Terence Malick's The New World - Beyond badlands, beyond the thin red days of heaven...
...lies my thoughts, still raw and completely random.
This may come off as an unconventional piece. It may not be a review for your reading at ease. But I did not set out to make your life difficult, for the below words came from a very dumbstruck film nerd. Hence requesting hereby, for your very kind indulgence, to hopefully empathise with the epiphany of my experience.
Mother, hear me.
Why do we seek to connect with one another? What are the secrets linking people from nature? Is there a common ground between the living and the dead? Shall I live by choice or resign to fate? Why do we enter our lovers or let them writhe within us? Why does my hair stand when I am kissed by strangers?
What is art? Can it tell truths most ecstatic, or lift us up higher? Is it the key to unlock our hidden desires? In what size, shape or colour is its physical being? Can I sense it or is it just a feeling? Entering a darkened room, clueless at what is to transpire. Will art appear before me? Sitting next to someone, basking in their gasps of wonder, is art's spectre haunting me? There are lulls, in the day, late at night, before thunder rolls, after lightning strikes. Is art whispering to me during those briefest of moments? Is it urging me to feel, to love, or just to enjoy the silence?
Is art about all consuming passion? Does it bring about calm and pure redemption? Or must I obsessively rhyme with every single sentence? Does time or its passage, afford me comprehension? Why am I entranced by birds in flight? Why do I marvel at shadows and light? Why do I well up when mourners grief? Why do I sigh for that last falling leave? Explain my joys when I hear loud laughter. Assure me she's happy as her smiles grow fainter. Witness my wonder touching the palms of toddlers. Share in my rapture when tiny hands grab big fingers. Indeed, unknown are the depths of the simplest of pleasures.
I can't figure it out, and I know not if I should. But still I ask the heavens, what the hell are life's roots? Is this mortal coil a grand illusion? Is it beset with obstacles and blinded by delusions? What is the fuel for our very existence? Is life a journey, to learn and to experience? Will I be free if I believe myself to be? Will I be strong, when my time comes for me?
I don't know where I am, what I have become and who I can be? But I know. This is not the end. So help me. Open my heart wide, and expand my mind further. Allow me the time to get them all together. Be my patient guide and impart me your wisdom. Aid me in my journey through my innermost sanctum. So thank you and goodnite, dear beloved mother. Embrace I shall, my before, my now and my sweet hereafter....
(Special note to readers: Hope my indulgence have not dampened your day. Let not your ships sail so quickly away. Ignore me if you want, for my uncooked pigs' swill. But please find some time for Malick's The New World.)
This may come off as an unconventional piece. It may not be a review for your reading at ease. But I did not set out to make your life difficult, for the below words came from a very dumbstruck film nerd. Hence requesting hereby, for your very kind indulgence, to hopefully empathise with the epiphany of my experience.
Mother, hear me.
Why do we seek to connect with one another? What are the secrets linking people from nature? Is there a common ground between the living and the dead? Shall I live by choice or resign to fate? Why do we enter our lovers or let them writhe within us? Why does my hair stand when I am kissed by strangers?
What is art? Can it tell truths most ecstatic, or lift us up higher? Is it the key to unlock our hidden desires? In what size, shape or colour is its physical being? Can I sense it or is it just a feeling? Entering a darkened room, clueless at what is to transpire. Will art appear before me? Sitting next to someone, basking in their gasps of wonder, is art's spectre haunting me? There are lulls, in the day, late at night, before thunder rolls, after lightning strikes. Is art whispering to me during those briefest of moments? Is it urging me to feel, to love, or just to enjoy the silence?
Is art about all consuming passion? Does it bring about calm and pure redemption? Or must I obsessively rhyme with every single sentence? Does time or its passage, afford me comprehension? Why am I entranced by birds in flight? Why do I marvel at shadows and light? Why do I well up when mourners grief? Why do I sigh for that last falling leave? Explain my joys when I hear loud laughter. Assure me she's happy as her smiles grow fainter. Witness my wonder touching the palms of toddlers. Share in my rapture when tiny hands grab big fingers. Indeed, unknown are the depths of the simplest of pleasures.
I can't figure it out, and I know not if I should. But still I ask the heavens, what the hell are life's roots? Is this mortal coil a grand illusion? Is it beset with obstacles and blinded by delusions? What is the fuel for our very existence? Is life a journey, to learn and to experience? Will I be free if I believe myself to be? Will I be strong, when my time comes for me?
I don't know where I am, what I have become and who I can be? But I know. This is not the end. So help me. Open my heart wide, and expand my mind further. Allow me the time to get them all together. Be my patient guide and impart me your wisdom. Aid me in my journey through my innermost sanctum. So thank you and goodnite, dear beloved mother. Embrace I shall, my before, my now and my sweet hereafter....
(Special note to readers: Hope my indulgence have not dampened your day. Let not your ships sail so quickly away. Ignore me if you want, for my uncooked pigs' swill. But please find some time for Malick's The New World.)
posted by Jeffrey Koh at 12:25 PM
2 Comments:
Thin red line was better.
The New World is better.
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