A book! Websites!

Despite appearances, I actually have been writing quite a lot. It's all just been in the form of comments here.



Oh, and there is a book. The cover looks like this. More can be learned at these websites:

yesterdayandtodaybook.com

lonelysong.com

The latter is the site of my publishing company (this term is used in the loosest sense). It includes a place for feedback and a discussion forum. It was also designed expressly for all browsers not named Internet Explorer. IE 7 and earlier do not display the site correctly. But I am not expending the energy required to figure out how to fix this.

Web designing would NOT be my dream job. Tedious is a gentle way to describe it. Not that I wouldn't be willing to take on the job of helping someone design their simple site, but adding much functionality seems to increase difficulty exponentially.

Anyway, I stand behind Yesterday and Today. Early feedback indicates that it encourages readers to THINK! And that, in essence, is all I hope for.

Alrighty then!

Did we enjoy that? The comments were just flowing in! But you must admit that The Fool's Discontent wasn't HORRIBLE. Or at least the last part wasn't. As long as you take a broad approach to the whole thing. None of that "this line is awkward/ugly/stupid" kind of stuff. Please. I am not a poet.

But anyway, soon there will be a printed book. It is called Yesterday and Today, it's highly unique, you can read the first bit here (not that reading this excerpt can predict one's reaction to the rest of the book), and I am making websites which I will link to as soon as they do not cause me embarrassment to look at. I am not a web designer.

I think a while ago I said I was going to make a post devoted to another blogger who I don't know at all but has proven to be very fascinating. This will happen at some point, I still think. But I want to write something good, and currently I think I would call myself "mentally busy."

Also, the Indianapolis 500 is a fantastic institution and I love it. The pursuit of speed. Hanging it out on the ragged edge going into turn one. Ah, yeah. If you ain't seen it you may not follow. But you should check it out.

But nowadays, the series built around cars that race at Indianapolis (and otherwheres too) is in a bit of crisis, a financial situation brought on by, among other things, lack of identity. This guy, though he and I may not be idealistically in complete alignment (or we may, hard to tell), is at least THINKing deeply about the issue. Which is a fun thing for any issue. THINK! Yeah! and drink alpha king pale ale generously while doing so*


*don't trust the results of this partnership.

The Fool's Discontent, Part 7

Read part 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6

VII.

But if

Your poem’s not long enough, strong enough, wait!

The piper is calling for you

And if your song is not high enough, clear enough, jump!

No bird ever stumbled that flew

And if your story’s not sharp enough, deep enough, look:

I know what you seek is the True!

And if

Your fingers clutch weakly at things that don’t seem

To bear up the glory or harbor the dream

And your toes become numb in the biting dry air

Of the cold empty hall leading on to nowhere

And love is a rope and your spirit a chair

And if

Your feet are too slow

And your hands are too wet

And your ears are too close

And your dreams are too set

And your head is too hard

And your mind is too soft

If your thoughts are too clean

And your will is too weak

If your eyes are too thin

And your lips cannot speak

And your heart runs so quick when your thoughts start a-spinning

And your thoughts are set dark when the man starts a-grinning

And your raw throat constricts at the thought of not singing

And your brain gives a leap at the thought of not thinking

And if

Your hands start to shake at the thought of control

And your skin starts to crawl at the call of the night

And your nose starts to curl at the taste of defeat

And your eyes start to glass at the thought of respite

And you turn

And you toss

And you cannot catch sleep

And you envy the dawn with her red morning mist

And you envy the sand with her fluid white pearls

And you envy the forest with her whisp’ring laugh

And you envy the sky with her playful light fits

And you envy the sea with her black magic eyes

And her sweet-smelling sense

And her cool salty smiles

And you run down the road while the night is yet black

And you run to the cliffs with the moon at your back

And you run with the wind as the horizon shatters

And you run with abandon as though nothing matters

And you long for the stone-cut dreams that are found

Where the head meets the heart and the sun hits the ground

And you envy the sea with her mad ocean gown

And her foaming white lace

And her shafted-light crown

And you toss

And you turn

And you stare

And you frown

And you just want to sing out in prayer before you drown

I will meet you on the wild black forest hills

At sundown.

Slightly more useful District 9 commentary

Oh yeah, that District 9 thing. I was going to make up for my feeble attempt at reviewing, right? Well anyway, here's what I find most interesting about this film:

1. The documentary-style opening sequence is two things: very well executed (usually when movies take this approach it comes off, at best, as very "fake") and a perfect way to hammer home the political/societal seriousness of the movie to follow. Of course, as previously mentioned this doesn't especially pan out. But in any case, a great zinger opening.


2. The aliens have RIDICULOUS weapons and are superhumanly powerful. Which, regardless of whether the movie is supposed to say something to us Americans or is a strictly an apartheid commentary, makes them silly as slum-dwelling refugees. It just don't jive, you know? Like, we're supposed to believe they're all so downtrodden they trade their body-exploding guns for cat food?


3. There's a lot of F-bombing in District 9. That's not really anything unusual. What is unusual is just how...non-intrusive it is. Unlike the many films which have celebrated the f-word by using it either in a certain context or in an over-the-top manner (e.g. the "F---ing A" catchphrase of The Deer Hunter or - duh - Scarface), the word's prevalence in this film is clearly no more than a reflection of the times. Wikus's frequent use of "f---" whenever he gets into trouble slides by almost unnoticeably because we are so used to hearing it in this context.

"F---" has become so incredibly ubiquitous in everyday conversation that it probably deserves its own post at some point.


4. The action and core story are, when you get down to it, pretty darn conventional. Lots of missed bullets, convenient breaks in the action whenever the protagonists need to talk, a moment rather early on when you KNOW which character is going to do what for whom during the climactic sequence.

But nevertheless, something about the whole production really makes you want to root hard for the success of the protagonists. You just have to refrain from thinking too hard about it.


IN conclusion, District 9 is an interesting and unique movie that works best as a strongly contextualized (i.e. set in Johannesburg) sci-fi/action piece. Unfortunately, certain elements of the film and its story strongly encourage us to seek a greater significance, and by seeking we only uncover flaws that make it impossible to take any of it very seriously.

Movie Review: District 9

This is a good one! It's also pretty bizarre, and not just because there's a dude turning into fish-(super)man.

