Epilogue

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

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

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

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

 
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

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

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

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

 
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

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

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

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

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

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!

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

Lonely Day

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

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

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

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

The Curse of the Green Grass

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

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

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

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)"

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

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

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

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?

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

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

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

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

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!

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

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

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

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.)
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First Page

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

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

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

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

The Badlands Script

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

"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

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."

Good conversation about being a writer, man.

Dr. Strangelove and Chinatown

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.

This Is What My Mind Looks Like Right Now

Loner Turned Rebel

Loner without a friend
Rebel without a cause

I am a quitter. It's my style.

He Found Himself

He found himself leaning out of his window into the warm summer breeze, which blew cigarette drags slowly away. He saw the people walking below, not noticing his own universe just a few feet above in the air. He could feel the beauty of the world swirl around him, like he was being submerged into cool, cool water. Like ice. It was almost too cold. He took another puff of his cigarette and inhaled the smoke deeply.

He was 20 years old. He came from a town called Warren, New Jersey. He had lived there his entire life, and he hated it. As far as he was concerned, he felt like a character in a Salinger book, living in that place. It was almost as bad as, say, the entire state of Connecticut. It was always sunlight in Warren, but the light was always a little splintered. There were cracks in this town, and he was one of them.

The air felt like the warm summer wind that gently whispers the hint of rain, in an unintelligible, silently understood language between the atmosphere and the boy's imagination. The trees were all dark, forest green. Lushly green. Green was his favorite color, but only in a very accidental way. He wanted to run away. He wanted to leave Warren, and he wanted to see the Pacific Ocean. He wanted to see the world. But then, he suddenly felt tired, and realized he just might get some sleep tonight, if he went to bed now. A good lonely night's sleep, how rare. So he asked his blanket if it would be his wife, and he fell asleep kissing the pillow.

The night passed on without him.

In the morning, his window tried staring down the sun, but lost, and the millions of photons bouncing off his eyelids finally jostled him awake. So much for getting lots of sleep. He needed to get some damn blinds. Will I be grateful when I die? I hope so. I don't want to go against my will. What a sense of mortality. Of human finitude. Why do people take speed? Why would you want to fast forward through any of this precious time?

He woke. He decided he'd run away to New York today. It wasn't too far away. He could do it. So he dressed, cast one handflip to try and order his long, unruly Beatles-haircut, and then he was out the door, catching the train, catching another train, getting off at Penn Station. It could only be good times from now on. At least today.

He wanted to call a girl he knew in this city. He pulled out the paper address book he always kept in his back pocket. He found the number of a mutal friend, and called him. Yeah. Yeah. 4? OK. 4, right? Alright, got it. Thanks, man. Yeah, definitely. Alright, later. And he called up one of the girls he knew that lived in the city. An electronic approximation of her voice answered. It's me. Yeah. I'm in the city! I know! Oh, seriously? Oh, totally, don't even worry about it. Yeah, it's no big deal. Hah, right. Some other time then! Alright, bye. No go. Her "friend" was in town. Mmm-hmm.

He decided he'd just walk around New York alone. He didn't need companionship. He didn't need help. He heard the sound of an ice cream truck in the distance. Ah, summer in the city! The light, friendly tinkling of the ice cream truck, come to signal delicious tasty ice cream and frozen treats, for only 50 cents! What? A dollar? Since when? Since when was this shit a dollar? This has always been 50 cents! When I was a kid, it was 50 cents, goddammnit! No! I refuse to believe any of these prices could change! It's always been two quarters -- it's always been the two biggest shiny ones, its weight in my pocket for the weight of the ice cream treat in my hand. No more. None of this paper bill business. Children are meant to use the coins.

New York is incredible. A New York summer is like none other. He could definitely walk around all day. He browsed through poster stores. Used CD shops. Hat boutiques. Porno shacks. He stopped at all of them. He was determined to know this entire street, in and out. To claim this little chunk of New York as his own area of expertise. We all need some area of expertise, or at least the false belief in one, that one thing that separates us from the other 6 billion, the one thing that individualizes us. Because who doesn't want to think they are an individual, in some way? Who doesn't want that? But what if anonymity is an unavoidable consequence of human existence? What if these stores belonged to everyone? Who knows? No one may follow. No one may lead. There may not even be paths to go down.

