So after much travelling, much talking, much loving (eep), I'm back at school, in my remote Australian existence.
I despise it.
Tuesday, August 24, 2010
Thursday, May 20, 2010
Mersault
Lately as my studies have progressed I've been able to formalise some of the anthropological ideas that have been swirling around in my head for the last 24 years.
One that I'm batting around is an outsider concept that I think is ripe for thesis material. It has to do with the idea that being aware of cultural systems and processes means that a person is precluded from ever really participating in them.
This essentially (and obviously) is informed by personal experience, but the more I delve into it, and talk to people the more I'm convinced that there is a body of people that genuinely live outside most cultural norms - because they have no option. Its not like the normal concept of 'outsiders' where people are misfits and rebel in socially unacceptable ways. This is more about the people that are a lot more quiet and are intensely interested in people but can't ever really 'be' one of the people they are so interested in.
Hells yeah I'm gonna be a doctor ;)
One that I'm batting around is an outsider concept that I think is ripe for thesis material. It has to do with the idea that being aware of cultural systems and processes means that a person is precluded from ever really participating in them.
This essentially (and obviously) is informed by personal experience, but the more I delve into it, and talk to people the more I'm convinced that there is a body of people that genuinely live outside most cultural norms - because they have no option. Its not like the normal concept of 'outsiders' where people are misfits and rebel in socially unacceptable ways. This is more about the people that are a lot more quiet and are intensely interested in people but can't ever really 'be' one of the people they are so interested in.
Hells yeah I'm gonna be a doctor ;)
A Kind of Truth
I would love for this blog to become a monumental piece of ego projection (I mean more than the majority of blogs).
So this is a disclaimer for past and future posts:
1) Not everything is true.
2) Not everything is false.
3) Facts and opinions will change.
4) I don't necessarily mean everything I say.
So this is a disclaimer for past and future posts:
1) Not everything is true.
2) Not everything is false.
3) Facts and opinions will change.
4) I don't necessarily mean everything I say.
Tuesday, May 18, 2010
Monkey me monkey you
I love this excerpt from Baraka. I stumbled across this during research.
Ahhhhh being an anthropologist is fun.
Ahhhhh being an anthropologist is fun.
Sunday, May 16, 2010
A Broad
For awhile now I've been interested in studying on an international exchange. My uni is very enthusiastic about kids doing this. I think its so that we're out of their hair and in return they get studious, quiet, conforming, commercially lucrative exchange students from overseas. There is no downside for them.
So I went into the international office and stood dumbly staring at a poster next to the receptionist's desk that said "You are in the wrong place. You must make an appointment." I thought for a moment and decided it was worth the risk and asked the receptionist for information. She smiled at my apology for disturbing her.
"The sign isn't applicable today."
I shrugged and apologised again for disturbing her (which I fumbled on and came out sounding like 'disrobing', which is rather forward of me). She called the lady I needed to speak to and asked me to wait for a bit. I sat and played with an app involving aliens being shot. Then the lady in charge (Paula, daughter of Valhalla and all its surverys) came storming out of the back room and demanded to know what I wanted. I explained that I had submitted an application and just wanted to finalise it etc. Paula, realising who I was, for some reason became sweetness itself and offered me a seat.
"So, you were thinking of going to Bristol? Or Cornell?"
"Well yes. UCL would be better but evidently I'm not studying the right thing."
"No. No you're not. I have to tell you something though."
"Mm." I said tentatively and naturally fearing the worst (ie you're a bad knowitall sonofabitch and we wouldn't let you achieve your goals whatever the cost!)
"Some of our Asian friends have seen your application and they're... very excited." I looked at her and waited for her to continue.
"You see, with your grades and area of study, combining geography and anthropology in the way you have... well they want you."
"What Asians?" I said trying to work out what the hell she meant. She explained that there was a Thai, Malaysian, and Korean university all prepared to give me scholarships to go there. On top of that my own uni would give me a few grand guilt-free for being such a stand-up sort of gent.
At this point I paused and without realising, posed myself a hypothetical question.
If I was going to go to one of these universities, which would have the prettiest girls?
Funny how these questions pop up before you've even had a chance to decide whether you should have asked them. I decided they (the girls) were all pretty even, though devoutly Muslim Malaysia may prove to be something of an issue (sorry Malaysia!).
"But the Korean university is very interested."
"I hear you, but I don't really want to go to Korea. What I mean is - I really was set on the East Coast of the US (at this point images of smiling Cape Cod Julias with long brown hair chatting to knowledgable NYU humanities Chloes in Washington Square Park flitted across my vision).
"But you see, the Korean uni really wants you." She actually emphasised the 'you'. Was she coming on to me? Jesus!
"I get that, but I don't want them..."
"Okay, but you see, the Korean university really wants you and will pay for your accommodation and airfares, and will organise an english tutoring job for around $30 per hour. On top of that there is our generous scholarship. Potentially you could come back with more than you left with. On top of that, I'll make sure that when you come back, you can go right back on another exchange to a place that would've been your first choice."
"... ... whats the catch?"
"... ... Its South Korea."
"Oh..."
So I guess I'm going to Korea!
So I went into the international office and stood dumbly staring at a poster next to the receptionist's desk that said "You are in the wrong place. You must make an appointment." I thought for a moment and decided it was worth the risk and asked the receptionist for information. She smiled at my apology for disturbing her.
"The sign isn't applicable today."
I shrugged and apologised again for disturbing her (which I fumbled on and came out sounding like 'disrobing', which is rather forward of me). She called the lady I needed to speak to and asked me to wait for a bit. I sat and played with an app involving aliens being shot. Then the lady in charge (Paula, daughter of Valhalla and all its surverys) came storming out of the back room and demanded to know what I wanted. I explained that I had submitted an application and just wanted to finalise it etc. Paula, realising who I was, for some reason became sweetness itself and offered me a seat.
"So, you were thinking of going to Bristol? Or Cornell?"
"Well yes. UCL would be better but evidently I'm not studying the right thing."
"No. No you're not. I have to tell you something though."
"Mm." I said tentatively and naturally fearing the worst (ie you're a bad knowitall sonofabitch and we wouldn't let you achieve your goals whatever the cost!)
"Some of our Asian friends have seen your application and they're... very excited." I looked at her and waited for her to continue.
"You see, with your grades and area of study, combining geography and anthropology in the way you have... well they want you."
"What Asians?" I said trying to work out what the hell she meant. She explained that there was a Thai, Malaysian, and Korean university all prepared to give me scholarships to go there. On top of that my own uni would give me a few grand guilt-free for being such a stand-up sort of gent.
