Wednesday, May 16, 2007
Monday, April 16, 2007
I feel like an artist today
Upcoming projects:
I. Historical Anachronisms (A Nostalgic Photo Journey)
II. Untitled Techno Album (with Eric Moll)
III. The Walden Variation (a narrative feature film, directed by Eric Goldberg)
IV. Untitled #12 (an abstract painting series)
V. The Contrived Generation (a novel by Tim Moran, Dan Speciale, & Eric Moll)
I. Historical Anachronisms (A Nostalgic Photo Journey)
II. Untitled Techno Album (with Eric Moll)
III. The Walden Variation (a narrative feature film, directed by Eric Goldberg)
IV. Untitled #12 (an abstract painting series)
V. The Contrived Generation (a novel by Tim Moran, Dan Speciale, & Eric Moll)
Eric & Brazil
I drew these things today. I have a strange fascination with turning my friends into cartoon characters all the time (read: Godmebacom).
Gabe, a.k.a. Brazil.
My roommate.
Wednesday, April 4, 2007
The Birth of Kings
Twilight, twilight, twilight...
What a night. This night. Every night. To walk around this building, lit by fluorescent lights, delighting in the buzz and click and hum of the elevators, to dance down corridors, rubbing coarse carpeting with bare feet, to bathe in heater warmth with eyes near closing -- to be young and awake forever -- what a joy, what joy, what a joy, joy, joy we're faced with.
If only a blanket of static fell over us. A quilt of night subdued. If the world was the mind, quiet, but racing -- spinning rapidly without a sign of a scratch or a swerve. The hours would blip away one by two by thee by four, but tangled in a web of meaninglessness. The clocks would slow to a stop. Stop to a slow. Rotating back and forth like pendulums.
To be young and passionate and alive all at once. So much good in so little bad.
The feverish hum of the light bulbs. Electricity coursing through a living breathing building with hundreds of sleeping bodies. The few of guardsmen awake. What joy, what joy, what a joy, joy, joy to be faced with.
We're the lucky few. Those who shed sleep like tights. Or shirts. Or underwear. Who see the strange morning hours. Who notice the clocks which read nothing and everything. Who embrace the reds and blues and yellows and greens like friends long awaited. Who find peace and solace in peace and solace. Who embrace each other tightly, so tightly. Who cling, nails biting skin, hoping that maybe, maybe they did something right. That this joy is ours forever. That morning will never come.
Here passion is born. And never dies. Not ever.
Not ever. Don't you see? We're young and here forever.
What a night. This night. Every night. To walk around this building, lit by fluorescent lights, delighting in the buzz and click and hum of the elevators, to dance down corridors, rubbing coarse carpeting with bare feet, to bathe in heater warmth with eyes near closing -- to be young and awake forever -- what a joy, what joy, what a joy, joy, joy we're faced with.
If only a blanket of static fell over us. A quilt of night subdued. If the world was the mind, quiet, but racing -- spinning rapidly without a sign of a scratch or a swerve. The hours would blip away one by two by thee by four, but tangled in a web of meaninglessness. The clocks would slow to a stop. Stop to a slow. Rotating back and forth like pendulums.
To be young and passionate and alive all at once. So much good in so little bad.
The feverish hum of the light bulbs. Electricity coursing through a living breathing building with hundreds of sleeping bodies. The few of guardsmen awake. What joy, what joy, what a joy, joy, joy to be faced with.
We're the lucky few. Those who shed sleep like tights. Or shirts. Or underwear. Who see the strange morning hours. Who notice the clocks which read nothing and everything. Who embrace the reds and blues and yellows and greens like friends long awaited. Who find peace and solace in peace and solace. Who embrace each other tightly, so tightly. Who cling, nails biting skin, hoping that maybe, maybe they did something right. That this joy is ours forever. That morning will never come.
Here passion is born. And never dies. Not ever.
Not ever. Don't you see? We're young and here forever.
Monday, April 2, 2007
The Great Simplifier
There must be some mathematical equation, a logarithm or algorithm (whatever those mean), which describes the progression of friendship.
I know close proximity is involved. And frequency and duration of contact is incredibly influential. Similar preoccupations, interests, et cetera are foundational (and, perhaps, foundational only -- a constant variable or some type of minimum). And context. O, context, yes!
There have to be some numbers hiding in there somewhere. A shape or graph at least (maybe one of those nifty three dimensional ones I consistently fail to grasp cognitively).
And there is subtraction. There is room for dips in the curve. You can know someone forever and then lose touch -- what happens to your friendship then? What number can be equated to it? And multiplication. You can meet someone and subvert frequency and duration -- jump right up the chart or scale or page. Where ten minutes equals a hundred years, but a hundred years doesn't equal ten minutes. And I'm sure addition is simple and division quite complex. What sort of derivatives can tangle themselves into the mix?
I am confident that words and numbers can express anything. I don't believe they have limits. I need to see my life on a page, simple and clean. In neat columns and rows with constants and variables and solutions.
A place for everything and everything in its place.
I know close proximity is involved. And frequency and duration of contact is incredibly influential. Similar preoccupations, interests, et cetera are foundational (and, perhaps, foundational only -- a constant variable or some type of minimum). And context. O, context, yes!
There have to be some numbers hiding in there somewhere. A shape or graph at least (maybe one of those nifty three dimensional ones I consistently fail to grasp cognitively).
And there is subtraction. There is room for dips in the curve. You can know someone forever and then lose touch -- what happens to your friendship then? What number can be equated to it? And multiplication. You can meet someone and subvert frequency and duration -- jump right up the chart or scale or page. Where ten minutes equals a hundred years, but a hundred years doesn't equal ten minutes. And I'm sure addition is simple and division quite complex. What sort of derivatives can tangle themselves into the mix?
