It Is Already Late And I Wonít Be Here Tomorrow
There is such poetry in what the eye can gather in this languid home-made movie. (Thirty-one views for those who are counting. I make up three of the thirty-one to date.)
Thereís a caveat: I donít have a good grasp on what the narrator is saying. I assume it's Portuguese. I gather the English title speaks volumes. The language and the tone of voice are sublime. But still, I donít know what shape, form, or context the narration is couched in. At least not for certain. It could be about something wildly different from what Iím conjuring ó though Iím not conjuring anything too specific. Iím simply absorbing the visuals and the sounds and the tone of the piece. And another caveat: it can only be absorbed by allowing yourself to slow down to the pace of the video's eye.
It evokes a part off my past. I once spent a winter in Ibiza, way before the glitz blitzed it. Me and a Dutchman traveler I met on a train diverted our original plans and went there instead, renting a dirt floor adobe dwelling and cooking in a hearth. We lived on chickpeas. We bought beat-up bikes and spent our days pedaling up and down the sunny roads that led to tiny villages. We drank Herbas in the evenings. This video looks, at times, like the Ibiza I remember. The bare beauty of it hiding half in and half out of sight.
Some highlights not to be missed:
The magical murmuration: disappearance and formation of birds on a filament-like strand of wire at 2:26
- The gorgeousness at 9:18
- The rooster crowing and dog barking like music
- The appearance of the sun and a figment on the screen at 10:26
- The clarinet at the end.
- The credits at the end do provide some clues, but Iíve not yet followed them.
P.S. I left a short comment on youtube and he wrote back to me. Iíll follow up with him.