He thought of another girl he could call. He called back the friend and asked for the other girl's number. He called her. Hey hey. Yeah, how'd you guess? Yeah, of course, why did you think I was calling? Sure. Umm, I'm not sure. Somewhere in East Village, I think. Yeah. Um, the CD store "Stairway to Heaven?" Oh, seriously? You know where this is? OK. Alright, see you soon. And he walked into the store and browsed around. He found a lot of great classic rock records. Jimi Hendrix. The Grateful Dead. Bob Dylan. The Beatles. And of course Led Zeppelin.

She suddenly walked in, bringing fresh minty air blowing into the store. He quickly recognized this almost imperceptible change in the weather, and turned around. There she was. He noticed how beautiful she was for the millionth time. She grabbed his hand and said, "Come on, let's go play outside!" She was so simple with her words and emotions. He couldn't really handle her. He wondered if he should have just not called. But it was too late. The time for making choices was over. He was just along for the ride now. She took him to her car and they started driving around. Oh, I don't know. Where do you want to go? It's your car. It's your city. No, no, you decide. That's true. I did call you. OK. Well. Let's go... let's go to Central Park and walk around or something. Yeah. The sun is out. It's great. The shade will be nice.

So the morning came and went. He was beginning to feel a little hungry. He had been awake for a few hours now, and he was getting hungry. They found a coffee shop called The Attic, and went in. He ordered a small sandwich and coffee, and she ordered a coffee as well. She pulled out a cigarette. Eh, the usual. Not too much. Just hanging out. You? Oh wow. That must be exciting. Tell me about it. No kidding. Are you joking? That's hilarious. Interesting. Yeah, I know. You said it. The same thing happened to me. I know what you mean. Definitely.

They left the Attic, and he felt like he was leaving the attic of his life. Girlfriend? Huh? No. Nope. Just a girl who would get really mad if she heard me say that! Haha. Yeah, it's a joke. It's this comedian, Mitch Hedberg, have you heard of him? Oh, really? You saw him live? No way! I'll bet. Damn, that's awesome. He's so funny on the videos, I can't even imagine... Oh, I'll bet. Yeah. Hah. Wow. Live.

His feet were a little tired. He wanted to go home with her. He was tired of walking. You know what's a good song? Yeah, good point. I guess so. That's a very broad perspective. I see. I didn't know American Beauty was your favorite movie. Indeed, they are beautiful. He felt suddenly attracted to her like being attracted to the constant roar of a distant waterfall during a long hike. But he made no sign, excepting perhaps a few nanometers walking distance closer to her. He couldn't help it. Her zest always overpowered his malaise. He wanted to grab her arm and stop her, and turn her around and pull her close and kiss her in his warm embrace, but he didn't want it to sound like a sappy, gross Wal-Mart checkout-rack romance novel. He needed it to be original. He couldn't come up with anything sufficiently genuine enough though, so he just followed her from bench to bench, grass patch to grass patch, tree to tree.

Maybe I should just settle down. But he couldn't. People from Warren, New Jersey are settled down before they're born. He had to be the exception, he couldn't just fall in line like the rest. He was never settling down. And so he found himself. And so he took the train back home.

And oh, what a long, strange trip it has been.

Like Water

I heard Moses on the radio, telling everyone about the Commandment of the Day. Water races up the cup to swish and splatter on our heads. He looked up "down" and found his own dead body. She taught him how to fall in love with the sound of every word he said. Even elephants travel together through space. Every drop of light that falls in my pocket, I'm keeping for later. The mortician's fingers laced around each other like the patched quilt of a baby doubling as a funeral shroud. Space fills nearly as quickly as time. I feel like a tree, and I want to move over there, see the world. Titanium is the next Adam Sandler. Screaming won't help you now. She loves those shoes. I hear every few million years, and it always sounds like a cat crying. Why not? He took a pitchfork and stabbed himself in the hippocampus, where music leaked out instead of blood. Soda matters. You walked all this way to find an empty well, only to realize all the water was inside you. Crisp applies to beer and bacon. Can't fool the reaper. We danced all night under photons that had to travel millions of miles just to be reflected by your eyes into mine, and then I kissed them. Try not; do, or do not, there is no try. The future is difficult to see with eyes under moving water. She wasn't made of matter, she was luminous. Green.

