Metadiegetic Blog

Untitled

2011-03-27T19:53:00.001-04:00

"Untitled" is like the weakest shit ever if you're an artist. I can understand a museum piece being labeled "Untitled" because it was unearthed for some collection, and the artist never meant for it to be seen. But if you make something with the intention of an audience, don't call it "Untitled." I mean, what is art anyway? You're expressing yourself in a very public way. In an intentionally public way. You are communicating. SO SAY SOMETHING!

Kid A, Inc., Part 1

2009-08-23T15:03:00.013-04:00

Secretary of Extrahuman Affairs, head of the Department of Extrahuman Affairs, was a cabinet position in the administration of President of the United States. It was created to manage all issues arising from the invention of cloning, which became a widely available commercialized technology thanks to various breakthroughs in bioengineering and genetics.

The major issue facing its era was regulating the creation and sale of custom-made children, particularly the largest corporation in the custom children industry, Kid A, Inc. The Secretary's main responsibility was to ensure that the industry operated safely for the benefit of society and the nation; to be blunt, the benefits were mainly the tax dollars generated for the federal coffers, and the sole safety consideration (the only topic that got the media's and thus the public's attention) the Secretary had to worry about was abortions, or "extrabortions" as it was commonly called. Some extrahuman rights activists objected to the term, although "extrahuman" had already been too widely and deeply ingrained in the lexicon to reverse.

It was perhaps a cruel irony that extrabortions could even be a problem for the custom children industry, yet there it was, year after year, a story or two would surface in the media, and always the same: parents change their minds, activist groups comment with some outrage, corporate spokesperson states policy of protecting client interests and never commenting on individual cases, and White House Press Secretary reads a statement from the Office of the Secretary of Extrahuman Affairs about its dedication to safety in the custom children industry for the benefit of society and the nation.

Kid A was particularly successful because they had a reputation for having the best "money" genes. Their children were engineered to be the best equipped at making money and being wealthy and successful in human society, and what parent wouldn't want such a meal ticket for later life and retirement? Of course, Kid A could basically charge whatever they wanted, because all LEE (Lifetime Earnings Estimates) for each custom child could only be given in ranges, and no guarantees at that. Kid A could rightly claim some of the most successful individuals of its time as its own, from multiquadrillionaire CEOs to some of the highest public offices, including a Secretary of Extrahuman Affairs (considered a great civil rights triumph by many extrahuman rights activists). With the lure of such promise, the highest average LEE and LEH (Lifetime Earnings Historical) in the industry, they could do all the business they could handle.

At the same time, peculiarly, Kid A was also responsible for the highest extrabortion rates in the industry. Only extrahuman rights activists really took the time to try to track and attribute extrabortion cases, and their efforts were generally considered educated guesswork at best. All companies were required to report these figures and other statistics to the Department of Extrahuman Affairs, but these were kept extremely confidential. The only public information in the industry was LEE and LEH. However, it was widely understood that although the extrahuman rights activists' absolute figures might be off, Kid A certainly had an unusually high annual extrabortion rate as a corporation given the quality and desirability of their product.

Kid A had been leading the industry for decades before whispers finally started surfacing regarding a second, and far more lucrative revenue stream for Kid A: the manufacture of children for their organs. Although the revenue per child for a high LEE product was certainly very high, it was also a highly costly engineering procedure, and the market was destined to be smaller and lower volume. Organs, however, were in constant need, and manufacturing a child, any child, with functioning healthy organs was much easier than painting the subtleties of personality and intelligence into the genes on top for a high LEE. The volume of this business for Kid A dwarfed the high LEE division, and returned far more dollars in profit as well; this was the secret strength of Kid A.

Right around when the first Kid A child in history was appointed Secretary of Extrahuman Affairs was when the rumors of the organ children emerged.

What Is Blog?

2008-11-19T09:35:00.002-05:00

What is Blog?

Is it me? What is me?

Is it you? Why you?

Who are we?

Is it what I ate for breakfast?

Is it what my mommy bought me for Christmas?

Is it the weather outside? Inside?

Is it the world outside? Inside?

Is it where I'm from? Is it where I'm going?

Or is it where I wish to go?

Is it a reflection or a creation?

Is it a thing unto itself or a vessel?

Is it meeting new people?

Is it meeting yourself?

Is it a waste of time? Is it a record of time?

Is it a waste of space? Is there a difference?

Is it live? Is it a draft? Is it for fun? Is it for money?

(It couldn't be for the money, now, could it?)

Is it questions? Is it answers?

Is it doubts? Is it strengths? Is it weaknesses?

Is it love? Is it blindness? Is it immoral? Is it callow?

Is it a manic Monday or a lazy Sunday?

Is it music or sport or cinema or politics?

Is it poetry? Is it literature?

Is it writing? Is it listening? Is it reading?

Is it page views? Is it comments? Is it clicks? Is it links?

Is it community? Is it a corporate whore?

Is it an entrepreneurial whore?

Is it grammar? Is it spelling? Is it long? Is it short?

Is it humor? Is it voice? Is it tone?

Is it expertise? Is it exploration?

Is it talking or is it shutting up?

Is it self-indulgence or self-discovery?

Is it man? Is it animal? Is it science? Is it God?

Is it woman? (It could be woman.)

Is it laughter and tears, ups and downs?

Is it glances and gestures, the in-betweens?

Is it copying and pasting? Is it banging on the keyboard?

Is it bold? Is it italicized? Is it underlined? Is it serif or sans?

Is it my favorite colors or is it easy on the eyes?

Is it the content or everything but the content?

Is it a good name? What's in a name? Nothing? Everything?

Is it freedom? Is it prison? Is it life? Is it death?

Is it a question mark or an exclamation mark? Is it parentheses?

Is it hiding from or is it showing off to the world?

Is it trying or is it doing? Or is it not doing?

Is it engaging the world or is it fighting it?

Is it engaging myself or is it fighting myself?

Is it both? Is it neither? Is it everything? Is it nothing?

Maybe it's nothing.

Maybe it's a long, poetic series of reflexive questions that have no answers, yet will demand comment nonetheless.

What is Blog?

the outside

2008-09-20T22:05:00.005-04:00

the night seeps through the very bricks themselves,

the inside just as cold as the outside.

the record player makes circles around us.

the sounds were made a long time ago; but

the music still greets.

the modest of lights begins

the journey from a place of weary,

the place of endings begins and we go forth to

the outside. the outside.

the heavy metal objects of this heavy metal world and

the empty spaces filled with plastic -- they mark

the time and progress of apes...

the... but we are merely hungry. still.

the light comes to us finally, and there

the fruit, and bread and

the holy fire transfigures the animals.

the return home we are satisfied from

the outside.

Wax

2008-09-07T13:36:00.002-04:00

The wax crackles with sax and dust;

You can feel the spittle on the mic,

The echoes up and down your spine;

You can read the sounds with your finger.

The wax sticks, skips, repeats, remixes,

You can watch it spin around and around.

Click. Flip.

the gray

2008-08-16T06:08:00.002-04:00

the gray metal looks like fog in the predawn glow. i feel my luck could change. slow down.

in an interstellar burst...

born again (welcome to my diegesis)

2008-07-28T22:38:00.005-04:00

some cycles are so long they can only be seen from space,
but let's not forget it -- everything is a circle
if you walk long enough;

if you walk long enough you'll wear down the earth,
and that's the thing about circles -- you can be reborn
into a redundant footprint;

into a redundant footprint i am born again,
or i birth myself again -- am i my own mother
and is this really a circle?

or just a really small dot?

December

2007-12-05T19:56:00.000-05:00

Not everyone in late December, 1963 could have been a young, happy person.

Perhaps in fifty years, some just-graduated college kid will nostalgically idealize what it must have been like to be young and happy in 2005 or something.

I don't exactly feel old, because whenever I get close to that feeling, I think about how I'm 22 years old, and how most people would just laugh derisively if I said I felt old.

But I do feel weird. Like I'm nobody, nothing at all. Nowhere man. Maybe Blink 182 got it right. Nobody likes you when you're 23. Could juvenile third-wave punk-rock revival from the late 90s really guide my thoughts now? Combined with the Beatles, it seems that way from what I've just written. I can't tell if this is gracious and wise of me, or just sad.

Hello? Is this thing on?

2007-10-30T20:17:00.000-04:00

Testing, testing, one two, testing testing, one two.

Is this blog on?

I have been struggling. My addictive personality keeps me overly occupied with work. Am I making up for my slacker-attitude in college by trying, rather uselessly, to be an over-achiever on Wall St.? And if so, why now? Really, why? Do I really have the constitution to be Warren Buffet?

I do a lot of reading these days, but not the kind that helps. I feel so different today than when I last wrote in this blog, I'm afraid to post again. It's like this blog belongs to someone else, and I should just go get my own, less colorful, less interesting blog. It feels like I'm trespassing in a creaky, abandoned colonial-era house, or wiping my feet on a grave in the Poet's Corner of Westminster Abbey.

Changes

2007-05-27T03:50:00.000-04:00

My Firefox has a new homepage. It's no longer PennPortal. It is now Google News. I have no use for PennPortal anymore. Some of my other bookmarks have been deleted, too. No need to check Blackboard, for instance. These are the kinds of changes that make me sad. Also, I will miss many of you. Off you go, to D.C., to Boston, St. Louis, Alabama, Florida, Canada, the West Coast. Or staying in Philadelphia, Texas, Los Angeles. Halfway around the world.

I hear from so-called "New Yorkers" that New York is the central nexus of the universe. If this is true, I hope you will all stop in and say hello. Otherwise, I will have to escape like Russell.

Today

2007-04-26T02:30:00.000-04:00

Today I ate eggplant beef from Yue Kee's food truck with Anni. It was really good, and kind of spicy. I also played basketball at Pottruck with Vimarth, John, Viraj, and Ant. We didn't win any games, and I shot the ball poorly. I ate dinner with Eric at Qdoba, nachos and a tortilla soup. It was very satisfying. Later I watched some NBA playoff basketball and drank beer with Sam. We got a beer called Pyramid which was apricot-flavored. It was good. I also had two cigarettes and some hookah. I'm going to shower and probably go to sleep now. I guess it was an OK day.

2007-04-15T01:59:00.001-04:00

What is this life if, full of care,

We have no time to stand and stare.

So it goes.

2007-04-12T13:04:00.000-04:00

A great man died yesterday. His name was Kurt Vonnegut. So it goes.

April Fool

2007-04-01T03:43:00.000-04:00

If the fact that my thesis is due on Tuesday turns out to be an April Fool's joke, I'll be equal-parts elated and angry. Is this simultaneity possible? I think so. I can't believe I just spelled "simultaneity" correctly on my first try, by the way. Sweet!

Everything should be a collaborative process, even writing -- the traditionally "solitary loner" practice. OK, so not "everything" everything. Collaborating on going to the bathroom would be pretty awkward.

Goddamnit, I need to work on my thesis...

Ode to Old Amsterdam

2007-03-16T19:22:00.000-04:00

City of canals and coffeeshops and cobblestone
Smartshops and smut
Museum amusement
Fried food vended
The Leidseplein that never sleeps
Towering Dutchmen on two wheels
British weekenders and
Obnoxious Americans

City of practicality and patience
Colonial triumphs and contemporary trials
Tiny little houses with tiny little windows
Cats and dogs, whores and patrons
Pigeons trained to swarm at the drop of a frite
Covered in mayo

City of dreams and nightmares
The lost, the found, the still waiting
Water, water, water
Untroubled under trams and bridges
People, people, people
Undulating like the brushstrokes of a van Gogh
Or the faces of a Munch
Rembrandt nobles still live in castles

City of memories and songs and celebration
And life and death and dams
And damns and curses and blessings

Old Amsterdam was once new
But now a mother, a grandmother
Watching all her children and laughing

The Long-Faced French-Canadian, Pt. 1

2007-02-10T17:26:00.000-05:00

She was one of those typically long-faced French-Canadian women with dark curly hair and a nose like a polished rock. The only reason I bring her up now is because the story she told me was unlike any I had ever encountered, then or since. Even after I found out that the whole story was made up -- false -- a lie -- the story has made such a strong impression on me that I almost believe in it more than the truth. Almost.

She walked into my office like so many other women before me, seeking help. Except I could tell immediately that something wasn't entirely normal about her. Her tone was all wrong. You see, normally, a first-meeting will go something like this: woman walks in with a heartbreaking story about man, some lover, whom she can't let go of for whatever reason (love, money, etc.), but man has disappeared (murder? cold-feet? another woman?), and she has to know the answer.

I look for answers. Maybe I sleep with her in-between, maybe not. Curiously, that always depends entirely on how well the case is going, nothing to do with her or me. She could profess all the undying love in the world for this man I'm supposed to find, but if the case is going well and it seems like we have a good shot at some kind of reunification, she will sleep with me. She could be as furious as scorned women can get -- I hear it's like hell -- at the man, but if it looks like he's gone for good, I usually get nothing. Women are indeed curious creatures, I have learned this much. Men? They just barely make a little more sense, I think (running away is a natural and understandable animal response, isn't it?), but I suspect that I feel this way entirely based on my own bias. Perhaps men and women are both equally crazy.

Anyway, this French-Canadian woman's tone was completely wrong. I don't travel much, so I don't know that much about Canada, or Quebec, or French-Canadian culture, or French-Canadian women, so maybe there was nothing with her tone at all. But I still felt like something was amiss. This is what happened.

"Hello, detective."

"Have a seat."

"Merci. I have never done anything like this before. Please tell me how to begin."

"The beginning works."

A smile. "Oui, the beginning. When I was born, my father was an architect in Europe --"

"Hold on, hold on. I didn't mean THAT beginning. I meant the beginning of what brings you here."

"But monsieur, I only know of this beginning, and no other. This beginning and this beginning only could have brought me to you."

An interesting perspective on things. "OK, continue."

"My father was an architect in Europe, designing football stadiums. He was kind of obsessed with them. Naturally, he had no idea how to relate to me, a little baby girl. I was probably like a bewildering alien creature to him when I was born. He tried to be a good father, I think, but I don't think he was capable of it. Baby daughters can be difficult for certain men, I believe. Do you have any children?"

I wanted her to cut to the chase already. I wasn't used to long David-Copperfield expositions from my clients. They usually get right down to the emotional whallop of how they got hurt, first thing. This woman was slowly, deliberately, methodically building me up.

"No children. No time for them."

"Of course. Well, my mother worked just as hard as my father, two jobs, doing phones during the day and waitressing on weekend evenings. Yet I found she always seemed to have time for me in a way my father didn't."

"Stop right there. If your dad was a commercial architect, he probably could support all three of you with no problem. Why did your mom have to work so hard?"

"I see I have found the right man for the job. You are very keen. Yes, it was entirely unnecessary for my mother to be working two, even one job. I believe she did it because she wanted to set an example for me, on how to be a strong woman independent of a man. More than that, I know she believed in this principle for her own life because her father, my grandfather, never supported her in any way. He was an alcoholic and a philanderer and he died when my mother was still young."

"Typical boozer-schmoozer, huh?"

"Do you like to drink, monsieur?"

"Yeah, sure, I enjoy a scotch every now and then."

"Do you like women, monsieur? I am not asking if you are a homosexual. I know you are not, because your secretary is very pretty. But do you like women?"

"Only in very controlled doses."

Another smile. "You are an interesting man."