I am confident that words and numbers can express anything. I don't believe they have limits. I need to see my life on a page, simple and clean. In neat columns and rows with constants and variables and solutions.
A place for everything and everything in its place.
Wednesday, March 28, 2007
Caesar #12
A few months ago I had an idea for doing abstract painting on unconventional materials -- tablecloths, place mats, napkins, pizza boxes, et cetera. Here is the first finished product:
Caesar #12, November 2006
It's called Caesar #12 because, the table cloth is vaguely reminiscent of a burial shroud and the geometric pattern of the inner rectangle reminds me of Rome.
The #12 is because I'm always making fun of abstract art and experimental filmmaking, i.e. Untitled #12, the photography project I made earlier this year.
Go Play
For four days running, I have participated in some form of sport-type physical activity and it has been wonderful -- not simply in that they were enjoyable experiences, but that the action's reaction has resulted in me 1) sleeping better, and 2) looking at the world through a lens of optimism and pleasure. On Friday, after class, I played frisbee in the park. On Saturday I went to Columbia and played wiffle ball. On Sunday, I pulled out my baseball glove and played catch, and yesterday, Monday, I participated in an all-out sport's night of sorts, including Ultimate Frisbee, soccer, and baseball. For two nights in a row I've gotten a full eight hours of sleep, more or less.
With the warming weather the atmosphere around campus is much more college-like, and I like that my mind combines the world feeling "college-like" and "spring-like" into one globby mass. They are two goods things to be mixed up in each other. College, to me, is impromptu everything. Impromptu soccer games. Impromptu video game duels. Impromptu debates. Impromptu meals. Impromptu everything. Spring has, for some reason, brought out the best of all of these. Recreation is running rampant in the streets.
Generally, I've thought of recreational activities as indulgences, which drew time away from more important, noble pursuits, but, lately, I tend to view recreation as, at worst, a necessary evil and, at best, a necessary joy. For years I've been able to confront my guilt towards recreation by justifying the watching of movies, reading of comic books, and even, at times, indulging in television as useful in the development of storytelling, a craft I am most essentially lusting, but activities like wiffle ball and video games, for example -- those types of activities were harder to explain and the associated guilt reduced the pleasure of said activities dramatically. Now, I tend to justify them through their own practicality. My brain needs to rest, my muscles need to stretch, and, although some would argue that to be a successful writer once must be immersed in misery and stress, I, for the type of writing I wish to produce, desire happiness and comfort. This is an interesting change in philosophy.
So, go to it, O, guilty ones. Whip out those hacky sacks. Lace up your gym shoes. Find your frisbees. Rustle under your bed for those worn out baseballs. If you have to, buy a new soccer ball. The weather is fine and the season is right.
Go play!
With the warming weather the atmosphere around campus is much more college-like, and I like that my mind combines the world feeling "college-like" and "spring-like" into one globby mass. They are two goods things to be mixed up in each other. College, to me, is impromptu everything. Impromptu soccer games. Impromptu video game duels. Impromptu debates. Impromptu meals. Impromptu everything. Spring has, for some reason, brought out the best of all of these. Recreation is running rampant in the streets.
Generally, I've thought of recreational activities as indulgences, which drew time away from more important, noble pursuits, but, lately, I tend to view recreation as, at worst, a necessary evil and, at best, a necessary joy. For years I've been able to confront my guilt towards recreation by justifying the watching of movies, reading of comic books, and even, at times, indulging in television as useful in the development of storytelling, a craft I am most essentially lusting, but activities like wiffle ball and video games, for example -- those types of activities were harder to explain and the associated guilt reduced the pleasure of said activities dramatically. Now, I tend to justify them through their own practicality. My brain needs to rest, my muscles need to stretch, and, although some would argue that to be a successful writer once must be immersed in misery and stress, I, for the type of writing I wish to produce, desire happiness and comfort. This is an interesting change in philosophy.
So, go to it, O, guilty ones. Whip out those hacky sacks. Lace up your gym shoes. Find your frisbees. Rustle under your bed for those worn out baseballs. If you have to, buy a new soccer ball. The weather is fine and the season is right.
Go play!
Monday, March 19, 2007
An Intricate Plan
An intricate plan
Justifies the sea of blood
That sloshes against the sides
Of the minds of the survivors
With eyes fluttering,
Temple-veins wincing,
And knuckles popping,
A question is posed:
Is heaven a tease,
A delusion to ease
Or is heaven's hunger
As insatiable as ours?
Justifies the sea of blood
That sloshes against the sides
Of the minds of the survivors
With eyes fluttering,
Temple-veins wincing,
And knuckles popping,
A question is posed:
Is heaven a tease,
A delusion to ease
Or is heaven's hunger
As insatiable as ours?
Anonymous Criticism
A disembodied objection
Scraping against twilight's vapors
Raises a glass to misguided extension,
Selfish altruism, and imprudent claims.
Scraping against twilight's vapors
Raises a glass to misguided extension,
Selfish altruism, and imprudent claims.
Old Photos
"Alas, sweet victory!"
The Cone
The Beatings
Yellow
The Mattress
The Walk
The Swimmer
The Triumph
Lust
The Accident
The Birthday
The Drought
The Fall
Ink
Ninety Degrees
North Carolina
Pants
Seagulls
Bird
Chicago
Comrades
Dan
The Concert
Green
Swan
The Mountain
The Tower
Review -- If on a winter's night a traveler (Italo Calvino)
Out of an awkward feeling of altruism, I'm suggesting, though vaguely reluctant, to take what I'm about to suggest about this particular novel with, as they say, "a grain of salt," (though I am distinctly unsure of the original meaning of the previously utilized phrase).
