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niggamag · 10 months

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The Blood Of Jesus (1941)- Dir. Spencer Williams

In the rich history of low budget Black cinema, there are a few rare gems that I feel every Black person should see in their lifetime. Among them is "The Blood of Jesus" (1941), a groundbreaking film directed by the multi-talented Spencer Williams. This film lays the groundwork for Black indie films with its ghastly folk aesthetic, non linear storytelling and angelic imagery. "The Blood of Jesus" remains an essential cinematic experience even after more than eight decades.

Now why THIS film?

"The Blood of Jesus" holds a special place in the annals of Black cinema as one of the first feature-length films to be produced and directed by a Black filmmaker. This milestone not only paved the way for future filmmakers but also provided a platform for authentic representation and storytelling.

The storyline is the classic “in between heaven and hell” trope and it is executed in such a stylistically sound way that it kept me glued to the screen. It reminded me surrealism and Dadaism which was huge in white cinema and literature at the time. This is early Afrosurrealism, dare I say. We see masterful interaction with atmospheric lighting, symbolic dream sequences, and breathtaking slow dissolves. It has lots of non-linear storytelling which is seen in many different Black indie films, especially from the 90s and it was fun making this connection.

Here’s a brief synopsis:

The film tells the story of a young woman named Martha, played by Cathryn Caviness, who is accidentally shot by her husband, Razz Jackson, portrayed by Spencer Williams himself. As Martha lies between life and death, her soul is caught in a cosmic struggle between the forces of good and evil. The narrative takes the viewers on a spiritual journey, as Martha's soul encounters various characters, symbolizing the temptations and choices she must confront. The film skillfully weaves together elements of Christianity and African American spirituality, highlighting the interconnectedness of faith and culture.

Written by your favorite Black film head, welcome to Nigga Mag.

-M

#surrealist writing #black storytelling #black stories #vintage black glamour #black films #surrealism #film blog #filmmaking #director #first post #decade: 1940s #1940s cinema #afrosurrealism

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bookquotesfrombooks · 1 year

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“The n… th day God regretted having created Heaven and Earth.

He wanted to destroy his work. But it had fallen into the public domain.

So he descended in himself, divided himself into three to diminish his responsibility, invented the Serpent – and changed pseudonyms.”

Claude Cahun

Disavowals

#claude cahun #disavowals #religion #god #regret #surrealist writing #surrealist literature #surrealism #quotes #books #book quotes #bookblr

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discoidal · 2 years

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read my short story She's Gone! on The Origami Review Issue 2 :))

#short story #original fiction #surrealist writing #compulsory heterosexuality #sapphic #lesbianism

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sirswooshnoodles · 29 days

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Gonna start a surrealist story written in things like journal entries and shit

Posted as individual posts to a new tumblr alt.

I’m not settled on the names of it yet.

“Pickles with Teeth” and “Dear Head in the Closet” are the top contenders.

You may find the inspiration for this by searching them on my page or that of my art alt @eddeearts

Cryptidcore, mild horror, surrealism, paranormal, supernatural, humor, and mystery are some of the themes I have in mind.

Currently no plan, and not sure if I’ll make one or just wing it completely

Edit: definitely doing some research for this shit it turns out. Gonna be a hot minute before this comes out at all lol

Edit 2: @pickles-with-teeth now exists!! Just holding the spot and reminding me to work on the project

#writing #current projects #current project #writing project #alt account #gimmick blog #story blog #writing blog #upcoming #upcoming blog #upcoming story #surrealism #surrealist writing #writing idea #creative writing #writeblr

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scumgristle · 1 year

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Hey bb... wanna see some hot action?

Search Google for “Midnight Climax”

have a piece titled |}|_€^|< ^^[=@+ in Kenji Siratori’s HYPER-ANNOTATION #001

and a piece titled "Synodic Ganglia" in this one, also from Kenji Siratori.

read I ONLY WANTED TO MAKE YOU NERVOUS at Coprolaliac Press

supplied video / voice for this short film by Zak Ferguson

available NOW from SWEAT DRENCHED PRESS.

