Un beau soleil intérieur (Let the Sunshine In)

A match.

Endurance.

Compatibility.

R & D.

Pastoral paradigms emanating golden harmonies rhetorically reverberating through multilateral millennia, joyfully narrativized like historical ambrosia, atemporally animated to mellifluously sing, unconditionally composed spry apian honeysuckle, youthfully absorbed then maturely articulated, with different methodologies, flexibly inscribed.

Passing years blending experiential summations curiously moving forward with impassioned conviction, truthful conception still tantalizingly motivates without ever asking why?

Enchantments, disappointments, routines, bewilderments, a scintillating literary array miscellaneously nuancing biodiverse auto/biography, sifting through the acquired knowledge like basking in metropolitan obscurity, multiplicities aligning quotients with commensurate psychological constituencies, strategic planning wondrously liaising with lampooned spontaneity, crème brûlée, a quiche, a grilled cheese, a bumptious timbit in Milan, a marigold scone brashly drenched in herbal tease.

Tisane.

Itinerant ecstasies dependable denominators express escapades mundane nebulae, a resonant echo still conceiving la clé labyrinthique, the maze itself intuitively reliable, as long as theoretical conclusions remain determinately uncertain.

Ephemeral clarifications auriferously constructing poetic periodicals classically mystifying formal assumption, jazzy rhythms alternating beats with inspired endemic hypothesis, comical complements relieving inquisitive bouts of suspicious vertigo, extraterrestrial revelations, steeping thematic controversy.

Doubts, delusions, denials.

Elasticity.

Sitting back later on, settled and sequestered, conceptually caressing canvases, a story takes shape.

Notwithstanding unclassified frontiers, the tumults and triumphs and testaments and temptations serendipitously characterize life alight anew.

Outcomes conspicuously serializing no less, theatrics exemplifying latent desires quotidian.

And while observing sundry orchestrations mischievizing relational aesthetics, communal romance applauds in tune.

Without ever coldly abandoning.

Free longings for something true.

Immaterial.

Blessed.

Starchy.

Teddy Bear

A tough, trusting, reserved, youthful 38 year-old bodybuilder, unfamiliar with the feminine sex and generally unable to generate first contact, spontaneously departs to an undiscovered country, having no desire to insurrect a moral nemesis, or the wrath of dawn, where, too upright to cross the final frontier, he sticks to his game plan, hits the gym, and serendipitously discovers that for which he has been searching.

In Teddy Bear, the motion picture.

The film's a calm, patient, joyful, timorous study of a caring athlete, dedicated to his calling, possessing practically no knowledge of worldly affairs, coyly proceeding from one day to the next.

If you've no interest in celebrating a strong contemplative investigation of ageless dreams or oedipal blunders, you may find that Teddy Bear lacks the flexibility continuously recycled in many a phantasmagorical flick.

But if you desire to humbly enjoy a robust quotidien reflection which elevates the passive struggles of an underexplored muscular happenstance, or any of the other things I've already mentioned, it just might work out, with multiple rep potential, without making much of a stretch.

The Fountain

At some point, the tortoise catches up. Slowly plodding away, taking his or her time. It’s a matter of effort, avoiding the rumours, and sticking to your choice, elobo solo, the lone wolves. Or tortoises, in this instance. Then again, in this crazy age of genetic experimentation, we can have tortoise wolves, or wolf tortoises, or wolf-tortoise-hares.

Darren Aronofsky's The Fountain relives ye olde Tortoise and the Hare myth romantically and stylistically. Its point is the search for enlightenment, emphasizing patience. Patience throughout the centuries, assuming you believe in reincarnation. Within there are three vignettes interwoven with one another ala Star Trek: All Good Things . . . and Hellbound: Hellraiser IV. Within each, Hugh Jackman seeks Rachel Weiz's heart only to be consistently thwarted by some kind of natural or technological barrier.

Which is a comment on completeness, on the desire for completion. Completion was great before we recognized the I, the “I want this,” the “I need that,” and so forth. Lacking in completion is the problem, being unable to embrace the lack, the symptom, being unable to placate the symptom, the disease, being unable to recognize the disease, the dementia. There’s no dementia to be found within Thomas, for he approaches the confines of reality confidently, seeking a solution to his personal dilemmas, recognizing life’s struggles and pursuits as allies, confidants, compatriots, and friends.

Elated bliss, purity of love, of knowledge within and without a culture. In The Fountain first vignette, Thomas discovers the path to enlightenment through the sword, through raw unraveled determination, in the interests of love. But as it unravels, it consumes him, the maddening price of being confronted with absolute knowledge with no means of being able to understand it. A television in ancient Greece. Hence, the woods subsume his body and he becomes one with nature. In the final vignette, after having been reborn time and time again, he discovers the cure for his spiritual ailment, the culmination of his pursuits, a moment of divinity, of temporal transcendency. Consequently, his reality’s implode like those of the Phoenix or Quetzalcoatl, the tortoise having reached the end of the race, and won, the ethical divinely embracing the political. For a beautiful moment, an instance of knowledge, Apollonian reason and Dionysian hearts.

Thinking and beating together.