Warehouse 5 Treatment

2007-02-08T12:40:00.000-05:00

LOGLINE:

Trapped in a mysterious warehouse containing all of time and the history of existence, a lonely video store clerk discovers meaning and meaninglessness in the universe and his own life.

SYNOPSIS:

David, who has just turned 33, works at a rundown, hole-in-the-wall video store which doesn’t even carry DVDs, only VHS tapes. He and his co-workers, Artie and Jon, take pride in their indie hipster cred while bickering about classic and obscure cinema. However, David secretly harbors longtime desires of becoming a great filmmaker one day, leading to his perpetual unhappiness. This malaise is manifested in his ambivalent relationship with longtime friend, Hannah.

Skeptical of coincidences and the other vagaries and mysteries of life and unable to relate to the world through any other lens besides the films he worships, David one day stumbles upon a strange warehouse he has never seen before, with a large red hand-painted “5” on the side. He steps inside to discover a lobby with a receptionist, Virginia, waiting.

Virginia explains to David the nature of this mysterious place: it is a warehouse that contains all of time and existence, from the beginning of the universe to the end of the universe. She brings David through a maze of clean, white hallways before they arrive at one infinitely long hallway, with black door after black door. She tells David that the length of this hallway represents his entire life, and that each door represents a moment in his life. The rest of the warehouse similarly houses every other moment in time, from the Big Bang wing to the 42-billion-years-later endpoint of the universe’s existence. Finally, she tells him that he is free to explore the whole place as extensively as he wishes, in all time for all time. There are only two restrictions: he can never leave, and he must never enter one special door in the very center of the warehouse, the door of the Present, or his mind and soul will be ripped to shreds. She then hands him a brochure highlighting popular Warehouse 5 destinations and points of interest, replete with alien civilizations and visually spectacular cosmic phenomena, before disappearing down a hallway.

David begins by checking out the room of his death, which is utterly normal. Hannah and Jon cry. Moving words are said. No wife, no children. David can’t even concentrate on this pitiful, unwatchable, utterly unspectacular scene. He decides to follow the more exciting tour itinerary in the brochure.

After exploring everything in the brochure, David can’t figure out what to do next. He seeks Virginia for guidance, asking her if he must remain a space-time tourist his whole life, and she tells him that all people inevitably end up in the same place, which is the room in their own lives where they were the happiest, the most content, without a worry or desire in the world. She tells him that finding this room is like finding home.

David proceeds to examine room after room, trying to find his perfect moment, but as each room fails the test, he finally discovers that he has never had a completely happy moment in his entire life, that something has always been not-quite-right. Lost in the ultimate existential quandary, he mentally breaks down, choosing to relive painful memories and even reverting to the room of his infancy for a period of time. As he obsessively, psychotically relives his birth over and over, he suddenly snaps out of his condition, resolving to put an end to everything once and for all.

He marches nervously toward the room of the Present, glancing around to make sure Virginia isn’t around to catch him. He figures this suicide will be more honorable than the cosmic limbo he currently lives, and boldly opens the door and steps in. The room plunges him into total darkness. He waits. Nothing happens. Confused, he opens the door again and comes out. Everything is still there, nothing seems different. He goes back in tries again. Darkness. Nothing. He comes back out again.

Bewildered, he looks for Virginia, to ask her why the room doesn’t do anything. When he finds her, however, she wears a different hairstyle, and doesn’t recognize him. After trying some rooms, he realizes that the contents of his life have changed entirely. He returns to the room of the Present and tries it again, and discovers that his life is once again completely different. David believes he has discovered the true nature of the Present, as a variable “t” which unlocks the sole portal to an infinite array of alternate parallel universes, an infinite number of warehouses, from Warehouse 1, 2, 3, … and so on, each one housing a different set of choices and random outcomes, resulting in a unique universe. Here, he can find the perfect room in the perfect hallway of his life of the perfect warehouse, where he is a world-famous, critically-acclaimed film director. He happily enjoys many moments, from a dream-like wedding with a beautiful actress to winning Sundance and the Oscars in the same year.

However, as he encounters as many different Virginias as universes, none of them can fathom how he is able to accomplish this feat, when so many others before him have died, simply removed from existence for this transgression. The Virginia of David’s happiest universe continues to question and pester David on this mystery, and eventually comes to believe that David has achieved some kind of godhead or transcendent nirvana state. Where others like her only have omniscience, insofar as knowing the unchangeable past and future, David can move through the present, affecting the choices individuals make and the outcomes of random variables. In short, David has omnipotence as well as omniscience, the ultimate director, God himself.

Virginia posits this theory to David, who cannot begin to understand what he should do if she is correct. There is no direct way he can intervene in people’s lives and help people with this power, yet there is no way he can simply go back to living his happy director life with the knowledge that he could be a deity. He asks Virginia for help, but she has no answers. She, too, has never witnessed such an occurrence. But she has faith that as God, David will by nature make the right decision, and she begins to study his words and behavior as a model of moral rightness, in effect worshipping him as God. Still unsure of what to do with another new plane of existence at the lonely top, Virginia beseeches him to just go with his gut.

David decides that his purpose can only be to accumulate all the wisdom of time and existence and life in the pursuit of having that one perfect moment in one’s life, which he had never had. He commits himself to the study of happy moments all across the universes, determining this to be the meaning of life. To be sad that a loved one has died is silly when one realizes that this beloved is also happy, alive, and well a few rooms down the hall, in his perfect room. The meaning of life, he concludes, is the creation, pursuit, and experience of that one happy room to call home, which can only be achieved by living in the present. David forms this doctrine and resolves to spread it across the universe.

the edge of the world

2007-01-17T11:01:00.000-05:00

when columbus was a boy
they told him never to go beyond
the edge of the world
where monsters lay, and dragons
today we say, "the world is not flat!"
but we are still boys
and the edge of the world eludes us
always

stream surfing

2007-01-03T22:41:00.000-05:00

this hallway i run through
runs by me
flashing dark light
dark light dark light dark light
like a film strip and

i am an inverted projector
inside my own movie
that i am exhibiting
the wheels are spinning

i am the wheel
and the film
and the light

so it begins.
so it goes.

2007

2007-01-01T01:33:00.000-05:00

Resolution #1: Read and write more.
Resolution #2: Get an agent. Sell a screenplay.

So it goes.

Happy New Year!

The Other People

2006-12-31T18:37:00.000-05:00

I look at all the Other People. The Other People are the People we rarely notice, the People who were designed to go unnoticed. The People that actually make sure things work, but invisibly. The People you aren't supposed to meet face-to-face, but you sometimes do anyway. That small old man with the push broom at the fancy hotel, for example. I look at him, and I want to say hello. Do not mistake, I don't want to say thanks -- not a cursory, socially-obligated thanks, anyway. I want to say hello. I want to ask him his name. You see, he doesn't get a name-tag like the lady at the front desk. I want to let him know that he shouldn't act like he's supposed to be invisible. I want to tell him to go trip patrons with his broom. Go sweep right next to the front door, not when the lobby's empty, but when it's full. Go under tables that are being occupied. Take the gold-gilded elevator like everyone else, not the cold concrete stairs. Say hello to people as they pass, don't hang your hand and grip your broom. Why? Because I look at all the Other People. And they don't belong in the woods. They belong in town, like everybody else. All the People. Laughing.

Plano, Texas

2006-12-29T21:17:00.000-05:00

I live in Plano, Texas.

Plano is bigger than Jersey City, New Jersey (the second-largest city in NJ behind Newark); Lincoln, Nebraska; Greensboro, North Carolina; Norfolk, Virginia; Birmingham, Alabama; Madison, Wisconsin; Orlando, Florida; Rochester, New York; and Reno, Nevada.

Plano is over 78% white. Next are Asians and Latinos at 10% each. Black people are around 5%. These numbers add up to more than 100%, because about 3% reported two or more races.

Plano is the highest income place in the United States for cities over 130,000 people. It also has the lowest poverty rate of 6.3%, making it the richest city in the United States with a population over 250,000. Plano is also located in Collin County, the richest county in Texas and part of the richest 1% of counties in the United States. The four wealthy zip codes of Plano that contribute to the county's affluence are (in descending order of median household income/year): 75093, 75024, 75025, and 75094. I live in 75025.

64.3% of households are married couples living together.

Plano is also home to many large corporate headquarters, including Electronic Data Systems, JCPenney, Cadbury Schweppes/Dr. Pepper/Seven Up, Frito Lay, and Neiman Marcus.

Plano students achieved notoriety following a cluster of nine suicides in 1983 that raised national awareness about suburban teenage depression and drug abuse. The drug specifically cited by many was heroin. This heroin problem resurfaced in the late 1990s, culminating in coverage by several major news outlets such as NBC's Dateline. Heroin use in Plano eventually led to over a dozen overdose deaths of teenagers and young adults. Many more Plano heroin users suffered from overdoses that did not result in death.

I live in Plano, Texas, but I will never be from here.

Love

2006-12-29T01:01:00.000-05:00

Love, love, love
All you need is love
She loves you, yeah, yeah, yeah
Love is all you nee--
Love is all you nee--
Love is all you nee--
Love is all you need
Back on top in June
I said THAT'S LIFE!
I want to hold your hand
With a love like that
You know it can't be bad
Yeah, yeah, yeah
Oh, yeah, I tell you something
It's easy!

Top 10 Albums of 2006

2006-12-24T15:48:00.000-05:00

I haven't listened to a lot of albums I should have this year, so any objections to this list are probably correct. However, this list does accurately reflect the soundtrack of my life in 2006, which is all any year-end top 10 list is good for, anyway.

10. Straight Outta Lynwood ("Weird Al" Yankovic)
9. Modern Times (Bob Dylan)
8. LOVE (The Beatles)
7. Whatever People Say I Am, That's What I'm Not (Arctic Monkeys)
6. At War with the Mystics (The Flaming Lips)
5. The Crane Wife (The Decemberists)
4. Destroyer's Rubies (Destroyer)
3. Everything All the Time (Band of Horses)
2. We are the Pipettes (The Pipettes)
1. The Life Pursuit (Belle & Sebastian)

And, uh, also the Top 2 Concerts of 2006:

2. The Raconteurs/Bob Dylan
1. The New Pornographers/Belle & Sebastian

And, uh, also the Top 1 Festival of 2006:

1. Pitchfork - Union Park, Chicago

2006 was a pretty good year for music!

The Character of HAL 9000

2006-12-22T17:00:00.000-05:00

This is the third installment of a multi-part series in which I post the best college papers ever written in the entire history of the universe... by me. Voila!

I. Introduction/Disclaimer

The difficulties that arise from examining the “character” of HAL 9000, or any other element of the narrative in Stanley Kubrick’s 2001: A Space Odyssey, are hazardous and abundant. 2001 is a film whose plot is constructed in a deliberately opaque manner, defying most, if not all, of the classical Hollywood conventions. Temporally, it “spans infinity rather than days or years”; spatially, it “embodies a kind of ultimate cinematic universe” without the assurances of a “normal perspective”; in short, it is a “frontal assault on the traditional conventions of Hollywood filmmaking” (Nelson 110). Out of 160 minutes of film, only 40 minutes of footage contain dialogue, most of which does little to further the audience’s understanding of the story (Fry 333). Kubrick himself stated that he “intended the film to be an intensely subjective experience that reaches the viewer at an inner level of consciousness, just as music does; to ‘explain’ a Beethoven symphony would be to emasculate it by erecting an artificial barrier between conception and appreciation” (Fry 333). Basically, Kubrick never meant for this story to be put into words, never meant it to be explained, verbalized, or articulated; rather, he meant it to be experienced, seen visually and heard musically, and only inwardly appreciated.

Indeed, this poses a problem in trying to pin down anything coherent about a purposefully enigmatic narrative in twelve pages, but despite this challenge, an attempt will be made to elucidate the narrative function of the HAL 9000 character.

II. Introduction/Thesis

Philosophers, scientists, theists, and atheists throughout human history have spent their entire lives musing on the eternal question, “Why?” Why man? Why earth? Why the universe? Why anything? It is this self-consciousness, perhaps, that separates us from any other living thing known to mankind -- it is, perhaps, the only thing that makes us special. If this is true, then what does one make of an artificially created conscious, invented and molded by the hands of man, HAL 9000? Most viewers of the film agree that HAL is more than just an action prop with an electronic voice, more than just a machine; he (not it) is a full-fledged character in the narrative. But as the pinnacle of man’s creativity and technological achievement, what kind of character is he? How human is he? Is he a hero or villain?

On a smaller, more literal level, HAL is unquestionably human, and perhaps a tragic villain in the vein of Mary Shelley’s monster in Frankenstein. However, as a symbol for what technology means in relation to man, and as the pinnacle of what technology can achieve, a tool that replicates all the complexities of the human mind, HAL 9000 is a character that transcends the question of humanity and the paradigm of good and evil to achieve a more cosmically significant status in the narrative, not as a representation of man’s follies, but as simply another stepping stone to walk over in man’s evolution.

III. HAL’s Humanity

Even before HAL 9000 ever enters the narrative, the notion of latent humanity being buried or constructed within man’s technological creations is explored. Various images or objects suggest the idea that technology, something most people view as cold, mechanical, and inhuman, is actually a very human, even organic thing.

During the “Dawn of Man” section, in fact, the first tool, the first technological idea for man, is a bone, part of something that used to be alive. Bones are something very vital to higher life forms such as mammals, and the fact that the first ape-man uses this object that was once alive as a tool, as a technology, inextricably ties life and technology together, from technology’s very birth onward. The notion that technology is also tied to death, by way of violence, is also suggested by the use of a dead bone from a dead animal, but this idea will be explored more thoroughly later in the paper.

This idea doesn’t die when the technologies become more complex, as the famous match cut that brings us from bone to space ship suggests. Ships float through space elegantly, enhanced by the classical music soundtrack, and their graceful movements seem to have a life of their own. The spaceships movements have been described by others as anywhere from “ballet” to “a cosmic, coital dance,” and regardless of one’s interpretation, they are all human descriptions, and certainly not simple mechanical motions (Verniere 2). One particular spaceship, in fact, is a round, planet-like sphere, which we see descending into a station; it looks exactly like a human head, complete with lights for eyes. Clearly in this shot, the face of technology is human.

When the film reaches the “Jupiter Mission” section, and we are introduced to HAL 9000 for the first time, we see just exactly how human that face is. The face is actually just one big red luminous circle, like an unblinking eye that watches everything. HAL’s “eye” seems almost more human than the human crew’s eyes; the three in hibernation are virtually frozen dead bodies that don’t even get to participate in the distinctly human activity of dreaming, and the two conscious ones, Dave Bowman and Frank Poole, have extremely expressionless, blank, robotic faces, with dull eyes that do not shine with nearly as much life and vitality as HAL’s red light.

During a BBC interview with the two astronauts, much is revealed about how human HAL actually is. We are told by the interviewer, “The crew of Discovery 1 consists of five men and one of the latest generation of the HAL 9000 computers,” and it is interesting that he is even considered a component of the crew, normally understood to be a human grouping; indeed, he is more part of the “crew” of the ship than any one human, as he runs every aspect of ship operations. One particular shot from the interview frames the two astronauts side by side, with HAL right in the middle between them, as if he were not just part of the crew, but captain of the crew. In fact, it is interesting that he is even referred to as “he” at all, instead of “it.” HAL’s humanity is so inherently intuitive, that it is basically automatic to assume to call him a “he,” and not once is he ever referred to as “it.” Even when you call him by his name, you are supposed to say “Hal,” like the human name, and not say the letters “H-A-L.”

