Eraserhead

For those of you who have not seen this brainfuck of a movie, I suggest watching it. For whatever reason, it terrified me; however, this "terror" seemed to be induced not simply by the images themselves but because I sensed a strange connection between the movie and my psyche. Essentially, Sartre's Nausea scared me for a similar reason; that is, the main character resonated far too well with myself.

Anyhow, here are some reflections on the latter half of the movie:

Random Reflections on the Latter Half of Erasurehead

Beginning: So much for reasonable personal interactions.

Woman dancing and stomping upon the brains: Spurt out white goo (semen?). She is passionately destroying my manhood. Procreation defines the sexual being.

She disappears, returning us to the room.

Pushing him off the bed -- The nervous, out-of-control anxious side attempting to take over the calm part of the mind; i.e., chaos versus order.

She gives birth to more deformed children -- more reapers of chaos upon the tame and organized mind. In my case, the anxiety gives birth to depression and/or reasons to be depressed. One can kill some of these reasons, but they never truly die, climbing up the walls, crying out for attention.

They grow larger and larger, stronger and strong, encapsulating my own self within them. Within each is the same seed, the same tree. Audio discord remains a prominent role in the descent into madness.

Someone knocks on the door.

There is nothing but blackness. Yet from out of this blackness comes a woman. She is the one who is tormenting my inner sexual being. She has reached right into the core.

I suffocate the child, attempting to rid my depression, believing that my sexuality can free me. And though love-making begins, the depression periodically cries out. It does not die.

This disgusting woman again; her cheeks disturb me. "In heaven, everything is fine." I see no proof. She is far to "happy" to be here, especially standing on such a blank stage.

I walk towards her…slowly.

Terrifying whiteness. She's not there. I'm not there. I can't tell. The man in the house -- is he the same person as the woman? Where are these demented children coming from?

Here comes the tree.

I am afraid of trees -- phallic symbol. It bleeds like the small chicken. Bleeding. Destruction of masculinity. Destruction of the individual?

My head reveals nothing but a bizarre breathing stump. A crying stump. I am no different.

An old man. White. A boy. Lower-class, white. Here seems to be the closest we get to anything potentially "real," disregarding the fact that the boy holds my head rather dispassionately.

Most the other men seem primarily capable of anger. The grown men, that is. Yet I am dead.

Pencils come from my head. I write nothing, create nothing. Erasure head. I'm brushed off back into the air.

Only to wake up.

Continual wind. I watch someone beaten. I open the door, and the "child" does not scream as I leave.

27 = 3 x9

The child laughs as I return. Is it no longer dependent? Is it mocking me?

Somehow the noise awakes me? #27 is out there with another man. He is the mockery of the well-dressed man. She looks at me -- my baby head, frail and pathetic. Her door closes.

Cutting open the child's binds. It cries and acts rather fearful. Oops, I see it's organs. Oops, I killed my own child! It spurts up blood, cries one last time, oozing white stuff.

It is enveloped by white foam; it's head extends. Why the flickering light? It is a sign of the destruction or creation of life?

The head goes for the light, taking it out.

Something new is born.

And thus we return to the man sharpening his teeth on these railroad things.

The white woman with deformed cheeks hugs me in the light.

FIN