film ideas spilling

A shadow, drowning in a city of sunlight. Walking out in the street, amongst all the people, falling away. Maybe just a footprint of where it was last standing.

a short trip to hell, briefcase, masked figures surrounding you, standing in a line, hell masked in a city, like waiting in line to enter a building or something, men in coats and hats

sinking in the water, a shoe slipping off revealing a bare foot…maybe that of a child, or no, a sandal slipping

white sheets flowing composited to make water

the life of a star, living isolated in the sky looking down at the grains of sand that are the people wishing upon it below, receiving the wishes…cataloging them. → like commercial in a big circle lit from behind

calling out to each other, echoing, across great distances, across the mountains…Ikue Asazaki

I had a dream once. The sky was grey and milky. Vaporous clouds sifted through the different levels of atmosphere like oil. A man had drunk up the earth as if by a straw, and all that remained of the ocean was a soft smell of salt and a large extended puddle. By that time the fish had already sprouted wings. Flittering and flopping through they air, they look like drunk and awkward dragonflies with a weight too heavy for tenuous wings. Goggle eyed they stare up and down at me as I float by. Up on the streets people ride the trolleys. Fastened to electric cable’s they propel on one-way tracks. They dart like beetles, full of city men. The clanging of their bells has left a permanent melody in my head. One travels by air balloon to the docks below. The construction men work down there. The smash of their hammers and the slice of their drill is my lullaby at night. Their working never ceases. It’s cause of the state-wide policy: to build a bridge across to the Eastern lands. Each day they drill down into the mud and establish a foundation. From there they lay down plank upon plank stretching outward. What would the Chinese say do you think? If you walked right up to their doorstep from the sea? The dock must be miles long now. It’s the edge of the earth. Many of the men walk down those planks and don’t come back. It’s just too far! To travel back and forth like that. Sure, they have a special trolley that moves along the bridge. It can get them back home in a couple of days. But out there, they say they work straight under the horizon. That out there, the clouds move in quiet herds. The sun catches their edges, and penetrates their curves. It moistens the throat of a mass that begins to breath. Breaking through in golds and blue the sky salivates and swells, fills with God, and reveals the kept horizon. At the beginning it was like a stubby root, a tongue sticking itself out. The dock reaches like a long finger now, pointing to something I cannot see. When infinity is but a long walk out to sea, I wonder why it is that I’m still sitting here.