Granted, the question arises as to whether HAL can actually feel real human emotions, if he indeed is actually a replication, not just a synthetic mimicry, of the human brain. However, even in the content and manner in which HAL speaks, there seems to be a whole well full of motivations derived from truly human emotions. He states, “I enjoy working with people,” a response grounded by emotion (“enjoy”) rather than logic or mechanics. After Frank views a birthday message from his family, HAL chimes in with a, “Happy birthday, Frank,” which seems to come out of nowhere, completely unmotivated, and therefore unusually genuine. When HAL tries to persuade Dave that there’s nothing wrong, even after HAL has murdered Frank, he tries to appeal to Dave on a basic human level, citing distinctly human traits when he says, “I’ve still got the greatest enthusiasm and confidence in the mission.” Also, it’s noteworthy that he says “still got,” as if he’s lost everything else -- the logic, the computational abilities, the rationality -- and all that’s left deep down, at his core, is his inherent humanity, his “enthusiasm and confidence.” Even if phrases like that are just well-calculated moves to get Dave to stop his attempt at dismantling him, they reveal a deep, urgent need for self preservation that goes beyond the programmed parameters of completing this mission.

Finally, if HAL’s positive attributes do not point to his humanity, then the manner in which he contrasts with “real humans” certainly does. The “banality of Bowman and Poole… makes it possible for HAL… to appear… ‘more human than human’” (Verniere 3). HAL’s closest human analog would be Mission Control based on earth, and the difference between them is overt. Although Mission Control is a human speaking to Dave and Frank, the voice is filtered through radio technology, and sounds much flatter, thinner, and more electrical than HAL’s voice, which has an enveloping, deeply resonant tone. The content of their speech also differs. HAL speaks like a normal human being as he “gives counsel, shows curiosity, awards praise” (Nelson 186). Mission Control speaks in “Technish” that sounds infinitely more like the speech of a computer or machine: “X-ray-Delta-One, this is Mission Control, roger your two-zero-one-three… Roger your plan to go E-V-A and replace Alpha-Echo-three-five unit prior to failure” (Nelson 318).

IV. HAL as Tragic Villain

If HAL is indeed established to be, if not downright human, then virtually human, what kind of character does he have? What sort of human is he? The most common and immediate reaction is that he is an evil, intelligent, calculating villain. The American Film Institute listed him as the #13 villain in their “100 Years… 100 Heroes and Villains” best-of list in 2003. His voice has been described as “bland, neutral, reassuring,” but also “ambiguous, sinister, untrustworthy” (Walker 185). His actions, strictly speaking, are certainly heinous, as he murders Frank Poole in cold blood, as well as the helpless, hibernating crew members, before intentionally leaving Dave outside the ship to die. However, is this distinction so easy? Certainly, HAL’s actions are unforgivable in a sense, but there are complexities to the straight-villain claim that texture HAL’s character as more of the tragic villain type than the purely evil villain type.

First and foremost, HAL was created by man and given the gift of some form of intelligence, and in fact, consciousness. In this sense, he is a pretty clear descendent of the Frankensteinian monsters of which Mary Shelley first gave seminal vision (Kozlovic 347). These types of villains are indelibly tragic, as they were created without ever asking to be created, and always with some sort of fatal flaw that seems like a gross oversight on the part of the creator that causes the monster to suffer in some unjust way. This notion goes as far back as God’s creation of Adam only to have him expelled from Eden, as explored by John Milton in Paradise Lost, and thus suggests something inherently human about these tragic Frankensteinian monsters.

HAL’s tragic flaw, in a sense, is that he is too human. The programmers who created him did too good of a job in turning this machine into a man, full of human flaws, especially hubris. The interviewer remarks that he can detect a small bit of pride, even arrogance, in HAL’s proclamations of the 9000 series computers’ infallibility. It has been said that “HAL’s biggest crime” was not his “murderous deeds,” but his “conceit” with “claims like, ‘No 9000 computer has ever made a mistake.’ This is more than just arrogant, more than just false; it is the antithesis of realism” (Kozlovic 358). Indeed, it is this hubris that drives him to commit his villainous murders, either to cover up the possible mistake he made about the faulty part, or as a consequence of his doubts and suspicions about the mission, in which case, his hubris extends to the idea that he, as the most powerful and knowledgeable component of the mission, is above the mission. And the tragedy of that is that this was the way he was created; he was designed to be that powerful and that knowledgeable, that perfect, and in an imperfect world, this was the most cruel thing man ever did to machine -- to give it consciousness without the natural human limitations we have that rein in our arrogances every day. Another take on this idea states that “once programmed to be ‘human,’ HAL loses the machine purity that, no doubt, his Earth twin still possesses. He becomes imbued with a consciousness of his own autonomy and denies his function as a tool,” thereby compromising his “infallibility as a machine and benevolence as a deity” (Nelson 128).

The camera also provides viewers with more subjective viewpoints that underline a certain amount of empathy for HAL. The first shot of HAL we see shows the red circular eye apparently watching Poole shadowboxing around the ship. HAL’s electronic gaze, as it reflects the moving, exercising body of Poole, gives the impression that HAL is jealous of Poole’s movement, his body, his physical manifestation. HAL is only the brain and central nervous system of the ship, an electronic, digital manifestation with no body whatsoever. This, too, was part of his design, fairly or unfairly, and may have mixed dangerously with his arrogance. In any case, the viewer sees both Poole’s limitless potential for movement and action reflected in the glassy eye of HAL’s digitally tied down brain, a mind held prisoner within motionless, muscle-less circuit boards, and can feel a small bit of empathy for this brilliant, intelligent, trapped mind. In fact, “many of the images of Bowman and Poole at work are subjective camera shots from HAL’s various vantage points throughout the spaceship” (Rasmussen 83). When Dave and Frank plot to disconnect HAL, Kubrick

frames the two astronauts, facing each other, inside the oval window of a space pod, where they have retreated so as to discuss HAL’s irrational behavior without, they believe, having the computer overhear them. We see their lips move silently behind the armored glass. The shot is from HAL’s point of view; and we realize the computer is lip-reading Bowman and Poole! (Walker 187)

Knowing that they are discussing what more or less comes down to HAL’s murder, the camera pans back and forth between Dave and Frank’s lips in a panicked motion, indicating HAL’s fear of being disconnected. These point of view shots from HAL’s electronic eyes are what some have called “his distorted, subjective point of view” (Nelson 127). Thus, HAL’s pre-emptive murders are a product of survival instincts and a desire for self-preservation. Indeed, when he wields the pod to cut Frank’s oxygen tube and kill him, it becomes like “his bone club, wielded against the creator who threatens his existence” (Rasmussen 89). HAL can only be blamed insofar as his creators can be blamed for his violent acts. His limitations are man’s limitations, and thus, there must be a certain level of empathy for HAL’s confusions and flaws.

When HAL is finally being dismantled, he reveals eerily human traits. His pleas for Dave to stop are chilling and pathetic as he delivers in monotone, “Stop, Dave. I’m afraid. I’m afraid, Dave.” He keeps going back to feelings and emotions, even as those programmed features are supposedly being removed one by one by Dave: “My mind is going. I can feel it. I can feel it. My mind is going. There is no question about it. I can feel it. I can feel it. I can feel it. I’m a… fraid.” He then does a very human thing near death, which is to revert back to his own infancy, in a moment much like his entire life flashing before his eyes, as he introduces himself and asks if Dave would like to hear a song his instructor taught him when he first became operational. In a sign of shared empathy or humanity, Dave significantly speaks for the first time during this gruesome operation, telling HAL to sing the song, as if to distract HAL from the pain of death. This moment is so poignant, and points to even Dave’s recognition of his own sympathy for HAL, that HAL’s death, despite his own deeds, becomes that of a truly tragic villain.

V. HAL Beyond the Infinite

Beyond just being a pivotal character in the narrative, whether human or non-human, tragic or evil, HAL also transcends these common paradigms of character to play a more cosmically important role as the stepping stone of man from dawn to maturity. This take on HAL acknowledges what is impossible to ignore: that 2001 as a whole is a film that begins before time, reveals the universe and even existence itself coming into existence, and then relates the history of man’s evolutionary development, from ape-man to some future transcendent stage as a Star Child. HAL merely represents the final step in this transformative process.

To begin with, critics commonly structure the film into four major sections, three of them subtitled by Kubrick:

The Dawn of Man

A primeval ape man makes a breakthrough - becoming endowed with intelligence after experiencing a mysterious black monolith

The lunar journey in the year 2000 (untitled)

Eons later, a similar monolith is discovered on the lunar surface in the 21st century, sending its signals to Jupiter

Jupiter Mission, 18 Months Later

A futuristic, 18-month journey to Jupiter, featuring HAL 9000

Jupiter and Beyond the Infinite

A mystical experience in another time and dimension (Dirks)

The separation between “The Dawn of Man” section and the untitled lunar journey is often thought to be obvious, as it is marked by the famous match cut from bone to spaceship, a cut that spans eons of time and countless technological improvements and discoveries. When the audience sees the cut, the “illusion of progress encourages us to accept this shift with little resistance,” but it is more interesting (and more correct) to assume that Kubrick chose to not separate the lunar journey segment with a subtitle for a reason, that it should actually be included as a continuation of “The Dawn of Man” (Castle). The evidence for this view is strong, as this longer dawn is marked by “two signposts” on the perimeter:

the monoliths. One has been placed in the ape’s encampment; the other, buried on the moon. Man’s ‘dawn’ has occurred not in a single bound to a smarter ape but within the whole space of four million years. This time marks a prelude to the journey to Jupiter, which will change man’s relation to the technological universe (Castle).

In other words, the entire first section introduces man as he develops pathetically through the utilization of technology, tied inextricably to the capacity for violence. The entire second section, centered around HAL, is the turning point, in which the culmination and pinnacle of what technology can achieve ultimately proves to be nothing more than a bigger, fancier expression of man’s capacity for technologically enabled violence. It is the last, final moment of apes bludgeoning themselves with levers, after which, in the third and final act, man is reborn into a higher form, beyond technology, and therefore, optimistically, beyond violence.

Exploring this grand, beginning-of-time-until-the-end-of-man narrative structure of the film would involve several papers’ worth of ideas, so this paper will focus on the middle section, HAL’s section, as a transitional “birthing period” for the emergence of this “new” man. This perspective simply underlines the point that HAL is not a mere character in this story, but, as the culmination of current man’s limitations vis-à-vis his dependence on technology vis-à-vis expressions of violence, overcoming and moving beyond HAL is an evolutionary step in the process of reaching the Star Child.

Images involving the process of birth abound in this section. The very first shot is of the Discovery 1 spaceship, which is shaped very much like a sperm cell, with a large head in front and a long, thin tail with rocket boosters in the back powering the ship’s movement. Indeed, this mission is very much like a sperm swimming through space, looking for a cosmic ovum to conceive a “new man” with. At this point, HAL is working on the ship in conjunction with, not against, this goal.

However, it is when HAL turns on humans that he actually truly propels them forward, pushing Dave to the next level, forcing him to overcome the still dawning man’s vestigial reliance on technology, to transcend that limiting human trait and evolve into a superior state. Humans “retain more immature traits longer than any other vertebrate on the planet” (Westfahl 103), and technology has simply been one of those immature traits that have endured over man’s four billion year long dawning, and now must be shed on the way to greater biological glory.

The sex-and-birth-related imagery continues to enhance the showdown between Dave and HAL, between man and his own technology. When Dave finds himself inside a pod, without a space helmet, locked outside of the spaceship by HAL, there seems to be no escape, and HAL seems to have triumphed in stifling -- suffocating -- man’s evolution. However, in a triumph of distinctly human ingenuity over mechanical logic, Dave forces his own re-entry into Discovery 1 with explosive bolts from his little pod, bolts which “were originally designed to help astronauts escape out of a malfunctioning pod, not into a malfunctioning Discovery” (Rasmussen 96). Dave sets the emergency bolts ready to explode the door open, and kneels down in front of it, crouching in a fetal-like position before shutting his eyes, looking for all the world like a baby preparing to enter the birth canal. The shots of his forced re-entry are more like a rape. His body bursts into the blood red air chamber, a womb, along with a cloud of white, semen-like smoke. After this moment, a reborn Dave stalks through the ship towards the room that houses HAL’s brain, “tracked by a hand-held camera attuned to his erratic breathing,” the film now fully taking on an unstable, but human perspective, the perspective of the victor. Before this, the camera moved in controlled, mechanical pans or simply remained stationary, implicitly assuming the perspective of a machine-dominated world. This victory, then, becomes a validation of man over machine, anointing and signaling his rebirth as he enters HAL’s Logic Memory Center and unscrews his brain-cards, and overtaking control.

HAL’s “death” climaxes the film’s treatment of humanity as Tool-Maker and provides a necessary step toward the symbolic implications of […] the birth of the Star Child. Visually, […] the use of subjective camera devices and disorienting angles signifies the presence of an important internal struggle. Images of circles and corridors convert the interior of Discovery into a well-lit womb of death where hibernators are aborted, and one character, from the darkness of space, gains re-entry to destroy the tool […] and begin a new evolutionary cycle” (Nelson 123).

HAL, for all his humanity or inhumanity, for all his tragedy or evil, was thus a necessity, because “HAL’s ‘humanity’ (his madness) forces Bowman to rediscover his own,” ultimately “[stimulating] growth” (Nelson 142). Put another way, technology’s flaws of inherent violence thus force man to rediscover a new humanity, and a new path of higher consciousness.

VI. Conclusion

Any method of reading Stanley Kubrick’s 2001: A Space Odyssey becomes reductive or problematic in some way. As one critic put it, “Screwing with audiences’ heads was Stanley Kubrick’s favorite hobby outside of chess” and this film “remains Kubrick’s crowning, confounding achievement” (Verniere 1). HAL himself will always remain a mysterious black box filled with questions, questions about exactly what technology means to man, questions about where the lines are drawn, if any can be, between mimicking and recreating human emotions… questions about the future. In one interesting, small piece of dialogue while Frank and Dave discuss the option of disconnecting HAL, Dave says, “Well, I’m not so sure what he’d think of it.” Neither are we, but the line suggests that “at some emotional level, [he] cares about HAL’s existence” (Nofz 40). Perhaps that is all man can be expected to do -- care about, if not fully comprehend -- the existence and purpose of technology.

A post in which the author attempts to find his inner voice through experimental exploration of his mental space

2006-12-06T11:49:00.001-05:00

Must everything begin with "I?" Is this the folly of mankind? But how else to begin, if not with "I?" It's impossible to begin with "We," for instance. "We" requires "I" as a necessary component, or else it becomes "Them." Can one begin with "Them?" This seems no better than beginning with "I." Where to begin, where to begin... In the beginning... in the beginning... First. What comes first? Exposition? No. Too traditional. In the beginning, there was time. Begin with "Now." Yes. Live in The Now, as they say. Not "In the beginning...," but "In the now..."

In the now, time remains still, relatively speaking.
In the now, life lives.
In the now, there is no such thing as a past, or a future.
In the now, the now never has to leave.
In the now, action is impossible.
In the now, there is only existence, existence without action or agency.
In the now, there is nothing.
In the now, nothing burdens.
In the now, a dark room.
In the now, peace.
In the now, eternity.
Now is forever.

2006-12-06T11:11:00.000-05:00

december never seemed so strange.

