Red Thread(s)

“We’re all lost in the immensity of the universe; we’ve lost our native country, and have no place to go - or worse yet, too many places we could go.”

Morning. Heaviness to the clouds. Portent of snow. Don’t, I write, call it anything. Mood. History. That old place: melancholy. A page with a few, small marks.
When I talk to myself, I talk to myself using the words of others. To know better than to ask for anything specific.

“We work in the dark, we do what we can, we give what we have. Our doubt is our passion, and our passion is our task.”

Red flags in procession. A field of poppies. “Small demonstrations, out of love.”

But, today, you don’t see the image, you see what the title says about it.

The Old Place.

To have doubts. What other way is there to conclude?--
This is only a leaving-off.

***

Notes from Jean-Luc Godard and Anne-Marie Miéville’s film/essay "The Old Place"; quotes are more or less direct; notes in this case self-referential: red flags / red threads. “Don’t call it anything. Let it remain a document.”

"'Memory is a sickness. A word pops up that reveals entire neighbourhoods. Ghastly architecture. You stare into crowds of people: futile to approach them! The day is over.'"
-- Thomas Bernhard, Frost