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!

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?

Anonymous Criticism

A disembodied objection
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.

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...

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

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?

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 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.

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.