Italo Calvino was a Cuban-born Italian author who just rocked my world. Rocked it, like, hard. I've never had the pleasure (O, what a pleasure!) to read a novel by the author before this one, but, I assure you, I shall be indulging in the whole library of his work at the next earliest convenience (or inconvenience, for that matter). This novel, which is written in a very particular style (it alternates between chapters of second person and chapters of first person) is the story of a Reader attempting to finish a book, which is, ironically, Italo Calvino's If on a winter's night a traveler, despite the numerous obstacles. (As he reads the Reader discovers an error in the book and attempts to replace it, but finds, shortly thereafter, that he has been given a different book, which in turn is lost or destroyed or missing pages. He jumps from book to book in this manner.)
The novel is laced, quite miraculously, with the segments from the book the Reader is working on, and leaves the real reader -- you, me, whomever -- moments before a climax again and again and again. The connection between the reader and the Reader is so strong that I was desperate for him to succeed, desperate, devising ways to aid him in finding the end to a book. There is also such a strong connection between the author, Calvino, and the Author Calvino -- for the voice of the novel is that of an author doing an impression of himself -- that I constantly felt his breath of my shoulders, his eyes scanning me scanning the page, and repeatedly had to stop to investigate his presence. Breathtaking, or some other, better word.
There's is so little I can say without ruining the numerous small and large joys of the novel. The last little point I'll suggest is the incredible skill of the author in utilizing foreshadowing, capitalizing (with huge gains) on previously referenced material and successfully linking together, thematically, shards of prose with the greater story.
Whereas I warned you reader, Reader, to avoid taking my high praise too seriously, now I suggest something altogether different. Read it for yourself. I do not recommend this novel lightly or in passing. I suggest to you -- though it may be too soon to tell -- that it may have changed my way of thinking entirely and forever. I hope, though do not imply, that it will have the same affect on you.
Italo Calvino was a Cuban-born Italian author who just rocked my world. Rocked it, like, hard. I've never had the pleasure (O, what a pleasure!) to read a novel by the author before this one, but, I assure you, I shall be indulging in the whole library of his work at the next earliest convenience (or inconvenience, for that matter). This novel, which is written in a very particular style (it alternates between chapters of second person and chapters of first person) is the story of a Reader attempting to finish a book, which is, ironically, Italo Calvino's If on a winter's night a traveler, despite the numerous obstacles. (As he reads the Reader discovers an error in the book and attempts to replace it, but finds, shortly thereafter, that he has been given a different book, which in turn is lost or destroyed or missing pages. He jumps from book to book in this manner.)
The novel is laced, quite miraculously, with the segments from the book the Reader is working on, and leaves the real reader -- you, me, whomever -- moments before a climax again and again and again. The connection between the reader and the Reader is so strong that I was desperate for him to succeed, desperate, devising ways to aid him in finding the end to a book. There is also such a strong connection between the author, Calvino, and the Author Calvino -- for the voice of the novel is that of an author doing an impression of himself -- that I constantly felt his breath of my shoulders, his eyes scanning me scanning the page, and repeatedly had to stop to investigate his presence. Breathtaking, or some other, better word.
There's is so little I can say without ruining the numerous small and large joys of the novel. The last little point I'll suggest is the incredible skill of the author in utilizing foreshadowing, capitalizing (with huge gains) on previously referenced material and successfully linking together, thematically, shards of prose with the greater story.
Whereas I warned you reader, Reader, to avoid taking my high praise too seriously, now I suggest something altogether different. Read it for yourself. I do not recommend this novel lightly or in passing. I suggest to you -- though it may be too soon to tell -- that it may have changed my way of thinking entirely and forever. I hope, though do not imply, that it will have the same affect on you.
Tuesday, March 13, 2007
Today’s brain-scattered, blood-thinned discourse:
Mourning, cheeks bitten raw, bruised copper
Thoughts hung low on philosophical domination,
Swerving, avoiding the absolution of that damnable,
Silencing, snaked-headed bite
Everything in moderation, he warns, even moderation...
I transverse, diagonally, two colliding one-way streets,
Navigating the man-less voided square
Wobbling Left, but eye-locked Right
Puzzling a mathematical equation:
Two trains, one sauntering Left
Large white spheres, bright and star-studded
Dappling the left-destined red-rust hull,
The other, pulsing Right, slow-chugging,
Low to the track with dry-throated wayfarers,
Pre-made communists, and wretched wretches,
One, aberrant, thoughtful, but mindless,
The laced-straight other conceited, but intellectualized,
Together, with gritty, college town meat hooks
Gutting and rending, slotted precariously into the
Delicate, college-town-meat-hook-sized slots,
Which, central to their respective origins,
Represent half-breathing, lethargically non-moving
Ribcages, pearl white appendages,
Gnawing and vomiting post-vomit spit –
Twin trains yawn, as they leech apart, hyper-literate,
Uneducated, mindful, analytical and over thoughtless.
At what point will their shattering-Earth, nation-state minded,
Trilateral, tri-cameral, high-pitched, intestinal stoppage
Differentiate between pink-throated, wood-paneled debate and
Eight-armed, finger-dam-stoppage, and
Whiteboard-blueprint-case file
Interdepartmental memo planning and
Passive-aggressive, plastic-lined, global conflict-making?
The last-chance decision, a hearse horn of critical timing,
Come and gone, and gone and gone,
And gone, and gone, and gone...
I stand, tangential to an army of faceless, fill-minded,
Socialist socialites, Neo-Neo Liberal, and
Parallel or perpendicular to row after row of squared,
But Radical, middle and upper class American-dreaming
Sleepwalkers, brains, passionless, educated beyond
Romance, Compassion, Sight, and Folklore,
Both seen-sides, my eye corners burning,
Red, whelmed, stimulated, over-stimulated, and hyper.