Some People Write Beautifully About Themselves

The following was actually written on June 10, 2005 at 3:44 AM.

Some people write beautifully about themselves. But it's all just flowers. I don't write like that. I hate crap like that, a whirlwind ultimately surrounding -- what? Nothing.

This is exactly what the following treatise is about. Nothing. No one. And it comes from nowhere. It comes from an empty nowhere, the alley in between buildings where only the occasional hobo dares to spend more than five minutes. That's how I write. I've already said too much.

Methinks. Nobody says that word anymore. Behold. Methinks. Good words. I think we need to... repopularize those words. Lo, another paragraph!

She sat in the rain with him, waiting for the bus. They chatted outside the arcade. She could hear the sound of music from a faraway part deep inside her brain. Was his name Alex? Or Mark? Somebody was a Mark. Oh, well. The music continued.

The same music was coming out of the radio of the car of a man driving back home after a long day of work. He was stuck in the usual traffic. He had just had a meeting with his boss. He had been fired. It was Friday. He couldn't believe it. He couldn't believe he had to go home to his wife and four kids -- four beautiful girls -- and tell them this news. He was 55. He couldn't just go out and find another job so easily. So he snapped and broke away from the traffic, making a U-turn into the oncoming lane, crashing his car to death. The police cleared the scene in about 30 minutes after arriving. It's those five minutes in between the crash and their arrival that everything in the universe happens.

French may be very romantic, but it's also a very sad language. It can sound incredibly... melancholy. It's just a language with a lot of emotion, of the squishy kind, not of the German kind. Take this song title, for example: "Une Année Sans Lumiere." Sad. Melancholy. In English? "A Year Without Light." Sounds like the title of a science-fiction series.

So the people rose up. The people always rise up. The people always triumph, little by little, but time after time. That's evolution. That's evolutionary fight. That's the human spirit. All genetic. Developed over millions of years. My train just derailed. I completely lost my train of thought.

Allow me to regather. People grow up in neighborhoods. I guess I kind of come from a rough neighborhood. But enough about me. Let's talk about what it's like to ride a bicycle. The beauty. The elegent movement. The wind. The speed. The balance. That rushing feeling. The sun coming through in patches through the canopy of leaves above. A paved road moving downhill. You don't even need to pedal. You just hold still and glide, float, fly...

I love that feeling, that feeling of freedom. Life is perfect. Sic transit gloria, though. And you hit a hill, and you have to pedal. You have to work hard for it. Your legs are tired. You can't make it up. But you refuse to switch gears. You push and push and push. You grind it out. You don't give up. You're never getting off this damn fucking bike. You're not pushing it up, you're not walking it up -- you're riding the fucking bike up. So you push, with everything you've got, and you go, and you go, and you go. And it comes, slowly, the decline of the tip, the tip, the final tap, and the other side... WHOOSH!

Jesus was incredible.

I don't want you to leave.

Intense. I can't handle this right now. Just give me a second. Thanks.

And so he fell asleep.