At this point I paused and without realising, posed myself a hypothetical question.
If I was going to go to one of these universities, which would have the prettiest girls?
Funny how these questions pop up before you've even had a chance to decide whether you should have asked them. I decided they (the girls) were all pretty even, though devoutly Muslim Malaysia may prove to be something of an issue (sorry Malaysia!).
"But the Korean university is very interested."
"I hear you, but I don't really want to go to Korea. What I mean is - I really was set on the East Coast of the US (at this point images of smiling Cape Cod Julias with long brown hair chatting to knowledgable NYU humanities Chloes in Washington Square Park flitted across my vision).
"But you see, the Korean uni really wants you." She actually emphasised the 'you'. Was she coming on to me? Jesus!
"I get that, but I don't want them..."
"Okay, but you see, the Korean university really wants you and will pay for your accommodation and airfares, and will organise an english tutoring job for around $30 per hour. On top of that there is our generous scholarship. Potentially you could come back with more than you left with. On top of that, I'll make sure that when you come back, you can go right back on another exchange to a place that would've been your first choice."
"... ... whats the catch?"
"... ... Its South Korea."
"Oh..."
So I guess I'm going to Korea!
Schleeep
I'm going to the UK again in a month or so. I'm looking forward to it a lot, though I'm not sure why. Funny that I even had to ask myself the question.
Earlier this year I was in London and New York. It was cold and snowy and marvellous. I hadn't really seen falling snow until that point so it was amazing. I have a very clear memory (it was only February afterall) of being in New York and watching snow fall outside my apartment's window. It was amazing in such a busy and vast city that there could be something so calm and soft happening. Cities are so much about our attempts to control and mould the world, and yet the snow simply falls irrespective of that.
Theres your loving spoonful of profundity for the day ;)
Earlier this year I was in London and New York. It was cold and snowy and marvellous. I hadn't really seen falling snow until that point so it was amazing. I have a very clear memory (it was only February afterall) of being in New York and watching snow fall outside my apartment's window. It was amazing in such a busy and vast city that there could be something so calm and soft happening. Cities are so much about our attempts to control and mould the world, and yet the snow simply falls irrespective of that.
Theres your loving spoonful of profundity for the day ;)
Thursday, May 13, 2010
Friday the 14th - The Gathering/The Nes-Quikening
I saw Robin Hood last night.
I liked it. It was fun, and historically compatible. It was heavy on the plot (sometimes confusingly so) and the very good actors they had in it were some times not allowed to do much more than run around and look willowy (billowy?) and oppressed. I'm thinking of Ms Blanchet. She did well with what she had, and there was some pretty interesting close up shots showing her as ruddy cheeked and suffering for everyone.
I went with friends who thought it was fine to talk and make noise all the way through it. Murderous rage nearly covers how I felt towards my friends afterwards. I was angry. More angry than I should have been. Who knows why really? Missed opportunities has a lot to do with it. I enjoyed it until I didn't and I attribute that solely to them.
So fuck you friends. I'm never doing that again.
I had brunch at the Central Market with a friend. We sat and talked about little things. Important things, but little in the context of the relationship. Some times when you're talking to someone you know well, its almost like you have your bread and butter conversations, and then there is everything else. With this particular person, talking about anything other than people is almost always going to be a complete shortfall. Its not that its impossible, but it just doesn't flow or have any real meaning. It becomes an exercise in altered breathing patterns when I talk that way. Nothing is accomplished, nothing is gained or lost. So inevitably we turn to talk of people we know. There is something entirely satisfying and entirely boring about this. Its fine if I'm able to extrapolate some larger truth about people or things, but this doesn't always happen and then it becomes meaningless. My father, in his limited wisdom, once told me that small minds talks about people, big minds talk about ideas.
Well thats some fucking bullshit if ever I heard it. Its almost a perfect paradox. To say that and believe it you would have to have a small and pretty limited mind. Hence my father's involvement. People are ideas. End of story.
We sat on the grass in Victoria Square after eating. I have to admit I never do this. Sitting on grass is kind of strange. It smells grassy. You get an imprint on your hands. I'm always distracted by it and can never devote all my energy to the idea or thoughts at hand because I'm equally aware of the fact that I'm sitting on the grass.
Woke up, fell out of bed
Dragged a comb across my head
Found my downstairs and drank a cup
And looking up I noticed I was late
I'd love to turn you on.
I liked it. It was fun, and historically compatible. It was heavy on the plot (sometimes confusingly so) and the very good actors they had in it were some times not allowed to do much more than run around and look willowy (billowy?) and oppressed. I'm thinking of Ms Blanchet. She did well with what she had, and there was some pretty interesting close up shots showing her as ruddy cheeked and suffering for everyone.
I went with friends who thought it was fine to talk and make noise all the way through it. Murderous rage nearly covers how I felt towards my friends afterwards. I was angry. More angry than I should have been. Who knows why really? Missed opportunities has a lot to do with it. I enjoyed it until I didn't and I attribute that solely to them.
So fuck you friends. I'm never doing that again.
I had brunch at the Central Market with a friend. We sat and talked about little things. Important things, but little in the context of the relationship. Some times when you're talking to someone you know well, its almost like you have your bread and butter conversations, and then there is everything else. With this particular person, talking about anything other than people is almost always going to be a complete shortfall. Its not that its impossible, but it just doesn't flow or have any real meaning. It becomes an exercise in altered breathing patterns when I talk that way. Nothing is accomplished, nothing is gained or lost. So inevitably we turn to talk of people we know. There is something entirely satisfying and entirely boring about this. Its fine if I'm able to extrapolate some larger truth about people or things, but this doesn't always happen and then it becomes meaningless. My father, in his limited wisdom, once told me that small minds talks about people, big minds talk about ideas.
Well thats some fucking bullshit if ever I heard it. Its almost a perfect paradox. To say that and believe it you would have to have a small and pretty limited mind. Hence my father's involvement. People are ideas. End of story.
We sat on the grass in Victoria Square after eating. I have to admit I never do this. Sitting on grass is kind of strange. It smells grassy. You get an imprint on your hands. I'm always distracted by it and can never devote all my energy to the idea or thoughts at hand because I'm equally aware of the fact that I'm sitting on the grass.
Woke up, fell out of bed
Dragged a comb across my head
Found my downstairs and drank a cup
And looking up I noticed I was late
I'd love to turn you on.
Menage et blah
So.
So, so, so.
