My hard drive (I'm lumping three into one) is full of random television shows. Lots of stuff from Salute Your Shorts to Deadwood. From Revolutionary Girl Utena to Ren and Stimpy. It's intense. I'm feeling the burn right now downloading... Veronica Mars or The Animaniacs, I can't remember. I'll have to do some shuffling later.
But I only have two full-length movies.
The Battleship Potemkin by Sergei Eisenstein and
Zack and Miri Make a Porno by Kevin Smith
Now, I have spent lots of time discussing, defending and basically preaching the gospel of both geniuses. Admittedly, I've spent more time discussing the genius of Kevin Smith than Eisenstein, but mostly because everyone knows how brilliant Eisenstein is. I mean, come on, modern comic art wouldn't exist if Eisenstein's theory of montage hadn't happened. That's just obvious. Seriously, if you don't know his work, look him up. You know that montage scene in every movie you've ever seen? It wouldn't exist without him. So take a moment during Team America World Police to be entertained by the contributions of a Russian revolutionary to that song about montage.
Kevin Smith, however, people write off as just a comic fan writing vulgar scripts about slackers, so I have to defend him. His insight into a 20-something existence is just as profound now, as I AM a fucking twenty-something as it was when I was an adolescent being shown what I had to look forward to. Dante's obsession with the bitch who fucked him over in high school, Brodie's tendency to ignore Rene in favor of video games, Alyssa getting pissed off at Holden for putting all that pressure on her and then Dogma's disillusionment and faith. I could go on and on about how great Dogma is. No one agrees with me, but I put it in a class with Dante and Milton. Maybe that's cuz I'm on the outside looking in. Anyway, Smith's ability to tell the truth is what's so impressive. He's true to his characters and doesn't make them do things they wouldn't. Ok, he stretches Jay and Silent Bob quite a bit, but that's kind of their whole raison d'etre. If you need this in MLA format, I'd be happy to oblige, just say the word.
Anyway, I asked Michelle earlier what she thinks it means about me that the only movies on my hard drive are Eisenstein and Kevin Smith and she said it probably doesn't mean much. She's right. Although, Kevin Smith wouldn't be able to do what he does, nor would those comics he so deeply love exist in their proper narrative form without Eisenstein's work. So maybe the choice isn't that random.
Let's be honest though. It mostly was.
Monday, August 15, 2011
Saturday, August 13, 2011
Cotton vs. Kerouac. I love you too.
I have always wished I could clothe myself in books and music rather than simple cotton blends. Tonight i'd be a combination of Jack Kerouac's The Subterraneans and Sleater-Kinney's "Let's Call it Love".
I hate getting dressed because it never fully reflects my mood. Since my mood is always best described by books, movies, music and video games, its no wonder that cotton, spandex, wool and other synthetic textiles fall short of the narrative magic I prefer to envelop my consciousness in.
I buy any tshirt relevent to books I like. They fall short as well.
Outland tonight. Cotton blends.
I hate getting dressed because it never fully reflects my mood. Since my mood is always best described by books, movies, music and video games, its no wonder that cotton, spandex, wool and other synthetic textiles fall short of the narrative magic I prefer to envelop my consciousness in.
I buy any tshirt relevent to books I like. They fall short as well.
Outland tonight. Cotton blends.
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Wednesday, July 27, 2011
The cat
There's this cat that's been hanging around my house. Lounging on the porch in full view of Puck and on the front steps blocking my path. He's older, has long, sparse fur and is rail-thin.
He has a look about him, though. Obviously he's either sick or come on some hard times. He's not hale and hearty like Puck. But he's got this look of past might. Sad eyes tell a tale of glory and woe. I started wondering about his name. I could only think of "king" in various languages. Then I thought of Oedipus and his wandering the countryside a broken grotesque. I wondered if something equally horrible happened to my new furry neighbor. If "Roi" had befallen a terrible fate and exiled himself as his own cruel punishment.
A fallen king. An exiled grotesque plagued by his past strength and nobility. A one-was. Who are you, my Roi? Teasing the young man in a cage because you've lost all other ways to make yourself mighty. Blocking my path to cry for attention in a moment of tired weakness- a beggar king.