It's all in the way it starts. "Looky here! I am an out-and-proud in-your-face allegory! When I say 'alien refugee in the ghetto' you see an outer-space fishy man, but you know - oh yes, you KNOW - that what I'm really talking about is HUMAN refugee in the ghetto! Like someone from Sudan, or Iraqi Kurdistan, or Gaza, or even like a Mexican in America!"

Very clear, very upfront. Thus, you gets the impression that the next couple of hours are going to either be 1) an all-out liberal attack on American foreign dealings 2) a surprisingly nuanced commentary on the same subject or 3) An arty exposition of South African apartheid which will probably fly right over your head.

But then suddenly the movie becomes a straight-up sci-fi/action/suspense smashup. And that all plays out in none-too-unpredictable a way. And then we're briefly reminded of the original allegorical premise. And that's it. Whoa.

To be fair, District 9 maintains a consistent anti-xenophobia, pro-human rights stance throughout. But the main plot works entirely apart from all that. The realism of the Johannesburg setting and the characterization of the aliens as refugee-types definitely makes the story more engaging, but we would expect the initial allegory to manifest itself in the plot, and this doesn't happen.

So, the movie's weird. It's some of one thing, some of another, and together these things are very entertaining...but there's little lasting impact. I don't come away feeling any different about the politics of immigration and refugees and exploitation and Blackwater (=MNU?).

Oh. Wait. This thing is South African, through and through. Gah. So I guess all of these American-angled musings are, at best, invented interpretations. Darn. And Mendocino Talon True Style Barley Wine Ale (this is better) has left me in no condition to go back and reapproach this monster from a more proper angle. Well, at least I anticipated it with option 3 above. Maybe I'll come back tomorrow with something unstupid to say.

Wow. I guess District 9 gave this reviewer a whuppin'. Several stars for that.

***

The Fool's Discontent, Part 6

The seventh part is best...

Read Part 1, 2, 3, 4, 5.

VI.

At last you walk on down the stair
Away from lights
Far from the show
To the heart
The heart and soul
Or so it should be
Right?

I too thought so

The library indeed is full
Full of things that were said
And things that were dreamt
And known and learned and taught
So much is here that can be bought…
You shudder at the thought

Who could price these dusty volumes?
The spirit held in long-dormant slumber
Yet alive and banished from all sight
Dying from a world
That tramples down the highways
Of the Great Conversation
With the grinding gold-thirsty desires
Of Now Especially
Or whatever comes next
(And does it matter?)
There is no conversation now!
Have you spoken once today?
Will you ever speak
Is the toll too steep?

And now your liquid thoughts are running
Rolling down your cheeks as though
They might just freeze and crack and shatter
Success success, oh does it matter?

Your smiling guide, unheeding, beams
“Finally see
The library free
From thoughts rank and musty
From words dry and rusty
From almost all the nets and traps
(Just avoid the dusty jackets)

“And after years of service here
Perhaps you will have some
Great, sincere, well-wrought, clear
Song that you might hum
And if your song is strong and proud
And your head is set on straight
And if your poem is well-formed
And your steps are never late
And if your story is a tale
Of length and depth and quick-spun fate
Well then!
You may stand up proud in the place that ours
And the masters’ works call home-
Find some space in the long back row
And proudly add your own”






But…

The Fool's Discontent, Part 5

Seven parts. The seventh part is best.

Read Part 1, 2, 3, 4


V. Meanwhile…

A window open in the westward wing
Allows well-calculated prescriptions to be delivered
To those outside whose time is passed
Or not to come.
Your mother is one.
Her heart is heavy in her breast
Crying out
Do I not know myself best?

The reply is soft, well practiced
Like warm mist to the ears
Black smoke to the mind:
   Good mother, if life were truly your own
   And this generous well were dry to the bone
   And the things that we know were nevermore shown
   Do you really believe you could go it alone?

Now awakened
Now she plumbs the depths of her deepest thought
There is something – something!
Unordered, wild, empty
It could have been…it will not be.

In loneliness of clouded dreams
She has everything she needs
Everything she cannot reach
Everything she cannot say.

She stalls, she prays
His stare is learned
It does not stray
Backed by the power of knowledge in gray
The sacrosanct peer-reviewed cards on display
And under its weight she concedes

A good quotation

Before finishing up The Fool's Discontent I have to mention a great quote from Andrew Klavan (author/screenwriter, apparently, though I've never heard of him) in an article for the Wall Street Journal.

It is a sentiment that I agree with, so far as I understand how things work:

Free people can treat each other justly, but they can't make life fair. To get rid of the unfairness among individuals, you have to exercise power over them. The more fairness you want, the more power you need. Thus, all dreams of fairness become dreams of tyranny in the end.

I am no "quotes" person - In almost all cases I prefer working out my own way of verbalizing a sentiment to finding another speaker that shares the same view.

But this one statement struck me in a funny way. I don't know why, exactly. It's not as though there is something unusually perceptive in it, or that the words are put together especially elegantly. I mean, I think I would have said a very similar thing in the context of the right conversation.

I guess it's just the simplicity and profundity all at once. Read the quote. Is this not truth? Is this not what history has repeatedly demonstrated to us? What if every American citizen - especially given our current political issues - were to consider this sentiment, in these words? This much is sure: we would all have a much better understanding of our own personal political positions.

Oh, by the way, the article, which is right here, is a hypothetical look at "death panel" situations that presumably will arise if the President gets his way with healthcare reforms. Not sure the article, aside from the quote above, is something to take too seriously.

But then again, who knows? I guess I'll be good either way if I can just avoid the cancer.

The Fool's Discontent, Part 4

Seven parts. The seventh part is best. The rest? Well...

Read Part 1, 2, 3


IV.

Your guide glows as he takes you
To the high court room where the high judge sits
Before the residents
Over radiant glories you try to perceive
But it is so hard to make sense
The gold medallion round his neck
The silver crown with ruby lights
Upon his head of snow-white hair
And iron staff and granite jaw
All is meant to culture awe-
You know, yet feel it not so well
As you should, perhaps…?

But is this not a curious thing!
From the mighty hand of the judge hang strings
A panel of experts with numbers they bring
Pull and twist the hanging strings
Under great strain the strings will swing
The hand will slide
The numbers sing
Though alone they might be silent…

And now comes a man with a word of his own
Kneeling before the judge he throws
The offering
Up unto the iron scepter
The scepter dips
The experts stand
With excitement on their faces
They do the dance of tongues
All at once the word goes flying
Soaring over, up, around
Spinning, whirling, laughing, changing
Drawing life, becoming, being
Landing on the ground
Confusion now! You know not what to say -
The formless formed, a man in tatters
One the slave – now the master
Is it boon or bright disaster?

