Satantango

I can only write what I felt. To describe an otherworldly experience, to formulate a religious experience, to reify a spiritual experience, and to structuralise an ethereal experience is an inherently disingenuous activity to partake in. Béla Tarr's magnum opus 'Satantango' is a bewitching piece of art. It's seven hours long but it's a ridiculously short amount of time given how lasting its impact will inadvertently have on me. I am only a man, bound by my geography and the laws of the universe, my experiences and habits are born out of a life I've lived. My thoughts are governed by god knows what. We will all die in the end but while we're alive we will continue to experience depravity and divinity, oscillating by the stroke of God. I cannot explain my thoughts, my experience, my life, let alone someone else's. It's astounding what people like László Krasznahorkai and Béla Tarr can do, given they've had the same amount of time in a day, bound by the same laws of the world. Moments in time can be frozen forever by the tools of art. Storytelling can preserve only so much. It's a miracle we can see and hear what other people are cooking in their minds. Minds are a perplexing phenomenon. Souls even more so. The passage of time dissolves space. Rot is the way of the world. Man seeks redemption and revelation in a solipsistic manner. What comes is accepted. What doesn't doesn't. There's hope, grandeur, myopia, utopia, dystopia, tyranny, hedonism, heartbreak, horror, heartache, music, degeneracy, descension, accension, rejection, acceptance, vice, virtue, truth, and reality. The absence of evidence is not the evidence of absence. The truth shall liberate the soul. Amen! "Drawn out by the tender sound of the accordion, the spiders in the pub launched their last attack. They sewed loose webs on top of the glasses, the cups, the ashtrays, around the legs of the tables and the chairs. Then they bound them together with secret threads so that in their hidden corners they'd notice every little move and every little stir until this almost invisible web would not be damaged. They sewed a web on the sleeper's faces, their feet, their hands. Then hurried back to their hiding places, waiting for an ethereal thread to move, to start it all again."