To know how to do — that is the key! Appeal, hateful, or just the key? I allow you to have no answers, my reader. And maybe you are looking forward to a rope that throws you out, being impossible to reach anywhere. Or you can really wish to become comfortable with your own clumsiness to finger your demands. The fact is, our story is coming out, with hesitation, unexpectance, whatever!, but also with softness, generosity and mutual understanding — in special when you branch out to exchange experiences and blends Melinda’s perceptions in with life-art surroundings. By what clearer we are so up to announce it by that better it will be — our story will be ready unfold in flashbacks, and
flashbacks within flash-fowards and stream of consciousness. Besides, with a variety of contemporaneous implications and deviations — from letters, mini-essays and rough versions of screenplays to all sort of reminiscences that verges on memoirs — as though we sort through the events that lead us a pathetic and blocked place, sometimes alienated from those we love or detest. That is only inevitable.
In this contemporary world, such as the critics prefer name our reality, made by machines, spotlight, celebrity, torment, social differences, wars, not confusable celerity, anguish, and the monster of conformity, in this context the words submerge, they almost do not breathe, tic-tac, tic-tac, brevity, modernity, the present and the future. Most things that can really touch us are strongly drake nowadays — that is our astonishment. So that is our block. And the words through which we comprehend everything, these words are perfectly tuned to our frantic times. To those upward selves. To all enginery invented to drop bits of glass inside us, which cut without breaking.
Blindly, there is no reason to be afraid of, reader. Getting in touch with the other and with a strange and perturbing reality is not so frightening; it brings us around and gives us some lucidity. At best, it is really impossible to figure out the world without becoming disappointed, especially because we are surrounded by lots of focuses which have already been distorted.
Oscillation? Is there any kind of oscillation in my current words? All the time! Everything that we have already planned mixes our dreams up. And we become aware of what we just did not acquire. So our story — this is only one of myriads of possibilities — also broods over how the trappings of globalization do little to further intimacy and shorten distance at the same time. Isn’t it — and all the rest — a kind of ambiguity, hesitation, oscillation? To advance this tense ambivalence, our story may be ready to make selective use of noir elements: it forsakes fucked-up men, deeply-shadowed streets, the exciting yet caustic world of moneymaking, lots of violence, but retains fondness scenes, ambiguous relationships and bountiful mood lighting. The result may be a sort of existential query that belongs to us at all, but is definitely surrounded by a concrete background.
Digressions! All these first digressive lines are indeed an important part of our story, the one we will try to make up together — just in case you accept my invitation, of course! If we cannot comprehend, by a double movement of coming forth and back, the realm created by us will not be as touchable as propitious to our supposed intent. If we cannot comprehend the characters of our own disgrace, ready to be marked herein and with this or that color; if we cannot comprehend their invisible works, how then in their inconceivable thoughts, that call our story into being? And if we cannot comprehend us in our own objective creatures, how then in their substantive moods and phases of creation?
In short, we have a task before and behind us which must be speedily performed. And both we know that it will be ruinous to make delay. The most preponderant crisis motion of our lives calls for immediate energy and action. There is no prompt answer! We need to start off. Let us do it in some way from now on, after all! Are you ready to enter the forest of our own bifurcated fiction?