Residue

2006-11-29T02:14:00.001-05:00

The wind leaves residues of autumn in my hair,
Like her smile left residues of loneliness.
When I walk and the leaves crunch beneath me,
They say, "Don't forget me! I was beautiful once!"
How does one forget if the weather never fails
To turn my knees and face cold this time of year?
The trees must be so lonely without their hair,
Indeed, how do they carry on, naked and empty?
They await the eternal spring which never comes.
I wait with them -- "I've been through this before."
Where did you go? Where have you gone? Alone?
The earth and the sun have conspired in absence,
My heart grows weary; or, weary grows on it.
For her smile showed me the summer once,
Which I will not forget when the snows come.

life and death

2006-11-06T16:40:00.000-05:00

on the blackboard the Professor wrote
"life and death"
death + life
and we talked about vampyres
but i didn't see the point
as long as i am here and he is there
and you are where (?)

so i went looking for {you}
i put on your clothes
time time time = there's never enough
and time time time = it never runs out
you are there as i am here
as he is she and she is he
as you are we and woe is me

but where are we now, john?
where are we?

Unraveling the Detective Myth in Film Noir

2006-11-02T12:24:00.000-05:00

This is the second post of a multi-post sequence in which I copy and paste old college papers so that my blog can claim to have more intelligent writing in it. Please revel in the genius. Please...

In earlier fiction, the detective has always been a near mythological character, possessing incredible powers of insight, profound ingenuity, and deductive reasoning. His brains are almost superhuman in the way they are fully able to grasp the universe completely. The classic example of this is Sherlock Holmes, the sure and able protector of the community, possessing a sense of calm confidence, even when things seem too confusing to make sense. His passion for proof and truth allows him to notice details as he reads signs objectively and from afar, decoding the cryptic situation until everything becomes obvious for the reader; yet, throughout, it seems that everything has been obvious to him all along. He goes through his job with aplomb because he just knows that everything in the world is knowable. However, as the upheaval of the first half of the twentieth century came to a head, with a depression and two world wars, this myth began to unravel into something much more complex and human, and is embodied in what has become known as film noir -- stories about detectives that are marked not by confidence in the world, but by the two major themes of the limits of the knowable and male paranoia/anxiety. As the upheaval of the second half of the century burst, with the Cold War and political and social strife, the detective myth unraveled even further, additionally expressing the limits of the doable. The classic film noir The Maltese Falcon and the neo-noir Chinatown illustrate this point perfectly. While they share these themes in a syntactic sense, however, they do differ semantically in the way these themes are addressed.

Critics often call The Maltese Falcon the first film noir. Written and directed by John Huston before World War II, it exists as one of the more optimistic examples of the genre, although I use that adjective in a completely relative sense. On the surface, the film is about tough, hard-boiled private detective Samuel Spade, who, after the murder of his partner Miles Archer, becomes embroiled in a convoluted plot involving all sorts of criminals, low-lifes, and antique dealers, to secure an extremely valuable and historically mystical and elusive statuette of a falcon. However, taken as a whole, the film is an expression of epistemological uncertainty and male paranoia.

When it comes to the first theme of what is knowable, Spade is no Holmes, nor is the world he moves through the world Holmes moves through. Spade does not -- can not -- solve the mystery by looking at solid clues and physical evidence, trusting in logic and deduction with the certainty of a classic detective, because the world around him is neither solid nor logical. Instead, he must delve right into the shady underworld of the criminal, nearly becoming one himself as he becomes at odds with both the police and the scoundrels in trying to dig up the truth (a true spade, indeed). In becoming so embroiled, rather than maintaining the clinically intellectual objectivity and distance of a Holmes, he in a way admits that everything he concludes can only be his own interpretation, and that this unavoidable subjectivity par involvement, this inability to observe objectively, leaves true holes of mystery that the detective can never be capable of filling in for the audience. Spade is not completely lost in such a world, of course, as he seems to wheel and deal separately with the police and the criminals Brigid O’Shaughnessy, Joel Cairo, Wilmer Cook, and Casper Gutman with a measure of capability. However, the now distinctive technique of low-key lighting almost constantly shrouds Spade’s world in shadow, hiding what truths we may never know. A colleague warns Spade, “You think you always know what you’re doing, but you’re too slick for your own good,” a warning highlighted by the numerous name changes, false identities, lies, and double-crosses he must try to navigate, and not always deftly. Spade is a detective vulnerable and human enough to be drugged by Gutman and to be duped, at least for a while, into falling for O’Shaughnessy. Something like that would never happen to Holmes; indeed, Spade’s world is much more chaotic, and thus difficult to discern. When Cairo and O’Shaughnessy discuss the falcon in front of Spade in his home, revealing their unforeseen familiarity and throwing Spade and the audience for a loop, there is a quick shot of Spade’s shocked face, with a completely dark and shadowed wall behind him -- the ominous and unknowable shadows of the world have even managed to creep into Spade’s own home! Later, Spade explains to Cairo that a “sensible story” told to the police would have landed them in jail; it is a ludicrous story that passes for truth in this world. When Gutman makes a toast to “clear understanding and plain speaking,” the double-crosses only increase. In trying to price the falcon, he says, “There’s no telling how high it could go. That’s the one and only truth about it.” It’s telling that the one and only truth is that nobody knows, and this is a theme in general, not just about the falcon’s worth. Throughout the film, a man named Floyd Thursby is talked about a lot, someone we never even meet or see. In the end, the statuette everyone was clambering for turns out to be fake, and the whereabouts of the real statue remain a mystery. He calls the fake one “the stuff that dreams are made of,” expressing the futility and ethereality of even a hard, solid, physical clue. All these things sum up to indicate an uncertain and unknowable world.

The second theme of male anxiety is also very prominent. The film is composed almost entirely of either interior shots, which create a claustrophobic feeling enhanced by the many shadows, or exterior nighttime shots, marked by ominous darkness -- both point to a certain level of anxiety. When the police accuse Spade of killing Thursby, there is a shot of him in the middle of the frame, an officer towering over him to his left, and another sitting lower than him to his right, thus threateningly trapping Spade in the middle. Of course, the ultimate symbol of male paranoia is his antithesis, the femme fatale, O’Shaughnessy in this film. Spade is constantly watchful of her as she changes names, lies, double-crosses, and eventually admits to killing Archer. Her presence establishes the tradition in film noir that women can’t be trusted, especially rich, beautiful, seductive, and/or helpless ones, and the many scenes with her highlight this point. She never quits what Spade calls her “school-girl act,” yet her affectation of helplessness is often undermined by the way she is filmed. One shot has her standing ominously over a sitting Spade as the window blinds behind her either pierce her with ill-omened lines of death or suggest her criminality as prison bars. Another shot shows the shadows created by the blinds slanting diagonally across the wall, right behind Spade, off-angle lines that destabilize the frame, and menace to destabilize Spade. Her whole hotel room, in fact, is marked by the blinds and striped chairs, a light-dark-light-dark pattern that certainly suggests her duality, and adds to Spade’s male paranoia. Spade, moreover, is constantly rolling his own cigarettes, in an almost ritualistic fashion, ritual being a common male answer to anxiety; additionally, if one sees the cigarette as a phallic symbol, this cigarette rolling can thus be understood as a way of affirming his maleness in the face of the femme fatale threat.

However, Spade is ultimately able to hand in all the criminals and save his own neck, an astonishing feat given all the uncertainty that surrounds him; and although he comes close to falling for O’Shaughnessy’s wiles, he is sensible enough to pragmatically weigh the pros and cons of running away with this dangerous woman, and decides to turn her in. Thus, initially, film noir as a genre dealt with conquerable limits of knowledge, and preventable anxiety. Unfortunately for the private detective, these themes spiraled out of control in revisionist neo-noir films like Roman Polanski’s Chinatown that reread the genre with an even more cynical attitude towards the world.

The plot of Chinatown is even more convoluted than The Maltese Falcon’s, with private detective Jake Gittes starting off spying on supposedly cheating husband Hollis Mulray for a woman who pretends to be suspicious wife Evelyn, and ending with a gigantic, fantastically lucrative water-diversion plot by her the real Evelyn’s father Noah Cross, in which a totally unforeseen incestuous relationship is revealed. In this brief description, one can already begin to see the two themes of epistemological limits and male paranoia emerging.

The structure of the narrative alone addresses the limits of the knowable simply by its convolution and sheer complexity. Every other scene seems to be a plot-point that twists the story in a new direction, and spins Gittes’ head around. He is not nearly as capable as Spade in navigating the labyrinth and discerning truth from falsehood, but it is also a more labyrinthine world Gittes must operate in. A woman pretending to be Mrs. Mulray easily dupes him into spying on Mr. Mulray, making Gittes look like quite a fool. It looks like Mr. Mulray is actually the bad guy at first, and Cross a good guy. Rather than get drugged like Spade, Gittes has his blackout spell when he gets knocked unconscious by angry farmers. When he snoops around enough to gather the key fact that water is mysteriously being diverted and dumped into the ocean in the middle of a big drought, he almost loses his nose (every bit of knowledge comes at a dear price in this world of uncertainty). Like Spade, Gittes, is told by Cross, “You may think you know what you’re dealing with -- but believe me, you don’t.” Just when Gittes and the audience think they have it all neatly figured out, that Evelyn drowned Hollis in the salt water pool in the backyard, based on salt water in his lungs and his glasses found in the pool, Gittes discovers the limits of what he thinks he knows, when the incestuous relationship of Evelyn and Cross is revealed, and that Mulray never wore bifocals -- but this information comes too late, and Gittes tries but fails to save the innocent and bring down the bad guy, instead helping to kill Evelyn and allowing Cross to escape with the big money-plot and the child of incest. (As an aside, the incest theme is interesting because Cross is played by John Huston, the aforementioned writer-director of the first film noir The Maltese Falcon, and so the “father” of film noir. The mere casting of him in Chinatown is thus a form of genre-incest.) Rather than create uncertainty through lighting and shadows, however, the film uses a different set of semantics, mainly ocular/vision/glass and water/drought motifs. Photos deceive the mind. The fish Cross serves Gittes has a glossed eye, representing a clouded vision that can never see the whole picture. Similarly, Evelyn has a flaw in her iris, another sign of flawed vision. Gittes finds broken bifocals at the bottom of the pool, shattered pieces of glass that reflect a duplicitous and fractured world. Evelyn in the end is shot through her eye, a powerful statement on the seen versus unseen. The dryness of the earth caused by the drought suggests a dried up world with little information to offer. When water/information does arrive, it comes in chaotic deluges that almost drown Gittes, not help him. Water is naturally a more destabilized form of matter that flows and crashes with sometimes unstoppable turmoil, and its presence dominates, perhaps even precludes, more “solid” matter. While Spade’s world of shadows could always be conquered by turning on the light, Gittes’ world of water is wilder, nearly drowning him, and never staying still. Thus, it is the imperfect vision and unmanageable water together that suggest, with different semantics, the same syntax as The Maltese Falcon, that the world is not just uncertain, but unknowable.

Male paranoia is also not only present, but severely heightened in the film. As a neo-noir, the audience must instantly suspect the rich, beautiful woman that walks into the office, the femme fatale that poses such a threat to the male psyche, and indeed, Ida Sessions was fooling Gittes. But the great trick that Polanski pulls on us film noir scholars is to set up Evelyn as the femme fatale, where she shows a willingness to play Gittes’ game against the police by lying to them (a similar event happens in The Maltese Falcon), where Gittes handles her lying during a dinner scene, and where he apparently establishes her guilt in a murder, only to knock us all back by revealing that she wasn’t a femme fatale at all, but an innocent victim of incest trying to protect her sister-daughter. He thus toys with the idea of the femme fatale in such a way that it only increases any male paranoia towards women. Whereas before, we could have counted on the woman being evil, now, after Chinatown, who knows? The uncertainty merely aggravates the anxiety. Gittes also can’t affirm his maleness by rolling his own cigarettes; he smokes pre-rolled ones from a case. In fact, the most prominent phallic symbol in this film isn’t an affirmation à la Spade, but something that literally goes under the knife. Gittes walks around half the movie with an awkwardly large white bandage on his nose, because of a knife-cut he gets from a hotheaded gangster. It is interesting that just when he begins to start snooping around and sticking his nose into the darkness, he gets it cut, a sign that the world is so dangerous that it will unman you, even castrate you, if one reads the nose as a phallic symbol. No doubt such a threat would unnerve any man; since castration is a reality, male anxiety and paranoia are brought to their highest possible intensity. Nobody ever went around chopping Spade’s cigarettes with a knife.

The element of castration also adds to a third additional theme of the limits of the doable. Not only can Gittes not really know anything, he can’t really do anything either, as exemplified by the ending of the film and the symbol of Chinatown; in other words, Gittes is impotent, his actions meaningless. He was advised to do “as little as possible” as a cop in Chinatown, and he mutters this phrase as he realizes that his earnest but bungling efforts to save Evelyn only led to her death. As if that wasn’t dark enough, the film suggests that the events are part of an inescapable cycle of karma-like fate. It is revealed that in the shadows of his past, Gittes was somehow responsible for the death of a woman he perhaps loved while he was a cop in Chinatown, which was why he left to become a private detective. At the end of the film, things somehow devolve for Gittes back to Chinatown where another woman that he perhaps loves is killed because of him. It seems that he simply cannot escape this terrible destiny, and it is this point that gives the film its nihilistic drive. As the movie ends, his partner tells him, “Forget it, Jake. It’s Chinatown,” underscoring the inefficacy and impotence in trying to do anything in this world. There is simply nothing Gittes can do; he is powerless against the chaos. To further hammer home this cynicism, Cross is not condemned to a futile pursuit of the dubious “stuff dreams are made of,” as is implied for his counterpart Gutman at the end of The Maltese Falcon. Rather, Cross’ desire is for something else that shares a similar intangible and ethereal quality: the future. And he gets it. A simple glance at a modern map of southern California shows that his plan of bringing L.A. to the valley worked, earning him untold millions. Nobody stops him; he owns the police. Indeed, it seems that in this world of meaningless actions and unknowable uncertainties, money and power are the only things that mean anything -- and so, they mean everything -- in this world. There is nothing like honor that survives here, the way it does in Spade’s world when he is able to avenge his partner’s death, because it’s what you’re “supposed to do.” Instead, you’re supposed to do nothing. With that kind of message, Sherlock Holmes becomes in effect dead.

Thus, film noir, expressing epistemological uncertainty and male paranoia, is a genre that reflects a twentieth-century take on the old detective myth, unraveling it at first with The Maltese Falcon, and eventually killing it completely in Chinatown. Black film, indeed.

Milton's Pride and Humility

2006-10-29T22:58:00.000-05:00

This is the first in a multi-part series in which I post past college papers I've written on this blog, because I have nothing creative or new to offer, yet I want to show off how insightful and articulate I am. This particular paper comes from freshman year, so it has its flaws. But at the heart of it, the thesis is a pretty profound understanding of the epic poem. Please don't be alarmed by my genius.

Paradise Lost can be loosely divided into two distinct halves, Books I through VI and Books VII through XII. The first half deals predominantly with the way things were before God created Earth, before the Biblical “six days.” Although Adam, Eve, Eden, and Earth do appear in the first half, they are used primarily as a forum in which Michael can relate to Adam the pre-Earth history of the Universe, i.e. Satan’s rebellion against God, his banishment to Hell, and his subsequent plans, although not in that order. Conversely, the second half of the poem deals almost exclusively with the real action that transpires on Earth, starting with the “six days,” Adam’s recollections of first becoming ontologically aware, and, of course, the tempting of Eve by Satan, man’s subsequent fall and banishment from Paradise, and even, in prophetic vision, Cain and Abel, Noah’s Ark, and Jesus Christ.