A****n link

FREE EXCERPTS

meanwhile:

CRINGE MYTHOS TONE REELS

and the piece FLOATING STAIN appears in issue 0 of AGON Journal, available for FREE in PDF form.

you’ll see i’m listed as part of the “Male Choir” (N. Casio Poe).

i’m the one that does the big “yeaaaaaaaagh” part.

other music i’ve done (just vocals/lyrics)

here

here too

LIVING ROOM - Corrugated Asshole - got some vocals on this one.

close as you’ll get to a “biography” of my time in music, which i guess is over, but who knows.

same podcast as above, except we all being chucklefucks about trash horror

MUBI page

Goodreads profile

#transgressive literature #lost media #extreme horror #mutants #cultural critique #underground #apocalypse #long island #cult cinema #deathmatches #outlaw comics #surrealist writing #cutups

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citrusshower · 1 year

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Step 1. Let yourself be broken into pieces

Step 2. Carefully collect pieces and put them in a empty birds nest

Oh you hurt yourself, again!

Step 3. Clean the open wound under running water. Let it bleed until it stops. Rinse once more.

Step 4. Sit with your wound and watch it heal.

Step 5. After some time of isolation take the birds nest and put it in a body of open water, ideally a stream.

Step 6. Watch the birds nest floating away from you. Don't try to catch or follow it, as those pieces can't longer be part of you.

Step 7. Once the nest is out of sight continue sitting at the bank as long as you'd like.

Congratulations! You succesfully let go of an identity that was no longer serving you. Enjoy that new stronger form your breathing in.

Additional Steps:

Step 9. You most likely will break multiple times throughout this lifetime. This is a very natural event that takes place in the human experience. Every time you find yourself broken repeat Steps 1-7.

Step 10. Rest assured that there is a more evolved form of yourself waiting on the other side.

#surrealism #surrealist writing #surrealist poetry #heartbreak healing #dream core #dating #survival guide #ritual bath

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wowwwokay · 1 year

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Excerpt from Dear Hazel of Squirrelnut by André Breton

Translated by Mary Ann Caws

#prose #prose writing #poetic prose #surrealist writing #surrealism #french #french writer #literature #literary letters #hot girls love literature #love #letters of love #love letters

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rotten-foolclown · 1 year

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some fellas have expressed curiosity about my book, so here’s an aesthetic board i put together and a lil description:

“The lost town of Loomingwoods” follows several characters in the small, half abandoned town of Loomingwoods, a place where everything seems to linger a bit too long. A place they just can’t seem to escape from. A place where everything is just as it seems....

#writing #horror writing #surrealist writing #historic fiction #fantasy writing #btw that last line is NOT a typo #ghost stories #original story #god this is edgy

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hauntmetosleep · 1 year

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Anticyclonic Blue

Thrashing in its bind of eternal ice, Horns of frost that blind the bare eye - Anathema to dream of a sunbeam, Trapped on the incubator's altar

A false blue sky that suffocates all A gnash of hunger, a deepened distress A waning storm that will return stronger An anticyclone that steals all I desire

In the throes of constant sacrifice, I have never once doubted its truth

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#the gates of paranoia #poets on tumblr #poetry #original poem #indie books #free verse #dark poetry #horror fantasy #surrealist writing #dark fantasy #occult

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messiah-girl · 1 year

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ShopRite

An excerpt from a work in progress, surrealist short story about being lonely, a woman, and nearly 30.

Twenty-four hour supermarkets exist for the benefit of lonely women - ones who sleep all day, become restless when they awaken in the evening, and decide they must leave their homes. These women climb from their beds every few hours, their bodies stirring in protest, attempting to free themselves from the confinement of forced slumber, body ultimately finding itself submitting to the girls’ megrims after lethargically ambling from bedroom to kitchen and back ten times. What else is there to do? The girls’ minds sigh to their bodies. We have no reason to be awake, and I would rather just be asleep.

Eventually, their willowy legs will lazily topple out from under a rumple of unmade sheets and blankets, over the edge of their beds, meeting the wooden floorboards illuminated with the golden light of near-dusk that is filtering through their bedroom windows. Knots of unbrushed hair going in all directions around a face that has yet to shake the sleep from it. The girl would usually know when the body finally meant business, when she could no longer disregard its desire to move and live and experience, and so she’d become attuned to the world around her, no longer refusing to notice that which existed beyond her pillows. For the final time that day, she would leave her bed if only for a few hours.

Sleeping is a biological necessity. People are told countless times to prioritize getting good sleep, and for good reason. The need is rivaled by only a few other things. For nearly all girls, the need to use the bathroom will take priority, perturbing sleeping beauties from their dreamless, drooling slumbers. Eating, too, is important to many girls, though not all. Some possess an otherworldly ability to suppress the need to eat, churning up envy with their delicate figures, and thus can sleep through the rumbling in their tummies. Sex and love and companionship: these are the needs that the girl herself will seek to fulfill over sleep, without a fleshy automaticity with which the body mechanically rips her from rest, she rises gracefully on her own accord to dial little beacons into her phone.