I named him Roi to avoid the English and Greek associations. I wonder if he understood that I've given him permission to lounge on my steps and porch? I know he understood and appreciated my friendly scratch on the head, anyway. Always be nice to beggar-kings.
He has a look about him, though. Obviously he's either sick or come on some hard times. He's not hale and hearty like Puck. But he's got this look of past might. Sad eyes tell a tale of glory and woe. I started wondering about his name. I could only think of "king" in various languages. Then I thought of Oedipus and his wandering the countryside a broken grotesque. I wondered if something equally horrible happened to my new furry neighbor. If "Roi" had befallen a terrible fate and exiled himself as his own cruel punishment.
A fallen king. An exiled grotesque plagued by his past strength and nobility. A one-was. Who are you, my Roi? Teasing the young man in a cage because you've lost all other ways to make yourself mighty. Blocking my path to cry for attention in a moment of tired weakness- a beggar king.
I named him Roi to avoid the English and Greek associations. I wonder if he understood that I've given him permission to lounge on my steps and porch? I know he understood and appreciated my friendly scratch on the head, anyway. Always be nice to beggar-kings.
Published with Blogger-droid v1.7.4
Tuesday, May 17, 2011
Forgettable?
As old as i am, it still disturbs me that there are times in my life that i can't remember. That there are some days that are utterly forgettable. Nothing significant happens so in passing weeks, months, years, you forget that day. You forget most days. It's all reduced to a mood or a feeling or an atmosphere that may give a lasting impression with nothing specific to give you a reason for those impressions. No text to cite as a source in your MLA formatted five-paragraph essay about why that day gave that impression. It's like the day never happened at all.
And what use does it serve if there isnt anything special about it? Thats why i used to keep a diary, because i wanted to remember at least something about every day. And I found that usually there was something that, on that day, made it unique. I'd write that down and move on. Reading over old entries from high school or whenever, I can't remember those things at all. I see that they happened because i wrote them down, but a quiz in French or someone coming to school to talk about drugs are only memorable in the short term, not the long term. It's the long term that unsettles me.
There's a picture on Facebook of someone dresses as me. You'd think that was memorable, but apparently not. I'd forgotten entirely until i saw the picture. Even reminded, all i've got is a vague bell-ring of an idea she'd had one day. No memory at all of her borrowing clothes and going to a party dressed in a Blanche costume. Then i felt bad, as if people dressed like me all the time, which they thankfully don't. It's awkward enough that someone did it once.
I know this is just the way our minds work. We can't hold on to every detail of every day for our entire lives. There simply isn't enough space. I just want to know when, or how often, i purge those files to free up more memory? Is there a disk cleanup function that reorganizes and archives my files to create more room for newer or more frequently accessed files? I just got a new external with 2TBs of space. Can I fill THAT with old days I've lost? I guess i'd have to compress them pretty severly. Maybe that's what my problem is. The pieces i'm missing are the pieces that are dropped out to compress the file for storage. The equivalent of high notes and low tones that we supposedly can't even hear. Our brain has filtered out all the stuff we wouldnt care about anyway to leave us with a hypercompressed file that's no longer a true memory but rather an educated guess about what probably happened. Like Katherine and my shirt. Obviously she borrowed it and went to a party, since in the picture she's wearing it at a party. I have no memory of these things happening, nor what the bloody hell i was doing instead of attending this party. I have an educated guess based on information i have about the general mood of the time surrounding this picture. Though maybe it's a minor detail, I remain disturbed that i have no memory of discussing or picking out an outfit for her to wear dressed as me, which may have been really funny. It's been compressed and archived and lost in the last great file purge, i guess. Sorry Katherine, my Secret Twin. <3
And what use does it serve if there isnt anything special about it? Thats why i used to keep a diary, because i wanted to remember at least something about every day. And I found that usually there was something that, on that day, made it unique. I'd write that down and move on. Reading over old entries from high school or whenever, I can't remember those things at all. I see that they happened because i wrote them down, but a quiz in French or someone coming to school to talk about drugs are only memorable in the short term, not the long term. It's the long term that unsettles me.