Each of these halves has a corresponding invocation in which Milton asks for divine inspiration, and each half has a distinct tone which fittingly introduces its subject matter. In short, the pre-Earth invocation uses very ambitious, boastful, and proud language, announcing its attempt to reach above and beyond our Universe, perhaps appropriate since this half of the book will concern itself exactly with such things that are above and beyond our Universe; the post-Earth invocation, on the other hand, uses language that is more grounded, humble, and, if I may say, “down to earth” than its forerunner, also perhaps appropriate, given that the text concerns itself with events that take place on Earth. However, at the same time, Milton also concedes that he does require some divine aid to reach his ambitious heights in the first invocation, while declaring in the second invocation that he won’t need much more help now that he has his feet on firm, familiar ground, so to speak.

The first invocation in Book I begins audaciously, asserting Milton as a cut above precursors like Homer and Virgil. It declares its subject matter to be “Of man’s first disobedience” (1.1). The word “first” can be construed not only in a chronological sense, but also as first in importance. The entire premise of using an invocation is obviously an homage to past epic writers like Homer and Virgil, but Milton also uses the invocation as a form to elevate himself and his poem above his predecessors. Within the same paradigm that they used, he declares his work “first” on the list, above whatever smaller, pettier stories Homer and Virgil had to tell about Odysseus or Aeneas. There is no doubt that Milton adopts a very proud attitude in this regard. Furthering his tone of unabashed superiority over the Classical era, he invokes the “aid” of his Muse, the Holy Spirit (in contrast to the lesser pagan Muses of mythology), to, “with no middle flight… soar above th’ Aonian mount” (1.13-5). Unlike Homer, who’s Muse is actually the one telling the story through him as a simple medium, Milton merely asks for “aid” so that he himself may “soar.” Milton, in this way, takes more ownership, more credit, for what he’s about to write than was traditionally done before him. His statements about wanting to bypass the “middle flight” and go above the “Aonian mount” are both allusions to places in which Greek inspiration resided. Milton, therefore, will go beyond whatever mental plane Greek writers aspired to, to something greater, grander, and closer to God and Heaven. The word “soar” itself is an interesting choice as well; it invokes an image of an angel with God-given wings reaching heights that no other bird of the earth can. It is an image about as ambitious as an image can get without drawing parallels between Milton and God Himself. Finally, his claim that his poem “pursues things unattempted yet in prose or rhyme” is a further insult to Classical writers (1.15-6). The implication is that they were never Godly enough, they were never good enough, to even think to attempt something on Milton’s ambitiously grandiose scale. They were only able to attempt stories of much less significance, and much less purpose. Milton’s words are wracked with pride and boastfulness.

Besides raising his relative worth in comparison with preceding epic writers (or lowering theirs, whichever your perspective), he also, in a subtle way, implies the cleanliness of his own personal moral character. He claims that the Spirit that he is trying to contact prefers to speak to “th’ upright heart and pure” (1.18). Our right hand tells us that this Spirit definitely made good and answered Milton’s requests, or else we wouldn’t have a poem to read. The implication, then, is that Milton is indeed upright and pure, deemed worthy by the Spirit to communicate this message, and Milton is not afraid to boast about it.

Milton closes his invocation with more elevation of his subject matter, as can be seen in the following lines to the Spirit:

“Instruct me, for thou know’st; thou from the first

Wast present, and with mighty wings outspread

Dove-like sat’st brooding on the vast abyss

And mad’st it pregnant…” (1.19-22).

The footnote for this passage says that Milton is emphasizing “the creative power and wisdom needed for such great undertakings as creating the world and writing this definitive poem” (Elledge 8). Equating the omnipotent forces that created the known Universe with the inspiration for this one poem seems rather ridiculous. It indicates just how weighty and profound Milton sees his own work, a rather brazen and pretentious way to approach things, especially at the outset. It’s fine to be proud, but to equate a poem with all of Creation?

Finally, the last two lines of the invocation really don’t need that much elaboration. Forgetting the Spirit’s role in the matter, he says, “I may assert Eternal Providence, and justify the ways of God to men” (1.25-6). In using first person, he assumes the full responsibility for this substantial charge. The tone of the phrase “assert Eternal Providence,” makes Milton appear rather presumptuous and pompous; who is he to assert to the rest of mankind anything, let alone something as weighty as Eternal Providence? Furthermore, that he wishes to “justify the ways of God to men” shows that he sees “men” as lesser than him, unable to understand God’s justice, and therefore it is up to the more Godly, more intelligent Milton to explain to all the uncomprehending souls exactly what God means. This is arrogance at its most complete, tempered only by his implicit admission that he can’t do it alone, and that he does need divine “aid,” although Milton seems to shoulder a preponderance of the responsibility and the credit when it comes to this charge. Milton can also be seen in a better light if we recognize that it was perhaps Milton’s intention to sound that boastful to introduce the first half of the poem, as a way of recognizing that this part of the story will mostly concern itself with things happening beyond Earth, in Heaven and Hell. Regardless of his reasons, however, Milton’s language in this invocation is undeniably marked by boastfulness, pride, and ambition.

The second invocation in Book VII is marked by a slight tonal shift, conveyed by Milton’s concession that perhaps he did not belong in Heaven, where the first half of the book often ventured. While the general theme in the first invocation was one of soaring ascension to great heights, the first word of this second invocation asks Milton’s Muse to “Descend from heav’n…” (7.1). Instead of riding on her wings upward, he’s now asking her to come down to him, admitting that he can’t write from up on high anymore. This shows a more humble, self-abnegating Milton, who is willing to suggest that his place is still on Earth, among the rest of the mortals. He is now “down to earth” in more ways than one. Milton also characterizes his stay on a divinely inspired plane as being “an earthly guest” (7.14). In this line, he both continues to ground himself as being merely “earthly,” while humbling himself, appropriately, as simply a guest in Heaven.

Milton even goes so far as to say that while his inspiration was ascending towards Heaven in the first half of the poem, he needed his Muse’s “temp’ring” of the “empyreal air” to survive, meaning the air up there was not suitable for mortal lungs (7.14-5). The implication is that Milton was plainly not built of Heavenly material; in a very basic, profound way, his constitution simply was not made for the heights he had so brazenly aspired to in the first invocation. He is deconstructing his previous arrogance and realigning himself with the rest of man, for ultimately, he recognizes that he is just a man. In fact, he expresses reservations, or even fear, about having been so high up; he wants to “return to [his] native element” before he falls “erroneous… to wander and forlorn” in a plane of mental existence beyond what was meant for him, or any man (7.16-20). He concedes that Earth, his “native element” is where he belongs, where it is safe, where he can not and will not “fall erroneous.” The next few lines in the text fairly explicitly express this sentiment:

“Half yet remains unsung, but narrower bound

Within the visible diurnal sphere;

Standing on earth, not rapt above the pole,

More safe I sing with mortal voice…” (7.21-4).

These lines also suggest the aforementioned possibility that Milton wrote each invocation to match the subject matter of the different halves of the poem. He says that the “half” that “remains unsung” is “narrower bound within the visible diurnal sphere,” basically meaning that the second half of the epic deals with the Universe that man knows about, i.e. the Earth and the stars. Correspondingly, he asks to get off the wildly flying horse of inspiration, Pegasus, to more appropriately address the rest of his story. He wants to use a “mortal” voice to speak now, more comfortable to be “standing on earth” than “rapt above the pole” (transported above the Universe). All of these things show a more grounded and humble Milton than in the previous invocation.

In the last lines of this passage, he even expresses this concern: “So fail not thou, who thee implores” (7.38). Aside from the self-effacement inherent in the fact that he uses the word “implores” to describe the nature of his requests, Milton also recognizes the possibility of failure. If his Muse leaves him, he will fail. This is not the Milton from Book I, to whom the chance of failure never occurred. This Milton knows he is fallible; there are no claims of being “upright” and “pure.” This is as much humility as we can reasonably expect from a man of such self-righteous Puritanism. Of course, implicit in his descent back to Earth is the likelihood that he still believes he is the best to ever write among men. The phrase “my native element” can be seen as a way of staking out his claim: the Earth belongs to him. He may not be worthy of Heaven, but he is a master of Earth. Milton’s getting off the “Pegasean wing” of inspiration can be construed to mean that he doesn’t need it anymore. He can handle himself now. In effect, he has done this to regain control, to regain mastery of his domain. Consequentially, his newfound humility is possibly shadowed by his regained confidence, self-assurance, and daresay pride on returning to Earth. This is just conjecture of course; in reading only for definitive evidence, Milton’s language in the second invocation ultimately seems to have humbled itself for the second half of the poem, to match the Earth-bound subject matter to follow, i.e. Creation, Adam and Eve, and the Fall.

When all’s said and done, Milton’s genius can not be disputed. His work indeed is an extraordinary feat of the English language, written in an English of the highest order. It was indeed something that had never quite been attempted in that way before, and most likely never again. So whether he was humble or proud, or both, is ultimately, perhaps, immaterial. Either way, Milton probably was justified – nay, he deserved – to feel anything he wished to feel. His was indeed a God-like genius.

punk rock for kids

2006-10-21T17:57:00.000-04:00

black jeans
black hoodie
black chucks
chain
laughing at the smiths

Time is Life

2006-10-17T14:53:00.000-04:00

Don't say that time is money. Time is much more than money. Time is life, and therefore invaluable. Give me my two-week vacation over my pay-raise any day.

Baroque

2006-10-03T16:36:00.000-04:00

Listenin' to a lot of Scott Walker lately. Baroque pop from the 60s. Some songs make me think of the Decemberists. New Decemberists album downloading now. Head swimming with dramatic, theatrical story-tunes. Welcome to October.

Ant Hills

2006-09-23T21:47:00.000-04:00

In a dream, I woke up falling, a gentle downward momentum into a dark hole in the earth. I could feel the cool wind on my body, and the air smelled vaguely sugary. Somewhere, I could hear piano, but I couldn't tell if it was coming from above or below, even though I was falling rapidly. Perhaps it was coming from inside my own head.

When my feet finally landed on solid ground, slowly, gently, and silentlessly, a large black bird greeted me.

"We have been waiting for this moment to arrive."

"Are you sure you have the right human?" I asked. Maybe it was a dumb question.

"Yes."

With that, he turned on the heel of his claw and somberly led me down a dark, downsloping tunnel.

What opened up into view was completely shocking, not to say that it was particularly unexpected, as I knew what to expect, but it remained shocking nonetheless. The queen bee laid on a giant, intricately hand-crafted bed of twigs, weeping.

"She's been crying like that for seven years."

I nodded, and the black bird left the room.

I approached the bed, got on one knee, and whispered into the queen bee's ear. "How about a song?"

Through sobs, she said, "I have been weeping for seven years. What possible solace could a song bring me?"

I unslung the guitar case around my shoulder, and pulled out my acoustic guitar. Resting it on my knee, I plucked a few random notes. The guitar had a beautiful, resonant tone. I played three or four chords, and everything seemed to be in tune.

"This is called 'Hey Jude' by human musicians called the Beatles," I whispered to her.

what is art

2006-09-09T15:41:00.000-04:00

what is art
is what art
art is what
what art is
is art what
art what is
what what what
is is is
art art art

?

there is a place

2006-08-29T19:27:00.000-04:00

there is a place in every story and every song
they go there and we go there so that time will stand still
like the fury of an angry child -- stalled
out of steam, out of breath -- stalled
waterfalled stalled since the beginning and the end
the place is behind the frozen wall of ice
the place is the river, the whole river
which is moving, but isn't going anywhere
we have all dreamed it and they have all seen it
every story and every song rebounds off the walls
echoing into each other like the river, the whole river
which is completely silent, completely empty -- stalled

i'm rambling.

if you should ever lose yourself
in a quandary of existential proportions
if you ever fill yourself
with self-loathing and self-doubt
if you ever wreck yourself
over the loneliness, pain, and isolation
of extant meaningless existence

find yourself.
going there.
but never get there.
only reach the shore.

when you ain't got nothin'

2006-08-23T11:04:00.000-04:00

when you ain't got nothin'
you got nothin' to lose
said dusty old recordplayer
but what does recordplayer know?
recordplayer's got an easy time of it
sit tight, get plugged in, spin
needle the grooves, feed the groove
i'm not listening to you, recordplayer
when you ain't never known nothin'
you ain't got nothin' to say
but all the words of others
that you won't ever understand

everything in my head at once

2006-08-01T02:45:00.000-04:00

good god, y'all
war -- huh!
what is it good for?
asked the cleaning lady
sunburned like hell
hashbrowns, powerade
twice a day, rinse off
the music's loud
in your room
turn it down
for us to figure out
on the bad luck train
sleeping sleeping sleeping
she likes traveling
when i'm with her
don't be that guy
or she will kick your ass
not addicted to cloves yet
one more, one more, one more
paper tiger -- no, airplane
that wasn't a song!
need a new pillow
pillowcased backpack
deep bad conversation dish
always breaking rules
peace, calm, happiness
laughter, laughter, laughter
sake, sake, sake
it's the pitchfork that builds
builds the hay into a haystack
that's chicago! that's what we do!
we keep it local and
invite the rest of the world!
the airtrain has no wheels
because it's air... train.
twenty-one years old
a twenty-one-year-old
man man ha ha man, man!
fuze has heroin in it
drunk and stoned
fuck yo la tengo
fuck bush, bleeding heads
they don't look like pharmacists
there's a lot of hair on stage
walking from union park to the red line
on the lake, over the lake
capone's blue light
chopping peppers, garlic, stirring
mozzarella was my idea
gothic american hopper edward
i was a falling nighthawk once, but
these milk jugs are heavy
i'll never make it home
well-hung stable boy!
i was meant for the stage
thank you so much for everything
falling asleep and growing up
under the sun, white sheet summer
stolen kisses on the run
i can still feel your head on my shoulder
everything hits at once
you forgot your tropical coconut body wash

The Last Day

2006-07-07T08:00:00.000-04:00

At 8:30 pm, I was born.

This was significant once a year for 21 years in a row.

Today is the last day, afterwhich... significant no longer.

"All downhill," as they say.

But it was a gentle, modest, unassuming slope up.

And down, most probably the same.

Have I learned anything in 21 years to take forward with me?

Some fundamental lesson that only a lived life can teach?

What combined wisdom can I draw from the years of infancy, childhood, adolescence, and now, adulthood?

Perhaps this:

Love... but don't talk to strangers.

And this:

Relax.

Trains Suck

2006-06-25T21:57:00.000-04:00

Whether you're on one or watching one disappear.

*

2006-06-20T08:07:00.000-04:00

They never mentioned how lonely it is to be an adult.

For Lisa

2006-05-21T21:56:00.000-04:00

I was smoking a cigarette as Jeff Mangum wailed in my ears, going through his last verse of "In The Aeroplane Over The Sea" when she stopped me. I pulled the buds out of my ears and flung the cord around my neck.

"I'm sorry, I don't usually do this, I hate asking for help. But I'm six months pregnant and I'm homeless and hungry."

I gave her my usual response. "Sorry, I don't have any money on me."

"No spare change?"

It was true. I didn't have a single bill in my wallet, and my pockets were empty of any coins. I didn't even have a SEPTA token; I was walking home from 30th Street Station.

"I don't have anything. Sorry."