Insanity

Stairs. Walking up. Winded. Damn lungs. Phone call. Hey. OK. OK? OK! Crashhh. Wake up. Brain. Morgan. Cab. Bus. Fly Ribbon. 3600+ points. Canal St. Times Square. Aerosmith. Scientologists. Let's hit up PAX again. Do not question the Doogs. 59th. Happy birthday John. 63rd. Sundeep. Tiny glass goblets of fire. Spoon Special. Is that water? Cab. Five years. We feel bad. Buy a lighter. Dark street. Stop walking. Walk. Stop. Walk. Stop. Turn around. Done. Melody. Vin. Fuck the government. You're D. Liu? Looks like Faye. Bottle. Cigarette. Bottle. Cigarette. Cup. Cigarette. Looks like Andy Garcia. Clove. Mint. Same hookah bar, same bouncer. Deja vu. Detroit. What can Brown do for you? Yellow face. Table for ten. Sake. No bomb. No drop. Pour. Chug. Chicago in the summer. The Pacific Ocean in the spring. An ounce each. I'll get on it Monday. In the woods. Don't panic. Light. Bar. Rejected. Bar. Rejected. Stoop. Closing eyes. Hop the fence gate. Bench. Water fountain. Reverse peristalsis. Under water. Hop the fence gate again. Of course not. Phone call. No idea. Cab. 14th. Apple Bank. Sign in. Room. Pillow. Crashhh. Wake up. Cold. Who is that? Sign out. Hot. Others. Waiting. Union Square. 59th. 63rd. Free water. 77th. Spice. Spring roll. Pork. Dirty shirt. 63rd. Air conditioned room. Peace out. 59th. East Broadway. Purple ticket. Philadelphia. Heat. Languish in the language of anguish. Pottruck? Cab. Tired. Shower. Change. Clean. Bench. Cigarette. Erdman. Chuck. Allegro's. Bottles. Biopond. 4028. Luke. People. Beatles. Modest Mouse. Bert. 4051. Happy birthday Louisa. Glass. Porch. Drexel. Writing is my passion. I will never quit. Fuck the government. People. Nepal is always cool. 7-11. Coolest police officer I've ever met. Gregory. Van Pelt Manor. Third floor. What were we doing? Out. Back. Down. Lying on back. Building. Dark. Sky. Black. Cigarette. Frogro. Chair. Bum. Cigarette. Move car. Responsible. Safe. Back. Thom Yorke. Billie Joe. Bob Dylan. Playlist. Crashhh.

Ode to No One

VERSE:
I crawl into the bed you made
Sighing about yesterday
How you felt sitting in my lap
How I felt when I made you laugh

I put on the shirt you like to borrow
Smelled your skin and my sorrow
I can't sleep like this anymore
Within this empty space you wore

CHORUS:
My room looks different every night
I try to go to bed, but it don't feel right
So maybe I'll just stay awake waiting
Things always looked better in the morning

VERSE:
I like to picture the way you smile
Even though it makes me cry for a while
It's good to know that you'll always be there
In my memory's secret lair

It's too late now to call your phone
Just because I'm feeling alone
You're dreaming somewhere far away
I'm lying awake and waiting for day

CHORUS:
My room looks different every night
I try to go to bed, but it don't feel right
So maybe I'll just stay awake waiting
Things always look better in the morning

BRIDGE:
Why does it have to be this way?
Why are you so far away?
Tonight I'll stay up counting the hours
Pretending you're just taking a shower

CHORUS:
My room looks different every night
I try to go to bed, but it don't feel right
So maybe I'll just stay awake waiting
Things always looked better in the morning

OUTRO:
They'll look better tomorrow morning
They'll look better tomorrow morning
They'll look better tomorrow morning
They'll look better tomorrow morning

I Like Ironic Statements Like...

WARNING: Don't panic!

This is the hard part.

I <3 SAS

According to Wharton, I was "way too late." According to the School of Arts and Sciences, since it's "still pretty early" and I have "such good grades," it is thumbs-up for me to get a dual-degree after all. Thank you, SAS, for being the total opposite of Wharton. Thank you for being nice. I <3 SAS.

10 Grand Don't Come for Free

I have reached 10,000 visitors! Most of them being from two or three obsessive daily blog-checking friends. You know who you are. You're reading right now. Well, I owe this achievement all to you. And also to those people out there who keep Googling "quaker porn." I know you're doing it, stop hiding! Brother Jebediah's Bang Buggy is no longer a site!

