Last year in Marienbad.
Between these walls covered with woodwork, stucco, moldings, pictures, framed prints, among which I was walking – among which I was already waiting for you, very far away from this setting where I now stand, in front of you, still waiting for the man who will no longer come, who no longer threatens to come to separate us again, to tear you away from me. Are you coming?
A film by Alain Resnais, articulated in a note by Marco Giuliano.
Last Year at Marienbad. Photo Courtesy Rialto Pictures.To Alain Robbe-Grillet.
Between these walls covered with woodwork, stucco, moldings, pictures, framed prints, among which I was walking – among which I was already waiting for you, very far away from this setting where I now stand, in front of you, still waiting for the man who will no longer come, who no longer threatens to come to separate us again, to tear you away from me. Are you coming?
A hundred years later you won’t recognize those golden shapes, turned into a solid mass of entrails and gorges. Slowly, decadence hanged over my consciousness deforming your beloved landscape with twenty-four thousand moons witnessing tongueless to my defeat.
The whole World is in a manner over and my land in ashes unto them. I’m moving one step after another for no apparent reason, with my feet designing a circular path through corridors and rooms, walls and memories. I can’t stand this anymore as any construction that is over-used tends to lose its charm.
Six silent times and seven times on the Seventh day is what they needed to disintegrate our fortress;
then the desert penetrated this garden, graying every living substance under a divine shadow.
–
Once there were shimmering colours, the most vivid I’ve ever seen, and your skin shivered to any whisper – mine was frozen.
It couldn’t last. Forms with two equal angles exist just for a brief moment and now I can only imagine your blue body floating in an Eastern river. “Some say it’s too quiet. Yes, and they’ve never been to Marienbad.” So, what am I doing here?
Stalking your angels to reach the secret direction or holding the unsafe place which makes me stray in the nighttime: wet with dew and dreamless, with no hands to grab me, I cry and lament that this domain is no longer controlled.
I’m looking down to see you crawling. – Are you still coming?
Credits:
Words by Marco Giuliano.
Ivan and the Moon