The trains collide, fields of vision separated
By an infinitely small number of degrees,
Followed shortly thereafter by an infinitely small,
Cruelly scribed, upside-down negative sign,
Which vibrates and gyrates,
Pulsing, hip-thrusting in every European discothèque.
Ex-freight cars, sporting skin-covered, organ-caked wounds,
Indiscriminately, miles apart,
Inexorably tangled by flame,
Discontent, and Other-way looks,
Sheepishly cloister one metallic amniotic sack,
Reluctantly spilling forth oil,
And wine, and liquor, and pamphlets, and my
Dazed, sun-bleached membrane,
Still writhing in uncertain, fabricated agony,
Indecisive despite phenomenal catastrophe.
Motionless, leagues beyond, crouched, praying –
I, that same veined, heart-pumping Membrane,
Colorless and gasping, surrounded in the urban crash zone,
Probe a formula and births myself,
Lying, manipulative, and restless, into
The meeting of a street and an avenue,
And the shuddering cat-tongue of the indecisive,
Able-reasoned, luke-cold crossing guard,
Flicks, forked and sweaty, on the back of my
Illogical, over-logicked, spineless neck.
Mourning, cheeks bitten raw, bruised copper
Thoughts hung low on philosophical domination,
I hum a eulogy:
The last-chance decision, a hearse horn of critical timing,
Come and gone, and gone and gone,
And gone, and gone, and gone...
Thoughts hung low on philosophical domination,
Swerving, avoiding the absolution of that damnable,
Silencing, snaked-headed bite
Everything in moderation, he warns, even moderation...
I transverse, diagonally, two colliding one-way streets,
Navigating the man-less voided square
Wobbling Left, but eye-locked Right
Puzzling a mathematical equation:
Two trains, one sauntering Left
Large white spheres, bright and star-studded
Dappling the left-destined red-rust hull,
The other, pulsing Right, slow-chugging,
Low to the track with dry-throated wayfarers,
Pre-made communists, and wretched wretches,
One, aberrant, thoughtful, but mindless,
The laced-straight other conceited, but intellectualized,
Together, with gritty, college town meat hooks
Gutting and rending, slotted precariously into the
Delicate, college-town-meat-hook-sized slots,
Which, central to their respective origins,
Represent half-breathing, lethargically non-moving
Ribcages, pearl white appendages,
Gnawing and vomiting post-vomit spit –
Twin trains yawn, as they leech apart, hyper-literate,
Uneducated, mindful, analytical and over thoughtless.
At what point will their shattering-Earth, nation-state minded,
Trilateral, tri-cameral, high-pitched, intestinal stoppage
Differentiate between pink-throated, wood-paneled debate and
Eight-armed, finger-dam-stoppage, and
Whiteboard-blueprint-case file
Interdepartmental memo planning and
Passive-aggressive, plastic-lined, global conflict-making?
The last-chance decision, a hearse horn of critical timing,
Come and gone, and gone and gone,
And gone, and gone, and gone...
I stand, tangential to an army of faceless, fill-minded,
Socialist socialites, Neo-Neo Liberal, and
Parallel or perpendicular to row after row of squared,
But Radical, middle and upper class American-dreaming
Sleepwalkers, brains, passionless, educated beyond
Romance, Compassion, Sight, and Folklore,
Both seen-sides, my eye corners burning,
Red, whelmed, stimulated, over-stimulated, and hyper.
The trains collide, fields of vision separated
By an infinitely small number of degrees,
Followed shortly thereafter by an infinitely small,
Cruelly scribed, upside-down negative sign,
Which vibrates and gyrates,
Pulsing, hip-thrusting in every European discothèque.
Ex-freight cars, sporting skin-covered, organ-caked wounds,
Indiscriminately, miles apart,
Inexorably tangled by flame,
Discontent, and Other-way looks,
Sheepishly cloister one metallic amniotic sack,
Reluctantly spilling forth oil,
And wine, and liquor, and pamphlets, and my
Dazed, sun-bleached membrane,
Still writhing in uncertain, fabricated agony,
Indecisive despite phenomenal catastrophe.
Motionless, leagues beyond, crouched, praying –
I, that same veined, heart-pumping Membrane,
Colorless and gasping, surrounded in the urban crash zone,
Probe a formula and births myself,
Lying, manipulative, and restless, into
The meeting of a street and an avenue,
And the shuddering cat-tongue of the indecisive,
Able-reasoned, luke-cold crossing guard,
Flicks, forked and sweaty, on the back of my
Illogical, over-logicked, spineless neck.
Mourning, cheeks bitten raw, bruised copper
Thoughts hung low on philosophical domination,
I hum a eulogy:
The last-chance decision, a hearse horn of critical timing,
Come and gone, and gone and gone,
And gone, and gone, and gone...
Sunday, March 11, 2007
In the Squares of the City...
I was at an Anti-Flag show last weekend -- don't ask -- and was having myself a wonderful time releasing pent up aggression on tight pant-ed, long haired, skinny-ass punk kids when, during the encore, Tom Morello, the guitarist from Rage Against the Machine, came out to play with the band. He proceeded to lead them in punked-out version of "This Land is Your Land," by Woody Guthrie after a moderately long, informative explanation of the song.
Anti-Flag, who are known for their noisy songs infused with anti-nationalist, pro-globalization preoccupations, kicked off their latest tour with a show at Irving Plaza in New York City (which is about thirty seconds from my building). Tom Morello, who has maintained an extremely potent career as the guitarist for Audioslave and as a solo-act, the Nightwatchman, appeared for the encore, since he "happened to be in New York." I suspect he was attempting to stir up some publicity for Rage Against the Machine's reunion show at the Coachella Valley Music and Arts Festival (and subsequent tour), but, on the other hand, I doubt it'd be possible to create anymore publicity for the event. That is neither here nor there, as the subject of this particular discourse is the Woody Guthrie song itself.