Her skin was a soft, smooth black, but her face bore lines hardened by thirty-eight years of hardship. She was wearing a backpack with what I imagined were all her worldly possessions inside. I noted the additional weight she had to carry in her belly. I thought about offering her a cigarette, but quickly realized the folly in that.

"I can buy you something at a restaurant. Some fast food. I have money on my card."

"McDonald's?"

I thought about it. It was out of my way. I'd have to walk with her back to 30th Street Station. "Sure. McDonald's."

"God bless you, you are the first blessing of the day." It was 8:30 PM.

"What's your name?"

"Lisa."

Lisa and I walked down the windy street under the darkening sky as the sun quietly slipped away, unable to compete with the low clouds.

She told me about how she had been through the shelter system, and how they had a bunch of very onerous rules. If you miss the 9 PM curfew three times, you're kicked out for several months. I responded in polite, clipped words. I didn't really know what to talk about with this woman whose life was so utterly and completely different from mine.

"I know everyone's got to go through hardships in life, but..." She trailed off.

When we got to McDonald's, she asked me how much she could spend. I told her I'd buy her five dollars worth of stuff. She wanted two double cheeseburgers and three McChickens. Good choice, I thought. Healthier than what I would have gotten for five dollars -- all five in double cheeseburgers.

"Get some ketchup and honey mustard, too."

"OK," I laughed gently.

As we were waiting for the food, she asked me what my name was.

"David."

"David?" She started to laugh. "You have a black name?"

I got a little confused. What was she talking about? Was she about to give me a "black" name? Could I be a LeBron or something? Shaniqua?

"No, I don't have a black name."

"Yeah, you do. A lot of black people have that name."

"Oh, I see." Right. "I would call it more of an American name."

"Yeah, yeah, that's what I meant. I'm sorry, you know, I didn't mean like, I didn't know how to put it..."

"It's OK." That was probably the tenth time I had said, "It's OK" to her.

"Where you from originally?"

"My parents are from China, but I was born here, so they gave me an American name."

The food arrived, and I asked for some ketchup and honey mustard. I took the bag and handed it to her.

"Thank you."

"You're welcome. Take care, Lisa."

"You too."

I put my earbuds back on and walked out of the station. It was dark. The last strains of Jeff Mangum's voice in "Two-Headed Boy" floated softly back into my world, and I lit another cigarette.

spanish guitar

2006-05-12T22:04:00.000-04:00

spanish guitar lively lively
pluckity pluckity pluck
uno uno dos dos
bicycle wheels on grass
as the sun sets
light falling falling
a chord, e chord
pablos picasso and neruda
bump bump fall fall
in the color red

clips

2006-04-09T19:37:00.000-04:00

i finally realized something today
i'm the reason my dad's depressed
he tried to tell me all about it once
you can't love a girl and hold her hand
you can't do two things at the same time
i didn't listen to him and i didn't hold his hand
now he's alone without a song on

i finally realized something today
they were all right and i was all wrong
i'm in an empty baby's crib i made myself
either writhing or crying, i don't know
if i could feel anything, i'd tell you
but no words can come of a gaping hole
in my mouth or in my blackened brain

i finally realized something today
my mom really fucked me up
i fell out of the nest overheated, dried out
crushed, flattened, small
perfect-ly uninteresting
no anna kareninas for this tolstoy
not even a broken fence to mend

try try try

2006-03-30T18:13:00.000-05:00

try try try
as you might
do do do
as you can
a little termite
fighting the man
a little knight
in the caravan

Top Artists

2006-03-28T15:14:00.000-05:00

Somebody's been listening to a lot of "Moon River" and looping Norah Jones albums at night, on my iTunes.

so long ago

2006-03-23T02:02:00.000-05:00

were it the day
for your life
to be on the block
under the blade
with the crowd
in fear and agony
anticipation
running through
the veins
in your neck
(bulging
pumping
afraid)
what would escape
through your throat
out your lips at last?
a breath?
a gasp?
a curse?
a prayer?
or a laugh
at the look
in their eyes
?

ides

2006-03-15T19:56:00.000-05:00

beware the ides of march
said the prophet to the flea
and tell them off to tomorrow
before the shadows reach here

Wind

2006-03-10T20:27:00.000-05:00

Hi. I work as a clerk in the mailroom of a large, faceless corporation. I don't really like it; when I was a very young boy, I never dreamed of working in a mailroom or anything like that, but this pays me money every week, and it's extremely easy work to do, so I do it. Besides, you never know when the bigwigs might pay a visit to the mailroom and be so impressed by your work ethic that you get promoted to become their personal assistant. This isn't something I count on, though, I'm fully aware how much of the fantasy element that situation has in it. Mostly, I'm working for the money. There's no other reason to take this job.

Everyday, I wear a nametag that hangs around my neck, a white buttoned and collared shirt, black pants, black shoes, and black socks. Those are all the clothing items visible to anyone outside the company. Every other clerk in the mailroom also wears the same uniform. There might be slight variations here and there, this guy's shirt doesn't have a breastpocket, this guy's shirt has a breastpocket with a button, and so on, but in general, what we wear looks exactly the same, except for the nametags, which have different names printed on them. Mine has my own name printed on it. I'm pretty sure that's true for everyone else's, too, but I haven't gotten around to asking everybody. It's a large mailroom. I am twenty-five years old.

Today, there was a great wind throughout the entire city as I was walking to work. I walk to work because it's only two subway stops away from my apartment, and I've always felt that you shouldn't take the subway for only one or two stops. You should only take it for distances of three stops or more. It just so happens that these two specific stops between my work and home are a little bit far from each other relative to the average two stops, however. Because of this, every morning, as I'm walking to work, a doubt will strike me about my personal subway use policy. This doubt usually strikes me around Mornington Street, after I've walked the distance of the average two stops. I have to walk three more blocks after Mornington Street, which isn't too bad on its own, but given the irregularity of the distance, seems just slightly unfair. Thus, with three blocks left to go, I always end up reevaluating my views, but I never end up changing them. It's because I'm cheap.

This great wind struck the second I crossed Mornington Street this morning. Literally, the moment my shoe hit the sidewalk for the other side of the street, my nametag got blown from in front of me to behind me, my carefully combed hair (grooming and appearance are very important to this large, faceless corporation, even for clerks in the mailroom) became an unruly, disheveled mess, and all the loose papers on the street flew with great speed to some unknown destination behind me. This wind was blowing straight down my street, directly in my face. It felt like I was walking into a wall of air. Every forward step I took after the triggering step was a difficult struggle to gain ground against this truly "aerial" onslaught. Every time I lifted one foot, I would feel the precarious danger of standing on only one leg as I tried to plant the airborne foot somewhere far enough in front of me that I could actually feel like I was successfully walking forward. However, the wind was so fierce, I could never move that foot much farther than where it was before without being bowled over backwards.

I glanced down Mornington Street to the next block over, and noted that there was no such wind there! The trash on the street lay calmly by the curb, and people were walking around in completely still air. Somehow, this wind had targeted me, targeted my street. After about five minutes of struggling against this wall of wind, I found that I had gotten no farther than two feet. That is an extremely slow velocity. It is much slower than a snail's pace, which is about ten to fifteen feet per minute. I can't believe I kept struggling that long, actually, but it became a matter of principle for me. This was policy, this no-subway decision, and clearly, this wind had arrived from somewhere in the Universe to encourage me otherwise. I do not like having my decisions made for me, especially by weather. So rather than dampen my resolve or weaken my mind with stronger doubts, I became even more determined to walk to work, not just through this wind this morning, but forever, for as long as I work, no matter where that is, and no matter how far away I live in relation. This wind was against me, and I refused to back down.

I spent a full day completing the last three blocks. I got a little faster after I got used to my strategy, which was to take little steps as rapidly as possible. I got a little slower, too, after that, because of fatigue. But I made it to the building with about ten minutes left in the workday. I checked in with my boss, who is a little mean, but always fair. He looked at his watch as I came in and gave me a grim look. He noted my extremely unkempt appearance; I looked like I had just gone through a war, he said. I said I had, a war of wills, or rather, a war of my own will against myself. He nodded, without inquiring any further. As I turned to leave his office, he called out to me.

"By the way. Today was evaluation-day from the corporate headquarters upstairs. Early in the morning, we had to replace you so that none of the executives would notice anything out of place, so that everything would be functioning properly. They walked around the mailroom, inquired about stuff, chatted with some of the clerks. They talked to the new guy, the guy we replaced you with, and he gave some completely retarded answers. I think the bigwigs were actually a little offended by him. Anyway, it was kind of a mess, and we had to have him fired on the spot, in front of the bosses, to make them satisfied."

"Sounds like a mess."

"Yeah. You caused us a lot of trouble today by not showing up until now. Today was pretty important. My bosses are now going to pay a lot closer attention to me and the mailroom. They are going to be a pain in the neck every day until they find another person who needs a pain in the neck more than me. All because of you."

"I'm sorry."

"No, you're not sorry. You're fired."

So I took the subway home.

werks

2006-03-07T15:51:00.000-05:00

work and what's worse
while we work
we're not ourselves
we become workers
we become work
work with a nametag
we're works
werks

The New Pornographers/Belle & Sebastian

2006-03-05T13:18:00.000-05:00

at the show at electric factory last night
the new pornographers totally awesome
except no jackie hey hey hey hey
a lot of other mass romantic, though
keyboardist with short hair
carl/a.c. newman
belle & sebastian with scottish accents
best black eye on the whole tour
electronic renaissance
sukie in the graveyard
i don't love anyone (and more tigermilk)
girl from audience singing judy and the dream of horses
encore
harmonica and guy in suit
guy in suit dancing
stuart murdoch
best show ever
jealous?

Story

2006-03-03T03:49:00.000-05:00

Once, in a dream,
I was you,
And I could see myself
Looking at me;

The rain began to fall,
Turning the leaves green,
And the trees breathed,
Turning the sky blue;

We did the best we could --
Me with you, you with me,
Until I saw my eyes turn red
And my hands folded in;

I think I got your clothes wet,
But I was soaked to the shoes
That you were wearing
On my feet;

And I fell through your hair,
With your hands over my eyes,
And I moved your lips
To the voice in my head...

You closed my eyes,
And when I awoke,
I was alone;
This dream had flown.

the roar

2006-03-01T16:30:00.000-05:00

the roar came through your throat
like a whimper through a megaphone
and i could feel the rumble of voices
whispering, murmuring in my stomach
everything went black inside the whites
of my eyes until i blinked
gone
i tried to speak to you
but someone else's voice came out
did you notice?
my eyes closed over your face
and my body faded into the warm air
we had to hurry in the darkness
or risk being seen by ourselves
but nothing was in my control
my hands were in my ears
fingers tied together
everything happened off to the side
as i watched, helpless
as you laughed
but a song came through your throat
like water rippling down a river
and my eyes finally opened
i saw you for the first time
looking at me
and you looked just like me
a smile like a sunflower
eyes like tadpoles
there was nothing
to be afraid of
afterall --
except...

silence

Blogspotting

2006-02-28T23:28:00.000-05:00

Chewing Gum, Coffee, and Slim Jims were vacationing in Edinburgh, Scotland when a group of low-life, anonymous Blogspotters attacked and killed the three of them with knife slashes to the face and body Tuesday evening, apparently in a dispute over money.

Chewing Gum reportedly bled to death on the sidewalk before ambulances could arrive, uttering the last words, "We should have stayed in England."

Coffee and Slim Jims were immediately rushed to Mother Superior's Foodstuff's Hospital downtown for emergency treatment. On the way there, Coffee was allegedly heard to get into an argument with the ambulance driver over Henry James before going into shock and passing away minutes later.

Slim Jims arrived at the hospital, immediately hitting on nurses trying to treat his wounds, explaining how he tried to heroically shield his other two friends from the attackers. He was also overheard complaining about Edinburgh's "fucking heroin problem." He stayed in the Intensive Care Unit for three hours before finally passing away, whispering the last words, "Scotland is shite."

A small, private funeral is planned for close friends and family members.

Local residents in Paris, France, have reported that ghosts fitting their exact descriptions have been haunting a bluish-colored blog...

Epilogue

2005-11-01T18:39:00.000-05:00

Well, adventures into a spotless mind have concluded, but I just couldn't stay away. A new beginning, a new premise, a new hope -- Hypergraphic Haze -- will probably eventually devolve into more of the same from yours truly. But until I retire again, I'll use the most famously glib comeback quote in sports history: "I'm back!"

"The End" by the Beatles

2005-10-18T17:00:00.000-04:00

I've been in quite the creative funk for the better part of a year, as far as writing/blogging is concerned. I've been at Chewing Gum, Coffee, & Slim Jims for over a year and a half now, and it's starting to feel like this blog has run its course. A lot has happened in that year and a half, I suppose. I can say with complete honesty that I was a completely different person when I created this blog, and had completely different expectations and goals. I've evolved a lot, and I'm comfortable with the way this blog has chronicled that journey, from M&T to Cinema Studies/Finance, from confused freshman to ready-for-anything junior, from emo to a-little-less-emo. I've had some great readers, and I really felt like I was doing some good blogging for a while, and I want to thank anyone who's ever reached out and left a comment, friends and strangers alike. But I think it's time to move on. I don't have much left to contribute to the blogosphere right now, and I'd rather be the type who knows when the end is the end than to drag things on uselessly, wasting everyone's time, including mine. Perhaps some day, perhaps even soon, I will make a triumphant return at some other URL, in some other space, in some other time, but for now, I am proud of many of the things I've written herein, and hope people continue to find something of interest here, albeit in the archives. This has been my favorite blog, of the all the blogs I've been at, and I started this one because I had deleted the other ones, and suddenly felt empty and anchorless as a writer to have nothing, instead of something, out there. But like I said, I feel proud of what is in this blog for the most part, so I feel no remorse in ending things here. There's simply nothing much left for me to say. I believe in cycles and circularity, which is why I've titled this entry, appropriately and prophetically, with the same title as my very first entry here, and so I'd like to leave you with the final words of my favorite band of all time, words which are perhaps all that I was trying to say in much less precise terms with this blog over 339 previous posts.

"And in the end, the love you take is equal to the love you make."

The End

Crash

2005-10-17T05:43:00.000-04:00

I just watched the movie Crash (Haggis, not Cronenberg), and it was a very amazing, well-done film. There are a lot of things to mention that are wonderful about it, from the acting to the editing, but since I'm an aspiring screenwriter, I'll focus only on the script. The one thing about it that I can't get over is how everything that happens and every line that is spoken rings true. There wasn't a bad or cheesy moment or anything that felt false, fabricated, or out of place. That is truly a difficult thing to do, to create something like that that captures and reflects life -- from scratch. Everytime I sit down to write something, the only things that seem to fly through my mind are other movies and other things I've already seen before, and unfortunately, if I write those things in, little by little, it builds itself up into giant cliche eventually. And when I say this movie feels real or true or a reflection of real life, I don't mean to call it gritty. Because these days, even gritty is cliched. Originality, creativity... so elusive. Right now, I can only aspire.

"It's the sense of touch. In any real city, you walk, you know? You brush past people, people bump into you. In L.A., nobody touches you. We're always behind this metal and glass. I think we miss that touch so much, that we crash into each other, just so we can feel something."

End Game: or the Adventures of Max and His Curious Friend Doogs

2005-10-14T17:31:00.000-04:00

That's the title of the feature length screenplay I'm working on. It's a working title.