All-night supermarkets exist for these women, particularly the hungry. They are nearing thirty years old. They have careers. They support themselves. They have an ever growing list of lovers but always seem to be alone. Their diets are of zero calorie sodas and sour candy. They awaken at some point for the last time that day, climbing from their beds, and pace less lethargically throughout their apartments with no real destination or task in mind. They find wakefulness challenging because there are too many hours to contend with, and, yet, those same hours dissolve like sugar in water as they amble aimlessly, worrying about whether or not they are taking full advantage of this little life of theirs.

Suddenly desperate as an animal in a trap, these girls will seek to leave the formerly faithful walls that, up until lucidity, were like the den of a hibernating bear, keeping them safe through slumber. Consciousness always brings to light the lacking of these walls, without intricacies which make houses into homes; a million little memories stitched into the very fabric of a place. The smell of eggs, made on the occasional Saturday morning; plumes of smoke rising from the introductory joints smoked directly below an open bedroom window; sick-days spent laying on the couch with a bowl of noodle soup. She finds herself encased within walls imbued with none of these small complexities, and this stirs in her a sense of dread, but, still, they provide a haven for the time being, however long that may be. She can not sink into the couch of her childhood, plush with worn upholstery, with a bowl of macaroni salad. In lieu, her undressed body finds the tawdry green velvet of the sectional bought on the internet: one of her first adult purchases.

By the late hour these girls have decided they must do something, everything will be closed save for the supermarket. It works out nicely because the fridge is bare and the prolonged bouts of sleeping leave the girls unfed. They will realize that they are indeed hungry.

The girls will find themselves in near isolation, with only a few other eccentrics mulling over what to buy. In the baking aisle, she will find an odd couple. A large Black man with his tiny, gay, Asian lover, who is meticulously reading the ingredients on the back of boxed cake mix. She will not need anything in this aisle, but will pretend in order to maintain proximity. Being next to other humans is comfortable. Something about the giant man, with his deep baritone voice, dressed in a subtle, beige sweater, wool cap atop balding head, will be magnetic. His little lover, a tiny pixie of a man. The girl will observe his movements as hummingbird-like, flickering in between different boxes, eyes scanning at an impetuous pace. She will only steal glances, however, and listen from a few feet away, pretending as though she cannot decide between organic or conventional canned pumpkin puree.

Pixie’s voice was hushed and self conscious, the trills of his r’s retaining some of his native tongue’s influence, and he meticulously reflected upon ingredient after ingredient, calorie after calorie, while his aloof lover towered overhead. The height difference was stark, and it was entirely possible the tall man in the cap couldn’t hear Pixie at all from up there. Perhaps, she imagined, the pairing worked so well because Pixie’s neuroticism was always pouring out of him, but his lover was shielded, by the grace of his genetics, to the worst of it.

Rather than allowing Pixie’s rambling to drive him insane, he let his eyes scan the store, peeking on the shelves none of us could normally reach. Pixie’s squeak of a voice was growing unintelligible with the speed at which he was uttering things, as though someone were blowing tiny little puffs in close succession through a whistle, and his face was flushing reds with anxiety as he turned boxes over and over with now trembling hands, lamenting feverishly over the inclusion or exclusion of this or that in each of the ingredient lists. Tall Lover didn’t seem to notice and, instead, contentedly looked around as though he were appreciating the sky on a beautiful day. Pixie, on the other hand, was holding back tears and stretching his hands to read over a box he’d already examined five times, as if only he had missed something. Pixie clutched the box, his grip nearly crushing the cardboard under his graceful but strong fingers, and read once more the list of ingredients, his eyes scanning the text from top to bottom.

His tears began to flow in great spurts. He dropped to his knees in defeat, letting the box of chocolate cake mix fall to the floor, and lifted his chin toward the ceiling, wailing like a mother grieving her dead child. His lover, finally broken from his reverie, frowned and dropped to his knees to console the devastated man. But it was too late. His sobs were torrential, and, as if a water main had broken, the aisles of the grocery store quickly filled inch by inch.

