuller of monsters, washing the very wharves of our cities and the gardens of our sea-side residences'... In our arrogance, we consider that we have tamed the ocean, as much as we have conquered the land."


"And I stood looking out to sea, watching transatlantic ships sail by like Fitzgerald's boats borne back ceaselessly into the past, waiting for a future that might never come, like the man who fell to earth. As consoling as the water was, it sometimes served only to make me restless in my suburban exile."


"Before I knew it, there they were, off our bows, whales blowing noisily, rolling with the waves. Barely yards away a young humpback threw itself out of the water, showing off its white underbelly, ridged like some giant, rubbery shell...I was amazed by the exuberant mastery of their own bodies, and the element in which they moved so elegantly. I envied them the fact that they were always swimming; that they were always free." 


"seen in the slow motion of recall- the after image it leaves in your head- a breaching whale seems to be trying to escape its environment, the element that, even as it breaks the surface, is pulling it back down. No one really knows why whales leap...The whales may be merely playing, like the boys who dive off Provincetown's Macmillan Wharf, placing implicit trust in their immortality as they hurl themselves from one medium to the other. Or perhaps they pity us for our enslavement to gravity, allowing us a glimpse of their true nature by rising out of the ocean to reveal their majesty."


"With a last plosive whoosh as it fills its lungs, the finback shoots out a mixture of air and salt water and a little whale phlegm, its shiny blowholes closing in an airlock as it prepares to dive, The spume hits my face like a fishy atomizer, I have been breathed upon, and it feels like a baptism."


"[Whales] are Linnaean-classified aliens following invisible magnetic fields, seeing through sound and hearing through their bodies, moving through a world we know nothing about, They are animals before the Fall, innocent of sin...But they also have bad breath and shit reddish water". 

"For the modern world, the whale is a symbol of innocence in an age of threat."


"Although D.H. Lawrence would declare that 'Jesus, the Redeemer, was Cetus, Leviathan. And all the Christians all his little fishes', to the Christian era, the whale was the very shape of the Beast of Revelation."


"Everyday I am reminded that it is part of our collective imagination: from newspaper leaders that evoke Ahab in the pursuit of the war on terror, to the ubiquitous chain of coffee shops named after the Pequod's first mate, Starbuck, where customers sip to a soundtrack generated by a great-nephew of the author, Richard melvill Hall, better known as Moby." 


"The age of whaling brough man into close contact with these animals- never closer, before or since. But it also meant something darker, more metaphysical, by virtue of the fact that men risked their lives to hunt it...On my own uncertain journey, I sought to discover why I too felt haunted by the whale, by the forlorn expression on the beluga's face, by the orca's impotent fin, by the insistent images in my head. Like Ishmael, I was drawn back to the sea; weary of what lay below, yet forever intrigued by it too. 

From Genesis, to Moby Dick, to Pilgrims and Cape Cod this is a transatlantic cross-referencing spatial piece of literature, all focusing on the wondrous creature, the whale! Even the prologue got me hooked, not only does Philip Hoare have a childhood fear of bathtubs that eventually he gets over (ok, so I know that my favourite body of ocean is my bathtub...pools and oceans still scare me) but the guy also has as a childhood toy, a grey plastic diver. So other than cow-cow, my infamous neon purple and pink stuffed cow, who first saved me from an epic nightmare of being eaten by a whale (yes he saved me by eating the whale before the whale ate me) I too shared a diver toy. It was Barbie, the deep sea explorer, battery equipped an all. I would plunge the plastic woman into my bathtub and watch her for hours kick the water and swim in circles. I am pretty confident this helped me get over my fear of bathtubs. And yes I too had that moment where one's father turns away from the tub and the next second little Isabel submerges deep into the soapy depths hidden by extreme fluffy bubbles. Terrifying. 


But the space in which whales' live, brings upon the notion of travel and space itself. Ships and voyages lightly touch upon distance. My journey to Dublin has been incredibly marked by my curiosity of space and distance. Perhaps the reoccurring dreams of whales plagues me, why do they haunt me in my sleep? Perhaps the modern world was built upon the whale...












I am pretty sure my parents are both reading this and laughing that I am even daring to share these secret childhood obsessions. Yes as a child I went a little nuts over Raffi and Michael. But in all fairness, it was all for whales!




also if you have anything you want to share, please leave a recommendation!!!!


******Check out my first published poem about whales on Wordlegs.com 

To The Temptress, Soaked

"Too long a sacrifice
Can make a stone of the heart."

"History is a nightmare from which I am trying to awake"

perhaps attracted to the Anti-Christ

I antI- Ant-i can't stop-

memorized 

by the cruel mistress, Kleio 

this film is stuck

repeating

heads tumbling

ripping of flesh

she did not

soak her body

in milk

no, it was

blood

that made her

skin of silk.

Submarine

For No One  


Ah to be alive in
mid February 
passing along bridge 
bundled, scarf wrapped 
heavy shoes, empty wallet
raindrops thick in fog 
the Spire, hidden. 