“Someday I’ll be welcome here”
Your smiling guide exalts
“After weeks
And days and years
Years of working with the leaders
I will stand along!
After dancing to their meters
I will make my song!
And step in step we all shall stand
Gathered here before the hand.”

So warm, the thought of brotherhood
(And sisterhood, lest we forget)
But some are not so blessed
Have you closely watched the hand?

There are years the hand points east.
There are years the hand points west.
(But of course it never marks the wrong direction)
Some have dared to turn away
Some have dared to laugh
Some have dared to reinvent
Some have dared to cry

Some have dared to try, and failing
Not to lie

But you should hear it:
The cost of divergence from the hand of the judge!
The scorn and the heat and the cold metal buzz
The head-shaking frowns and lament for what was
The ironic grip of the crowd’s gleeful jaws
The trampled-on feeling of truth that just gnaws
You might find your name all buried in sludge
You might find yourself locked away in a grudge
If you should ever dare turn from the judge

But when the judge himself turns
Which happens
Quite often indeed
Like black oil
On the open sea
It just slides by
Unmentionably

The Fool's Discontent, Part 3

Seven parts. The seventh part is best. The rest? Well, let's just say it essentially works as a multi-way comment on a certain subject...

Read Part 1, 2


III. (The Smiling Guide)

      Is it true what they say
      Are you a ghost
      Are you a slave?
      Are your veins ensheathed in cloudy ice?

“Oh, no, no!
This is my home
I was once inside your shoes
I was once a foolish child
But now with mastery of form
I proceed unharmed and warm”

      But warmth in full?
      In speech and face
      In subtle touch
      One feels it but – what of the heart? What of the soul?

“Of the soul?
Oh yes, in full
I am warmed in all, in full
I have learned the proper way
The way is here, my friend, I promise
My path to now has been the strongest”

      And truly think you this?
      No question
      Or hesitance
      Ever marks your placid brow?

“It could be true
It once was true
I used to wander late at night
Scattered in uncertainty
But here my mind with truth enfolded,
Heart and soul were gently molded
I can give you all my word
For I am now free as a bird
As such I’ve read, or so been told
Or seen in some art-form of old”

      But what of the wild plain
      The dark wood
      The burning sun?
      Even now you cringe in the light of the window!

“The light, the light
The outer light?
I don’t…
I mean…
Ah yes…
But no…
It is not what you think

“Our light in here
Is much more clear
than that of cloudy outside dreaming
I need not those foolish charms
Put point to point, in here is better
This I claim, and to the letter

“Now pray do not continue asking
Things so fully unalarming
I am equipped to take your tasking
Words so sharp yet so unharming
Have a little better manner
If you hope to hold our banner”


So round the halls and through the rooms you sweep
A smiling guide, an anxious hopeful son
Through gliding doors
Over spotless white tiles
Up the stone-stepped stair
Past the humming piercing lights
Past the sparkling gleaming granite statue
Of Old J--, the local conquering hero
A trailblazing fearless giver of most importance…

  (But oh the dust and shadows of the back rooms!
  What dark and lofty secrets do they hide?
  What souls and speeches now vilified
  Might have been heard, long, long ago
  By the thin and humorless window-light
  By the fading crusty leather volumes
  Before their melancholy night?)

“…and that was Old J--
What a hooligan
He was back in his stodgy day!
We owe him all, or so I say –
Do you listen not today?” your smiling guide inquires
“Never mind - this is your time
Follow me on up the tower
Come and see the honest power
Of all we are and want to be
Look through me, I’m not ashamed
Of what you see, of what I am
And soon you’ll know the cause!”

The Fool's Discontent, Part 2

Seven parts. The seventh part is best. The rest? Well, let's just say it essentially works as a multi-way comment on a certain subject. The subject? If it doesn't become clear then it's probably not relevant to you...

read Part I first


II.

In the high-arched entry of the guarded house
Stand fruits of thought, of history
The magic smell of faded mystery
enchants the pure clean figures all in rows:
Artifacts of kings and sages
Ideas of the ages,
Borne on the leaves
Of countless books
And ghostly shades
Of a thousand faces –

But what a curious condition:
Some faces bright, the remnant hidden
For light streams from the inner halls!
The lens of Then and Now Especially
Bends the light in beams directly
On a few of these wise faces
And peeking from the shadowed places
The rest all stifle scornful smiles
Your eyes adjust – you now beguiled
Feeling like a foster child
Scorned by hidden ancestry

  Is this meant to be?

“Too vaguely formed this question!”; thus
Your smiling guide replies:
“Oh surely you could not expect
A room awash in untrained light!
Those who strive to see it straight
The residents who bear the weight
They work so hard to aim this light
Time is short it must aim right
And choice is forced you see.

“But do not fear
All are hear!
Some are just…not so near
Some are just…not so right
Some to us are now a blight
You of course may meet them all
But only in our thought-safe light!

“And…well-” (he reads from a glossy tract)
“Well it may be to meet the darkened faces
Out somewhere in the wild open places
Where ruby burns the dawn and black the night
And sirens of the hollow grasping wood
Call to you…

"-We would not go so wrong with you
Casting spells upon you
We would not send you out from pasture
Lacking compass, map, or measure

“…Come now, forget this room
It is but show, and you find gloom!”

Ten thousand books
A thousand faces
laugh at one – not you, the other
You wonder that he is not bothered
Perhaps he cannot see
Perhaps he chooses not to see

The Fool's Discontent, Part I

I wrote most of this over a year ago, and haven't laid a finger on it in several months. To my eyes most of it looks rather lame. But that's only natural, I guess, given that it wasn't made yesterday.

So now I'm throwing it out there. Seven parts. The seventh part is best. The rest? Well, let's just say it essentially works as a multi-way comment on a certain subject. The subject? If it doesn't become clear then it's probably not relevant to you...

The Fool's Discontent

I.

And have you waited for this?

