Dear friend of the cinema...

    

    

    

                              a noticeably thick ooze of bright colours has gathered all around the memory of last night’s cinema, and it’s all too fresh to be digested as a proper memory and too far gone for the trace it surely planted in my body to still be kicking. it leaves me imbalanced in a micro cosmos of well known emotions with its fragile strings pulling their default direction. I am positive there is a headache involved behind the throbbing tinnitus in my left ear, but it’s fairly subdued by the overweening pitch that is so piercing I can almost hear it fade nano by nano. the cinema barroom is not wrecked completely, all the interior has actually been respectfully kept intact, in its right place, and I take a quick flipsy through all the objects like I have done so many opening afternoons before and it’s all kept 1:1. but there is a comprehensive amount of additional stuff gathering around the space, on top and in front of our originals. consummate debris of the kind that has surely been forgotten in the late of the night, littering around like plaster in the pacific vortex it is disrespectfully activating. dear friend of the house, this is with extreme urgency and I would not force you all to take the time necessary to read and comprehend the following descriptions, if I didn’t think it was utterly and absolutely needed to get this stuff off my floors and bring everything back to its zero. I should try to be as clear as my mind allows me to be, but it is certain that the agitation and emotional corruption I feel towards these obscure items will not make for a sober retelling. forgive me for this, but these things, I repeat, they must leave the cinema as soon as absolutely possible and that is the sole purpose of my writing you. 

                              I have no recognition of selling these particular 3 or 4 hawaiian shirts but a purchase must have happened because they have returned now only in a quite significant transformation. the fronts are kept clean and neat but you see on their backs a vandalising plotter has embroidered a thick and capital set of letters on each of them. it is fairly well made, I must admit, very well made but it’s however extremely difficult for me to admire such skilled craft when it is at the expense of traditional hawaiian shirts, all unique, originally imported to the cinema to introduce a subtle beat trait in this establishment and certainly not for reasons of re-branding into some sort of personal advertising like they have now been. it’s quite a molestation. the shirts are hanging here next to the rest of our collection, backs out, print visible, and below them a looming light box sign leans against the wall. it is fairly gigantic in size, I would say, plugged in still and exhaling a warm rouge lumen through the red foiled plexi plates where some white, bumby chinese letters desperately try to make an oval flower form. an intelligible name spells lotus house and it is king size. I am not able to decode the chinese characters. but the sexual overtones in the red hue blends surprisingly well with the colour we have on the walls behind it, an arousing cohesion seems to occur, one that immediately gets me on my toes. either way a romantic delusion. but despite the sign being so impossibly huge, its chromatic vibe is perfectly united with all other ephemera here, if only it could diligently explain itself to me and reveal its purpose, I would be less suspiciously governmental. 

                               I spotted another accumulation there on the round mahogany table. it’s quite a substantial stack of dvd’s that seem to be mostly asian yakuza glory fiction and romancing dead pan surf flicks, a tall stack of some adventurous tv show on alfresco surviving, there are plenty of the same films. inspecting more thoroughly they appear cheap in character, severely cheap in fact, the covers all look like having spent a thousand hours in an ancient solarium before being photocopied plurally. in fact there is an alarming buzz of copyright transgression in these pillars of self-creation, they are all obviously illegal and more than manifold. I take the the one I’ve held in my hand and give it a rapid swiping all around with the front of the silk vest I’m wearing and drop it back down onto the table. a smaller pile of squared, ultra thin and transparent media containers lie next to the infringements here and the covers on these bear resemblance to the mandarin characters on the glowing sign, they communicate through the same far crying extreme distance, I feel. it surely must be cd’s of oriental music and their nature is just as fishy as their visual counterparts however delicate and attractive they drag me towards them, towards their immense volume and ever fading photocopied facades. but it’s risky, riskier than juggling with mad cobra snakes to have them here in the legitimate cinema. they have to be removed and dealt with accordingly. it is evidence I cannot accommodate much longer, please.

                               a bildungsroman turned cinema in the glimpseable flash of one evening, luckily I was there to oil the progression of things. it felt mostly like a harmless purgatory of fun maturing, the standard vertebrae quivers I sensed while professionally showing no sign of pleasure, no shivers. the mise-en-scene was decorating each individual internally, as if everyone mistook the cinema seats for the stairs of life and climbed around deliciously without the petty conduct of civilised selves. the music commenced late on with the female triplets gracefully hammering their antique electronic keyboards and chanting a pure waterspout of naivety towards the above. it was all a cavalcade of intermezzos quietly climaxing via the vertical/timeless logic they were so careful to wrap around. it was oozing. and a short while after the projected exquisite corpse of tangling film strips I had prepared had run out, the music returned and this utter calamity blasted out the humble speakers and made a screech of displeasure, one that the giant lead who had taken the stage broke by throwing his handsome torso in front of the unruly speakers, and thereby disconnecting the invisible transmit and dispersing the noise. it was a brutal act of sacrifice, throwing himself into the scorching pain of the feedback, a glorious counterattacking, and I fell in some sort of love with it right before passing out a little. and the complete charade was witnessed just as that: an elegant prolonging of the shimmering moment you sense in the middle of a perfect pass out. I hope everyone got home safe, and more importantly; please be in contact if any of these obscurities I’ve described are yours to recollect. 


for now,

Monsieur J. Mnemonic

       

 























































SQ