I was nervous and excitable. I had run from the police and purchased a lambs wool jumper. I had drunk coffee and been sarcastic. I had admired pretty Prada girls and vaguely tip-toed around the idea of asking the Girl from Mars to have a drink with me.
It was time to talk. It was go time.
I ran into everyone in the hall and somewhat forced my way into the existing conversation (I'm brilliant, they should be honored). This is a tactic I have, and I always use it. Mingle with the audience before the lights go down and the show begins. I find that it allows you to ingratiate yourself somewhat (make some funny jokes, get in their face) and lets me relax. Its interesting that the process of speaking in front of people doesn't make me nervous, but rather the idea that people think I'm nervous will mess me up - so I front up before the show and show that my name is Chet and I'm an Ivy League jock from the 60s and I don't care what anyone thinks because I've got other big stuff going on. This is hyperbole, I'm not obnoxious but I find myself giving little editorials and telling stories as a kind of warm up.
Never has a truer statement been made than 'I despair in being misunderstood'.
Whilst talking to my colleagues, one of them moved out of the way and I was suddenly and unexpectedly *gasp* standing right in front of my favourite Martian. We looked at eachother but my recollection is that we were in a dark bit of the hallway and so it was hard to see her. The funny thing is, there are no dark bits in those fluorescence drenched hallways. So I don't really know what thats about. Funny how memory is like that sometimes (all the time).
... and then there I was with everyone infront of me.
I started talking, and as is the way with these things, it flowed like rivers of warm milk and honey. I knew what I was talking about, and I knew that as long as I mentioned the correct names and dates I could make whatever outlandish claim I like and this particular tutor would be fine. So thats what I did. I linked things previously unknown to eachother, attributed whole theories the gentleman that couldn't have thought these things independently, and in the end proved conclusively that European Enlightenment could not have happened without China and Confucianism.
Boom.
Afterwards I sat and snuck tiny glances at Bryn. Not obsessively mind you. Not like a maniac or anything, just furtive looks that would clarify what I thought about her and how I might eventually ask her out.
Then she got up and did a presentation about Hare Krishnas. It was a good presentation and as a bonus I was able to stare at her legitimately for about 15 minutes. Oh joyous joyous day.
Jesus I think theres something wrong with me.
I think I actually like this alien.
So, so, so.
I was nervous and excitable. I had run from the police and purchased a lambs wool jumper. I had drunk coffee and been sarcastic. I had admired pretty Prada girls and vaguely tip-toed around the idea of asking the Girl from Mars to have a drink with me.
It was time to talk. It was go time.
I ran into everyone in the hall and somewhat forced my way into the existing conversation (I'm brilliant, they should be honored). This is a tactic I have, and I always use it. Mingle with the audience before the lights go down and the show begins. I find that it allows you to ingratiate yourself somewhat (make some funny jokes, get in their face) and lets me relax. Its interesting that the process of speaking in front of people doesn't make me nervous, but rather the idea that people think I'm nervous will mess me up - so I front up before the show and show that my name is Chet and I'm an Ivy League jock from the 60s and I don't care what anyone thinks because I've got other big stuff going on. This is hyperbole, I'm not obnoxious but I find myself giving little editorials and telling stories as a kind of warm up.
Never has a truer statement been made than 'I despair in being misunderstood'.
Whilst talking to my colleagues, one of them moved out of the way and I was suddenly and unexpectedly *gasp* standing right in front of my favourite Martian. We looked at eachother but my recollection is that we were in a dark bit of the hallway and so it was hard to see her. The funny thing is, there are no dark bits in those fluorescence drenched hallways. So I don't really know what thats about. Funny how memory is like that sometimes (all the time).
... and then there I was with everyone infront of me.
I started talking, and as is the way with these things, it flowed like rivers of warm milk and honey. I knew what I was talking about, and I knew that as long as I mentioned the correct names and dates I could make whatever outlandish claim I like and this particular tutor would be fine. So thats what I did. I linked things previously unknown to eachother, attributed whole theories the gentleman that couldn't have thought these things independently, and in the end proved conclusively that European Enlightenment could not have happened without China and Confucianism.
Boom.
Afterwards I sat and snuck tiny glances at Bryn. Not obsessively mind you. Not like a maniac or anything, just furtive looks that would clarify what I thought about her and how I might eventually ask her out.
Then she got up and did a presentation about Hare Krishnas. It was a good presentation and as a bonus I was able to stare at her legitimately for about 15 minutes. Oh joyous joyous day.
Jesus I think theres something wrong with me.
I think I actually like this alien.
Wednesday, May 12, 2010
Part Deux
I get bothered when I see police. I don't really like police. Its not that I'm ungrateful for protection and when I need the police I would like to think they would be there trying to do what they can for me.
But I don't like the way they talk to me. I have a strange sort of indignation at being spoken to like I'm a criminal - because I'm not. I don't look like a criminal (whatever that may be - shifty I guess) and I sure as hell don't look like I'm doing wrong. But whenever the police pull up, I stiffen and feel like I'm going to be accused of something. Without sounding like the classic Camus character, I think it comes down to always feeling like a non-participant, an objective observer who sees the network for what it is. Its nothing to do with the Matrix or adolescent angst. It just being on the outside and staring in and it will always be that way. Being a part of something, but something separate. Its not bad, but thats all I'm going to say about that.
Thusly, when I see the Po Po I automatically feel like a gypsy and its Germany in 1942. I'm in for a world of hurt and there is no way I can explain how I'm not responsible for whatever I'm being accused of.
The car pulls up. I lower my coffee. The window rolls down. The policeman looks at me and says "Where the fuck have you been?". Simultaneously another officer gets out of the car and rushes around the back.
This is it.
I'm done for.
Some how I thought it would be ASIO, or SWAT or at a stretch (but in some ways more likely) FSB working with MI6. Infact, lets not conceal the ego: I thought it would be fucking NATO.
Instead, its two working stiffs from SAPOL. Oh well, they appear to want me bad for whatever I did so its going to happen and I need to take action. Unlike my Martian encounters, there is no lag in my brain. I grab my notebook, press play on my iPod (Darwin Deez "Radar Detector" and ofcourse it was already playing) and literally jump the coffee sponsor traffic barrier (Lavazza you are no match for me).
What should I have done? The guy was running at me and the other guy was saying swears to me. At the very least if I'm going down, I'm not going down after being tackled by a kind of fat cop. I'll be like that guy in The Name of the Father and walk out the front door.
So I got the hell out of there. I was halfway across the road when I looked back... and saw them restraining some guy with a pony tail. Stupid pony tail sitting right behind me in the cop's line of view... Stealing my thunder. I walked back and jeered in my head that it was his turn and I 'got lucky this time'. Again, I stress, I have done nothing wrong and probably hold the least interest to the police.