A brimming stronghold of the minds
All so neatly unaligned
In step in rhyme in time
  Behind the toll-gate
  Where knowledge waits
  On silver, gold and plastic plates
And all who would feast
On that which thought brings
Or just pleasant things
Must pass through this gate

Oh, but you!
You of open heart and liquid thought
“So much is here that could be bought”
Your smiling guide intones
“Dip your hand in the courtyard well for a vision
Of all we hope shall soon be yours to hold
See! How pure and clear the fragile sunrise
Shines, dissected and explained. And hear
The living breath of music fastened to
The page. And watch the colors all come out
And you’ve seen black and white and blue and green
Now marvel at the splendor of true gray!”

And speaking he recedes
Through the heavy doors
The eager open doors
You look out one more time
Past the wall and gate
Over the open lea
To the black forest hills
All at once the fire burns!
and dreaming of the sun you turn…
But you, they always said that you know best.

So enter now and long stay set
On slumber, peace, and happiness
And falter not as I have done
Yet there is no one race to run
And I am waiting here

A POEM, now

I'm really not that into creating poetry. I like reading it, sometimes. But as far making it up, here's the thing:

There are no more rules. Nothing that you can think of to do in poetry is outside of 1) the already done or 2) the legitimate.

Don't agree? Note the straight-faced critiques of a recent poetry movement based on compiling random search engine results

I rest my case.

Poetry is a maddening thing, in which the concepts of "good" and "bad" are now hopelessly lost behind the concepts of "new" and "different".

Example:

So much depends
upon

a red wheel
barrow

glazed with rain
water

beside the white
chickens

Good? Bad? Who's to say? But tell me that anything in this poem demonstrates some necessary skill or unique intellect! Tell me that the poem would be anything special if the author were anonymous.

This reality is why I much prefer making songs, where poetic phrases can be combined with musical textures, and thus at least one part of the equation must carry some level of objective decency (i.e. the music must be listenable, otherwise the words are irrelevant). Not to mention the diverse moods that different music can confer up an identical line of text...

But I digress. Anyway, it was lyrics I was imagining when I came up with the key part of the long poem I am going to begin posting.

This part is the 7th (and last) section, which I imagined not in terms of how it would look on a page, but rather how it would sound spoken/sung aloud.

The other six sections were created to set up the finale (and to comment on...well, you'll see).



What was written above hopefully makes sense. "Poetry" is a pretty big bite to attempt to chew. Especially in conjunction with "beer enjoyment".

Excerpt from "Yesterday and Today" Part 2

Ok, here's part 2. DO NOT READ IT. Unless you have read part 1. Otherwise it's just not sensible, you know?


       One second.
       His eyes met her face. He perused it, explored it. Twenty-three? Twenty-four? She had those small lines of concern, of worldly experience. She surely must have been a bit younger than him!... but she looked tired, worn-out. Is this the same girl who had been doing the dance? he thought. How strange, how…
       But suddenly he could think no more. The ringing in his mind grew fiercely loud and the barriers between the mind and senses crumbled, flooding his whole being with feeling. His skin burned, his tongue was dry, a storm exploded in his head. He could not think. A thunderous grayness enveloped his mind. The words which had flowed so airily through his mind were buried in the flood. He could not hear, he could not feel, he could not smell.
       He could still see. He could do nothing but see, and watch; his whole being numbed with a buzzing paralysis. Everything now unfolded like a movie. His vision narrowed, flattened, focused only on her face, her face which seemed inches from his now, turned so that he could see both eyes.
       One-half second.
       Her eyes filled his vision. Her eyes did not meet his. He watched as they widened, staring at something far beyond him. The pupils dilated into large, black holes. He could see the blood vessels around them, shooting out into the whites, pulsating. He could do nothing but watch.
       One-quarter second.
       Her eyes grew dull, the lids relaxing together in surrender. Rolling lazily to the side, they met his. And stopped. He was awash in sensation. This was it. Everything froze. They held the stare.
       Zero seconds.
       The square-paneled mirror cut into his field of vision from the left, gradually blocking her face from view. One eye. No eyes. The stare interrupted, his focus released. He now saw everything. A body. A mirror where a head should be. A truck attached to the mirror. Sirens. The buzz was unbearable.
       Pop.
       It was one noise, a single moment of contact. No complexity. Shattered bone, smashed tissue, horrifying, gruesome, tragic – everything left to imagination. Just a simple pop. A faint pink puff appeared to the right side of the mirror. Her hands jerked. Her feet lifted from the ground. She flipped like a doll, arms flung overhead. The truck had passed. As she spun, he caught a glimpse of what had been her face. There was no more face. The nose was gone, eyes were buried behind flaps of raw red-and-white tissue. One more flip. This time her extended arms brushed the pavement and the continued rotation of the strung-out body brought her legs smashing to the ground. She crumpled, falling forward onto her knees, chest, and finally her face. What had been a face. The hands hit the ground last. The fingers on the right one twitched.
       The roar in his head subsided, his mind was released and his senses returned to something near normal. The stale air in his lungs tumbled out and he began to breathe again. He could think again. I feel nothing, he thought, testing his emotions...



The guy goes on to an interesting philosophical crisis, and other stuff happens. Hopefully, it's all quite compelling. That was my intent in the writing of the book, of course.

Excerpt from "Yesterday and Today" Part 1

All right! Here is part of the book I wrote (Yesterday and Today may seem like a lame title, but there are layers...). The book is a novella, about 34,000 words, and one might describe it as a sort of various-themed essay clothed in narration. One might. Yeah.

But there is some action, and this scene, which happens near the beginning of the book, contains it. It does not stand alone, and really only works as a part of the whole, but I think it is perhaps at least interesting to read.

Copy, paste:

...Restraining his thoughts, the young man looked up. The city street was cool, channeling softly the hazy red-orange glow of a rising sun. Everything was fresh, as fresh and lifelike as the city would allow, and the man was pleasantly surprised (for he had not before traveled the sidewalk at this early hour) by the sharp impression of cleanliness brought on by swept walks and potted plants, colorful awnings over empty entryways, the coolness of the dew. The finest of all hours, he mused. Safe, clean, and almost – almost pretty.

And quiet. In an hour Broad Street would be full of cars, the city would hum, the haze would be scattered, and contemplation could cease. Only the task ahead.

Of course, the task ahead had never been so…

He broke off again, interrupted by the noise of a lone vehicle speeding loudly up from behind. He instinctively took a step to his right, away from the curb.

How long till rush hour...