This land is your land, this land is my land
From California, to the New York Island
From the redwood forest, to the gulf stream waters
This land was made for you and me
I'd never bothered to investigate the song much beyond nothing it's authorship, and, therefore I was floored to hear from Morello that the song has dark side, which is often omitted in your average grade school rendition. I should've suspected as much, coming from Woody, but it never occurred to me to ever actually listen to a real recording of it.
In the squares of the city - In the shadow of the steeple
Near the relief office - I see my people
And some are grumblin' and some are wonderin'
If this land's still made for you and me.
That sounds more like it. I am probably late to the game on this one, but the irony kills me. Imagine a class of preschoolers chanting the last verse in a end-of-the-year-type celebration. Oh man, I'm dying. I wish I had the desire to be a teacher. I'd take a year out of my life to make sure that happened.
Oh well.
Morello noted at sentiment he holds, hoping that the song "will someday be the national anthem," and I can't help but agree.
The sun comes shining as I was strolling
The wheat fields waving and the dust clouds rolling
The fog was lifting a voice come chanting
This land was made for you and me
Anti-Flag, who are known for their noisy songs infused with anti-nationalist, pro-globalization preoccupations, kicked off their latest tour with a show at Irving Plaza in New York City (which is about thirty seconds from my building). Tom Morello, who has maintained an extremely potent career as the guitarist for Audioslave and as a solo-act, the Nightwatchman, appeared for the encore, since he "happened to be in New York." I suspect he was attempting to stir up some publicity for Rage Against the Machine's reunion show at the Coachella Valley Music and Arts Festival (and subsequent tour), but, on the other hand, I doubt it'd be possible to create anymore publicity for the event. That is neither here nor there, as the subject of this particular discourse is the Woody Guthrie song itself.
This land is your land, this land is my land
From California, to the New York Island
From the redwood forest, to the gulf stream waters
This land was made for you and me
I'd never bothered to investigate the song much beyond nothing it's authorship, and, therefore I was floored to hear from Morello that the song has dark side, which is often omitted in your average grade school rendition. I should've suspected as much, coming from Woody, but it never occurred to me to ever actually listen to a real recording of it.
In the squares of the city - In the shadow of the steeple
Near the relief office - I see my people
And some are grumblin' and some are wonderin'
If this land's still made for you and me.
That sounds more like it. I am probably late to the game on this one, but the irony kills me. Imagine a class of preschoolers chanting the last verse in a end-of-the-year-type celebration. Oh man, I'm dying. I wish I had the desire to be a teacher. I'd take a year out of my life to make sure that happened.
Oh well.
Morello noted at sentiment he holds, hoping that the song "will someday be the national anthem," and I can't help but agree.
The sun comes shining as I was strolling
The wheat fields waving and the dust clouds rolling
The fog was lifting a voice come chanting
This land was made for you and me
When Congress Kicks You In the Man-Junk
I am, generally, pro-"Anything-Involving-Energy-Conservation," but I am not pro-"Energy-Conservation-Bills-With-Many-Flaws-That-Fail-
To-Actually-Save-Energy"
In 2005 -- y'all may know this, but I sure didn't -- Congress decided to expand daylight-saving time (three weeks earlier and one week later). Theoretically, I like this idea. Theoretically, I am pleased about the reduced fuel consumption. Theoretically, I celebrate the average American dude (or dudette) who has an hour of darkness plucked from his or her daily schedule. This is why daylight-saving time exists in the first place, and you can never have too much of a good thing.
Never.
On the other hand, bunches of energy specialists'll try to kill your fun. They'll cite studies, which fail to demonstrate a correlation between fuel consumption and daylight-saving time. They'll claim that the average American's leisure time is inelastic and unaffected by the change. They'll bring up the western time zones where American dudes (and dudettes) will wake up to darkness and have to use lights in the morning instead of at night.
Furthermore, -- not that I don't relish the occasional kick-to-the-pants for American industry -- you'll get complainers whining about the cost to business: missed meetings, computer updates, et cetera. American-based airlines will sound off about how out of sync they'll be with European carriers.
This last lil' bit is the most interesting to me. Airlines, that is. I had a flight this morning. To Houston. To visit my friend at Rice University. I woke, showered, dressed, packed, ate -- prepared to go. I left on time. On my way out, I got a text message. It was from the future. From an hour ahead. I furrowed my brow. The message, which was an ironic "Have a nice flight!" sentiment from a thoughtful friend, claimed to be from 12:15 PM EST, but my time piece argued it was not nearly that late yet. Only 11:15, in fact. As they silently debated the issue, I recalled a silly article I had read in passing on the BBC or some such thing. About the change to daylight-saving time.
I was not pleased. I rescheduled my flight: 8 AM EST (7 AM in a world of justice). It is 70 degrees in Houston today. It is not in New York today. I am cold and bored and indignant.
Meh, what else is new?
To-Actually-Save-Energy"
In 2005 -- y'all may know this, but I sure didn't -- Congress decided to expand daylight-saving time (three weeks earlier and one week later). Theoretically, I like this idea. Theoretically, I am pleased about the reduced fuel consumption. Theoretically, I celebrate the average American dude (or dudette) who has an hour of darkness plucked from his or her daily schedule. This is why daylight-saving time exists in the first place, and you can never have too much of a good thing.
Never.