The tide high on river banks 
a drunk man screams
black cat white dog
IMMM GUNA KILL YOU 
we laugh, cross the street 
but unsettled
his echo follows 
with the stench of wet pavement.  


I will wait, creeping silently 


I will wait, creeping silently 
one day none of this 
will exist and
to those who believe 
that destiny is a drug 
just got high 
offing disillusionment.

A Very Appropriate Love Poem For Hope Savage

A Very Appropriate Love Poem For Hope Savage

Passage to Dublin 

Oh Dublin

let me open

your doors

and throw my

eyeballs on the floor

let them roll

like apples of Sodom

cut from the

lies of trees

watch them pass by

picking up filth

cause before it can know

itself, divine

it can't trust the world

and the Universe

should know

not to trust them apples

cause if its rotten,
Delicious rottenness

at the core

then the skin's

easy to peel

and there is

always a little

seed waiting

to feel

to dissolve

to sink

into the substance

and grow

shadows on fields

Dublin,
you can renege

you can deny

you can tear down
and build renewal projects so high

but you can't peel the shadows

scorned by the tree

cause the mind is our death

and we sacrificed life

craved thick in the trunk

careful where you turn

and where you run

cause either the edge

or the orient

is just Dead-Sea fruits

and your skin

sure looks ripe.

Just In Time

So the post below, it was a bit angry and I apologize (not enough to delete it).

I know that after everything I appreciate

the frustrations I have been facing and adjusting to over

the past six months. But in the end, regardless of the

hierarchical constraints, all tough experiences

just make thick skin. What the individual walks away

with is what matters. 

And today is one of those days

where a wonderful sense of relief exists.  

It has been a few years and a nice stack

of rejection letters, but today 

I am happy to share

that a poem I wrote 

"Dream Vision, Dublin"

has been published.

Check it out at

wordlegs.com

Self promoting, once again :]

To The 21st Century Elitist Teachers of Education

IQ

Theodor Adorno

"The modes of behaviour appropriate to the most advanced state of technical development are not confided to the sectors in which they are actually required. So thinking submits to the social checks on its performance not merely where they are professionally imposed, but adapts to them its whole complexion. Because thought has by now been perverted into the solving of assigned problems, even what is not assigned is processed like a problem. Thought, having lost autonomy, no longer trusts itself to comprehend reality, in freedom, for its own sake. This leaves, respectfully deluded, to the highest paid, thereby making itself measurable. It behaves, even in its own eyes, as if it had constantly to demonstrate its fitness. Even where there is no nut to crack, thinking becomes training for no matter what exercise. It sees its objects as mere hurdles, a permanent test of its own form. Considerations that wish to take responsibility for their subject-matter and therefore for themselves, arouse suspicion of being vain, windy, asocial self-gratification. Just as for neo-positivists knowledge is split into accumulated sense-experience and logical formalism, the mental activity of the type for whom unitary knowledge is made to measure, is polarized into the inventory of what he knows and the spot-check on his thinking-power: every thought becomes for him a quiz either of his knowledgeability or his aptitude. Somewhere the right answers must be already recorded. Instrumentalism, the latest version of pragmatism, has long been concerned not merely with the application of thought but the a priori condition of its form. When oppositional intellectuals endeavour, within the confines of these influences, to imagine a new content for society, they are paralysed by the form of their own consciousness, which is modelled in advance to suit the needs of this society. While thought has forgotten how to think itself, it has at the same time become its own watchdog. Thinking no longer means anything more than checking at each moment whether one can indeed think. Hence the impression of suffocation conveyed even by all apparently independent intellectual productions, theoretical no less than artistic. The socialization of mind keeps it boxed in, isolated in a glass case, as long as society is itself imprisoned. As thought earlier internalized the duties exacted from without, today it has assimilated to itself its integration into surrounded apparatus, and is thus condemned even before the economic and political verdicts on it come fully into force." 

A major focus today, concerning education, has been about the increase of tuition fees. What I fear is that this has created a blind-spot, that grows disturbingly large every time I step foot in certain classrooms and lecture halls. Yet bambi-eyed with horror, I wonder if anyone else sees this black-hole of an elephant that gallops from professor or tutorial assistants' mouths to the student, perhaps clogged, ears. To sit a full hour with a tutorial assistant, constantly questioning the books a class has read, especially books not on the course reading list, only forms an atmosphere of elitism. The student who cannot recall The Intellectuals and the Masses, is left out of discussion, and is condemned from ever speaking out when in fact the hour was suppose to be a focus of deep reading Sons and Lovers. The tutorial assistant continues, a list of "contemporaries". For pete's sake, ANYONE AND ANYTHING that has been written after a piece is a contemporary, and this enormous focus of literature in time-frames, barred from being juxtaposed with other time-frames is despicable. Can we not penetrate thought between modernism and plain old modern literature? Can thought no longer find a purpose to be "fully-circular"? 

