David Lowery (2017)
A house settles at the foot of farmland. A domestic fort defiant against the agriculture that sustains it. A husband, M, who loads injections of pride with each guitar strum, baths in the illustrious soil planted beneath their feet. A wife, C, has a wayward soul dead set on an urban jungle gym high rise. This is their first home, and leaving it feels like abandonment to M, but freedom to C.
Appreciation runs on fumes in the household. M's musical narratives fall on deaf ears when he places intimate headphones over his betrothed. C was once enamored by M's creations, but now the compositions only speak of distrust and betrayal. Her distaste justified, but her disapproving face slices into M's toil.
The bedroom is the final theater of tranquility. A demilitarized zone full of close range combat and canoodling exchanges. Here in the luminescent blanket, the couple bandage wounds and whisper apologies with their eyes. They remain infected with those wedding day jitters, they just need restlessness to restore their nerves.
The healing session is interrupted by a bang in the night. All moments of reconciliation run into distractions. The external disruption just may be an internal one, however. M searches the home, and his attention narrows in on the piano that he has claimed the anchor of the house.
An instrument that only he has touched. An old vestibule requiring constant tuning. A warped remnant of the classical music that shapes his synthesized productions. He envies the collection of keys, a box weighed down with tonal possibilities. An anvil stubborn towards transportation, and content in tradition. C assures that the piano can follow them in their journeys, but M knows that would be theft.
There is nothing you keep. You spin around in a perpetual gyre until a cosmic suicide suffocates your consciousness. There is a Prognosticator on every street corner trying to enlighten you of your malignant existence. They are men, women, street signs, and coffee shops. They speak with words, scents, and symbols. The fleeting nature of home ownership and cultural relevance sing the praise songs to the Oblivion. And in this void, an endless tributary of paths emerge, and life stands just as tall as death.
A house settles at the foot of farmland. A domestic fort defiant against the agriculture that sustains it. A husband, M, who loads injections of pride with each guitar strum, baths in the illustrious soil planted beneath their feet. A wife, C, has a wayward soul dead set on an urban jungle gym high rise. This is their first home, and leaving it feels like abandonment to M, but freedom to C.
Appreciation runs on fumes in the household. M's musical narratives fall on deaf ears when he places intimate headphones over his betrothed. C was once enamored by M's creations, but now the compositions only speak of distrust and betrayal. Her distaste justified, but her disapproving face slices into M's toil.
The bedroom is the final theater of tranquility. A demilitarized zone full of close range combat and canoodling exchanges. Here in the luminescent blanket, the couple bandage wounds and whisper apologies with their eyes. They remain infected with those wedding day jitters, they just need restlessness to restore their nerves.
The healing session is interrupted by a bang in the night. All moments of reconciliation run into distractions. The external disruption just may be an internal one, however. M searches the home, and his attention narrows in on the piano that he has claimed the anchor of the house.
An instrument that only he has touched. An old vestibule requiring constant tuning. A warped remnant of the classical music that shapes his synthesized productions. He envies the collection of keys, a box weighed down with tonal possibilities. An anvil stubborn towards transportation, and content in tradition. C assures that the piano can follow them in their journeys, but M knows that would be theft.
There is nothing you keep. You spin around in a perpetual gyre until a cosmic suicide suffocates your consciousness. There is a Prognosticator on every street corner trying to enlighten you of your malignant existence. They are men, women, street signs, and coffee shops. They speak with words, scents, and symbols. The fleeting nature of home ownership and cultural relevance sing the praise songs to the Oblivion. And in this void, an endless tributary of paths emerge, and life stands just as tall as death.
final words:
ONLY YOU WILL REMEMBER