Terrence Malick, the director, the seer, ephemeral in its refusal to be touched. To be known. Malick in the stillness, turning away from our eyes. Not wanting to be seen. Who can see the seer? Who can touch the stillness, reaching out, begging to be touched back? Father, why can't we see you? Why can't we know you?
TMZ, the spectator, the vulgarian, the dirt-bound tiller of man's misfortune. The spectator spies the seer in the stillness, but it does not recognize him. Blinded, their eyes turn to Benicio del Toro, the actor, the mumbler. They ask him nothing of importance. He says nothing of importance. Everything he spews out, everything a lie by virtue of its ignorance. So much to spew out. The glory all around—the trees, the birds, the seer, the Malick. TMZ dishonors it all and doesn't notice the glory, doesn't know what it has. Lets it slip away. Scatters it, careless. What keeps it from reaching out, touching the glory?
The seer and the spectator never meet, even though we are all one. Twisting together, everything shining, filled with light but it cannot illuminate the darkness. The seer disappears back into the stillness. The spectator reaches out to touch Kris Humphries. It knows Kris Humphries. It feels Kris Humphries. It does not feel Terrence Malick. It feels empty. Everything is empty.
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