On the other hand, bunches of energy specialists'll try to kill your fun. They'll cite studies, which fail to demonstrate a correlation between fuel consumption and daylight-saving time. They'll claim that the average American's leisure time is inelastic and unaffected by the change. They'll bring up the western time zones where American dudes (and dudettes) will wake up to darkness and have to use lights in the morning instead of at night.
Furthermore, -- not that I don't relish the occasional kick-to-the-pants for American industry -- you'll get complainers whining about the cost to business: missed meetings, computer updates, et cetera. American-based airlines will sound off about how out of sync they'll be with European carriers.
This last lil' bit is the most interesting to me. Airlines, that is. I had a flight this morning. To Houston. To visit my friend at Rice University. I woke, showered, dressed, packed, ate -- prepared to go. I left on time. On my way out, I got a text message. It was from the future. From an hour ahead. I furrowed my brow. The message, which was an ironic "Have a nice flight!" sentiment from a thoughtful friend, claimed to be from 12:15 PM EST, but my time piece argued it was not nearly that late yet. Only 11:15, in fact. As they silently debated the issue, I recalled a silly article I had read in passing on the BBC or some such thing. About the change to daylight-saving time.
I was not pleased. I rescheduled my flight: 8 AM EST (7 AM in a world of justice). It is 70 degrees in Houston today. It is not in New York today. I am cold and bored and indignant.
Meh, what else is new?
Tuesday, March 6, 2007
Review -- Chronicles: Volume I (Bob Dylan)
I've not a terribly lot to say that isn't masterfully prosed in the dozens of pages of wonderful reviews preceding Dylan's text, but I would like, for my own sake more than anything else, to lift a few quotes, present a few observations, and discuss, briefly, my personal responsive to the evasive but refreshing autobiography of the man himself.
I am not surprised, though warmly pleased, to discover Dylan the author as much of a well-read, serenely thoughtful, anti-icon as Dylan the poet. The book is dappled with simple, invasive phrases: "I'd never seen a robin weep, but could imagine it and it made me sad," and the primary concern of my notation, reading through the book, was to catalog the many, many references to authors and literature, and songwriters and albums, which seems to represent a sort of Bob Dylan cultural influence record. He brushes through analysis of Voltaire, Shelley, Dostoevsky, Freud without a stutter, all the while demonstrating an impressive understanding of history, philosophy, and a over-developed though exhilarating style of human and cultural observation.
An interesting reoccurring theme, a sort of through line in the middle movements of the autobiography, is a constant reanalysis of the Civil War:
"There was a difference in the concept of time, too. In the South, people lived their lives with sun-up, high noon, sunset, spring, summer. In the North, people lived by the clock. The factory stroke, whistles and bells. Northerners had to "be on time." In some ways the Civil War would be a battle of two kinds of time. Abolition of slavery didn't even seem to be an issue when the first shots were fired at Fort Sumter."
And earlier:
"I was beginning to feel that maybe the language had something to do with the causes of the causes and ideals that were tied to the circumstances and blood of what happened over a hundred years ago over secession from the Union -- at least to those generations who were caught in it. All of a sudden, it didn't seem that far back."
It makes me think about World War II and how, though it was less than twenty years before Bob Dylan was having the conversations that led to his Civil War-thoughts, he avoids the subject altogether. Maybe World War II was a simple war, nothing too dense too wade through, not much to linger on for Dylan. He also mentions, in passing, Picasso, in such a way that floored me. It never occurred to me that Picasso lived until 1979 and that he drove in cars and saw past the Vietnam War. I always thought of him as much more distant memory than that. He talks about Picasso in the terms of a modern revolutionary. This was the 1960s, of course. I guess my knowledge of art history is incomplete.
And, certainly, no analysis of a text by Bob Dylan, orchestrated by a current resident of Greenwich Village would be complete without noting, at least, the many passing, poignant references to little spots in the village. Dylan says, loosely quoting Alan Lomax,"if you want to get out of America, go to Greenwich Village." The phrase hits me hard and fast, and I can't help but jot it down, wondering, as I sit in Washington Square Park, who sat on this bench before me?
I eagerly await Volume II.
I am not surprised, though warmly pleased, to discover Dylan the author as much of a well-read, serenely thoughtful, anti-icon as Dylan the poet. The book is dappled with simple, invasive phrases: "I'd never seen a robin weep, but could imagine it and it made me sad," and the primary concern of my notation, reading through the book, was to catalog the many, many references to authors and literature, and songwriters and albums, which seems to represent a sort of Bob Dylan cultural influence record. He brushes through analysis of Voltaire, Shelley, Dostoevsky, Freud without a stutter, all the while demonstrating an impressive understanding of history, philosophy, and a over-developed though exhilarating style of human and cultural observation.
An interesting reoccurring theme, a sort of through line in the middle movements of the autobiography, is a constant reanalysis of the Civil War:
"There was a difference in the concept of time, too. In the South, people lived their lives with sun-up, high noon, sunset, spring, summer. In the North, people lived by the clock. The factory stroke, whistles and bells. Northerners had to "be on time." In some ways the Civil War would be a battle of two kinds of time. Abolition of slavery didn't even seem to be an issue when the first shots were fired at Fort Sumter."
And earlier:
"I was beginning to feel that maybe the language had something to do with the causes of the causes and ideals that were tied to the circumstances and blood of what happened over a hundred years ago over secession from the Union -- at least to those generations who were caught in it. All of a sudden, it didn't seem that far back."
It makes me think about World War II and how, though it was less than twenty years before Bob Dylan was having the conversations that led to his Civil War-thoughts, he avoids the subject altogether. Maybe World War II was a simple war, nothing too dense too wade through, not much to linger on for Dylan. He also mentions, in passing, Picasso, in such a way that floored me. It never occurred to me that Picasso lived until 1979 and that he drove in cars and saw past the Vietnam War. I always thought of him as much more distant memory than that. He talks about Picasso in the terms of a modern revolutionary. This was the 1960s, of course. I guess my knowledge of art history is incomplete.
