Thoughts on "Catfish"

Thoughtlog began around 20 Minutes into the film, and notes were made continuously every couple/few scenes.

It's difficult to watch a film knowing that there is a twist, let alone having some conception of what that twist is, and then furthermore watching a film about facebook which is always about simulacrum anyway. This is further made difficult beacuse my modus operandi is to use facebook to maintain relationships made in the real world and not develop relationships like this because ya know--what apparently happens in this film.

Meanwhile, still, while watching this I want to play some games with the psyche of this story, which is to say both psyche as we mean it now, mind, and the older charging for it: spirit.

Interestingly enough, in the family of interest, there are three women, which can transcribe as the maiden, mother, and crone of myth and two men, which might encode as the "upper" and "lower" horns of the demon, the father being the horns on the head of the demon and the son being the lower horns, creature of the earth and the main challenger of hero Nev earlier in the film.

The whole system is clearly a little fracked, but it would seem that these people are a litle, shall we say, disturbed and, therefore, why shouldn't the be sucked into a world that one would presume expresses their psyche which is contained within a world already filled the possibility of doubt.

On the other hand, this is a a brilliant piece for people who have yet to discover what subjectivity is, which does not mean that it does not have its own value but that it might not be the most valuable thing in the project called subjectivity--wait their adress is 421? Also, good job trying to hide their locaiton on google maps when you displayed the road as you zoomed out and the adress number when you came to the house.

Like most films of a radical bent this film suggests, most of all, that you don't listen to your producers.

Also, clearly only us Jews could get ourselves this far into a fucked up adventure, but still carry along wondering what next magical thing will happen. Sometimes a satirical culture can be dangerous.

Also--and again: clearly, this is an adventure that keeps our heroes constantly challenged so they can't always be sure that they want to go through with the adventure and know what is real, the fundaments of any real adventure being the constant tension of--"should I stay or should I go?"

The beach front scene seems prime evidence for the film being a fabrication, judging at least by the quality of the shot against what they are actually doing, but we can only "trust" the filmmakers, right?

"Most people wouldn't go back," but they aren't most people!

Interestingly, this story could evolve into an introduction about deterritorialization, but it instead seems to have gone into the matrix suggesting that the entire network is fabricated.

Furthermore, where's the rest of the dinner party? That scene was fucking short! At this point, I can't really believe anything that the directors did, and, frankly, I believe that this film has more to do with trusting a director and the film project then it does actual people. That is probably the real point of this story, that, going up the ranks, can you trust an artist in the real world?

Based on the ends of the journey, the suggestion then is that the human imagination is apparently fairly extensive.

Wait a minute, lots of stuff about the twins, but where's something about Vince? ('Oh, wait, he pops in the end and ties everything up with a neat bow of common folk wisdom and faith and prayer.
Fucking yay.)

The film might also suggest that the artist is to not just document the real in the art and then create the real with art, because then are losing a grip on reality.

Now, if there is anything to learn from this film, it is that the word "friend" means a lot, and it is a bit irrational to say that you have 732 friends. But, then, again Facebook has never been something that had a GUI or a structure for subtlety in its description of things. Now, of course you can say whatever you want about most things, or at least there is some sapce somewhere that you can do as much--if not, you can create that space, and hopefully it isn't something that a moderator would snatch away, and, obviously--as the site has grown, pernicious behavior by those who run the site has decreased.

Still, there's no reason to feel bad for anyone here. They were all quite conscious of what could be unfolding for them, but, somehow, they "rationalized" things. If anything, this is more proof for my argument that the use of logic is not always logical, or not always pure--at least in its grounding. Or maybe people need more experiences of ego-death and humbling in their lives, a little more zen buddhism, though bon-po would be a good idea if they can get a grasp of that.

Fugitive Foretellings

Author's Notes are in the Comments Section

*

Their multifoliate eyes spoke for them; their vision was clear as ever the piercing of truth molested a mind. They do not visit us, but rather wait for the shriven material of their semants to fall upon ourselves, our suffering fixed in consequence.

Ah, rememberances of time yet to be unfelt--ground has been broken, let us plant the ululating lotuses...

The killers will be transubstantiated into mites when the stars are right, but tonight I've found a drop of wine from the screams of another of a far off land, brought to me at the speed of light straight to my ear. Electrical stimulus sings through those cries, barks of words I've heard but also ones that were known but never in such malformed and honest measure.

And then I heard the words that drove many others to recoil from the limits of sentience: Ph'nglui mglw'nafh Cthulhu R'lyeh wgah'nagl fhtagn.

My grips on a language heard through whips of dust--hardly enough to really offer me any rights to ensight, but this phonetic suggestion made by my forgetting tongue never fails to recall it's image in my dreams.

It's the odd man outsider who looks to translate escaped torture records, but the even more esoterrorist transforms a voice's screams without seeing the body that contorted to make such a sound.

For hours my speakers recanted, complacent in what I had apparently asked for a moment ago, and I learned not to flinch. I tried to look for those who would knew my sentiment, but snickering cihldren and gibbering old men were the only ones to answer my call in the day, and I can not say what visited me at night.

---

A few days came and went, thought they were all spent in search of an iota of what ought one not to find. But there are things in this world that hunger, composite and different, and they have a way of ensnaring their prey. So I went to the market to search the tellers and see what was souled there.

You cannot ask me who explained this sacred mystery, for it is not of my way to speak of hauntology, only wantology. And the mystic called me wanting. And I was sated. Suggestions of divine images where affirmed by tales of a long-ago yet to be, so far so that our light will reach as quickly as the death of X-1, which is to say that nobody will notice, and nobody will care. But the screams will still eminate.

"Space is a harsh mistress, my son. I have walked the temporal plains, wrought of the fibers of lost souls and black holes. The entirety was quite unnecessary, their single adventure came when they screamed their perfect name, their perfect being, and made the rest of days so much etymology for all."

The elder raised a cup of tea to me, and I partook of this mystery. I felt unnerved, and I was told that there are reasons for having carpets for sale in any store, but especailly one so fond of old curios. For--in legion, they offer the comfort of a place to rest your weary head, and a comforter to boot, or cleat, as it took me.

I asked who this may be, and wept, myself, to sleep.

---

I know why the other screamed. I see it now, in their eyes, they are like the Other Ones, but lost to their impiousness and thus know only to serve but they can never concieve of how awful their master has become. Their titans crash and bang on tin instruments, with ears even worse for the wear but not willing to sacrifice some of their toys to see how they are played with.

But, still, it writhes in them, as they set me about to dance in this cell of conrete, far from the bazaar. That chaosmos luridly watches me and wriggles with the fascination that I know that it is there, that I can taste it tasting my pain, that my being is conscious in total. The seed of the ugliness that has generated their life has found its end, but it is not The End. An anthropomorphic assertion is a lonely one, and it fails to take into acount a more major literature of the tail of time.

The titans will cower in fear for these things have new names, and with that a new texture to time that will obfuscate the path of the old ways. There shall no longer be a circle of mania or shit, of tragedy and farce, but a single one road leading back to the heart of blood. Soon, we will know that which calls us imagination, and we will cower at the thought of being objects for the play of the transcendent ones, who lie beyond the wall of our sleep, and wonder if it was so bad to be subjects after all.