But alas, this is the head I live in.
But I don't like the way they talk to me. I have a strange sort of indignation at being spoken to like I'm a criminal - because I'm not. I don't look like a criminal (whatever that may be - shifty I guess) and I sure as hell don't look like I'm doing wrong. But whenever the police pull up, I stiffen and feel like I'm going to be accused of something. Without sounding like the classic Camus character, I think it comes down to always feeling like a non-participant, an objective observer who sees the network for what it is. Its nothing to do with the Matrix or adolescent angst. It just being on the outside and staring in and it will always be that way. Being a part of something, but something separate. Its not bad, but thats all I'm going to say about that.
Thusly, when I see the Po Po I automatically feel like a gypsy and its Germany in 1942. I'm in for a world of hurt and there is no way I can explain how I'm not responsible for whatever I'm being accused of.
The car pulls up. I lower my coffee. The window rolls down. The policeman looks at me and says "Where the fuck have you been?". Simultaneously another officer gets out of the car and rushes around the back.
This is it.
I'm done for.
Some how I thought it would be ASIO, or SWAT or at a stretch (but in some ways more likely) FSB working with MI6. Infact, lets not conceal the ego: I thought it would be fucking NATO.
Instead, its two working stiffs from SAPOL. Oh well, they appear to want me bad for whatever I did so its going to happen and I need to take action. Unlike my Martian encounters, there is no lag in my brain. I grab my notebook, press play on my iPod (Darwin Deez "Radar Detector" and ofcourse it was already playing) and literally jump the coffee sponsor traffic barrier (Lavazza you are no match for me).
What should I have done? The guy was running at me and the other guy was saying swears to me. At the very least if I'm going down, I'm not going down after being tackled by a kind of fat cop. I'll be like that guy in The Name of the Father and walk out the front door.
So I got the hell out of there. I was halfway across the road when I looked back... and saw them restraining some guy with a pony tail. Stupid pony tail sitting right behind me in the cop's line of view... Stealing my thunder. I walked back and jeered in my head that it was his turn and I 'got lucky this time'. Again, I stress, I have done nothing wrong and probably hold the least interest to the police.
But alas, this is the head I live in.
Achtung Baby
I had a presentation at 1pm. I had 3 hours to kill.
My feeling about the presentation was fairly negative. It was for an Asian studies class that has very poor structure and is taught by a tutor that really had no idea what shes doing. Its one of the few courses that I've encounted that feels like teaching by numbers and some times I feel like just getting up and doing it myself.
"Look. Shut up. Just shutup. You don't really care about this. You have no interest in this and thats very obvious. You inject not a hint of passion or expressiveness and nobody enjoys it. Shut the fuck up. Sit down. Really."
However, I need the marks. These first years dictate scholarships and the showers (downpours) of praise and recognition I need as an unqualified genius. The first years dictate all the free shit that will be poured upon me in the form of further education, study tours, and eventually research grants. Then there is the respect. Oh jesus I get respect now but I hunger for it in ever increasing, vast, applauding, king-of-everything quantities. What can I say? I'm a respect-whore. Should I pretend not to be? That leads to copious bags of weed and screaming at people I don't know "You don't know me!"
That said, none of that compares to Bryn. The Girl from Mars that sits across from me during this class. She sits, like a goddamn statue, with eyes that seem to look through people and sometimes, just sometimes, she looks at me and I look at her and we look at eachother. It feels like it lasts forever but... it doesn't. Its just a glance from her (and thats all it is) and she smiles and her alien face is then looking at me and smiling. I stare some more at her smile and then my brain kicks in and says 'Do something'. Its calm at first, like "Hey you better smile back or shes going to think you're an unfriendly dude". My features are sluggish and my brain lifts the volume. "FUCKING. SMILE. NOW." Eventually, in what seems like a massive brain-lag my smile emerges and by this point shes already gone back to listening to the class and I'm sitting there grinning like a moron at her. I sort of don't care though, because each of those smiles is something very special. They're like tiny pictures of things that have been put inside pieces of glass. They're kind of piling up, like treasure I guess. I have maybe 4 or 5 and each time I'm ridiculous and in the hyper reality that I'm obviously inhabiting I respond with a "For me? Why thank you."
I make it sound silly but she is an alien and has special alien powers that I don't understand.
So I have hours until this damn presentation is due and I haven't really prepared for it; its worth 20% of my course mark; and the Girl from Mars will be there being beautiful and interesting.
So... I went shopping. In my mind this was good because I would
a) Have a new jumper and maybe a scarf (2 as it turns out).
b) Promote my uber-attractive Man from Mars qualities that the Martian Girl would obviously find alluring.
c) Kill time.
I found myself all of 25 minutes later, with 2 hours and 35 minutes to go and nothing else to do. I sat and sipped coffee on North Tce. I pretended to write something on a writing pad in order to appear like I was doing something. Inevitably this ends up being stuff that I find funny like inverting cliches and whatnot: You cannot lose, if you do not play; If you never try, you can never fail. That kind of shite.
I was hopping. Aside from the caffeine hitting my system, the thought of the unprepared-for presentation and the Martian hotty were really amping me up. There isn't much left in life (because of the times, not my advancing years) that is as visceral as waiting for something to happen. Anticipation is still a bitch. We never really fear for our safety or worry about God (at least if you've got any measure of intellect), or really get too cut up because of what people think. Barrows of money and a consumer society have really addressed those pretty well. But waiting for something... really waiting for something that you can't stop thinking about is bullshit. Especially for someone like me who had very little mental discipline. I was like a small child one sugar.
Then I saw the police.
My feeling about the presentation was fairly negative. It was for an Asian studies class that has very poor structure and is taught by a tutor that really had no idea what shes doing. Its one of the few courses that I've encounted that feels like teaching by numbers and some times I feel like just getting up and doing it myself.
"Look. Shut up. Just shutup. You don't really care about this. You have no interest in this and thats very obvious. You inject not a hint of passion or expressiveness and nobody enjoys it. Shut the fuck up. Sit down. Really."
However, I need the marks. These first years dictate scholarships and the showers (downpours) of praise and recognition I need as an unqualified genius. The first years dictate all the free shit that will be poured upon me in the form of further education, study tours, and eventually research grants. Then there is the respect. Oh jesus I get respect now but I hunger for it in ever increasing, vast, applauding, king-of-everything quantities. What can I say? I'm a respect-whore. Should I pretend not to be? That leads to copious bags of weed and screaming at people I don't know "You don't know me!"