I have one thing to say about the awesome Stephen Malkmus & the Jicks concert: wowee zowee! (Oh, I'm so clever.) Shout-out to Anni for being nearly as cool as me and coming with. The opening band was some insane, tripped-out post-rock/experimental stuff by some band from Detroit. They tried to do Sonic Youth without the singing and crazy on-stage antics, and they succeeded. The guitarist looked like Jimi Hendrix on acid, the bassist looked like Ashlee Simpson, and the drummer looked like... well, a white man with an afro beating on a drum set that included a timpani. He sort of reminded me of Beakman from Beakman's World (remember that show?)

SM&J rocked the house with mostly new tracks from the new album, for which I was happy, because I could recognize the songs and feel superior to most of the I'm-waiting-for-it-to-be-available-for-download-on-BitTorrent folks. I think I liked the Jicks more than Stephen Malkmus. There were a couple of times where Malkmus would start a song and then go, "Shit, never mind, I can't remember the lyrics." It was funny, and I didn't really mind, but the band always looked a little disappointed, like, "C'mon Steve, we came here to do a show for these people. Don't disappoint." Also, their drummer was hilarious, and came out and played a song for us on the guitar, also, and they had a second guitarist who, like, did everything. All of a sudden he'd bust out the tambourine, or a salt-shaker thing, or switch to the keyboards, or play more guitar, or just slap his thighs. Every band needs that one team-first guy who does all the little things. Their bassist was also female (has Kim Deal circa Pixies really been that influential?), and didn't look like any of the Simpsons, or any other pop star. Anyway, this post shall end as an ode to the Jicks, culled from www.allmusic.com: "2005's Face the Truth -- on which Malkmus embraced domesticity with a whimsical feel missing from his work since Wowee Zowee -- featured Malkmus with and without the Jicks, who also supported him on tour that summer." Damn right they supported him on tour this summer!

Now I have to decide if I liked this show or the Walkmen more.

FUCK WHARTON

WHARTON WON'T LET ME GET A DUAL-DEGREE WITH THE COLLEGE. YOU DO NOT UNDERSTAND HOW FUCKING PISSED OFF I AM RIGHT NOW. IF THIS POST COULD SCREAM IN FRUSTRATION AND RAGE, AND REACH OUT WITH A CHAINSAW TO COMPLETELY DESTROY THE SCREEN YOU ARE VIEWING THIS ON RIGHT NOW, IT WOULD. THAT'S HOW FUCKING PISSED OFF.

Oh Snap

Oh snap. Insomnia bad.

June

June is a nice month.

Tender is the Night by F. Scott Fitzgerald

At first, I didn't like this book at all. I found all the rich, pretentious, beautiful people lounging away on the French Riviera extremely annoying. Only with about fifty pages or so left does Fitzgerald begin to reveal that the character of Dick Diver is just as tragic as the great Gatsby. Moreover, Nicole is treated well, also - she is not the shadow-thin shallow ghost of a green light that Daisy was. She is also easy to sympathize with. Of course, I will always have to fall on the side of the Jay Gatsbys and Dick Divers, if my loyalties must be tested. With the possible exception of Nicole, Fitzgerald's women seem to only be downfall-bringing sirens, strident birds that chirp too loudly, or flat cardboard cutouts of actual human beings.

Tolstoy still did adulterous relationships among unstable adults best in Anna Karenina. It's hard not to sympathize with everyone in that book.

A post in which the author drops much elitist indie-knowledge cred:

I like the new Stephen Malkmus CD Face the Truth a lot. So much so that I'm going to the TLA to see his concert this Sunday. I also like the new Belle & Sebastian compilation Push Barman to Open Old Wounds, although Dear Catastrophe Waitress is still my favorite album. Clouds Taste Metallic is also a good album by the Flaming Lips, and I do plan on purchasing Zaireeka in the near future, their four-disc album that is meant to be played on four separate speakers simultaneously. (How intense is that!) The new Gorillaz album Demon Days was a little bit disappointing; I actually liked their self-titled debut a lot more. Other than that, I'm pissed off that my copy of Pavement's Crooked Rain, Crooked Rain: L.A.'s Desert Origins sucks so badly. Anyway, I still have about... mmm... a ton, let's say, of music to listen to, still. I'm backed up with Spoon, Talking Heads, and Yo La Tengo albums to listen to before I even get to the new British Sea Power, TV on the Radio, and Ben Kweller releases. What I don't understand is why the Album Leaf is classified as Experimental Rock and not Ambient Pop like Sigur Ros is. Should I correct the folks at AMG? [This space reserved for mandatory Pitchfork-hateration.]