There's a picture on Facebook of someone dresses as me. You'd think that was memorable, but apparently not. I'd forgotten entirely until i saw the picture. Even reminded, all i've got is a vague bell-ring of an idea she'd had one day. No memory at all of her borrowing clothes and going to a party dressed in a Blanche costume. Then i felt bad, as if people dressed like me all the time, which they thankfully don't. It's awkward enough that someone did it once.
I know this is just the way our minds work. We can't hold on to every detail of every day for our entire lives. There simply isn't enough space. I just want to know when, or how often, i purge those files to free up more memory? Is there a disk cleanup function that reorganizes and archives my files to create more room for newer or more frequently accessed files? I just got a new external with 2TBs of space. Can I fill THAT with old days I've lost? I guess i'd have to compress them pretty severly. Maybe that's what my problem is. The pieces i'm missing are the pieces that are dropped out to compress the file for storage. The equivalent of high notes and low tones that we supposedly can't even hear. Our brain has filtered out all the stuff we wouldnt care about anyway to leave us with a hypercompressed file that's no longer a true memory but rather an educated guess about what probably happened. Like Katherine and my shirt. Obviously she borrowed it and went to a party, since in the picture she's wearing it at a party. I have no memory of these things happening, nor what the bloody hell i was doing instead of attending this party. I have an educated guess based on information i have about the general mood of the time surrounding this picture. Though maybe it's a minor detail, I remain disturbed that i have no memory of discussing or picking out an outfit for her to wear dressed as me, which may have been really funny. It's been compressed and archived and lost in the last great file purge, i guess. Sorry Katherine, my Secret Twin. <3
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Thursday, April 21, 2011
Why CAHS kids don't read Hamlet
I'm having a "What a piece of work is man..." kind of afternoon. I know I'm such a CAHS kid. I know he was being sarcastic. I know he was a silly, angsty adolescent. But that quote sums up quite perfectly the majesty and the scale of human capabilities. Look at all this! Despite the horror, despite the bloodshed, despite the madness. Look at all we mere mammals have accomplished! Marvel in it. Relish it! I'm blogging from my little phone on a bus travelling on a paved road through a city. It's a small tribute to all humanity has accomplished since Catal Hoyuk(sp)! How is this not breathtakingly marvelous? Sometimes i just have to sit back and think, "What a piece of work is man, how noble in reason, how infinite in faculties, in form and moving how express and admirable, in apprehension how like a god. The beauty of the world, the paragon of animals!"- Hamlet, Act II scene ii, William Shakespeare. <3
Irrelevantly: Everything is better with chopsticks. ^_^
Irrelevantly: Everything is better with chopsticks. ^_^
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Wednesday, April 20, 2011
Ramblings on A Perfect Circle and the Independence of Solitude
I hear "Brena" and I feel reflective and alone. Walking around Clintonville by myself listening to "Orestes" and, though I was an over dramatic sixteen year old, I was in hindsight actually very satisfied walking alone to the coop. I'd buy myself a strawberry Popsicle and eat it on the way home. A meandering way that involved as many trees as I could find. Crestview and the bridge over the Glen Echo ravine. Contentment coming as "Sleeping Beauty" starts.
I'd stop periodically and write in my notebook. The composition notebook with duct tape all over it. The first of many. Just things I randomly noticed during my walk, or insights about whatever problems I was having. Though I primarily thought about how crappy my life was and how everything was falling apart and I didn't know how to handle it, the walk itself was a peaceful escape. Got me out of the house and able to think by myself. And that album, Mer De Noms, was essential to that reflective atmosphere. I think taking those walks lead to me valuing them so much now. I wouldn't be able to concentrate on anything if I didn't walk before and after work every day.
I know I should be writing every day after my walk home, but I don't. I had so many notebooks then. Even if it was all crap (which it mostly was), at least I felt like I was doing something. Now I read too much or I watch too much canceled television. But in the same way, it helps me be comfortable with my solitude. The old canceled television and the multitudes of books. I have the time to walk and reflect, even if I don't always write it down. And I have the space and independence to be alone my way.
