The Waft and Weft of
Christopher Nolan’s “Interstellar.”
There is a story, then a story within the story, a story behind the story, and the story
that you hold in your mind,
Or lips, in the love story
that never ends, it keeps
going on, repeating itself —
forever, it’s been [fore]told.
It was familiar — “if there is a dream, there could be another dream inside it;” — and if there is an idea, then journeying further, there are ideas, on ideas, in ideas.
And well you know, too —
story in story.
It’s the work,
and it’s the heart of being.
That is your life.
But my journey back to the story in the story, the dream in the dream came in a far earlier encounter, a live moment with Jorge Luis Borges — where marks are doorways to other worlds, libraries are labyrinths, and stories lie embedded in every stone, each blade of wheat, the scuttling insect — a world, whorled alive with meanings and nuances.
What struck me in
the storytelling of Interstellar,
a deeply layered meditation on time, memory of the passed and the portals through which time, psychic space and memory is overlaid in
a kind of quantum weaving.
The floating journeyer, travels through the library of time, the textual libris — the Latin, liber — which is a book, the inner bark of a tree, the layers out the filtering of a grand entanglement of content, in consciousness.
I’m not with many of the other critics that complain of scientific inaccuracies, science-fi speculations and hammered-down storytelling.
It’s the core principles that I find compelling, in the mysteries of my own life experiences – that is, one: the categorization of moments in mind and the magnetism of memory, a grand library — a palace of memory, a vast architecture of ideas and inspirations, that flow back and forth on the rails of psychic electricity — and that is, two: the flow of time — what comes and go, what comes forth from the past — slides to the future, and returns to the past.
Through that mind maze, the Library — memories come back, they tap and riddle us with puzzles and storytelling from our working journeys.
There are points in our lives, critical points — moments when we open up, flower out, we effloresce unto our inspirations, we blossom. Those moments come back to us, in retelling.
The patterns roll like a collection of distantly discovered volumes that come back to you —
“I remember that, when I read that.”
And you see through those tomes to what they mean in your life, your journey, your history — and you can reach through them, in time. But text is — like the book of leaves, a living weaving, idea above idea, story overlaid on story, words that mean one thing, but call, in a code, to the telling of another.
It’s a key message.
Are you here, or not?
And in a manner,
that is the heart of
the storytelling of “Interstellar.”
Are you here, will you stay, or have you gone?
That is the heart of what we all do:
“are you here —
P R E S E N T —
will you stay,
or are you gone?”
Do you care,
will you remember,
is that important to you?
In our work, we will have failed — large — if the answer is yes. Especially if that community, the person, that member, is important to us.
Import is important.
That is to “bring in,” to “convey” — you move something to a new place.
Like the nature of drawing —
it’s not only a line, it’s the drawing out of the idea, the lengthening of the interpretation.
There is always
beneath the surface.
Tim | SeaBrook, WA
Girvin Cloudmind | http://bit.ly/eToSYp
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