|| See the whole film here: https://www.filmsforaction.org/watch/separated-interbeings-volume-1/
Åpen gerilja-visning med «Galleri Høg standard» under Eventurbrua i Oslo, under XR sin aksjonsuke i 2025. To dager med visning.
https://www.hogstandard.com/
Visning på «Insetto Stecco Micro film festival» 2025
Vist i loop på et soverom:
Tekst av Kristian Skylstad:
We breathe, we note, we laugh quietly, almost ashamed, almost relieved, at the flicker of meaning that persists in a world that does not care for meaning at all. We mimic waxen automatons, polishing our hands, straightening our hair, arranging our homes, pretending order matters while beneath the surface the world is gangrenous, crawling, slick with everything we refuse to acknowledge.
We pretend cleanliness. We perform hygiene. We preserve surfaces. The putrescence creeps silently just underneath, viscous and imperceptible. We are obsessed with appearances, polite manners, curated images. We are complacent in the decay, fine with the fetor of civilization, comfortable with the ichor of our own making.
We walk past gutters full of murky water, past children’s laughter twisted with the screech of dying birds. We see roofs blackened with ash, the sky a greasy smear. Rats gnaw on the entrails of the city. Flies hum in orchestras of the dead. Neon glares like the eyes of predatory ghosts. A man spits into the river and it swirls with phosphorescent pitch. A child steps on a shard of sunlight turned to glass, blood blossoming like a small, obscene sun.
We straighten our collars. We adjust our smiles. We pretend it is not there. Order cannot contain chaos. Order is the joke we tell ourselves while the necropolis of the city festers. And when we finally look, when the veil drops, we see ourselves: stiff, polished, obedient, mimicking waxen marionettes, moving in time to a rhythm designed to distract us.
We are beautiful in our compliance, grotesque in our devotion to surfaces, indifferent to the corruption and slime crawling just beneath. The world is moist like raw pitch, slick with decay, cold and hard as a metal hammer. We feel it press against our skin, against our hands, against our hearts. We are drenched in it. We taste it. And still we straighten, we breathe, we note, we laugh quietly, pretending we are not already part of the filth.
I search for a we, for connection, for a pulse that might anchor me, but there is no we, only an I without a core, drifting in a dead sea, untethered, purposeless, swallowed by the indifferent fetor of the world, carried by the slow, relentless current of everything I cannot fix, waves lap against nothing, salt bites eyes, oil slick coats lungs, and I float, and I float, and the world hums and laughs, waxen mimicry, slime, corrosion, laughter, decay fragment, twist, fold, trembling abstraction, being, observation, rot bleed together, I am a pulse without place, naked in the echo of everything, and reality melts into itself, and the world folds into me, and I dissolve into endless echoes, and time collapses around my pulse, and all shape leaks into shadow.