And, certainly, no analysis of a text by Bob Dylan, orchestrated by a current resident of Greenwich Village would be complete without noting, at least, the many passing, poignant references to little spots in the village. Dylan says, loosely quoting Alan Lomax,"if you want to get out of America, go to Greenwich Village." The phrase hits me hard and fast, and I can't help but jot it down, wondering, as I sit in Washington Square Park, who sat on this bench before me?
I eagerly await Volume II.
Monday, March 5, 2007
I Am Wishing To Learn To Be A Projectionist
I am wishing to learn to be a projectionist so, assuming the inevitable happens and the wily George Lucas has his way, at least I can still see movies on film and the likes. I have been told of a work-study job, which is, essentially, this type of work and I would very much like to be involved in said activity.
I like film. Better than video. Than digital mediums of any sort. Better than this Blu Ray (now available from Netflix) -- though I watched Babel, yesterday, on the Blu Ray and it was quite enjoyable. I think. Honestly, the difference was lost on me entirely.
I like film. I like a haiku or two about film. Here are two:
Twelve million pixels
Eight hundred million colors
and twenty-four frames
I need emulsion
and silver halide crystals
or else I feel dead.
I had to go on Google and type in "the difference between film and video" to determine the exact numbers of things like pixels and hues, but I remembered, without Google, that the difference between film and video was big. Real big. Apparently, in my search the "AND" operator was unnecessary because Google includes all search terms by default. Also, technically, I typed in " the differenc ebtween video and film," but Google was kind enough to correct it for me.
My digital camera is very sad because it has contrast envy (150:1 is a sad comparison to 1000:1 -- the sort of competition you don't go to at all), but it's OK because I use it for convenience and it'll always have that niche in my heart.
George Lucas is a silly man with his digital projectors and 24p video cameras. Doesn't he know how silly Star Wars: Episode II: Attack of the Clones and Star Wars: Episode III: Revenge of the Sith looked? Very silly is the answer, but he probably does not think that.
Babel was shot on film.
I like film. Better than video. Than digital mediums of any sort. Better than this Blu Ray (now available from Netflix) -- though I watched Babel, yesterday, on the Blu Ray and it was quite enjoyable. I think. Honestly, the difference was lost on me entirely.
I like film. I like a haiku or two about film. Here are two:
Twelve million pixels
Eight hundred million colors
and twenty-four frames
I need emulsion
and silver halide crystals
or else I feel dead.
I had to go on Google and type in "the difference between film and video" to determine the exact numbers of things like pixels and hues, but I remembered, without Google, that the difference between film and video was big. Real big. Apparently, in my search the "AND" operator was unnecessary because Google includes all search terms by default. Also, technically, I typed in " the differenc ebtween video and film," but Google was kind enough to correct it for me.
My digital camera is very sad because it has contrast envy (150:1 is a sad comparison to 1000:1 -- the sort of competition you don't go to at all), but it's OK because I use it for convenience and it'll always have that niche in my heart.
George Lucas is a silly man with his digital projectors and 24p video cameras. Doesn't he know how silly Star Wars: Episode II: Attack of the Clones and Star Wars: Episode III: Revenge of the Sith looked? Very silly is the answer, but he probably does not think that.
Babel was shot on film.
Thursday, March 1, 2007
Fighting High, Fight on For the Steel
Tonight I entered into the world of Metal, attending a wonderful concert featuring Chimaira, Dragonforce, and Killswitch Engage.
Metal concerts -- I indulge, pretentiously, with the plural -- for me, are not about the music, they are about a universal shedding of sexual identity, the side-by-side juxtaposition of machismo and feminism: theatrics with brute force, grunts with shrill cries, anger with poise, overtly sexual lunges with rigid, militaristic stances.
Chimaira and Killswitch Engage represent the more masculine side of Metal. They evoke war drums and pounding battle songs. Dragonforce, conversly, represents something akin to a heavy metal version of Queen -- from the increased musicality to the androgynous, hyper-sexual front man.
I'll have to investigate the lyrics in a textual fashion as I failed to understand a single word that was sung (screamed, chanted) over the course of the entire evening. Metal has redeeming qualities, I think -- rhythm, the "dancing," the community, the energy...
To investigate the community more -- to accurately portray my surprise at the geniality and altruism of the community -- this would take more lines of prose than I am willing to pursue at the moment. Let it suffice to say that I saw a man drop his cellphone and a circle of searches form out of nothing; I saw a girl fall to her back and a swarm of helpful hands appear to rescue her; I saw a heavy-set, bald man, chin dappled with course, straggly hair, turn to security guard and thank him for a wonderful evening.
What a strange evening, full of many, many surprises.
Metal concerts -- I indulge, pretentiously, with the plural -- for me, are not about the music, they are about a universal shedding of sexual identity, the side-by-side juxtaposition of machismo and feminism: theatrics with brute force, grunts with shrill cries, anger with poise, overtly sexual lunges with rigid, militaristic stances.
Chimaira and Killswitch Engage represent the more masculine side of Metal. They evoke war drums and pounding battle songs. Dragonforce, conversly, represents something akin to a heavy metal version of Queen -- from the increased musicality to the androgynous, hyper-sexual front man.
I'll have to investigate the lyrics in a textual fashion as I failed to understand a single word that was sung (screamed, chanted) over the course of the entire evening. Metal has redeeming qualities, I think -- rhythm, the "dancing," the community, the energy...