That said, none of that compares to Bryn. The Girl from Mars that sits across from me during this class. She sits, like a goddamn statue, with eyes that seem to look through people and sometimes, just sometimes, she looks at me and I look at her and we look at eachother. It feels like it lasts forever but... it doesn't. Its just a glance from her (and thats all it is) and she smiles and her alien face is then looking at me and smiling. I stare some more at her smile and then my brain kicks in and says 'Do something'. Its calm at first, like "Hey you better smile back or shes going to think you're an unfriendly dude". My features are sluggish and my brain lifts the volume. "FUCKING. SMILE. NOW." Eventually, in what seems like a massive brain-lag my smile emerges and by this point shes already gone back to listening to the class and I'm sitting there grinning like a moron at her. I sort of don't care though, because each of those smiles is something very special. They're like tiny pictures of things that have been put inside pieces of glass. They're kind of piling up, like treasure I guess. I have maybe 4 or 5 and each time I'm ridiculous and in the hyper reality that I'm obviously inhabiting I respond with a "For me? Why thank you."
I make it sound silly but she is an alien and has special alien powers that I don't understand.
So I have hours until this damn presentation is due and I haven't really prepared for it; its worth 20% of my course mark; and the Girl from Mars will be there being beautiful and interesting.
So... I went shopping. In my mind this was good because I would
a) Have a new jumper and maybe a scarf (2 as it turns out).
b) Promote my uber-attractive Man from Mars qualities that the Martian Girl would obviously find alluring.
c) Kill time.
I found myself all of 25 minutes later, with 2 hours and 35 minutes to go and nothing else to do. I sat and sipped coffee on North Tce. I pretended to write something on a writing pad in order to appear like I was doing something. Inevitably this ends up being stuff that I find funny like inverting cliches and whatnot: You cannot lose, if you do not play; If you never try, you can never fail. That kind of shite.
I was hopping. Aside from the caffeine hitting my system, the thought of the unprepared-for presentation and the Martian hotty were really amping me up. There isn't much left in life (because of the times, not my advancing years) that is as visceral as waiting for something to happen. Anticipation is still a bitch. We never really fear for our safety or worry about God (at least if you've got any measure of intellect), or really get too cut up because of what people think. Barrows of money and a consumer society have really addressed those pretty well. But waiting for something... really waiting for something that you can't stop thinking about is bullshit. Especially for someone like me who had very little mental discipline. I was like a small child one sugar.
Then I saw the police.
Monday, March 8, 2010
Rumour Miller
My brother, still on holiday, asked whether he could speak to me. "Yeah... alright. What is it?"
"Have you seen Avatar yet?" he asked quietly.
"Yeah... ages ago." I answered. He looked at me carefully and quietly said "Okay" as though it was something he'd crossed off his list.
"Why James?" My curiosity piqued.
"I was just worried is all."
"Worried? About what?" I said sensing that this was going to get interesting.
"If you hadn't seen it, that you might get all fucked up about it." he replied. I said nothing and rubbed my eyes wondering where it was going.
"Loads of people in America have killed themselves, I mean, committed suicide over it because they realised..." at this point he paused becoming wistful of eye and decisive of tone, "... they realised that there will never a world as perfect as Pandora."
I laughed for a just a minute too long and asked him whether he really thought that the idea of Pandora had driven people to suicide. He replied in the affirmative.
"Cos of the, errrrm, glowing trees and stuff."
"Have you seen Avatar yet?" he asked quietly.
"Yeah... ages ago." I answered. He looked at me carefully and quietly said "Okay" as though it was something he'd crossed off his list.
"Why James?" My curiosity piqued.
"I was just worried is all."
"Worried? About what?" I said sensing that this was going to get interesting.
"If you hadn't seen it, that you might get all fucked up about it." he replied. I said nothing and rubbed my eyes wondering where it was going.
"Loads of people in America have killed themselves, I mean, committed suicide over it because they realised..." at this point he paused becoming wistful of eye and decisive of tone, "... they realised that there will never a world as perfect as Pandora."
I laughed for a just a minute too long and asked him whether he really thought that the idea of Pandora had driven people to suicide. He replied in the affirmative.
"Cos of the, errrrm, glowing trees and stuff."
Night Errors
Tell me what you know about dreams
Tell me what you know about them night terrors - nothing
I was driving down Melbourne Street yesterday. Its a cafe district with a few too-expensive boutique shops for food and clothing. It was quietly humming this day with a few people around enjoying the public holiday. The Women's and Children's Hospital is nearby and often I see (predominantly) young mothers and families walking in the area going to checkups or for other less routine things. Because its a specialist hospital of such a significant size, its always a bit of a dichotomy in terms of who goes there. Its either going to be for things like the child's 18 month vaccinations, or its going to be a visit to see whether the 7 year old's leukemia has come back - the mundane or the horrifying.
I find myself looking at these people walking up Melbourne Street and wondering just what they're thinking and how they're feeling. Its an area of life I can confidently say I know nothing about (having children and the associated experiences) and as usual with these things I'm intensely curious in ways that border on the intellectually voyeuristic. I can't help it - I'm a nerd for life.
This day however, I was not thinking of childhood cancer or the ridiculous opposition to the MMR vaccines. I was thinking about very little other than my desire for an imported Cherry Coke from the boutique food place - Cherry Coke not being freely available in this nation - and the potential for rain later in the afternoon. As I drove and pondered nothing I glanced out the window and saw a man and a woman walking on the pavement toward the hospital. They were both smartly dressed, him in what looked like dressed-down 90s shirt and slacks from Country Road, and her in a loose blouse and a maroon skirt. He carried a duffel bag by his side (possibly from Country Road now that I think about it) and she carried a large belly in front of her. He said something and smiled at her, and she laughed nervously smiling back at him, and then at the ground. They were both clearly excited and it shone out of them like spikey sunlight. In the second or so that I saw them for, I realised of course that she was going into the hospital to have the baby and that this was them walking towards the hospital. More than that though, they were walking towards the event and everything it meant to them. They were walking toward a new child whom they knew intrinsically they were going to love intensely.
I don't know whether this was their first child, but something in the way they moved and acted (for the 3 seconds I saw them - its a 50km zone afterall) said they were shit-scared and making it up as they went along and that suggested to me that this was the first.
I felt incredibly lucky to witness something like that. It was perhaps one of those intimate moments that you don't even really consciously realise is intimate until long after the event when you review the more process-oriented elements of your memories, and realise that cumulatively they ere always the times that were pure and mattered. Needless to say, I knew what it was and I thought it was beautiful.
