About a Father Who
Filmmaker Lynne Sachs 
Release: 2021 
Ira Sachs, someone else watches you now. 
I write, listen and watch the film for forty-five minutes and then step away. Vibrating memory in the case of something else. Light flatter feather father. In my world, there are things I do not know. Asking something backward, turning, revolving, equation in distinction. The first image, the form of intimacy that begins in the film. Lynee brushes Ira’s hair. It grapples and holds onto me. I expect it to return each time there is a revealing of Ira, each time his life is spoken of. I expect the remembrance of how it feels when someone else brushes your hair. Gentle sudden extension. 
Why must we ask something backward? 
A moment of childhood is becoming a color memory. The glistening sounds of the day in vibrating nature recollection, where are we? I think of location on the next shot, the need for space, and the definition of Beauty. What can make us honest again? 
Here there is a mention of the perfect lifestyle, here there is another mention of making a living somewhere beautiful. 
I know that we will all respond differently and hope to give each other space to see, articulate, figure, and connect to some other place where there is the promise of happiness. And how does one escape? How does the cinema you are watching begin separation? What reasons are there for creating? 
In other thoughts, we start seeing it very differently now. Mind moves. Processing method. Green ink. Cinema. Wood-colored floor breeding here there aren’t only images but audio. We are being given fragments of the Thursdays of Bob Dylan whose lyrics or harmonies were not cared for. We are given moments like “How do you feel dad?” answered by a moment of laughter. “What does value mean?” Turn off the sound.
How many times do we remember the things someone else wants to forget? 
Number illustration. We are all behind something else. The moments of parallel worlds never following. Another form of prediction or moving illustration. “What kind of thoughts go through your head while you are hiking? Twin red Cadillacs. The dialogue is here and a discussion of the numbers. Questions in this formation to language. Return contemplation. What happens when you own a horizon? You begin to perform.  How decisions are being made? The way Lynne asks her mother: The hardest decision you had to make? 
A naturally clear idea of what you were doing. The NO film idea now feels important to me. But there are light home ideas. Window. Diane’s face shows another gentleness, vulnerability. The show caring care of how linear and stable knows moving illustration to lose. 
We bring the person along because of love. Because of something more complicated than covering beloved. A love that brings you there and then it hits you the different forms of love. The fantastic complex forms of upbringing. Another humanness exists in a single person on the other side of the world and somehow becomes the person right next to you. 
What did you want to do? Remove? Add? Turn in, out in THE PUBLIC SENSE OF SEX IN THE HOUSE. 
It takes space to remember that this world is not mine, yours, his, hers, their but perhaps ours. Ours. Refusal of strings. Go behind something else. At the beginning of Cinema, at the beginning of every visual, you must apologize for thinking and making it something else or trying to make it make you someone else for a second. The clear idea of what you were doing while watching this feels important to me.
During space away from the movie, a juniper tree falls suddenly. But these are the things children should not know about their dad. 
How to witness father? Can father witness himself? How many have time to understand father? 
How can you understand father after something like this? 
He doesn’t lie but doesn’t tell you what’s going. 
Writing does it and then it hits you how we all bring the person along because of love. Something more complicated makes me that. I look up the etymology for love. 31 different pages all filled with different forms. Sculpture clays. I go through only the first page before I decide to only read one another. Page 31. The last page has the words, melt, patriot, melancholy, passion, lesbian, War, cunt, so long, blue, and whore. 
 A becoming liquid through heat. The sufferings of Christ. A great lyric poet. Wedge hollow place. Whitman once wrote: Remember my words. I may again return, I love you. I depart from materials; I am as one disembodied, triumphant, dead. 
Do we really live in these realities? Writing does. Language is not so separated from this film. It comes. I pause and take space. Anne has told me numerous times “Do not follow my path to extinction” I laugh when she says this to me. I think of family now reflecting words in the middle of 9:41 PM thought. How do we go towards another form of extinction to prevent the learning patterns? And to do these things you must take space. Assemble. I can not. Follow exist things evaluate the world around us. You remember how many things you can achieve with others. 
The second half I spend listening. Believe because in taking care reliant glare on vision. I pause within 45 minutes. I go for a long walk. Remove me from the train of thought. I think of many things. What is watching your life? 
porque aquí estoy estudiando algo. algo aquí. 
Location. Regardless, someone else is mating a story. This art from across the streets is my path to the location. It takes me 1 hour and 40 min. At some point, I stop at Lovers Hills Park in Boulder. MY body knows how to feel after. The film is doing something. The film something. The film is doing something. A white butterfly flies away from the Juniper Bush. Control panel. They are things that inspire me to write more frequently. Something is evoking more than yesterday or the day before. To experience art and away from moments you sit in every day hours. This world is no separation of a close fly crawling on my bare skin. 
Film. The Cinema is giving you reasons to begin seeing. Every sense experiences something else. A better memory of remembering someone else’s audio. 
What is to live without audio? Spoken.
 A reader of poetry sensitive to texture language. Moments in which Cinema transcends more easily. How language transports to other worlds. Experiment, experience. Conversation of grammar. And how dad had his own language and we had to learn it.  To paint a realistic experience. What is reality? Space perception loss. What were your notes throughout this whole process? Execution. Dialogue to self and pieces of writing. What color journal did you keep during it all? How much of this is from journals? What becomes of language after something like this? After someone interacting with the thing that saves us. 
A couple of weeks ago in the Summer Writing Program 2021, I tuned into a lecture on text and image with Alan Gilbert. In the time of conversion and discussion, there is someone who says that they still believe that poetry can save us, but believes visual art will. I believe in the translation of the text to image heavily. I keep the happy memories and try not to keep the others. Something longer than years. 
In the beginning, it feels like I was still trying to see things linearly. And when I return after taking some space I rewatch the beginning hair brushing scene. Just listen and watch. How do you know to love someone? And there is the subtle return to the intimacy I had been waiting for. Lynne and her father watch a movie together. What movie do you watch with someone you love but do not know? A movie about space. 
Lynne in the final scenes speaks of this as not a portrait, not a self-portrait, but her reckoning with the conundrum of our asymmetry. 
And Lynee brushes Ira’s hair, cuts it. Then it is not. 
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