“It is easy in the world to live after the world's opinion; it is easy in solitude to live after our own; but the great man is he who in the midst of the crowd keeps with perfect sweetness the independence of solitude.” - Emerson. Or a paraphrase of Emerson. One of our infamous CAHS quotes, but I still appreciate it. I still try to live by it. Hell, after reading Hamlet, I can't live by “What a piece of work is man...” anymore so now I'm stuck with this one. ;) But I still do. I still strive to keep the independence of solitude in the midst of the crowd. I don't succeed often. My solitude is a lot meaner than my crowd.
Perhaps it's best I not keep that specific aspect of solitude.
I often wonder if I am able to share any of this with anyone. Like in a relationship or something. Solitude me. The me who is comfortable being alone walking home listening to A Perfect Circle. What would happen if I did share this me? Would I automatically change and suddenly not be reflective at all and become some soul-sucked girlfriend-girl? I have before. I doubt it, since I spend so much time being terrified that I'd become that girl. That whole poem no one read about “she told me”. “And then she hopped on a Greyhound and I haven't seen her since.” I edited it to say something else, but I don't remember the current version. In any case, the me who points out that I've become a soul-sucked girlfriend-girl can't get me to listen, so she hops a bus to anywhere else and doesn't come back. Of course, this is all told from the perspective of the me who's still in that relationship. In reality she came back with a vengeance once I realized I was ready to react violently if I had to listen to his inane ramblings anymore.
But I wonder if I don't share the solitude-me, is it really sharing? Is that a true partnership? Or would not sharing her make me so deeply guarded as to make it impossible to be around me?
Of course, this is all in the hypothetical land where anyone would be willing to actually date me. People ride unicorns there.
Probably the sharing of solitude-me does change it. The act of observation changes the attributes itself. Fluoresces the molecules underneath the laser, and the spectrum is rendered useless and unreadable.
I suppose it only matters if I did magically find someone. But I can't help wondering if the window of opportunity between when I last understood how to be in a relationship and my current state of contented and admittedly cynical solitude has closed. Maybe I'm too set in my ways now. I can't remember what it was like to share a day with someone. Share thoughts about nothing in particular, and share activities that are trivial, meals that are forgettable. I remember loving it at the time.
Now I remember... I remember having another body that wasn't my own that I knew very well that thought thoughts that weren't mine and felt things I didn't know. He liked things I didn't care about and didn't care about things I liked. He slept lightly and remembered things I couldn't.
And then there are times I wonder if I fucked it up forever. If, in fucking that up, I've wronged the universe and nothing will ever make sense until I can appease it. Bloodthirsty gods.
Yes, even atheists wonder if they've wronged some horrible bloodthirsty god. Just because I don't actually believe it doesn't mean I don't entertain the possibility. Considering the fucked-up and sad nature of everything I touch, I wouldn't be surprised if Kali were demanding a sacrifice. Sad, too. I rather like goats.
I'd stop periodically and write in my notebook. The composition notebook with duct tape all over it. The first of many. Just things I randomly noticed during my walk, or insights about whatever problems I was having. Though I primarily thought about how crappy my life was and how everything was falling apart and I didn't know how to handle it, the walk itself was a peaceful escape. Got me out of the house and able to think by myself. And that album, Mer De Noms, was essential to that reflective atmosphere. I think taking those walks lead to me valuing them so much now. I wouldn't be able to concentrate on anything if I didn't walk before and after work every day.
I know I should be writing every day after my walk home, but I don't. I had so many notebooks then. Even if it was all crap (which it mostly was), at least I felt like I was doing something. Now I read too much or I watch too much canceled television. But in the same way, it helps me be comfortable with my solitude. The old canceled television and the multitudes of books. I have the time to walk and reflect, even if I don't always write it down. And I have the space and independence to be alone my way.
“It is easy in the world to live after the world's opinion; it is easy in solitude to live after our own; but the great man is he who in the midst of the crowd keeps with perfect sweetness the independence of solitude.” - Emerson. Or a paraphrase of Emerson. One of our infamous CAHS quotes, but I still appreciate it. I still try to live by it. Hell, after reading Hamlet, I can't live by “What a piece of work is man...” anymore so now I'm stuck with this one. ;) But I still do. I still strive to keep the independence of solitude in the midst of the crowd. I don't succeed often. My solitude is a lot meaner than my crowd.