Last night, following this day, I had a dream that an ex-girlfriend from years ago had invited me to a cheap motel and broke the news that she was pregnant with my child. I did not react well. That is to say - I destroyed the earth and everyone in it by pressing a button and found myself explaining to Dwight Schrute why I'd done it. Oops.
Guess its not time for fatherhood then...
Tell me what you know about them night terrors - nothing
I was driving down Melbourne Street yesterday. Its a cafe district with a few too-expensive boutique shops for food and clothing. It was quietly humming this day with a few people around enjoying the public holiday. The Women's and Children's Hospital is nearby and often I see (predominantly) young mothers and families walking in the area going to checkups or for other less routine things. Because its a specialist hospital of such a significant size, its always a bit of a dichotomy in terms of who goes there. Its either going to be for things like the child's 18 month vaccinations, or its going to be a visit to see whether the 7 year old's leukemia has come back - the mundane or the horrifying.
I find myself looking at these people walking up Melbourne Street and wondering just what they're thinking and how they're feeling. Its an area of life I can confidently say I know nothing about (having children and the associated experiences) and as usual with these things I'm intensely curious in ways that border on the intellectually voyeuristic. I can't help it - I'm a nerd for life.
This day however, I was not thinking of childhood cancer or the ridiculous opposition to the MMR vaccines. I was thinking about very little other than my desire for an imported Cherry Coke from the boutique food place - Cherry Coke not being freely available in this nation - and the potential for rain later in the afternoon. As I drove and pondered nothing I glanced out the window and saw a man and a woman walking on the pavement toward the hospital. They were both smartly dressed, him in what looked like dressed-down 90s shirt and slacks from Country Road, and her in a loose blouse and a maroon skirt. He carried a duffel bag by his side (possibly from Country Road now that I think about it) and she carried a large belly in front of her. He said something and smiled at her, and she laughed nervously smiling back at him, and then at the ground. They were both clearly excited and it shone out of them like spikey sunlight. In the second or so that I saw them for, I realised of course that she was going into the hospital to have the baby and that this was them walking towards the hospital. More than that though, they were walking towards the event and everything it meant to them. They were walking toward a new child whom they knew intrinsically they were going to love intensely.
I don't know whether this was their first child, but something in the way they moved and acted (for the 3 seconds I saw them - its a 50km zone afterall) said they were shit-scared and making it up as they went along and that suggested to me that this was the first.
I felt incredibly lucky to witness something like that. It was perhaps one of those intimate moments that you don't even really consciously realise is intimate until long after the event when you review the more process-oriented elements of your memories, and realise that cumulatively they ere always the times that were pure and mattered. Needless to say, I knew what it was and I thought it was beautiful.
Last night, following this day, I had a dream that an ex-girlfriend from years ago had invited me to a cheap motel and broke the news that she was pregnant with my child. I did not react well. That is to say - I destroyed the earth and everyone in it by pressing a button and found myself explaining to Dwight Schrute why I'd done it. Oops.
Guess its not time for fatherhood then...
Thursday, March 4, 2010
5 things
This is 5 mundane and not so mundane events in my day. Self indulgent - yes; meaningless - no.
1) Woken up at 3.30am by brother returning home. My brother is staying in our house and arrived home from the pub early this morning in top form. After paying for the cab and proceeding to consume his McDonalds on the front lawn (possibly laughing to himself), he came around the side of the house to my window and started whispering my name. The head of my bed is against this window and because its late in the summer and the nights are cool enough to have the window open, I tend to do so. When a drunk relative comes up the driveway and whispers your name almost directly into your ear at 3.30am whilst you're supposedly safe in bed... the results are dramatic and loud.
2) Planned all the assessments I have for uni next week in my new day-planner. There is such a feeling of satisfaction and productivity in this that I may not even end up doing the required school work in the mistaken belief that "surely I've done enough!".
3) Received a belated birthday card that said "Every man over forty is a scoundrel" attributed to George Bernard Shaw, and with a picture beneath showing 2 early 20th century types (top and bowler hats, lustrous beards, and coats) indulging in fisticuffs. I am neither older than 40, or bearded so it didn't really work, but cards that don't work are a specialty of mine. I once gave my father a card that said 'To a Wonderful Girlfriend - its Over." which retrospectively makes more sense than not. Sort of.
4) Cheeseburger eating competition at McDonalds with Pedro. Each burger has 25% of your RDI of sodium, and 14% of your energy. We're so stupidly competitive to the point that we would consume 150% of our recommended salt intake in one sitting.
5) Smiled at the Unibooks girl. I found myself purchasing a copy of Rolling Stone (which I rarely buy) in order to talk to her. She laughed at my joke and I wished her happy a weekend. She returned the sentiment and I looked at her for perhaps a second too long, and then walked out.
1) Woken up at 3.30am by brother returning home. My brother is staying in our house and arrived home from the pub early this morning in top form. After paying for the cab and proceeding to consume his McDonalds on the front lawn (possibly laughing to himself), he came around the side of the house to my window and started whispering my name. The head of my bed is against this window and because its late in the summer and the nights are cool enough to have the window open, I tend to do so. When a drunk relative comes up the driveway and whispers your name almost directly into your ear at 3.30am whilst you're supposedly safe in bed... the results are dramatic and loud.
2) Planned all the assessments I have for uni next week in my new day-planner. There is such a feeling of satisfaction and productivity in this that I may not even end up doing the required school work in the mistaken belief that "surely I've done enough!".
3) Received a belated birthday card that said "Every man over forty is a scoundrel" attributed to George Bernard Shaw, and with a picture beneath showing 2 early 20th century types (top and bowler hats, lustrous beards, and coats) indulging in fisticuffs. I am neither older than 40, or bearded so it didn't really work, but cards that don't work are a specialty of mine. I once gave my father a card that said 'To a Wonderful Girlfriend - its Over." which retrospectively makes more sense than not. Sort of.
4) Cheeseburger eating competition at McDonalds with Pedro. Each burger has 25% of your RDI of sodium, and 14% of your energy. We're so stupidly competitive to the point that we would consume 150% of our recommended salt intake in one sitting.
5) Smiled at the Unibooks girl. I found myself purchasing a copy of Rolling Stone (which I rarely buy) in order to talk to her. She laughed at my joke and I wished her happy a weekend. She returned the sentiment and I looked at her for perhaps a second too long, and then walked out.
Wednesday, March 3, 2010
Tuesday, March 2, 2010
Dicaprio Shutters his Island - no spoilers kids!
