images which will will never grow older (only fade away)

What tends to be forgotten in the act of creating cinema is that above and beyond all its other functions it is primarily an act of immortalization. 

(For a while at least; firstly as long as our generational minds can conceive immortality; secondly for as long as human minds shall conceive immortality. Lastly for as long as the true immortals shall conceive immortality. Thereafter immortality itself enters something of a conceptual void.)

through a glass darkly

Sometimes it's possible to recapture everything you need to know about a dream, in terms of how it made you feel, without being able to remember even so much as a single detail of what occurred within it.

+++

head over heels

When you fall in love with someone, try to make sure you also fall in love with some part of the person they think they are, in addition to the person you think they are (which you cannot help but do).

+++

winchester

It's a beautiful day and the sun brings warmth to the eleventh floor. The door is open and the Westway traffic resonates with an urban twang. Although it's still January, the day has a first hint of Spring to it. 

Whenever Spring peeks through the clouds, I find myself thinking of Winchester. Although I was never enamored of it, for reasons which are lengthy and fundamentally English, I find myself missing it. Winchester, the Winchester which I knew, was not the countryside, it was some corner of an old English provincial town, a kind of hinterland. My parents' house, at times my own, was on the edge of town. During the Winter, whole months would go by with low cloud, drizzle and damp. But, as the season turned, signalled by the appearance of daffodils on the banks of the Itchen, the mind would fast forward. To days when the walk up the hill would be balmy, to be undertaken towards dusk, the grass longer and docile under the final rays of the day. Or an evening in the garden of the Queen, pulling a jacket or sweater against the onset of chill as the Summer night faded. Or just the smell of the meadows as you ambled the seemingly over-familiar path down to St Cross, verdant, reassuring, nature's nurture pulling its underhand tricks.

+++