Jon Rafman, LEGENDARY REALITY (2017)
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- Опубликовано: 7 сен 2024
- LEGENDARY REALITY (2017) by Jon Rafman
0:07
One day I’m sitting at Ben’s Deli when his voice comes over the loudspeakers,
sewing together everything that I observe. Whatever the music touches gets
embedded in an immense tapestry. And he is in it--a figure framed by the city.
0:49
Late at night, when I look out at the buildings, I see a face in every window looking
back at me. When I turn away, I wonder how many go back to their desks and write
this down.
1:27
I have not seen him in years now, but his words are in my blood and veins. They rise
up in me and fuse together the horizontal and the vertical.
2:05
A warm feeling washes over me. I can make out the blurry outline of my glass
chamber. Am I waking up, or going to sleep?
2:32
My memories break like a mirror into a thousand fragments. The line between
inside and outside melts away. Images begin to seep in.
3:00
I hear his voice now, calling out to me from the tower down the track. It summons
me down the passageway, which I did not take… towards the portal, I never entered.
4:05
Let me renew myself in the midst of all the things in the world, which cannot be
connected.
4:43
I open my eyes. I am alone in Murray Hill Park, staring at the city below.
5:03
I’m hungry for food, for love, for flesh.
5:18
There is a note nailed to a tree. It reads: “The flowers that I left in the ground, that I
did not gather for you - today I bring them all back, to let them grow forever. Not in
poems or marble, but where they fell and rotted.”
6:21
A wave of memories hits me. I’m standing by the window of my childhood
apartment, on Peel and Sherbrooke. Wait, no, I’m in front of the Orange Julip, in my
first car, my high school sweetheart beside me. And for a moment, I almost forget
that I’m in this pod, bandaged by silence.
7:04
My sense of self is not strong enough to register my self’s erosion. There is no
sustaining belief, no heroic struggle, just a hard, bitter silence.
8:11
This is the only poem I can read. I am the only one who can write it. I didn’t kill
myself when things went wrong. I didn’t turn to drugs or teaching. I tried to sleep.
But when I couldn’t sleep, I learned to write. I learned to write what might be read
on nights like this by one like me.
8:54
We all want the past to be vindicated, and so we evoke figures of the past. A desire
in me instantly awakes for something eternally hinted at but never achieved, the
echoes of a past existence. I know who I have to seek out.
10:22
A solitary figure appears on the edge of my vision. A figure among the ruins who
couldn’t be mistaken for anyone else. Did I have the right to come after him, with my
dusty mind? I approach him slowly, with the pain of a thousand-year-old statue
breaking into life. He welcomes me without surprise, as if he had been waiting for
me. We walk along the coastline. He leads me into a dark cave, and we descend,
through cliffs of glowing green water.
11:44
The ground begins to tremble. The landscape feels like it’s about to blow apart.
12:06
He tells me that this is the realm of the crack, the realm of failure, the realm of death,
and unless you affirm failure and death, you are going to be unhappy.
12:28
He says that redemption, repentance, resurrection used to be our spiritual tools, but
these pathways have been forgotten, ruined, or abandoned. Instead, each attempt at
writing is a new beginning, a raid on the inarticulate. There is only the war to
recover what has been lost and found and lost again, under conditions that seem
more and more unfavorable.
13:10
You must destroy the versions of yourself that provide too easy a solution, murder
the selves that whisper untruths. He tells me all this between the dripping walls of a
catacomb, while we watch out for the black puddles underfoot. Who knows how
deep they go. We shake hands solemnly and exchange umbrellas and then we
tighten each other’s ties. He kisses me on the cheek in the manner of a French
general awarding medals and we part ways.
14:22
I have not been unhappy in ten thousand years. During the day, I laugh, and during
the night, I sleep. My favourite cooks prepare my meals, my body cleans and repairs
itself, and all my work goes well.
14:57
As I grow older the world becomes stranger, the patterns more complicated.
Something inside me has changed. The wind isn’t howling outside anymore, it’s
howling within me.
jonrafman.com
I finally found this video! It was my favorite piece from the Leonard Cohen exhibition in Montreal. I visited it four times!
you are a genius, thank you Jon
One day I'm sitting at Ben's Deli, when his voice comes over the loudspeakers, sewing together everything that I observe
Whatever the music touches gets embedded in an immense tapestry, and he is in it; a figure framed by the city
Late at night, when I look out at the buildings, I see a face in every window looking back at me
When I turn away, I wonder how many go back to their desks and write this down
I have not seen him in years now, but his words are in my blood and veins
They rise up in me, and fuse together the horizontal and the vertical
A warm feeling washes over me
I can make out the blurry outline of my glass chamber
Am I waking up or going to sleep?