While I was in NYC last month I saw several advertisements around subways in midtown for the new Scorcese tour-de-darkness Shutter Island. Generally being a fan of Scorcese and Dicaprio (and lets face it - midtown too), I was very keen to get myself to the cinema once I arrived back in Australia to watch it.
Yesterday I had just such an opportunity.
A group of friends and I trekked to the cinema in Norwood, and student IDs in hand, purchased the cheapest 'cheap-Tuesday' tickets we could get. Tuesday afternoon in early March is a very good time to watch a film at the cinema. Its either going to be uni students overtly aware of the irony and freedom we enjoy in schedule and responsibility, or older (elderly? senior?) people who are just kicking the same vibe but perhaps in a more pure and unfettered way.
I had no idea what the film was about, other than a friend had told me it had "really messed with Leo's head" and that it was about an island. God I love knowing nothing before things happen. We sat in the cinema as a group of 5, swelling the meagre audience from 4 to 9. Quiet, dark, and with no crowd to reassure you, it was going to be isolating or intense, or more hopefully - both.
Shutter Island begins with a film noir classic setup, as a US Marshall on a boat wearing a great coat and an awful tie, meeting his new partner and sharing a cigarette. The image of the 2 men on the boat, shot from the front and then behind, in Dick Tracey hats and hands on hips is a beautiful one and effectively informs the viewer that as with most film noir and classic detective stories - all is not well in the world.
The scripting and performances were excellent reminding me of some of the more adversarial moments from The Departed and in some ways thats what the movie is - a constant battle of wills from start to finish. As the onion is unpeeled layer by layer, the audience find themselves unable to find sure footing in such rocky plot and character-driven terrain. A lot of the time, the critical viewer simply does not know what is going on despite every effort to understand.
One of the things I liked most about Shutter Island, were the highly crafted and stylised dream sequences. Few shots in my film watching history have held my attention so completely as the creepy but beautiful frames starring (creepy but beautiful) Michelle Williams. Scorcese could have left them out, or simply alluded to them (waking in fright etc) but these sequences are the perfect device for ratcheting up the tension and really (REALLY) manipulating the audience's emotions.
All in all, Shutter Island is brilliant, though not for everyone. So in this way its weakness to some people, will be its triumph to others. In a world where people are savvy enough to generally guess the story arc with all its ins and outs within about 15 minutes of the film beginning, Shutter Island is a deliciously dark treat for the more cynical movie-goer.
Oh, and the score is beautiful and haunting.
Scorcese you old dog, you've done it again but better than you have for a long time.
Yesterday I had just such an opportunity.
A group of friends and I trekked to the cinema in Norwood, and student IDs in hand, purchased the cheapest 'cheap-Tuesday' tickets we could get. Tuesday afternoon in early March is a very good time to watch a film at the cinema. Its either going to be uni students overtly aware of the irony and freedom we enjoy in schedule and responsibility, or older (elderly? senior?) people who are just kicking the same vibe but perhaps in a more pure and unfettered way.
I had no idea what the film was about, other than a friend had told me it had "really messed with Leo's head" and that it was about an island. God I love knowing nothing before things happen. We sat in the cinema as a group of 5, swelling the meagre audience from 4 to 9. Quiet, dark, and with no crowd to reassure you, it was going to be isolating or intense, or more hopefully - both.
Shutter Island begins with a film noir classic setup, as a US Marshall on a boat wearing a great coat and an awful tie, meeting his new partner and sharing a cigarette. The image of the 2 men on the boat, shot from the front and then behind, in Dick Tracey hats and hands on hips is a beautiful one and effectively informs the viewer that as with most film noir and classic detective stories - all is not well in the world.
The scripting and performances were excellent reminding me of some of the more adversarial moments from The Departed and in some ways thats what the movie is - a constant battle of wills from start to finish. As the onion is unpeeled layer by layer, the audience find themselves unable to find sure footing in such rocky plot and character-driven terrain. A lot of the time, the critical viewer simply does not know what is going on despite every effort to understand.
One of the things I liked most about Shutter Island, were the highly crafted and stylised dream sequences. Few shots in my film watching history have held my attention so completely as the creepy but beautiful frames starring (creepy but beautiful) Michelle Williams. Scorcese could have left them out, or simply alluded to them (waking in fright etc) but these sequences are the perfect device for ratcheting up the tension and really (REALLY) manipulating the audience's emotions.
All in all, Shutter Island is brilliant, though not for everyone. So in this way its weakness to some people, will be its triumph to others. In a world where people are savvy enough to generally guess the story arc with all its ins and outs within about 15 minutes of the film beginning, Shutter Island is a deliciously dark treat for the more cynical movie-goer.
Oh, and the score is beautiful and haunting.
Scorcese you old dog, you've done it again but better than you have for a long time.
Monday, March 1, 2010
Scientology Nonsense
As if it wasn't nonsense enough already and had a reputation for being a manipulative insane organisation... this little gem emerges.
"Don't you keep up with current events? We're all completely fucked."
This evening I found myself watching the James Cameron classic Aliens, starring Sigourney Weaver, and featuring such luminaries as Paul Reiser before he was mad about Helen Hunt, and Bill Paxton before he had more wives than he knew what to do with.
Its awesome. Obviously.
While I was watching the whipping tails and gnashing silver teeth (dripping with, according to Mark Kermode in his new book, loads and loads of sex lube and KY because it makes the monsters scarier) it struck me how exciting it was watching a group of people who by all rights were completely boned. Okay, so they were marines from the future with fire/bullet/grenade guns, and one of them was a woman who singlehandedly invented the character that Michelle Rodriguez plays in every single film she's ever featured in (who actually reminds me of Rufio from Pan), but seriously - weak wobbly pink human flesh with skeletons on the inside and a proclivity to yell instead of act when times get tough, against the insect/reptile/guy from AFI. They were completely hopeless against the aliens, and they knew it, though not at first. After the first and perhaps second encounters, every character knew that it wasn't about how many bugs you could nail, but survival. The odds were stacked against them and their eyes showed it.
So why was I loving every minute of it? Some might say it was because I'm a sadist and like make-believe people getting hurt (yawn). Others might point to my often dismal life-choices and say that I'm essentially a defeatist personality that just wants to be right all the time (ho hum). Though those aren't necessarily untrue, its a bit simplistic and I don't think really explains it at all. I think, that I like seeing humans getting an ego check. I like us to get our asses kicked and be told that "actually, you're still the bitch of so many things you don't even remember or know about yet". We've tamed the world to the point that we've essentially turned it into a fun park where we visit and its all a bit frightening, what with the flashing lights, upside down rollercoasters, and carnies looking to pick up, but we know secretly that its all going to be okay because we're strapped in and the company is regulated by official bodies and its all erected on flat land and... well we're safe so whatever happens its all fine.