2005-10-08T22:43:00.000-04:00

Story is the most difficult thing in my life right now. And time. Or is it distance? Einstein would say they're the same thing.

cut

2005-10-05T02:55:00.000-04:00

i saw her through the black curtain of my hair
she saw a cigarette smoking itself out of nowhere
i saw her with family gold wrapped around her neck
she saw cheap headphones and a nine dollar backpack
i saw her take a bite from a chocolate chip cookie
she saw the bigger bite that i took just by looking
i saw her leaning back and contemplating the sun
she saw the black hole in the barrel of my gun

bang.

cut.

the deconstructionist

2005-09-28T01:54:00.000-04:00

when you were a little girl
i'd play inside your hair
and dig little holes to your brain
like an underground treehouse
it was never a question, then
more like a declaration of principles
and i'd publish it around the world
on all the newspapers, all the shows

and i loved to give you paper cuts
as your body slipped through my fingers
away, like a book made of jell-o
i buried myself in your pages
paragraphs, sentences, words, letters
punctuation marks and empty spaces
before you turned your head away
closed your eyes underneath my hands
i threw myself at a closing cover
and the cover closed over my face
brought me darkness and peace

you welcomed me to your world
and i thanked you
by creasing your pages
and ungluing your spine
that's what love is

the question

2005-09-18T03:07:00.000-04:00

the question you asked me this morning
was "does it make you happy?"
and i told you "yes" without thinking
so we tumbled down the grassy slope
arms and legs tangled together in knots
stuck all day in a ticklish mess
i got hair in my mouth
you got burns on your elbows
and we both itched from bugs
we both lamented our grass stains
i started to panic uncontrollably
from my fear of heights, of falling
you said "don't worry, we hit bottom"
and started to get up to do it again
i grabbed your ankle and didn't let go
because it was starting to get dark
but i made the fatal mistake of blinking

so i said "i'll wait for you here"
as you tumbled down once more
kicking me in the chest this time

2005-09-16T20:30:00.000-04:00

I am directing the play I wrote. And Blogger needs to do something about spammers commenting. I refuse to force the inconvenience of using a code word on my nonexistent readers.

i would like to fast-forward, please

2005-09-12T02:23:00.000-04:00

as the cold and lonely winter approaches
riding on a midnight horse
i can feel her long, white, spindly fingers
wrapping creepy, clammy claws around the ball of air
that is the earth
that is the mild warmth of fall
choking it, suffocating it
slowly
asphyxiating life away
like a ball of fire burning itself out
in the absence of oxygen

and i want it to be over.

everything's

2005-09-09T02:41:00.000-04:00

everything's idle when everything's wild,
so i'll never turn my back or my collar or my sleeve,
and so told the earth to all of god's trees,
growing older and older like a perpetual child

oddly enough said the eureka eureka man
and don't commit a non sequitur at this place
it's not allowed for the creation of space
but an inverted world is exactly my plan

so we drift in and out of houses
but never out of homes
and the silence of the world drones
like a bucket of water douses

almost

2005-09-06T00:22:00.000-04:00

a gurping within
a jortension pretention
finally i can see
where the lemondrops fall
i can feel my heart pulsing
bursts of neurons exploding
but in the brain, no one can hear you scream

she sat by the window, looking out
hair coming down

For Monty Python Fans

2005-09-03T18:02:00.000-04:00

This link is for Monty Python fans, or anyone who's ever wondered what the airspeed velocity of an unladen swallow is (European, not African): http://www.style.org/unladenswallow/

The Dharma Bums by Jack Kerouac

2005-09-03T01:28:00.000-04:00

I finished this book last night. It was wonderful, truly wonderful. Much more spiritual than On the Road, in such a zestful and contagious way that I could not help being ever-so-slightly convinced of the "truth" -- if not in fact, then in spirit -- of every passage.

Done!

2005-08-30T01:25:00.000-04:00

The play is done! Now comes the even harder and more time-consuming part: rewrites.

Lonely Day

2005-08-29T02:12:00.000-04:00

Last night, I rode my bike around the neighborhood, singing along joyously to my iPod, and trying to take in every little simple pleasure I could think of, like breathing. I did a few laps around the large pond/small lake in Russell Creek Park. I stood up on the pedals as I rushed down a gentle hill, wind in my hair, belting the lyrics to "Angel of Harlem" by U2. I must have looked almost maniacally happy and carefree.

But then, inauspiciously, "Lonely Day" by Phantom Planet randomly came on next. It's a great song, but it's not a happy one. I listened to it anyway, not realizing that it was about to come true...

I could tell from the minute I woke up
It was gonna be a lonely, lonely, lonely, lonely day
Rise and shine, rub the sleep out of my eyes
And try to tell myself I can't go back to bed
It's gonna be lonely, lonely, lonely, lonely day

Even though the sun is shining down on me
And I should feel about as happy as can be
I just got here and I already want to leave
It's gonna be a lonely, lonely, lonely, lonely day
It's gonna be a lonely, lonely, lonely, lonely day
It's gonna be a lonely, lonely, lonely, lonely day

Everybody knows that something's wrong
But nobody knows what's going on
We all sing the same old song
When you want it all to go away
It's shaping up to be a lonely day

I could tell from the minute I woke up
It was gonna be a lonely, lonely, lonely, lonely day
It was gonna be a lonely, lonely, lonely, lonely day

Everybody knows that something's wrong
But nobody knows what's going on
We all sing the same old song
When you want it all to go away
It's shaping up to be a lonely day

I could tell from the minute I woke up
It was gonna be a lonely, lonely, lonely, lonely day
It was gonna be a lonely, lonely, lonely, lonely
Lonely, lonely, lonely...

Everybody knows that something's wrong
But nobody knows what's going on
Everybody knows that something's wrong
But nobody knows what's going on

The Little Red Book

2005-08-28T00:50:00.000-04:00

This is a play I have been working on, an original story by yours truly, although I realize that Back to the Future also deserves a shout-out:

It is May, 1989. Lee, a young intellectual attending Beijing University hears about protests that are going to happen in Tiananmen Square for the end of corruption and the beginning of democracy. Excited about the possibilities of a new, free China, he ignores the advice of his aging parents from another era, and participates. Filled with a hope and optimism for the future that he has never felt before, he marches with everyone and takes part in the peaceful demonstrations.

Suddenly, he spots an old, tattered copy of Mao's Little Red Book just lying on the ground. He picks it up, and the moment he touches it, he is transported back in time to 1967, at the height of Chairman Mao's Cultural Revolution. Soon discovered by a group of young Red Guards searching the towns for counter-revolutionaries and people disloyal to Mao, he is forced to pretend he is one of them. The Red Guards' youthful enthusiasm for being politically influential at such a young age disturbingly reminds him of himself, but their accusations and actions become increasingly unbearable and ridiculous, eventually resulting in deaths. Lee begins to enter a seriously dangerous and possibly fatal situation when he and a girl in the group, Fei, start falling for each other, sparking the ire and suspicions of the group's hot-headed and mean-spirited leader, Wong. Meanwhile, he flips through the Little Red Book at night, trying to get it to take him back to 1989, with no success.

In the climax, Lee refuses to take part in a particularly gruesome beating of an innocent man, showing weakness in front of the group and revealing his true sympathies. His suspicions confirmed, Wong vows to turn Lee in the next morning. That night, Lee and Fei struggle to make the Little Red Book take him back to his own time. She asks him to recall everything about the moment he touched the book, and he remembers the singular feeling of hope and optimism for the future, a new feeling he had never felt before. Unable to get that feeling back into his heart again, given his currently desperate situation, she comes up with an idea, leans in, and kisses him. With the book in hand and filled with another kind of hope, a possible new relationship with Fei, he is instantly taken back to 1989.

Once back, however, he finds that Tiananmen Square is not how he had left it. Martial law has been declared, international news cameras like CNN are nowhere to be found, and the People's Liberation Army and the protestors are apparently fighting a war in the Forbidden City, deaths happening on both sides. In love with Fei, Lee wants desperately to return to her in 1967, but the carnage he witnesses is too much, destroying the fleeting feeling of hope he had felt. Told that the soldiers were marching, but it was a protestor that fired the first shot, Lee is overwhelmed by the sense that militancy, whether from a Red Guard or a student protestor, is simply not a good political vehicle. In an ending that symbolizes the tragedy of how Tiananmen Square, with all its optimism, has come to nothing in terms of Chinese human rights and social change, Lee is shot to death by random gunfire, becoming just another one of the nameless thousands of victims that died there that summer -- his experiences also thus coming to nothing.

Built To Spill

2005-08-26T12:52:00.000-04:00

I have just discovered Built To Spill, and I really, really like them right now. Their album There's Nothing Wrong With Love sounds like what would happen if Pavement's Slanted & Enchanted had a baby with the Flaming Lips' Transmissions From a Satellite Heart. Awesome.

Good Line

2005-08-24T21:04:00.000-04:00

"I'm not flirting. I'm just trying to be interesting!"

The Curse of the Green Grass

2005-08-23T15:21:00.000-04:00

Whenever I'm at school, worn thin by the demands of unreasonable classes which imposition such silly requirements as showing up, doing homework, and even participating in class discussions, I find myself extolling with my peers the virtues of just "sitting on your ass" and "doing jack-shit." In fact, I yearn with strong earnest for that day of the last deadline to pass, so that I may immediately commence with such underappreciated and neglected "sitting on my ass" activities, like checking my Gmail every three minutes, revisiting the same websites I know will not be updated again for at least another twenty-four hours, changing my AIM away message, organizing my iTunes library, or simply zoning out to Microsoft's eternally trippy "Starfield" screen saver while listening to the appropriate space-rock stylings of Pink Floyd, perhaps for the length of an entire album.

This gets old after about a day, at which point I begin to wish I was back in school again. This phenomenon is what I now term the cheery appellation of the Curse of the Green Grass. This expression is categorically derived from the adage, "The grass is always greener on the other side," and it is an affliction marked by its ingracious regard for the benefits of "the moment," and over-hyping of the former, now "contra-state" of affairs. I've been diligently performing all the "sitting on my ass" activities for weeks now, and all I want to do is go back to school -- I fail to appreciate the virtues of my current situation I had previously dreamed of with the hope of a soon-to-be-liberated P.O.W. In fact, I yearn for another tour of duty, back in the trenches where the action is, while I feel my brain slowly melt and dribble out my ear in this warped world of domesticity. I suppose the choice comes down to this: to have my brains blown out in a grand explosion, or to have them rot slowly from the inside and leak silently away? Indeed, school or home?

Some Quotes

2005-08-22T15:28:00.000-04:00

I've been reading this guy's blog, The Martian Anthropologist, and he makes some great points in a consistently well-articulated way. I don't blog about politics are anything because I will never be half as good at it as this guy. Here are some quotes I liked from his blog.

"A man's ethical behavior should be based effectually on sympathy, education, and social ties and needs; no religious basis is necessary. Man would indeed be in a poor way if he had to be restrained by fear of punishment and hope of reward after death." ~ Albert Einstein

"Imagine a puddle waking up one morning and thinking, 'This is an interesting world I find myself in -- 'an interesting hole I find myself in' -- fits me rather neatly, doesn't it? In fact it fits me staggeringly well, must have been made to have me in it!' This is such a powerful idea that as the sun rises in the sky and the air heats up and as, gradually, the puddle gets smaller and smaller, it's still frantically hanging on to the notion that everything's going to be alright, because this world was meant to have him in it, was built to have him in it; so the moment he disappears catches him rather by surprise. I think this may be something we need to be on the watch out for." ~ Douglas Adams

And this quote by Hermann Goring, a member of the Nazi party tried for war crimes. From an interview with him:

Goring: "Why, of course, the people don't want war. Why would some poor slob on a farm want to risk his life in a war when the best that he can get out of it is to come back to his farm in one piece. Naturally, the common people don't want war; neither in Russia nor in England nor in America, nor for that matter in Germany. That is understood. But, after all, it is the leaders of the country who determine the policy and it is always a simple matter to drag the people along, whether it is a democracy or a fascist dictatorship or a Parliament or a Communist dictatorship."

Gilbert: "There is one difference. In a democracy, the people have some say in the matter through their elected representatives, and in the United States only Congress can declare wars."

Goring: "Oh, that is all well and good, but, voice or no voice, the people can always be brought to the bidding of the leaders. That is easy. All you have to do is tell them they are being attacked and denounce the pacifists for lack of patriotism and exposing the country to danger. It works the same way in any country."

a simulation of thought

2005-08-21T15:29:00.000-04:00

as a baby, she whistled when she spoke / and floated before she took a step / her tiny kiss drifted on a boat / to burn my eyes with watered lip

he does not really like his job / so he will welcome another a beer / junk bond trading to the top / after his smile's lost in fear

you're reading from the inferno / but only letters a and b / stick to your best manifesto / before you're in the barn with me

i took the river and never let go / followed it home to an open lake / but nothing was good on the radio / some day, we won't manage to wake

so life sits in a lonely cell / dressed up like a silver swirl / dreaming of the fireworks that fell / into the coldest part of the world

The Jungle

2005-08-18T04:01:00.000-04:00

Blasting "Welcome to the Jungle" by Guns N' Roses while speeding down the I-10 outside downtown L.A. was quite possibly the best way to finish this SoCal vacation.

And when you're high, you never ever want to come down...

SECTION MISCELLANEOUS

- enjoyed my experince on X
- giant Brian, for one dollar
- "Vote for Pedro"... all day

"Anna (Go to Him)"

2005-08-15T12:40:00.000-04:00

I just had a dream that I was playing the bassline to "Anna (Go to Him)" by the Beatles. Which is weird, because I only know how to play the melody. But now I'm going to have that bassline stuck in my head all day. And I don't even know how to play it. How very cruel.

Goin' Back to Cali

2005-08-14T02:09:00.000-04:00

Being here has further spurred my desire to move out to L.A. A.S.A.P. I saw the old stomping grounds of El Monte, had an In 'n' Out burger for the first time in years, enjoyed actual hills as opposed to the flatlands of Texas, and re-appreciated KROQ, 106.7, the best alt-rock radio station in the country, way better than the EDGE in Dallas, or the non-existent alt-rock station in Philly. Don't even get me started on the weather and the palm trees. I love the Valley, even if it's the SoCal version of New Jersey. Maybe because it's the SoCal version of New Jersey.

And I don't want to hear a word about smog. I love smog.

Owen Wilson

2005-08-10T19:33:00.000-04:00

I had a dream that I was talking to Owen Wilson. We were having a really good conversation about his films, and about writing in particular. I couldn't tell if he was just humoring me as just another rabid fan or if he was actually interested in our conversation. I asked him a lot of questions about how he writes and stuff. I don't remember any of his answers. But man, that dude's nose is really crooked.

Don't ask me why what happened early this morning triggered such a dream. I don't know. I just don't know...

A Very Philly Summer

2005-08-06T04:10:00.000-04:00

In list form, and in no particular order:

- Taking shit from Housing: no blinds, room flood, roaches, a mouse
- Building a TV/DVD player stand out of two chairs from the lounge... genius
- The Walkmen concert in D.C., my favorite song, and the ear-destroying Nation
- Stealing a stack of little yellow sign-in cards
- Completely irresponsible shenanigans in NEW YORK CITY (see here)
- Qdoba + Coronas + Lime + Biopond
- Finding out that Nepal is always cool
- Deciding between orange and green
- Getting into the College of Arts & Sciences, becoming a film studies major
- Hookah-ing up with the girls in 1609
- South Street, Old City, etc.
- Stephen Malkmus & The Jicks concert, AFTER hearing the new CD (so indie)
- Summer rain
- Live 8/Elton John weekend
- Two surprise birthday cakes
- Seeing a secret garden, and a banana stabbed with sticks of incense
- Walking to/from 30th St. Station
- Easy Rider, a whole new perspective on the day
- "Are YOU READY TO DO THIS? LET'S DO THIS!"
- Hits & Misses, Vols. 1 - 4
- "You know what's wild? Everything."
- Lapadula and The Dry Cleaner, my first screenplay
- Destroying plastic, a printer, and fizzling a fire extinguisher
- The mysterious disappearing emo glasses
- You!