And this is what happened: up ahead, maybe thirty feet, a young woman stepped – skipped, really – from an alleyway. It was bizarre: not the clothes, not the movements, not even the wild spontaneity (morning after in the city, after all…), but in the whole of the scene he clearly perceived some indefinable strangeness.

Only one word worked: twirling. Ten to seven in the morning and this girl was twirling, performing some ridiculous drunken happy dance directly in his path. Well. He slowed his step and cast his eyes down to her feet, refusing to offer any gaze, any invitation. No invitations, not to early morning twirlers.

She was wearing heels, but she danced lightly on her toes. For a few steps, at least. It could not have been more than just few steps, a few seconds of silly, meaningless lighthearted movement. Only the aura of incredible excitement in her motions (again, the bizarreness of it all…) somehow created a sensation of greater significance. That was all, so he thought later.

Regardless, the dance came quickly to an end. With a leap and one final twirl she landed delicately on her toes before planting her high heels emphatically into the pavement. One heel did not stop.

It was an old story, the sidewalks of the city. The papers would not let it rest – dangerous crevasses, hazardous pedestrian potholes…one must be careful when stomping around, especially in the uneven drive of an alleyway. What could she have been thinking, he thought amusedly (knowing full well that a person in such a condition as hers would not bother with foot placement, nor be bothered by any consequences thereof). Well, it would be safe for him to look up – her attention was surely distracted now by the task of balancing.

Two seconds.

His eyes rose to her middle as her middle slid to his left. He stared into her clothing, but did not see it. He took a breath. Time slowed. Why did time slow? he thought, clearly and calmly, musing as if his mind were an island, floating somewhere away from everything – which it was, suddenly, as his senses had become saturated, had filled up and fallen away from his conscious. He could feel the cool misty haze brushing against his skin, the hair on his head twitching as particles of the dead-still morning air flowed softly through it. The air slid through his parted lips and against the underside of his tongue, which was lightly pressed against the back of his front teeth. He could feel the groove between them, could taste the single grain of sugar stuck there by the pastry he had just finished. Everything was distinct, every sensation was perfectly packaged in the body; distilled and perceived from afar by the mind. A thunderous cloud of sound and smell invaded his nostrils and ears. It was rich and powerful, like mighty rushing waters, engine oil, asphalt, the roar of the speedway, the odor of the city, hints of smoke, burning…and into the thick brew a faraway siren cut sharply.

One and three-fourths seconds.

How strange, he thought. What could possibly be happening? he thought, with detached curiosity. His mind was quiet, empty, clear and silent, almost ringing.

His eyes had become fixed on her hands, hands that swung wildly around as she flailed to maintain balance. Suddenly they became clear. He could see the soft outline of veins on the back of her right hand, the hard outline of tensed tendons. Her fingers were frozen, extended. He saw them vividly and distinctly, as though she stood five feet away, offering her hand in greeting.

One and one-half seconds.

His eyes rose to her neck, which was lined with delicate sinew as she pulled her jaw tight. Sparkles of sweat or dew shone at the edges of her neck as beams of sunlight reflected around its profile. She was so close. His mind was so clear, so apart. Her neck was like a picture, which he could gaze upon for hours. He felt his eyes as they moved in their sockets. How strange, he thought, again, for the there was so much time to think. He listened hard to the silence, the hollow ringing. It was immensely quiet. His sight was not affected by depth – everything was in focus. He watched as the sharp outline of a streetlight post slid across his field of vision, disappearing behind her neck and reappearing on the other side.

She was still stumbling, still trying to regain balance. Stop trying, he thought, allowing concern into his mind for the first time. Take the fall. You don’t want to fall out in the dirty street; I can help if you get a little banged up (he had taken a first-aid class once); who are you? He formed the words completely, deliberately. His mind was so clear...

Wow, this is longer than I thought, SO how about a "part 2" tomorrow? Yes, how bout it. Hope you're on the edge of your seat. All you loyal followers.

Ok, now I do this...

I will make lots of posts over the next few weeks +. 3 things:

1. I have finished the 3rd (and at least very nearly final) draft of a novella. Now I have to figure out how to get it published. It is supposed to be serious. Most of the content does not make sense without context, but I will try to figure out an excerpt that can stand alone and post it.

2. I made a long poem that I think is decent but will become increasingly irrelevant to me (except for the end. The end is a rush!) So I will post it soon, in sections.

3. I have to write something dedicated to this person who I don't know who doesn't know me whose blog entries I read. Why? The thought processes evident in this person's writing are...fascinating? That sounds cliche - which is why I have to make a proper post to explain.

In wake of last post...

Looks like Andy Roddick kind of upstaged the Blake/Fish story.

The singles final exuded a very strange feeling, even as the 5th set went on and on. The audience was very nonpartisan, seeming to empathize more and more with the looming agony of the inevitable loser of such a long match - whereas last year, there was the Roger camp and Rafa camp, desperately wanting their player to win at all costs. Two wildly different moods, given the similarly epic matches.

Only thing that bugs me is that you could tell in the aftermath that Roger Federer didn't NEED it, not like last year; he was more intrigued by the historical significance of the moment than truly elated by the win itself, and wouldn't have been more than merely disappointed had he lost. A win would have meant SO MUCH MORE to Andy - and by the same token, the loss hit clearly hit him very hard.

Oh well. Sport is real, which is good.

Wimbledon - Blake/Fish get the shaft

So, [pretend] you've been paying attention to Wimbledon; watching the bigger matches (e.g. Andy Roddick's fantastic semifinal win over Murray) on television, checking the paper to see who's left, that kind of thing.

If someone asked you about the performance of the Americans so far in the tournament (so far = through Friday, 7/3/2009), this is what you might know:

1. Venus and Serena are playing each other in the singles final and playing on the same team in the doubles final.
2. Andy Roddick is in the men's singles final against Roger Federer.
3. The Bryan brothers are in the doubles final.

And here is what you would almost certainly NOT know:

1. The slapped-together doubles team of James Blake and Mardy Fish, both known almost exclusively as singles players, stormed to the semifinals of Wimbledon, the furthest EITHER ONE OF THEM has ever made it in a Grand Slam in either singles OR doubles. In the semifinals they played an epic 3 1/2 hour match, losing 10-8 in the fifth set to defending champions Nestor and Zimonjic.

Now that's a great story, isn't it? That's something that would be fun to be part of, to follow it as it unfolded, right?