To investigate the community more -- to accurately portray my surprise at the geniality and altruism of the community -- this would take more lines of prose than I am willing to pursue at the moment. Let it suffice to say that I saw a man drop his cellphone and a circle of searches form out of nothing; I saw a girl fall to her back and a swarm of helpful hands appear to rescue her; I saw a heavy-set, bald man, chin dappled with course, straggly hair, turn to security guard and thank him for a wonderful evening.
What a strange evening, full of many, many surprises.
Friday, February 23, 2007
Tim O'Brien: The Things They Carried
It's time to be blunt.
I'm forty-three years old, true, and I'm a writer now, and a long time ago I walked through Quang Ngai Province as a foot soldier.
Almost everything else is invented.
But it's not a game. It's a form. Right here, now, as I invent myself, I'm thinking of all I want to tell you about why this book is written as it is. For instance, I want to tell you this: twenty years ago I watched a man die on a trail near the village of My Khe. I did not kill him. But I was present, you see, and my presence was guilt enough. I remember his face, which was not a pretty face, because his jaw was in his throat, and I remember feeling the burden of responsibility and grief. I blamed myself. And rightly so, because I was present.
But listen. Even that story is made up.
I want you to feel what I felt. I want you to know why story-truth is truer sometimes than happening-truth.
Here is the happening-truth. I was once a soldier. There were many bodies, real bodies with real faces, but I was young then, and I was afraid to look. And now twenty years later, I'm left with faceless responsibility and faceless grief.
Here is the story-truth. He was a slim, dead almost dainty young man of about twenty. He lay in the center of a red clay trail near the village of My Khe. His jaw was in his throat. His one eye was shut, the other eye was a star-shaped hole. I killed him.
What stories can do, I guess, is make things present.
I can look at things I never looked at. I can attach faces to grief and love and pity and God. I can be brave. I can make myself feel again.
"Daddy, tell the truth," Kathleen can say, "did you ever kill anybody?" And I can say, honestly, "Of course not."
Or I can say, honestly, “Yes.”’
I'm forty-three years old, true, and I'm a writer now, and a long time ago I walked through Quang Ngai Province as a foot soldier.
Almost everything else is invented.
But it's not a game. It's a form. Right here, now, as I invent myself, I'm thinking of all I want to tell you about why this book is written as it is. For instance, I want to tell you this: twenty years ago I watched a man die on a trail near the village of My Khe. I did not kill him. But I was present, you see, and my presence was guilt enough. I remember his face, which was not a pretty face, because his jaw was in his throat, and I remember feeling the burden of responsibility and grief. I blamed myself. And rightly so, because I was present.
But listen. Even that story is made up.
I want you to feel what I felt. I want you to know why story-truth is truer sometimes than happening-truth.
Here is the happening-truth. I was once a soldier. There were many bodies, real bodies with real faces, but I was young then, and I was afraid to look. And now twenty years later, I'm left with faceless responsibility and faceless grief.
Here is the story-truth. He was a slim, dead almost dainty young man of about twenty. He lay in the center of a red clay trail near the village of My Khe. His jaw was in his throat. His one eye was shut, the other eye was a star-shaped hole. I killed him.
What stories can do, I guess, is make things present.
I can look at things I never looked at. I can attach faces to grief and love and pity and God. I can be brave. I can make myself feel again.
"Daddy, tell the truth," Kathleen can say, "did you ever kill anybody?" And I can say, honestly, "Of course not."
Or I can say, honestly, “Yes.”’
Sunday, February 18, 2007
Reading List
Extremely Loud, And Incredibly Close
Fight Club
On the Road
Ender's Game
Angela's Ashes
Me Talk Pretty One Day
A People's History of the United States
The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy
Walden
Catcher in the Rye
Fight Club
On the Road
Ender's Game
Angela's Ashes
Me Talk Pretty One Day
A People's History of the United States
The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy
Walden
Catcher in the Rye
Saturday, February 17, 2007
The Contrived Generation
Pictures, photographs, polaroids, slides, little wool caps, winter breath, grey coats, and stoops, dust, sand, highways, viynl, and trains cars.
This generation sucks.
The internet (facebook, myspace, instant messanger), text messaging, digital cameras, iPods -- this is our generation, and it sucks.
Where is our artistic community? Where is our heart beat? Where are the innovators? The rebels? And, what -- are we going to show the next generation our facebook pages? Are we going to gather the grandchildren, set them in a semi-circle around an iPod, and flip through one's and zero's of our youthful adventures in New York City, Europe, the American West?
Where are our cold water flats? Our years of journey and self-exploration? Where are the movements? Where are the battle-lines?
We have a war, but no shattered twenty-somethings in search of completion, healing -- no antsy youth incapable of standing still, squirming under the heat of inability, smallness, and futility. We have a war, but no guilt.
We are spoiled by the Baby Boomers. We're complacent. We're comfortable. We're content. We're callous.
We're contrived.
This is the contrived generation.
This generation sucks.
The internet (facebook, myspace, instant messanger), text messaging, digital cameras, iPods -- this is our generation, and it sucks.
Where is our artistic community? Where is our heart beat? Where are the innovators? The rebels? And, what -- are we going to show the next generation our facebook pages? Are we going to gather the grandchildren, set them in a semi-circle around an iPod, and flip through one's and zero's of our youthful adventures in New York City, Europe, the American West?
Where are our cold water flats? Our years of journey and self-exploration? Where are the movements? Where are the battle-lines?
We have a war, but no shattered twenty-somethings in search of completion, healing -- no antsy youth incapable of standing still, squirming under the heat of inability, smallness, and futility. We have a war, but no guilt.
We are spoiled by the Baby Boomers. We're complacent. We're comfortable. We're content. We're callous.
We're contrived.
This is the contrived generation.
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