And now, I'm half of a college grad.

When Does Revising End?

2005-08-03T00:19:00.000-04:00

It feels like I could revise/rewrite my screenplay forever. It never feels finished. I guess that's what Lapadula mentioned in class, that there is no such thing as a perfect screenplay. But the tricky part is knowing when to quit rewriting and just call it done. I don't really have a sense of that, maybe it comes with experience. But I keep going over my screenplay and I keep tweaking this, changing that, deleting this, rearranging that, etc. It kind of feels like when I'm editing film, too. I used to film random movies in high school, and whenever I got to the editing part, I could spend 10 hours a day for a week doing editing, cutting scene lengths, adjusting transition times, working on supers, fixing the sound, choosing takes, etc., and still continue messing around. Even when I look back now on films that I had already pronounced finished, I feel like changing things, re-editing. Whether it's screenwriting or editing, I can't seem to be able to find a sense of when to stop and feel, if not satisfied, at least satisfied enough.

People's Criticism

2005-08-02T00:27:00.000-04:00

People give me criticism of two kinds: specific and general. I have to say that specific is much better, and in fact, the nit-pickier, the better. General criticism is helpful, but not when I have writer's block and can't really think of a "more clever structure" or a "twist ending" or a "more realistic relationship." It helps much more to say that this word or this line or this paragraph feels _____ and needs to be more _____.

Of course, I know I give terrible criticism, if I give any at all. For some reason, when I read my classmates' screenplays in class, I just can't think of things to say. This will probably hurt my participation grade, but I honestly have trouble figuring out how I feel about something, especially on just one, semi-cursory read. If I was allowed to sit down with it for an hour, and go through with a pen, I might have more to say, but the way we do the readings in class, I just can't come up with things off the cuff like that.

Wow

2005-08-01T21:36:00.000-04:00

Wow. My screenplay went up in front of the class tonight (the last one of the night). I honestly did not know what to expect, so I decided to expect the worst. I was afraid people wouldn't be able to follow it. People wouldn't like John. People wouldn't understand the daydreams. The dialogue would not be believable. The John-Charlene dynamic would not work. The ending would suck. People would think there are too many characters that only have one line.

But I was very surprised by how much people seemed to like it. The cynical part of me still has all these doubts about the screenplay, and assumes that everyone was just being nice. But objectively, the reaction was definitely very positive. Lapadula even said it was a strong script with good descriptions and dialogue, only the premise is a little unoriginal. So I'm quite surprised and pleased with how my reading went.

Of course, I do still have my doubts. Particularly with my ending. But the deadline fast approaches, and I've been thinking about what to do with the ending for so long now, I really doubt this case of writer's block will break through in the next day. I wish I could come up with something, but I just can't. Everything else I've thought of sets a bad pall over the tone of the movie. And I don't want a freaky-weirdo movie, I want something ultimately optimistic. It's very possible that I won't be able to change much of anything in the next day or so. The script may just have to be turned in as it is, more or less.

Poetics & Style

2005-08-01T01:45:00.000-04:00

This blog is about to be updated. The light from the moon shines over a marsh as a loon calls in the distance. A purple flood drowned the fire in my teeth the day your eyes turned blue. Jerusalem aged ten years today. No wonder that after the laughter that wafted up to the rafter, the Master found a faster way to generate joy. Please don't sell me unconditional love at full price. Melissa ate a peach in her basement as she did laundry. Innocent Vincent went into a panic. I found the exact colors for just the way you are, but ran out of paint. Electricity is the first different feeling inside 2 am diners. Call me calmly, I'll call you Yoko Ono. The American Dream lasts three full seconds. Every grain of sand in every beach from every ocean around the world deserves a name and the right to unionize. She's tangled up in abandoned love. Find time. A small black reptile named Mr. Downtown married the Queen of Invisible City on a 5th Avenue heartbreak. This blog has been updated.

Taking Criticism

2005-07-28T13:28:00.000-04:00

Taking criticism is hard. But it's part of becoming a better writer, and I welcome it. However, what makes taking criticism especially difficult is when two critics disagree and tell you different things. For example, one group member has told me that he/she felt that the John character was likable. Another felt that John isn't likeable and needs to be made more interesting. One person felt that the tone was too funny/satirical and the other felt that it was a good, solid tone. Who do I trust to be "right?" in cases of direct contradiction? Am I allowed to just say that some people "got" the movie while other people "missed" it? Because in these cases, it's impossible to take all criticism as God's truth. Someone has to be wrong. I have to choose to trust somebody. And that's the hardest part of taking criticism.

Feels Good!

2005-07-27T18:52:00.000-04:00

It feels good to finish a screenplay, even if it's only a first draft, and I anticipate (and welcome) many criticisms and revisions. Here are some concerns I have about my screenplay now that it's "done."

- Is there any dialogue that is unnecessarily addressing obvious themes, or is the dialogue necessary to highlight what may not be easy to catch otherwise?
- Does John wearing women's clothing work ok, or is it too silly/distracting to imagine visually?
- Is the length OK? (It spills a little bit into page 14, so I'd love to be able to get it to 13)
- How "believable" is the John-Charlene dynamic?
- Do the daydream sequences work well or can they be improved?
- Does the structure make sense or is there a way I can rearrange things to make it better?
- What is the tone of the movie is? What should it be?

Anyway, I like a lot of what I've written. I just hope it works. I can never tell if I've pulled off what I've wanted to pull off. I guess that's up to others to decide for me.

Charlie's Eternal Sunshine

2005-07-22T05:06:00.000-04:00

I just read the screenplay for Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind, and I must say, Kaufman's version is much darker and more pessimistic than what finally made it to film. The meat of the movie is mostly the same, but the parts that got excluded really throw a completely different spin on the whole story. I wonder, now, since the Academy gave the film the Best Screenplay Oscar, if they give out that award based on reading actual scripts, or based on watching the film, which, obviously, is very different. I hope they actually read screenplays, but for some reason, I doubt this very much. Anyone have a clue?

The Half-Blood Prince

2005-07-21T03:38:00.000-04:00

I just finished reading the 6th Harry Potter book, took me about 3 days, what with taking classes and stuff, too, and...

I am at a loss for words.

I feel like crying.

Best book yet.

What a ride.

That's all I can say.

I also saw Layer Cake tonight. Intense. I don't know how many surprise endings like that I can take in one night, man.

What I've Been Working On

2005-07-20T03:55:00.000-04:00

INT. ELEVATOR - NIGHT

Six STRANGERS ride up the elevator of an apartment building.

The first, a middle-aged WOMAN. The second, a long-haired COLLEGE STUDENT wearing headphones. The third, a clean-cut THIRTYSOMETHING with dark-rimmed glasses and a messenger bag. The fourth, a MAN IN A SUIT writing reminders into his PDA. The fifth, a tired looking WOMAN IN A PANTSUIT holding a cardboard box full of documents.

The last, JOHN WHITEMAN, 35. He wears a clean white shirt and black pants. He has a white name-tag that says “JOHN” in plain black letters.

Nobody looks at each other in the elevator, except for John, who closely watches each person leave, one by one. His eyes follow the lines on everyone’s expressions.

Finally, John leaves and the elevator doors close.

INT. JOHN’S APARTMENT - 4 A.M.

John’s eyes stare at a television flashing blue and red colored light around a completely dark room.

He lies on his side on the couch in the fetal position, one hand dangling a remote. He flips through the various channels as his blank face intermittently changes colors in the television’s glow.

TELEVISION (O.S.)
... now and we’ll throw in this handy video of different exercises you can do, FREE! Don’t you think you deserve that beautiful body you’ve always wanted? Well now’s...
(click)
... these girls get WILD, absolutely FREE! You’ll never find a collection THIS BIG of...
(click)

First Page

2005-07-13T22:45:00.000-04:00

The first page of my screenplay went under the gun today, and it wasn't very pretty. My attempt at making an interesting credit sequence was killed (I need to curb my tendency to direct from the page). People just weren't into it, because there was too much description, I guess. I didn't realize that I repeat myself so much when I write, that I write so many redundant phrases: "stare unblinkingly"; "legs tucked in the fetal position"; "dangles loosely"; etc. Being precise and economic with my words will be a big challenge, I think.

Dirty Linen

2005-07-08T22:37:00.000-04:00

I think I've decided to do the "Dirty Linen" idea. It seems like people are most intrigued by that one, plus I get to explore issues of identity and stuff, which is something I muse about all the time. Anyway, I just wrote down some notes:

- watches TV instead of making out with girlfriend
- lots of lonely brooding
- white color motif: shirt, walls
- John White? John Whitmore?
- 1) Businessman - screws secretary
2) Doctor - malpractice
3) Female lawyer - saves criminals
4) Drugs?
5) Musician? - coke
6) Actor? - homosexuality
- John is juvenile, Peter Pan complex
- final ending: impersonates son and tries to enter family home
7) Wife of normal home

The Rushmore Script

2005-07-07T16:06:00.000-04:00

I liked the Rushmore script very, very much. I think Wes Anderson and Owen Wilson write great stories that pay very acute attention to quirky little details. Little touches like Max and Herman Blume eating sandwiches as they survey the land from a helicopter are humorously endearing. Anderson/Wilson have a way of making normally darker subjects seem at worst slightly melancholy or bittersweet. For example, Max cuts Mr. Blume's brakes at one point, basically trying to kill him. But when it happens in the movie, it isn't dark, evil, threatening, or menacing; it's just kind of juvenile and funny. All the feelings that are hurt in the movie feel real, even when the actual plot or action is ludicrous; the movie is very human in the way it deals with relationships between characters. I especially enjoyed the smaller, less-obvious ones outside of the Max/Miss Cross/Mr. Blume love triangle. Max and his father. Max and Dirk. Even one-scene moments like Max with Mrs. Blume or Dirk confronting Mr. Blume are realistic and touching. I love how age really doesn't matter in this movie when it comes to dialogue. It's funny how mature and serious Dirk is, for example, even though he's 9 years old, and the little detail of the way he writes so articulately, but in blue crayon make his character come alive. Other details include Magnus giving Max shit throughout the whole movie only to reveal that he always wanted to be in one of his plays as well... Miss Cross telling Max she started smoking his age, and then seeing Max smoking occasionally through the rest of the movie... It's the accumulation of small details like that that make each and every character come alive, and the entire story come alive.

There was also an obvious water/aquatic theme. I don't know if that's just an Anderson/Wilson thing in light of The Life Aquatic, or if the water has a deeper thematic meaning.

Slow Death

2005-07-06T06:07:00.000-04:00

This blog may not have much left to offer. I turn 20 tomorrow. Nothing is eternal.

The Badlands Script

2005-07-06T00:09:00.000-04:00

I didn't like the Badlands script, as far as story. I just didn't find it that interesting. However, the style is very good, because it's very lean, and fits a lot of description into few words. A lot happens in only 70 pages, which is impressive. I just didn't enjoy reading the story very much. I didn't really think Kit was all that charming of a guy, even if he looks like James Dean. He just seemed like a bum with too many screws loose. Holly's a little weird too, I didn't think it was realistic at all when Kit shoots her father and she barely even winces. Of course, maybe I'm missing something. That's always a possibility.

Screenplay Ideas

2005-07-03T01:29:00.000-04:00

"Dirty Linen"
- guy works at a dry cleaner
- tries on people's dirty clothes and pretends to live their lives
- like One Hour Photo

homage to the hippies
- young dude with long hair, smokes cigarettes, weed, drives van, wears Fuck Bush shirt
- difficulties of doing that 60s thing in the new century

"Roommates"
- explore various/funny roommate-relationship experiences/situations
- one from Stonington, CT, the other from San Francisco, CA

something dealing with remaining true/genuine/indie versus selling out

guy talking to camera confessional/High Fidelity style about...
- pet peeves?
- life?
- society?
- something?

time moving backwards on a spaceship towards some Day 0 event

Asimov's papyrus short story

something from the history of cinema, inspired by the history of cinema

"Wes Anderson: or How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Tenenbaums"

Insanity

2005-07-02T19:52:00.000-04:00

Live 8 Philadelphia was wild. Go to http://www.live8list.com/ to add your name to the petition to end poverty.

"You've got to find the voice speaking to you."

2005-07-02T04:45:00.000-04:00

Good conversation about being a writer, man.

Dr. Strangelove and Chinatown

2005-06-30T16:12:00.000-04:00

I love how Dr. Strangelove plays on these hilarious stereotypes. The American general is an untrusting war-mongering militarist; the American president is a weak individual who tries/pretends to act strong; the British officer is polite but dry; the rogue American officer is just plain scary; the German scientist is a Nazi; the Russian prime minister is drunk.

The American pilots flying the bomber struck me as extremely dutiful and patriotic. I think Kubrick doesn't want to incriminate the men who actually fly the plane, push the button, and drop the bomb. They are likable, almost heroic. On the other end, Jack Ripper is the obvious villain, going Kurtz-like and taking matters into his own hands about the "bodily fluids" conspiracy. But is the true villain really that obvious and simple? It seems like the real villain is actually more intangible: it's the system, it's the paranoia, the mistrust that truly lead to this catastrophe. It's the way the system was designed so that lower level officers could actually drop bombs - a provision added for paranoid reasons. The way things could never be reversed once set in motion - another paranoid move. The way the Russian Doomsday device is automatically triggered and not overridable, supposedly the ultimate deterrent, but insanely dangerous nonetheless. The bickering and mistrust in the war room that delays any possible action.

The eponymous Dr. Strangelove is perplexing. He clearly struggles to suppress his adoration for "Mein Fuhrer," perhaps a poke at the way America is wont to short-sightedly change sides so quickly even if our new allies aren't exactly the greatest people, a perfectly relevent criticism today. Osama bin Laden was C.I.A. trained, after all. Saddam Hussein was also backed by America at one point. So clearly when Strangelove gets all excited about his plan for repopulating the earth, he is supposed to sound like a new Hitler designing a master race. But why is he so important to be the actual title of the film? What could it mean?

I have seen Chinatown before, in a class in which we studied a lot of film noirs. The second time around, the pure nihilism of the film is really striking. Jake has a past in Chinatown that he clearly has been trying to escape by employing himself as a private investigator. Yet, the more he tries to do the right thing, the more he tries to uncover the truth, the closer his plotline devolves and regresses back to Chinatown, at the final scene, which is one of the greatest final scenes I've ever seen. The dialogue is so full of futility and hopelessness. "Forget it, Jake. It's Chinatown." He can not help but relive and recreate his past, and so the film suggest an ultimate kind of impotence. Truly nihilistic. In fact, when he gets his nose sliced in the middle of the film, it is like a moment of near-castration - thinking of the nose as a phallic symbol. Jake's snooping around becomes so dangerous for him that the harshness of the world comes up to him and takes a piece of his manhood, his power, threatening to cut the whole thing off next time. Castration. Impotence. Powerlessness. Meaninglessness. Nihilism.

It's very dark.