Here's the thing: watch enough tennis and you will notice that broadcasters commonly lament the lack of American men in the second week of Grand Slams, and they complain about not having "big-name" singles players in the doubles draws. This second complaint often goes hand in hand with a lament for the lack of popularity of doubles in recent years.

So, what do ESPN and NBC do when a perfect opportunity arrives to address ALL of the issues above?

They ignore it. Completely.

At one point, during a women's singles match, an NBC announcer mentioned in passing that the Bryan brothers had made it to the final - opponent "YET TO BE DETERMINED."

Are you kidding? Could they do any better if the instruction had been to "keep this Blake/Fish business quiet"? (The answer: NO)


To pull it all together, here is my complaint: Guys, you SAY you wish doubles was more popular. But when the chance arises to latch on to a uniquely compelling story, to drum up interest for the sport, you pay no regard. And guys, you say you wish there were more American tennis success stories. But you apparently don't consider an improbable CAREER-BEST run by a team of two American mostly-singles players a legitimate success story or worthy of even the slightest bit of coverage. Furthermore, in all of this you reinforce the idea that doubles tennis is somehow a second-tier sport.


Men's doubles, especially at Wimbledon where they still play real 5-set matches, is by no means a second-tier sport. It's a highly entertaining, fast-paced game that has had its share of unbelievably competitive contests. Doubles is something that anyone who has ever played tennis can relate to - it's not some fringe event. It's also something in which the United States can claim the number one team in the world (the Bryans).

Yet instead of showing reliably competitive men's doubles, you can count on the networks to replay the day's earlier singles "action" (i.e. some 6-0 6-0 Williams beatdown of a deer-in-headlights 17-year-old with no business being on Center Court).
What a joke.

"Big names" are what you make them, guys. By continuing to treat doubles like JV, you will neither make "big names" nor attract them. And we are all worse off for it.

Movie Review: 2001: A Space Odyssey

Ok, whoa. First: this is unlike anything else (probably - if you disagree with such a statement, I would love to see the evidence).

Second: on some level, this must be an utter masterpiece. Or a complete disaster. No middle ground can be held, because it's clear at every moment that the creator (let's call him Kubrick) was reaching for the epic, the enormous. The visuals, the music, the ratio of image-to-dialogue. - everything is set on a hugely ambitious scale.

So. What to think?

As far as the sights and sounds go, I find 2001: A Space Odyssey fantastic. Gorgeous. High art.
The symphonic soundtrack is grandiose, and the slow, deliberate unfolding of every image is a wonderful thing to experience. And this ain't Star Wars space - this is a dreamy fictionalization of the real deal, silent and expansive, completely mystifying. In this one aspect - the presentation of a fantastic, imaginative universe - the film is brilliant.

Except for one thing: the on-board zero-G scenes. And this, I suppose, is simply a measure of the times (1968). But as I watch the people shuffling through spacecraft cabins in their Grip shoes, it's so very hard not to imagine how you'd really be moving around - in MID-AIR!! And this detail is especially nagging since the rest of what we see is so seamlessly great.

So. The style is four stars all the way, notwithstanding my one complaint.

Next up: the story itself, the themes therein, and pretty much everything that distinguishes a film from a mere sound/picture collage.

Let me say this: when I evaluate something I've read/seen/heard, I make every effort to understand it as well as I can. And not just in relation to myself and my own experience, but also (and maybe even more so) within the context of the work's creation (is that not they teach over and over in literature classes, anyway?). I mean, before condemning any aspect of a Stanley Kubrick film from 1968 I must be careful to consider where the thing comes from.

And that could be a lot of talking, but here's an example: in the last segment we are treated to a good 10 minutes of trippy color collages sliding by. If someone made that on a computer today, I would probably say "oh, nice. Bit long, don't you think?"

But knowing that this scene was put together in 1968, with no computer technology, in an era where experimentation with color and music was at an all-time-high; knowing that in its day this scene was a wonderfully original feat of filmmaking...well, I must give it greater respect (or at least, I must make darn sure I know what I'm saying if I choose to put it down).
The same sort of thing applies to the personification of HAL 9000 - he seems so familiar because it is THE prototype.


All that said, here is my analysis of the plot and theme(s) of 2001: A Space Odyssey:
ARE YOU JOKING?????!!!!

Now, if you haven't seen it, go now before reading further. Maybe you'll "get it."
But see, that's why I made that big spiel above: in a way I ALWAYS "get it." I may not get what's so great about "getting it", but I ALWAYS seek out the opinions of those who "get it", figure out what "getting it" means, and think "ah, I see how it could be this way - I see where those who 'get it' are coming from, even if I disagree"

But this time I. Do. Not. Get it. See if you can help: a black monolith descends upon the earth, endowing some ape-men with slightly higher cognitive (moral....?) function; later on, scientists discover a black monolith on the moon beaming radio waves toward Jupiter, but when a Main Character approaches it emits a piercing mechanical sound; later on, a little bit of philosophy involving a deviant computer occurs as a new Main Character travels toward Jupiter in search of yet another monolith; later on, the character views the monolith, which leads him quickly through the stages of his life and then full-circle into a giant-eyed fake-looking baby still encased in its amniotic sac....AND THEN THERE'S THE EARTH AND THERE'S THE BABY AND THE BABY'S AS BIG AS THE EARTH and then the curtain falls.

Boom. Here's my problem: it is what you make of it and only what you make of it. The greatness of what this film SAYS is merely the greatness of the words that others put in it's mouth. Because 2001 doesn't SAY anything. It is a pastiche, to be sure a dazzlingly beautiful one, but one that is completely incoherent. There is NO "aha!" moment where it all fits, where the 2 1/2 hours of spectacle are joined into some overwhelming (for it could not be otherwise) sense of truth or feeling or even just relief of tension.

No, the baby shows up and it's just a baby, and you can go back later and piece it together and call it poetry and explain how the baby and the monolith and the computer can be thematically enfolded, but then it's YOU doing the talking, honey. The end of the film is styled such that it suggests that some kind of "full circle" has been achieved, but it simply hasn't.

And that is my stand. 2001: A Space Odyssey is a collection of brilliant images, sounds, and ideas that have no inherent sense among them. They are open, wide-open to the point of having no shared thematic substance.

