A family asks a young psychiatrists to be their guest and look after their father who's developed a suicidal fixation for ropes and knots. It is also entirely possible that the mental health of the guest is the real cause for concern.
An ordinary funeral procession moves along its path from church to cemetery. Observing, you slip from reality into a place where time has lost its linearity, looping through the odd images thrown off by a distorted reality. Images of non-existence, of varying reflections of death issuing from both past and future, concrete yet abstract, horrible yet desirable. A family asks a young psychiatrist to be their guest for a while to untangle the circumstances of their father's illness. He's developed a suicidal fixation for ropes and knots among other things. While deeply involved in analyzing the patient's delirium, the doctor begins to lose track of what is taking place. The task of "how to help" is twisted into "who am I? Doctor or patient? Chance guest, member of this suffering family, or a catholic priest who has dreamed this all up?" In order to get a handle on it all, it's best to start from the beginning, but why do things keep shifting, changing?—Anonymous
A forest near the coast. A pension or is it a private villa? A guest or is he a psychiatrist? Is he here to relaxor to treat the sick?
A villa. A psychiatrist or a patient with an appointment from a colleague for an examination? Or is it his wife whos brought him here, hoping to prevent a suicide? Or a murder? A clear conspiracy. And each with his role. Consciousness arranges endless combinations of possibilities of time, space, people, and events. It is imperative to get to the bottom of what is happening. Or of what seems to be happening.
Someone is in the yard. In the forest. At the villa, or is it a pension? Something is happening. In reality or is it a hallucination? In order to know, one must start again at the beginning, or perhaps at the end? Yet starting again provides few answers. Utter complication and confusion. Hopelessly lost among the possibilities for interpretation. Perhaps its best to just move on?
A villa. A family. A mother and daughter. A son. Or is he a son-in-law? Or a priest? Hes there often enough. She may not like it, but she keeps quiet about it. Its difficult to speak with that scar on her face. Such a regrettable case, what happened to the maid. But she wont talk about it. Not a word. Never. With that scar on her face. The face of a daughter, perhaps
A guest. Or a psychiatrist? Hes found a pension for his vacation. Or was he called out for a consult? He resists at first, but he did recommend this, perhaps even insisted. He was forced to accept. Its pointless. The patient is dead. Or is it his son? The pension, no matter how it might look on the outside, is just perfect for a nice rest.
The coast, on the outskirts. A villa. Or is it a pension? A large, two storey house with an attic, some broken windows, like on a set, props in a play. It looks like no one is home and nothing is happening.
