The Disertation, By Cambell Walker

Notes on a film by Cambell.

First off let me note that i drew adown a bit from my little bong, my litte mambia the cobra of singing nettles, lightbulb, other wise here, forth know as, little monster. Takig pipe in

hand my macbook, (given to me by my rich, glamourous, beautiful cousin who lives on the corner of West 21sit ad 82nd st.) I notice full screen, that the quality of the medium he is shooting on is pureposefully dense, bright and rich, colours are pure intense and focused, This is post super realism people this is high definition, stop to think subtle sinificance of that shift, - (I can't Right no think, cause I am speeding, to get to my fanale) here with Cambell you are visiting the frame, you are the camera, you breathe, but you are a camera, you watch.. past the point of humanity... and that is cambells point, the visitor steps through the frame with contemplation, and extended gaze, a delay, in glass... illuminated illumination,  high definition.. is another point  )...  perhaps implying information age.. i dunno. I'm out of clasps) - The opening shot is masterful, the Narrsissit, Icarus, whose bailed from his assignment, the one given to him By the GOds,, -(Always his parents, you?) And then the most extroordinary thing happened, he actually proposes and then does the Big Shave by martin Scorese, the epic undergroud piece of kudos in the underworld of the art A-G (Avant-garde). - where he shaves - like Cambell - But scorese cuts up his face - Cuts it up. The ultimate edit. And i sit there realing the Genius - he's going to make me get up and leave because of the homosexual intimacy of privacy that by medium be is invading - erasing this fronteer by creating it in his own image - the boudary maker, Cambell Walker, And here is the Best part - I get up and leave  - knowing perfectly

That he would keep going, would become the warhol of film ad Empire my arse for nine hours - I would leave But the film would be left still Running - I would want to be in his presence while I visited the kitchen to watch the birds, which have infested this particular garden with an abandonment of uch wild animal status that my constant source of distraction is their meriment and its display in the trees, - I come back from visiting Bird land to find Cambel cutting himself up - wrist cheek, neck, I am Repulsed

By his war paint - where is his blues?

Red Reds not the colour, Red's

not a colour, Blood is Black,

BLACK I SCREAM AT YOU,

CAN'T YOU TELL THIS'S A TRick

THIS SNICKERY THIS IS ART

ALL ART IS THE ART OF THE

CONJOURER THe TRick of a

TRICKSTER, HEY You THis >

is what Reality looks like... oh.

Boy I took the Wefare train

of Reality to out hereness and

oh - you know what you get a

pretty lear view of the

fuckers who are the minority who

are pulling all the strings....

He washes his face again,

more moved on than whole

circle - maby it's the sho of the

platone window light, with

curtain thrown asunder,  Fading

Jingle theory of a perfect guitar

sendiment grinding off the emptyness

left by the intent intensity

of the ending......

Hey Cambell what do you think of that Review...