Stars aren't at all useful in describing such an out-of-the-box thing. Here are a some, anyway:


***

Drunken(n)ess = 1 or 2 n's?

Jury's still out.

Drunkeness?

Lots of alcohol, enough to slow you down, make your eye movements lag, make you feel like everything you want is so much closer than it actually is.

And that is where I am right now (promise), and it is an interesting place to be.

Deep in conversations which you wish for sober, don't have sober, could give much better treatment to sober.

Willing to make real confessions...which I guess I could do NOW, except I just realized that instead of just BC anyone who follows my blog (=Gerard at the moment) can see my email address - same one that I use to talk to gramma. Crap.

But this is the state in which the last half verse of the stupid song about the month of May (yeah, it's actually decent) I made seem much more immediate...

I look into the mirror
My face is getting clearer
Everything is nearer
Everything is open wide....

And...oh there are so many things to say when you throw open the doors of your mind...
But no, no, can't do that, not now. In songs, maybe. In the book I'm almost done with, definitely (though that's not supposed to be TOO obvious). But not in plain language, not like this. That's why the blog was titled THINK - because too often we evaluate what is said on the basis of who is saying it.

But often (usually, always?) WHO is so much more compelling than WHAT. The double standard: evaluate my song for what it is, but I'll dig as deep as possible to discover the mind/heart behind the song I listen to

Ok, that's enough about ME...maybe. I don't know. That homemade 136 proof rum was darn good.

Gerard is #1!

Well I wrote down somewhere on this thing that I would dedicate a post to the first person to comment (no link or anything because I think it was a lame post...probably with some bad grammars...)

But since, though there are no comments, I actually have an official FOLLOWER now, and since I actually KNOW this follower, I think I will change all the rules and dedicate this post to that follower. Alright!

Let's see: Gerard plays drums quite well, and also other stuff well enough to have put together some song selections on an EP that I have - and that will be worth lots and lots of money when he becomes famous. And he also started a blog during that process (which I do link to because there is no embarrassment in it for me).

So...ah, how about the music?

("The biggest favor I will ever ask of anyone is to honestly tell me what they think."
-Gerard P. 1/11/09)

So basically, there are two parts to the EP (you gotta admit this would be some nice publicity if, well, the public read my blog)

1. Several up-tempo, rather high energy rock-like songs. There are definitely some very cool ideas going on - there's a jam section in one song that has a non major/minor flavor, which could probably be expanded upon to interesting effect live. The bass groove on "Deluge" is a good starting touch. There is a funky little acoustic interlude at some point that yells "make me into a song!" Oo actually, if you click the EP link up there and go to the end of "The Least I Can Do" you'll hear it.

The songs for the most part are coming musically from a place that is not too familiar to me. That is to say, if I had to assemble a list of possible influences for the writer of these songs I would mostly draw a blank. So I'm not really qualified here to make any kind of comparison judgments or anything. In the spirit of honesty, I will say that the similarities in sound among the tracks generally overshadows the differences.

Thematically, a lot of the songs seem pretty "specific" to me. I listen and think hmm, in 5 years could the artist say the exact same thing and still stand behind it? And if I use myself (i.e. the way I think about stuff I wrote months, years before) as a template, in most cases I say nahhh... But of course, this is all for Gerard to decide. And hey, if I was more into the Neil Young style of saying things I might have more love for lines like "Today I burned an American flag / 'Cause I won't let freedom die".
In conclusion, if I had to pick two children, I'd probably pick "Deluge" and...


2. Obstacles.

Yeah, so this song is good. Really good. A very universal sentiment (growin' up, leavin') captured in a very characterstic way. The mood fits the lyrics fit the melody fits the chords... THIS is the song where I say "I wish I made that up." The most inspired part of the whole thing is the percussion, which I think really helps complicate the mood.

Last thing: here's the sophisticated SHROPSHIRE/NOLL-produced video featuring the first-ever performance of "Obstacles". After thinking deeply for awhile, at 0:46 Gerard gets up and creates the masterpiece. At least, that's how legend has it.

On the Jury! (Part 2)

If you haven't read part 1 I'd suggest checking it out first, since here I'm just going to offer a couple of thoughts on the experience.

1. Here's the wild thing about serving on the jury. You are, in the public sphere, inarguably important. It's not just that you feel important - that's inconsequential, really. You ARE important, not only to the basic functioning of the judicial system but to determining the enduring circumstances that at least one individual will find him/herself in.

Think about it. "I, along with five others, was charged with deciding the fate of a defendant in a criminal trial. Our opinion would be the final say on the matter. My dissent alone would be enough to prevent a decision that I disagreed with."

They took every opportunity to tell us jurors just how important and proud we should feel...in the same sort of language a company happy for our business or the government happy for our vote would use. The same kind of attributes that I've heard ascribed to doers and activists and exceptional students in schools and professional athletes etc. etc. - the kind of talk that in our time (perhaps other times, too?) has no meaning or substance beyond the feeling it gives the complimented.

It is easy to be jaded. I go to the store, buy something, they say "You're our number one customer!" Well, maybe I am. Maybe I'm not. Who can tell? By the same token, if they say "You're a loser. We don't need your business." - well, maybe they don't. Maybe my purchase is a drop in the bucket. I go to jury duty, they say "You're important...." Same thing, right?

But sitting in that jury box I could not help but grasp that the reality of my involvement in the proceedings transcended anything anyone could say. There's the judge. There's the two lawyers. And then there's me, and if the defendant hears 'not guilty' it will be because I feel that this should be so.

Where else in the public sphere can a "regular" citizen's opinion and reasoning carry such weight?

If this was a two-way thing (i.e. people read this blog) I'd say "hey, anyone got an idea?" But since it's not, I think that's enough licking of jury duty's boots. (and the metaphor...yeah)

2. Crime happened in March. So. lawyers' fees between March and June: thousands of dollars. An entire day's work for one judge: thousands of dollars. The staff required to track down and brief jurors: thousands of dollars. Missed work by jurors: thousands of dollars.

One bracelet: pri...oh, wait, no. $80.

An unbalanced equation?

3. They get trials and lawyers better on screen than, say, doctors and hospitals. Twelve Angry Men? Fantastic movie. The jury dynamics are remarkably believable (even if some other aspects are not).

One guy on my jury would have fit right in: "See how she looks at the camera? Aw, she's guilty, you know it!"