So when something happens like an alien with a mouth inside its mouth inside its mouth literally penetrates your skull and brain like some brutal 'Caligula and Genghis Khan on Vacation in the Maldives' sex ritual, its like "WTF man? This isn't supposed to happen to me! I'm human!" This is evidenced by the Michelle Rodriguez character interrupting her briefing session about the aliens (what she needs to know) by saying "Just tell me where they are." and waving a pretend gun around (what she already knew). I sat in absolute and utter delight as Private Vasquez/Rodriguez was annhilated by an alien horde, all while she flexed her most surprised look. I cheered as she went down in flames and wished there were more of her to be arrogant and then receive a womping from the interstellar beasts.
I was loving all of it and revelling in the carnage. I was also scared because I tried to imagine being there and it was more than this jet-lagged soul could comprehend at that moment. Then something changed.
RIPLEY
What a badass mother! I wanted her to survive! You see, she knew from the start and she told them all but none of them listened and she was so nice and strangely attractive for a women of such statuesque proportions and maybe if I knew her I might ask her out and she might say yes and we'd go to a pub but nothing too upmarket because Ripley would not be down with that and maybe I would kiss Ripley and she would quote the movie in bed and... lets just say I wanted her to survive. I was on an irredeemable path of perversion and belief in the human spirit conquering all. I had reversed my opinion and decided that humans had good in them and shouldn't all die in some Malthusian event involving facehuggers and chests exploding.
But why? Because Ripley is amazing and all it takes is one good person to redeem everyone to me.
So there.
Its awesome. Obviously.
While I was watching the whipping tails and gnashing silver teeth (dripping with, according to Mark Kermode in his new book, loads and loads of sex lube and KY because it makes the monsters scarier) it struck me how exciting it was watching a group of people who by all rights were completely boned. Okay, so they were marines from the future with fire/bullet/grenade guns, and one of them was a woman who singlehandedly invented the character that Michelle Rodriguez plays in every single film she's ever featured in (who actually reminds me of Rufio from Pan), but seriously - weak wobbly pink human flesh with skeletons on the inside and a proclivity to yell instead of act when times get tough, against the insect/reptile/guy from AFI. They were completely hopeless against the aliens, and they knew it, though not at first. After the first and perhaps second encounters, every character knew that it wasn't about how many bugs you could nail, but survival. The odds were stacked against them and their eyes showed it.
So why was I loving every minute of it? Some might say it was because I'm a sadist and like make-believe people getting hurt (yawn). Others might point to my often dismal life-choices and say that I'm essentially a defeatist personality that just wants to be right all the time (ho hum). Though those aren't necessarily untrue, its a bit simplistic and I don't think really explains it at all. I think, that I like seeing humans getting an ego check. I like us to get our asses kicked and be told that "actually, you're still the bitch of so many things you don't even remember or know about yet". We've tamed the world to the point that we've essentially turned it into a fun park where we visit and its all a bit frightening, what with the flashing lights, upside down rollercoasters, and carnies looking to pick up, but we know secretly that its all going to be okay because we're strapped in and the company is regulated by official bodies and its all erected on flat land and... well we're safe so whatever happens its all fine.
So when something happens like an alien with a mouth inside its mouth inside its mouth literally penetrates your skull and brain like some brutal 'Caligula and Genghis Khan on Vacation in the Maldives' sex ritual, its like "WTF man? This isn't supposed to happen to me! I'm human!" This is evidenced by the Michelle Rodriguez character interrupting her briefing session about the aliens (what she needs to know) by saying "Just tell me where they are." and waving a pretend gun around (what she already knew). I sat in absolute and utter delight as Private Vasquez/Rodriguez was annhilated by an alien horde, all while she flexed her most surprised look. I cheered as she went down in flames and wished there were more of her to be arrogant and then receive a womping from the interstellar beasts.
I was loving all of it and revelling in the carnage. I was also scared because I tried to imagine being there and it was more than this jet-lagged soul could comprehend at that moment. Then something changed.
RIPLEY
What a badass mother! I wanted her to survive! You see, she knew from the start and she told them all but none of them listened and she was so nice and strangely attractive for a women of such statuesque proportions and maybe if I knew her I might ask her out and she might say yes and we'd go to a pub but nothing too upmarket because Ripley would not be down with that and maybe I would kiss Ripley and she would quote the movie in bed and... lets just say I wanted her to survive. I was on an irredeemable path of perversion and belief in the human spirit conquering all. I had reversed my opinion and decided that humans had good in them and shouldn't all die in some Malthusian event involving facehuggers and chests exploding.
But why? Because Ripley is amazing and all it takes is one good person to redeem everyone to me.
So there.
The Pursuit
Okay so this song is just not even nearly worked out of my system yet. Cudi's new album is smokin' hot.
Sunday, February 28, 2010
A Return to Arms
"You can't buy a bag of peanuts in this town without someone writing a song about you."
So its a return to blogging and all things literary amateurish. I've written academically and I've written to friends for so long. Oh and lets not forget the all-conquering king of self-serving expression - the status update. Only god knows why, but now I return to anonynous expressions of blind bile and ecstatic truths. At least, thats what I'm aiming for.
Film pondering, male authenticity, self-loathing/public-loving, musical digestion, and just about anything else I decide is worthy of putting into words. Thats what shall happen.
The process of writing is some times the only true thing I can find to do. Even music and film and HBO are commodities that shift up and down in value far too often for any kind of reliability or consistency to mean much to me. I guess when you're in the mood for them, it can be something ineffably gorgeous and sweet (like bluegrass and skiffle bands) but when they're not the medicine you need and you're in search of a particular tonic that confirms all is real in the world and the disconnection you feel is not total - putting words down on paper never fails. Sometimes its just writing the same word over and over or seeing how often you can avoid vowels, but jesus god and allah - its real, and its burning fire, and its the light that fire produces that illuminates where once was dark.
So perhaps if that can be shared and if someone can know this/these about me... then what? Then maybe less of the disconnect and more of the barn stomping and belly-laughs, for you and for me. But jeez, really? Can it be as neat and tidy as the spray and wipe commercials say? As Jack White put it - "you can't be a pimp and a prostitute too". Lets just wait and see.
Perhaps there can be absolute salvation of a lost soul. At the very least, it will allow absolute salivation of this lost soul.
Thats something worth aiming for.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
