Month: April 2021

bookmark_borderSome Brief Thoughts on Art, Censorship, and the Responsibility and the Ethics of Creating

Posted on by S. R. Shilling

Fri. 30 April 2021 – Bed

Sometimes, more often than not actually, conversations are the best mediums for thought. Tonight, a friend of mine messaged me asking if I had seen the film La montaña sagrada (The Holy Mountain), Alejandro Jodorowsky‘s visually stunning (and arresting) surrealist fantasy which offers a critical look at mankind throughout the heavily symbol-laden epic.

As their phone was malfunctioning, most of their comments were shared via audio recordings, most of which I did not think to save or transcribe. My apologies. However, I would like to share my responses, as half of the discussion, for some thoughts on art, censorship, and the responsibility and ethics of creating.

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bookmark_borderThurs. 22 April 2021; 03:14 – Bed

Posted on by S. R. Shilling

Earlier tonight I began reading Hisham Matar’s novel, In the Country of Men. In it, the narrator’s mother speaks of grief, a topic I have been reading about, experiencing, and thinking of quite a bit lately.

“Grief loves the hollow; all it wants is to hear its own echo.”

Spoken by the character Najwa in Hisham Matar’s In the Country of Men

A thought occurred to me the other day. I had heard (or possibly read) the phrase “it’s what you do that matters” which is similar to the phrase “actions speak louder than words.” I thought about this for some time, and I began to wonder what if saying something took as much effort as doing something. What would the world look like if it took as much effort to speak as it did to perform an activity?

Continue reading “Thurs. 22 April 2021; 03:14 – Bed”

bookmark_borderPoem: A Melancholic Watercolor

Posted on by S. R. Shilling

A Melancholic Watercolor

The trouble with losing someone 
who opened your eyes
to a new way of looking at things,
a wonderful new vision,
is that after they're gone
your own eyes remind you of them,
seeing what isn't there.
And so everything is shaded,
slightly greyed,
and life becomes, for a time,
like a melancholic watercolor.
It's a beautiful gift...
a terribly beautiful gift.