During our Monday class we watched ‘From The East’ (1993, Dir. Chantal Akerman). The long uninterrupted shots of the everyday man were very observational, giving great insight to a very specific time in a country on the precipice of great change. However, it also struck me as a little predatory. ‘From The East’ reminded me a lot of the scene from Dirty Harry, when the Scorpio killer is looking through his riflescope at a public square, choosing his next victim. The cameras, his scope, like ‘From The East’ scans across the everyday man until he settles on a black man sitting on a bench. No one is safe. When I was watching From The East I was waiting for the camera to stop and for someone to die, it was very suspenseful.

The influence of knowledge and past viewing experience each person brings the viewing of a film is substantial, and sometimes unpredictable to the filmmaker. I’m sure Akerman did not intend for me to be reminded of a serial killer when she was capturing the state of a peoples relationship with a camera that was about to evolve for ever. I was reminded of this on Monday and the realisation stayed with me.

Dan’s 21st

On the veranda beside the front door sat a cylindrical laundry basket filled to the brim with muddied football boots and an array of mismatched runners, reminding me that Dan, was the youngest of four hyperactive, burly brothers. All four brothers were present, their large frames, like poppies among the brush, were easy to pick out scattered about us mere average sized humans.
I continued through to the backyard where Dan and the majority of our friends were located. Braving the bitterly cold July afternoon, citing fleeting moments of sun and the absence of rain (for now), as evidence enough to not be inside.

Dan’s eldest brother momentarily ceased a conversation as he spied Dan pass. He reached out his mighty trunk of an arm and snagged the back of his neck pulling him into a one armed embrace like a ragdoll. Probably wanting to embarrass him or perhaps he was feeling nostalgic and wanted to show affection the only way he knew how, with few words and a garnish of violence.
Not one to be manhandled, Dan lowered his hips, and using both hands, pushed off his brother’s chest to escape. Entwined, the two bumped a table of food causing glasses to rattle and chip bowls to rock. One practically empty bowl of Smiths salt and vinegar chips clattered to the ground. Separating, the two turned to inspect the damage, sheepishly looking around for scorn, but with the absence of more adult adults, the bowl was quickly picked up and returned to the table and the remaining evidence of chips were scattered with a sweeping shoe.

A little while later when the sun had completely ceded to the ominous grey black clouds, so too did we, retreating inside.

The eldest brother was there, however his demeanour had somehow completely changed. From where I sat on the living room couch his shoulders where hunched inwards.
His confidence had vanished, his eyes darted nervously. He eyed a doorframe he had undoubtedly crossed thousands of times with suspicion as if to measure if he could fit through it. With exaggerated caution he rotated and stepped through it sideways. His arms wrapped protectively around something he was holding to his chest, something so small it wasn’t immediately identifiable to me. As he shuffled closer I realised what the precious cargo was. It was a baby, his baby. The first baby girl to bestow unclehood on the brothers. She was asleep cradled on his chest.
I looked to Dan expecting to see an amused expression, preparing to give his brother a hard time for his almost comedic caution. But no, Dan stood with a drawn brow, at the ready to swear undying vengeance should the doorframe try anything funny.

What a nice place right there must be, to have zero worries or cares, to be cradled in the safest place in the world.
Her lullaby, his beating heart.
Her bed, his chest.
Her blanket, his warmth.
Could she feel the love that, to me, was palpable? I think she must. If I were her, I’d invest in real estate, and never move away.

A kiss goodbye

He looked at her, his face twisted, brow furrowed “how’d I loose you?” he asked raising his hand, showing his palms only to let them fall back against his thighs.
“Darling” she said softly like the forgettable murmurs whispered between lovers in tangled sheets, stroking the side of his face like she was trying to even out the deep lines of worry that seemed to be permanently etched in “you never had me.”

He leaned into her touch wishing he could forget how to hear and only know how to feel so he may never have heard her saying what he deep down always knew, and only focus on her soft little hand on his cheek. But even then that was gone.

She watched him for a second and then took a tentative step closer, their bodies almost touching. He froze. She leaned in towards him standing on her toes raising her head slightly and paused, he didn’t move but he didn’t move away either.
She finished the short journey to his lips and fell into him, crushing her lips into his. The muscles in his back uncoiled and he wrapped his arms around her, kissing her back. Too soon their lips unlocked for the last time, and they lingered. He rested his forehead on hers and inhaled, smelling the familiar scent of her apple shampoo before she stepped away.

“What was that?” he whispered, fearing to test his voice. She smiled a sad smile and replied: “That was goodbye.” And with that, she turned and left. As he watched her small frame slowly fade away down his street he smiled too. “Bye”