Tall Lover looked at the girl and mouthed, inaudible beneath the noise of Pixie’s cries, “I’m so sorry.” Before she could really consider why, the flood had risen to mid-calf, with little boxes of gelatin and bottles of food coloring and tubs of marshmallow fluff swirling around in the currents created by Pixie’s tears. Like a flash flood barrels through a canyon, our girl would be swept away.

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anonymous-witness777 · 1 year

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The frog’s dewlap expands, fat with potential glory, resonant with longing, deep with hope.

Frog, Tup says, Can you miss a place you ain’t never been to?

The frog stops and turns to Tup. Tears linger in its eyes, and it sings, Little boy, you know I do.

Tup takes the frog onto his lap. He runs his fingers down the smooth skin of its back, and smiles. The planet turns on its axis; the universe is a finger of eternity. Slowly his eyes open, and all around him the dust-caked walls and haphazard furniture of the doctor’s office come into focus. He is lying on a couch patterned in pink and red florets, and as he becomes aware of this other, ordinary world he also becomes aware that he has taken a bit of that starry story with him. For in his hands there remains the frog, its moist skin drying in the desert heat, its jam-charmed dewlap silenced.

#biblically accurate angel #biblically accurate frog #angel frog #magical frog #surreal memes #dreams #dreamlike #surrealist writing #poetic #frogcore #frogblr #ms paint #doodle #doodlecore #old web #fear not

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questionthebox · 2 years

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Jesus In The Fucking Club.

A

Band,

An Aesthetic,

Call Mary

Call Mary nigga cause

Jesus In The Fucking Club.

#poets on tumblr #poetry #poem #spilled ink #surrealist writing

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velvetbronte · 2 years

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“With a convulsion of my vital centre, I came up to the surface so quickly I had vertigo. Once more I saw the staring, ghastly eyes, and I howled: ‘I don’t want...I don’t want this unclean force. I would like to set you free but I won’t be able to do so, because this astronomical force will destroy me if I don’t crush you all...all...all. I must destroy you together with the whole world, because it is growing...it is growing, and the universe is not big enough for such a need of destruction. I am growing. I am growing...and I am afraid, because nothing will be left to destroy.’”

—Leonora Carrington, “Down Below”

#leonora carrington #surrealist #surrealist writing #surrealist art #max ernst #w #women writers #down below #down below quotes #art history #art history writings #writings #writing #feminist literature

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w-y-r-d · 1 year

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In the land of twisted dreams,

Where nothing's quite as it seems,

A tree sprouts upside down,

And wears a crown with a frown.

The sky is made of cotton candy,

And the grass is blue and sandy,

Fish fly and birds swim,

And reality's growing dim.

The sun sets in the east,

And the moon rises in the least,

Stars twinkle in the daylight,

And colors glow in the night.

An elephant wears a hat,

And a giraffe feeds the cat,

A clock tells stories of old,

And a mirror is made of gold.

The world spins round and round,

And nothing makes a sound,

Time is but a fleeting notion,

In this world of endless commotion.

And so I wander on and on,

In this surreal land, all alone,

Hoping to find my way back,

To a world that's not so out of whack.

#surreal #surrealist writing

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darkpiss · 1 year

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n/a

crackhead strength

peanut butter sandwich

keep the door locked!

peeling painted bricks for fun

chocolate covered candies

secreting from women’s assholes

eaten up by the night wolves

waking up drenched in sweat

that fucking goddamn sun

close the blinds, dickhead!

combing through the carpet

marathon of television static

milkshakes with no milk, fuck!

smoking cigarettes in reverse

sticky substances galore

where did all these frogs come from

pouring beers in upside down glasses

shadows laughing from around the corner

how do you put the dvd in again?

are you sure this is the one you wanna watch?

a cool breeze, finally

it’s so hot and sweaty in here

take all the mirrors down

put em back up, facing the other way

hey that’s a damn good song!

turn it up, turn it loose, drop em out

where’s he going with that knife?

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critfumbled · 1 year

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The Hundred Brothers - Donald Antrim

This is a story about 100 brothers, 100 brothers who have all reconvened in their late fathers grand library to ascertain the whereabouts of his ashes. A solipsistic dream where we see, through the eyes of Doug "the family scapegoat", the intricate dynamics of such an event, the alliances, the hostilities, the cliques. This book is packed with all of the brilliant intricacies and insecurities that inevitably arise from such a situation. Antrim creates a story that embraces the darker side of the human condition, the fact that we are all, inevitably, heading towards the same place.

#Donald Antrim #The Hundred Brothers #surrealist writing #book review #book reccomendation

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