On the Road [Reposted]

Once upon a time, there was a space cowboy. He wore a leather spacesuit and a ten gallon hat over his oxygen helmet. He floated around from planet to planet, just swimming hard through the non-atmosphere like it was water. He drifted like this alone all his life, as far back as he could remember. He never had what anyone could ever call a home. He was just like a rolling stone, but with the moss already grown on it. One day, he found a planet that was so small, it was always daylight. He could just float along slowly in one direction as the planet rotated, and he'd be in daylight forever. He considered that perhaps this might be a good place to settle down finally, a good place to finally have a home. He didn't want to be "on his own" all the time. He was tired of being on the road. He had seen so much of the universe already. He knew many little tricks about the universe that others didn't know. He knew that if you closed your eyes, snapped twice with both hands, cross your big toe with your other toes, and sneeze, you can cause time to freeze for about 10 minutes. What would you do with your 10 minutes alone in the entire world? What would you do with those 10 minutes that belonged to absolutely no one else but you? What would you do with 10 minutes in which you answered to absolutely no one, no thing, no idea, no belief? Unknown and alone. Well that feeling just reminded him of his entire life, how he did so much continuous traveling, never stopping even once, as far back as he could remember. Never being with any body. Always just sort of alone. So wasn't it just a good idea to live in the sunshine? I mean... hey, what's nicer than sunshine? Right? It feels good. It would be a nice life to live. So finally, he said to himself, "Robert Fender, let us go! Let us settle down! Let us be happy! Yes, indeed! We shall! I... I -- I will!" And it was happiness. It truly was. And it lasted quite a long time, too. Longer than it ever had before. It just really felt great. But... well. You -- but you know. Things don't always... They never just keep... What I mean to say is, there is almost alwa -- there ALWAYS is an end. It's -- it couldn't be goodness for ever. But this part, this part could still be considered part of the happiness, but only at the back end of it. The happiness is in its twilight. For the first time ever that he had on that little planet, he felt it coming to twilight. That's right, I mean... There was sun. There's always sun on that planet. It's so small. But this is sort of him walking into a situation with ever slightly increasing twilight. So here we are. Here we are -- here we are to this...! TO THIS!

Paul Despecter rode into town. He had been a longtime traveler as well! But the difference was, here we had a REAL cowboy. Not the space cowboy that Robert Fender was. He was a REAL cowboy. And he came riding in on a horse, wearing boots and spurs and a cowboy hat. He took a huge swig of beer, and it splashed all over his face and body. He was a sort of... hungry man, you could say. And here he was heading for this little planet! Here he was, ready to confront Robert Fender and his own sense of aesthetics. Paul was a strong man, like a Paul Bunyan type. He was never a chicken. He backed down from nothing, but -- but it makes one ponder, doesn't it? -- that that perhaps was his weakness. Yes. The strong(man) weakness. He swerves in onto this planet and says, "Hey now! What's going on? I've ridden in on this horse, you know, that comes from my planet. Heh. You get this? I'm an American! I'm a Texan!" And the space cowboy just looked at him and blinked, and immediately took of Americans the same attitude as did the Europeans. Yeah, that's how he reacted -- just like Europeans would. But he knew of no Earthly concepts whatsoever, so he had no idea he was being European. But he thought the same thing.

But then the girl enters in! She has a soulful voice, deep, true. People walk by her and always stare, because she just looks that true. She spoke so truthfully. Do not confuse that with naïveté, which it was not. Indeed. She loved her mother. She never forgot her home, wherever she was. She was the exact opposite of this space cowboy wanderer, Robert Fender. She -- Queen Jane, let's call her. She confused Robert! Robert had never met a Jane like this before.