On the Jury! (Part 1)

To hear most people talk about it, you'd think jury duty was a) something to dread, b) something to get out of, and c) something to...just endure, mostly. And I can see how that works - in fact, if things had gone much differently yesterday I might be in total agreement.

But you know what? Actually serving on a jury changes everything. A few aspects of the experience I found to be extremely unique. It's both surprisingly like and unlike what you might expect from the ubiquitous pop culture jury/trial representations. But first, here's how it went down:

Showed up at 8:30 AM (told to be there at 8). Filled out a short survey, watched instructional video (stressed the pride you should feel in being a juror). One judge walked into the room, said all her cases were resolved for the day, and thanked us pretty comprehensively. At about 10, 14 of us, including me, were selected from the 30 or so in the room. About 175 had been summoned that day.

So we were walked down to one of the courtrooms and filed into the jury box. The two lawyers (both women) and the defendant (a girl who was probably 19-20) were present, as was the judge. The judge gave us some instructions, and then we were briefly surveyed by each lawyer. I spoke up once or twice, trying to say something decently intelligent without revealing any kind of bias. At this point I'm thinking "what the heck, I want to do this". After some more waiting, getting sent out of the room and called back in, 6 of us, including me, were instructed to stay.

So, after lunch - about 1:15 - the trial actually starts. Girl is accused of stealing an $80 bracelet from department store. Everyone agrees that she picked it up. She says she put it down somewhere in the store. Prosecution says after not cooperating with the "loss prevention officer" in the parking lot after leaving the store, she somehow slipped it to her sister (who subsequently drove away). But the thing is, the bracelet was never found. Not in defendant's purse, not in the store, not in the car.

So it ended up being a sort of he said she said thing. This was not helped by the prosecuting lawyer, who called in the loss prevention guy to describe what he saw on the security video and THEN showed us the video (choppy and not in the least conclusive), instead of simply having the guy explain what was going on as the video rolled. The other lawyer was a younger woman who called out "objection" at every opportunity - much to the chagrin of the judge, who would roll his eyes before grumbling "sustain" or "overrule" as if he really, really didn't care.

Oh yeah - the judge. This guy was in appearance and mannerisms a classic grumpy old man, but he treated the jury quite civilly and had a dry, rather acidic sense of humor. He took no effort to disguise his annoyance (at least as I reasoned) at the monumental waste of resources on such a trivial matter (more on that later) and a couple times he cracked seriously wise on the lawyers.
Example:
Prosecution lawyer: "The state would like to request that-"
Judge: "Well then go ahead and just REQUEST it - I don't care what the state WOULD want to do."
PL (in stride, to her credit): "The state requests that exhibit A be brought in"
J: "Now or later?"
PL: "Now."
J: "Okay, go ahead"
(Pause, laywer turns to someone in audience)
PL: "The state requests 5 minutes to set up the DVD player..."
J:"Well that would be 'later,' then, wouldn't it?"

You had to cringe a bit for the lawyers, but you know what? Not a single person in that courtroom suffered for lack of entertainment.

Anyway, it was almost 5PM by the time both sides wrapped up. Prosecution called 2 witnesses and showed the tape, defense called 1 witness (the defendant), and after a few final instructions we were sent to go figure things out. Out of the 6 of us, 4 initially leaned "not guilty" and 2 "guilty". But it only took about 30 minutes to reach an agreement - even after going back and looking frame-by-frame at the tape there was simply not enough evidence to conclude anything other than "not guilty"

And that is what we did. I think it was the right call. The state's case wasn't very good. If she REALLY managed to steal the stupid thing and get away with it...she deserved it.

This is now long, so I will make it a part 1.

Movie Review: Funny Games

Yar, you thought I was done. Just like this guy, and this guy (many thanks to them for making good use of their desirable domains).

But anyway, this is weird stuff: it's like, I watched this movie, and it was something different, and I wanted to write it up. And so I started and then I didn't want to do it and then about a month later I started again but then I didn't remember the thing so well and so...

Whatever. I hope I didn't lose too many fans. Ha.

So let's get rid of this stupid movie and then maybe I can type up something else:

Name: Funny Games (and apparently there are two versions and apparently this is the latter)

Purpose: Some kind of meta-horror-suspense kind of thing. Oh, I know! It's "The Hostel Next Door"! That's what it is...man, I hope someone gets to read that one. Yes, what happens is two kids with no weapons walk into a secluded house and...
Ok, actually, it would be better if you didn't know before hand (admittedly, a difficult position to be in [no, no, don't click on the link {isn't this the way they notate math equations, but backwards?}]). My, I seem a trifle over-buoyant today.

Yeah, so it would be better it you were clueless going in - because I was, and let me tell you, I was completely mesmerized by this early scene:

The wife is in the kitchen, and one of the creepy kids is asking to borrow eggs - some story about helping out the neighbors. She's at ease - a bit disinterested, in fact (by the way, great acting job by Naomi Watts), but you KNOW something's not quite right. The camera follows her to the fridge, he slips out of the picture. She moves back, camera follows. He's in a different place. Weird - but his posture isn't threatening, it's not like he's done anything unusual, he's just moved. She grabs her kitchen knife, rinses it, puts it on the counter, goes back to the fridge; he slides off-camera. Here it comes, you think. She closes the door, turns around. Camera creeps back to center. He's in a different place again! Whoa! But same thing as before - no grabbing of the knife, no aggressiveness. They keep making small talk, the camera - a single, continuous shot (this being the crux of the tension) - just keeps drifting back and forth, and you keep thinking about that knife, and he keeps getting closer to her, and then...

He takes the eggs, walks out, shot ends, scene's done, no harm. And you're still holding your breath. It's incredible. Things just keep getting more tense and uncomfortable from there. And the rest is up to you to discover - I won't spoil it; you'll have to choose that path yourself.

Not everything is perfect. The little 4th-wall breaks (you'll know when you get there) are meant to enforce the themes, but actually sabotage the "this-could-happen" feeling that is so crucially gripping. That aside, this film aims deep and cuts deep. It is not entertainment; it is a powerful statement a fantastic comment on the disconnect between our cultural paradigms of screen horror and real-life horror.

And here's the thing: I have never seen a movie as viscerally suspensful as Funny Games. It's far more gripping than any of those violence/horror-as-entertainment films it critiques. Ironic and remarkable.

So take yer adult (stress: ADULT) sensibilities and watch this thing.

****