My memories break like a mirror into a thousand fragments
The line between inside and outside melts away
Images begin to seep in
I hear his voice now calling out to me from the tower down the track
It summons me down the passageway which I did not take, towards the portal I never entered
Let me renew myself in the midst of all the things in the world which cannot be connecctteeddd
I open my eyes
I'm alone in Murray Hill Park
Staring at the city below
I'm hungry for food, for love, for flesh
There's a note nailed to a tree, it reads:
The flowers that I left in the ground
That I did not gather for you
Today I bring them all back
To let them grow forever
Not in poems or marble
But where they fell, and rotted
A wave of memories hits me
I'm standing by the window of my childhood apartment, on Gil and Sherbrooke
Wait, no - I'm in front of the Orange Julip, in my first car, my highschool sweetheart beside me
And for a moment, I almost forget that I'm in this pod, bandaged by silence
My sense of self is not strong enough to register my self's erosion
There is no sustaining belief, no heroic struggle, just a hard bitter silence
This is the only poem I can read
I am the only one who can write it
I didn't kill myself when things went wrong, I didn't turn to drugs or teaching, I tried to sleep
But when I couldn't sleep, I learned to write
I learned to write what might be read, on nights like this, by one like me
We all want the past to be vinicated, and so we evoke figures of the past
A desire in me instantly awakes for something internally hinted at, but never achieved; the echoes of a past existence
I know who I have to seek out
A solitary figure appears on the edge of my vision
A figure among the ruins who couldn't be mistaken for anyone else
Did I have the right to come after him, with my dusty mind?
I approach him slowly, with the pain of a thousand-year old statue, breaking into life
He welcomes me without surprise, as if he had been waiting for me
We walk along the coastline
He leads me into a dark cave
And we descend, through cliffs of glowing green water
The ground begins to tremble, the landscape feels like it's about to blow apart
He tells me that this the realm of the crack, the realm of failure, the realm of death, and unless you affirm failure and death, you are going to be unhappy
He says that redemption, repentance, resurrection, used to be our spiritual tools, but these pathways have been forgotten, ruined, or abandoned
Instead, each attempt at writing is a new beginning: a raid on the inarticulate
There's only the war to recover what has been lost, and found, and lost again, under conditions that seem more and more unfavourable
You must destroy the versions of yourself that provide too easy a solution, murder the selves that whisper untruths
He tells me all this between the dripping walls of the catacomb, while we watch out for the black puddles underfoot
Who knows how deep they go
We shake hands solemnly and exchange umbrellas, and then we tighten each other's ties
He kisses me on the cheek in the manner of a French general awarding medals, and then we part ways
I have not been unhappy for ten thousand years
During the day I laugh, and during the night, I sleep
My favourite cooks prepare my meals
My body cleans and repairs itself, and all my work goes well
As I grow older, the world becomes stranger, the patterns more complicated
Something inside me has changed, the wind isn't howling outside anymore: it's howling within me
Max Prokopenko lifesafer!! cause I gotta write about him for my arts grade and i chose this piece 🙏🏽
so beautiful.. like bladerunner on heaps of acid
Saw this in MTL fell in love with the atmosphere, beautiful
It's great to have you back
"I didn't turn to drugs or teaching"... Gold! hahah
I noticed two definite references to T.S. Eliot's "Four Quartets" when I saw this yesterday at the Leonard Cohen exhibition. "A raid on the inarticulate" and "down the passageway which I did not take, towards the portal I never entered" ("down the passage which we did not take / towards the door we never opened / into the rose garden.") Beautiful poem, beautiful film.
Its baaack! Thanks jon
thank you so much for this. you are pushing things in a great direction.
very beautiful
Great Instructional Video As Always!
Lol
Love the Dear Esther landscape, I shot it for a video I made it earlier this year too!
MDE Never Dies
million dollar extreme?
You is like coming in my Soul 💋
💙
"LEGENDARY REALITY" alright!!!
i imagine this is what the metaverse sounds like
When they said (they said) repent (repent), repent (repent)
I wonder what they meant
Sorry but I gotta say it... r.i.p. LIl Peep
I love your mind, I wonder are you an INTP?
What is that
@@sauce1302 another projected identity, nevermind
One depressed narrator
fuqqqqqqqqqqqqqqqqq