Education is collapsing, not only because of a simple ca-ching, but because of a group of those who seem to be drawn to teach it. Titles of authority mean nothing, excuse me Lecturer, Professor, Doctor. The ability to memorize the titles of books you constantly repeat within a section, shows nothing more than your head being stuck up your ass. Let the students speak, let them shuffle the time-frames, compare ANYTHING TO ANYTHING. Now this does not mean, every professor to tutorial assistant behaves this way, and I do compassionately honor those who see a student excited with knowledge fumble his or her way to form an understanding through intelligence, inspiring those to keep at it, playing devil's advocate. But when a student feels incompetent as you shut them down with a statement to stamp your authority in the classroom, you destroy education, and this destructive behaviour should be thrown out of classrooms, not the student. Be careful what you teach, be careful how you teach, if we are going to fight for higher education, I will only fight if the education is purely taught for the masses to create intellect. 

And in honor of the "publish yourself" mentality of this blog,

This past week of shot down thoughts:

"There is a thin line between utopia and eugenics" 

"Sons and Lovers should and can be read along side the modern text of A Woman Who Walked into Doors, both illustrate an issue of silence within the home."

Okay so the utopia and eugenics thought may have been a little tug worthy of the soul strings, but thankfully a friend, who happens to be a T.A at UCSC, responded appropriately...

"Insofar as utopia remains a good place, a no place, and a blueprint, then it's homologous to eugenics, which also declares that there is an order that could come to be the case, and that the entire messy reality of how things are need to be brought into line with that order, means and consequences be damned."

This is how thought should be treated, not with a command to be silent. 

It is silence who penetrates and creates miserable humans, communicate to your students while they still exist in the classroom.

Check out Evan Calder William's blog. CLICK HERE. 


Perhaps education has already left the classroom...

She's Eating Hearts Again

My favorite artist right now has to be Amleto Dalla Costa. If I 

had any money/ a permanent home, I would commission him 

to paint murals on the walls. 

But since neither will exist in my life,

I will be content with carrying around

the single postcard my sister sent me.

A Crazed Girl

That crazed girl improvising her music,
Her poetry, dancing upon the shore,
Her soul in division from itself
Climbing, falling she knew not where,
Hiding amid the cargo of a steamship,
Her knee-cap broken, that girl I declare
A beautiful lofty thing, or a thing
Heroically lost, heroically found.

No matter what disaster occurred
She stood in desperate music wound,
Wound, wound and she made in her triumph
Where the bales and baskets lay
No common intelligible sound
But sang, 'O sea-starved, hungry sea.'

W.B Yeats

LA FEMME - la femme ressort

Don't Be Alarmed, Fish Don't Have Arms!

Along the Sun-Drenched Roadside

Along the sun-drenched roadside, from the great

hollow half-treetrunk, which for generations

has been a trough, renewing in itself

an inch or two of rain, I satisfy

my thirst: taking the water’s pristine coolness

into my whole body through my wrists.

drinking would be too powerful, too clear;

but this unhurried gesture of restraint

fills my whole consciousness with shining water.

Thus, if you came, I could be satisfied

to let my hand rest lightly, for a moment

lightly, upon your shoulder or your breast.

Rainer Maria Rilke

International Film Festival, Dublin

Basically this is a list of the films I will be volunteering and helping out for, if you have time and money come visit me at either the Savoy, Lighthouse, or Screen 1 in Dublin. If there are any certain genres or certain country based films you are curious to learn about, being shown at the festival, don't hesitate to make a comment. I will happily give you the details!

Submarine

Savoy, Thursday 17th 7:30 PM

Director: Richard Ayoade

A coming of age comedy about a 15-year old boy with two

objectives. To lose his virginity before his

next birthday, and to stop his mother

from leaving his father for her dance teacher.

(UM, Richard Ayoade, please make an appearance. I love you.)

Barbaric Genius

Light House Saturday 19 2:00 PM

Director: Paul Duane

A documentary about the story of John Healy's

rise from wino and street thief to chess master

and award-winning author and his equally rapid

descent to obscurity.

October

Light House Saturday 19, 4:00 PM

Director: Daniel Vega Vidal & Diego Vega Vidal

Clemente finds a baby, a turn of events that delights 

his neighbour, Sophia, in this sharply

humorous Peruvian Film.

Archipelago

Light House, Saturday 19 8:30 PM

Director Joanna Hogg

The Woman With the Five Elephants

Light House, Sunday 20 2:00 PM

Director: Vadim Jendreyko

A documentary about Svetlana Geier, a woman revered

as arguably the greatest translator

of Russian literature into German

Revenge (Mest)

Light House Sunday 20, 4:00 PM

Director: Ermek Shinarbaev

Set against the displacement of a million Koreans

from the Russian Far East by Stalin, Revenge, tells how, in a rage

a teacher murders a boy. Another boy is bred, for one sole purpose:

revenge.

Preludio

Screen 1 Saturday 26 2:00 PM

Director Eduardo Lucatero

The film consits of one fluid, unbroken shot lasting the entire

length of the film and is a boy-meets-girl 

story wherein he and she remain nameless.

The breathtaking account is wonderfully void of any of the cinematic 

cliches usually spotted in romantic comedies

How I Ended This Summer

Screen 1, Saturday 26 4:00 PM