Perhaps it's best I not keep that specific aspect of solitude.
I often wonder if I am able to share any of this with anyone. Like in a relationship or something. Solitude me. The me who is comfortable being alone walking home listening to A Perfect Circle. What would happen if I did share this me? Would I automatically change and suddenly not be reflective at all and become some soul-sucked girlfriend-girl? I have before. I doubt it, since I spend so much time being terrified that I'd become that girl. That whole poem no one read about “she told me”. “And then she hopped on a Greyhound and I haven't seen her since.” I edited it to say something else, but I don't remember the current version. In any case, the me who points out that I've become a soul-sucked girlfriend-girl can't get me to listen, so she hops a bus to anywhere else and doesn't come back. Of course, this is all told from the perspective of the me who's still in that relationship. In reality she came back with a vengeance once I realized I was ready to react violently if I had to listen to his inane ramblings anymore.
But I wonder if I don't share the solitude-me, is it really sharing? Is that a true partnership? Or would not sharing her make me so deeply guarded as to make it impossible to be around me?
Of course, this is all in the hypothetical land where anyone would be willing to actually date me. People ride unicorns there.
Probably the sharing of solitude-me does change it. The act of observation changes the attributes itself. Fluoresces the molecules underneath the laser, and the spectrum is rendered useless and unreadable.
I suppose it only matters if I did magically find someone. But I can't help wondering if the window of opportunity between when I last understood how to be in a relationship and my current state of contented and admittedly cynical solitude has closed. Maybe I'm too set in my ways now. I can't remember what it was like to share a day with someone. Share thoughts about nothing in particular, and share activities that are trivial, meals that are forgettable. I remember loving it at the time.
Now I remember... I remember having another body that wasn't my own that I knew very well that thought thoughts that weren't mine and felt things I didn't know. He liked things I didn't care about and didn't care about things I liked. He slept lightly and remembered things I couldn't.
And then there are times I wonder if I fucked it up forever. If, in fucking that up, I've wronged the universe and nothing will ever make sense until I can appease it. Bloodthirsty gods.
Yes, even atheists wonder if they've wronged some horrible bloodthirsty god. Just because I don't actually believe it doesn't mean I don't entertain the possibility. Considering the fucked-up and sad nature of everything I touch, I wouldn't be surprised if Kali were demanding a sacrifice. Sad, too. I rather like goats.
Sunday, April 3, 2011
"You always bring me the very best violence."
Sometimes I wonder how much of this image people understand. How much people get that this is... in some ways the REAL me. Piss drunk starting fights in Annie's basement with dudes I'll never win against. I don't care if I win or not. Never do. It's the FIGHT I like. Quick release of aggression. People underestimate my capacity for aggression. Hour after hour after hour killing things. Demons, aliens, zombies, Nazis. Who cares? They're still dead and I'm still here with the gun. Virtually, of course.
First time I held a gun, I got a lady erection. Heart pumped and I got tingly and I thought, “This explains a lot about my life.”
I have theories. I have philosophies about human nature. Violence and sex are one but not and the struggle between the two urges are what makes us human. The ever fluctuating spectrum. Somewhere between violent chimpanzees and loving bonobos, human nature exists. Every human has the capacity for both and the urge for both, but in varying degrees. We must accept this duality as innate and search for healthy alternatives to the orgy and bloodbath. Find balances for our urges.
Ha, the Dionysian arguing for Apollonianism. See what I've become? Sometimes I wonder how much closer to my true nature I was in High School. Was I closer, then, to the true me? Or is the “true me” some bullshit Platonic ideal? Am I the shadow on the wall or the giant made of light hanging out outside the cave? Also? Who cares?
That shirt I'm wearing, with the flies? My mother bought that for me at Atlantis at King and High after Comfest in 1999, just before the tenth grade. I am the Lord of the Flies. Beelzebub. Somewhat fitting to wear it to a fight club, isn't it?
Dionysus vs. Apollo. Chimps vs. Bonobos. Gods vs. Monsters. Somewhere in there is Humanity. And me.
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