Heh. Things happen, you know? Jane couldn't explain it. Robert couldn't explain it either. Things happened in montage. You think montage is an artificial trick played by directors and cinematographers? No, montage is real life. And Robert's life was going in montage at this point in time. Things were just kind of happening like that in memory. The montage era. He was a good musician, too, and listened to a lot of good music, so things were always set back on a great soundtrack.

Paul Despecter ran into the girl. That was a crazy time in her life! Haha, I'll say so myself. I hate being the baby brother to any body. I just like eating candy, so what? That doesn't make me like a little child. 8th grade is really high! That's a huge number. And besides, it's not about the candy, I'm way more mature than that. But I do like candy. So that's the way it goes. Candy break!

They were all different colors, and they all tasted slightly different, too, based on the color. Who knew M&M's flavored those things. I thought it was all just chocolate.

BANG!

bang bang

Here we go. Something is happening here, but you don't know what it is. It's a great time to have a drink and a smoke, that's for sure. People are just silly. Human beings are silly. I hate being so geeky. I'm an 8th grade geek. Such a freak. But I was freaking smart, at least! I was! I was, like, I dominated, man. I came in 2nd! After 27. You gotta respect that. Damn! These M&M's are awesome. Shit, but I need a lot of water. Damn, I need a lot of water. TIMEOUT. Sorry about that, sword-swallower. Amazing. Fabulous. Fabulous feels great.

DRIVING! DRIVING! DRIVING! I want to go driving. Actually, I'd rather go passengering. You know? Mr. Jones. Mr. Clones. OH, crap! Not again! Get away...

And the jazz band played heavily with sweat on their brows, in the purplish gray light of the bar. Smoke was everywhere, and each band was going crazy, flipping out the jazz tonight, into the night air. Queen Jane was here tonight. Alone. Not with her mother this time, like she usually is. Is she here for a special reason tonight? Who knows? She certainly doesn't. She won't kid herself. And that's when Robert Fender came crashing into the circle of her life. What was this? He smelled funny. She smelled like love. Fender turned and gave a look and a smile, and she just raised her eyebrows. And that was their first meeting. Completely forgotten about right afterwards, as if it were just an automatic reflex. Their first meeting was a reflex...

So won't you come see me, Queen Jane? Oh, I don't know, Robert Fender. What have we got to lose? Many things, Robert. Queenie. Don't, Robert. Q! Little Susie-Q. Robert, I must leave. Queen Jane, do not go. I must. Don't. You don't. Let's not bring that up. So that was that, and it started raining.

Life was intense as a lone ranger again. At first, he tried stopping being a ranger, settling on the sunny planet. Didn't work. Then he tried stopping the lone part. And she left. So he tried just letting it happen. Lone ranger. That's who he was. The space cowboy in the leather spacesuit. And the hat. He still had the hat. His hat. So he was still the lone ranger. Yeah. Easily done.

Harry typed all of this out. But Harry died and now I have to take over. I dunno if I can. He said on his deathbed to just please finish it somehow, because it needs finishing. Well, I dunno how to do that. But I guess I'll try. He said to. What is this story about anyway? I hope it's about spring or something. I don't want to think that Harry was writing wintery type things right before death. That just seems odd. "Just Like Thom Thomb's Blues" has one interestingly specific lyric. One should Google it if one is a Googler. "She peaks good English and you invite her up into your room" and that following sequence is not it, either. No, with light sabers! That's how they battle each other! Wow. I think I made it too big. Bigger than it needed to be. Oh, well. Makes things harder. Hard is good. Hard builds character. Almost to the grand finale, eh? What a great album of life Robert Fender led. Things are always looking up if you just tilt your head. That's what's beautiful about perspective. One simple move of the head and you get a whole new world to interpret.

They're selling postcards of the hanging. The circus is in town. Here comes the blind commissioner. They've got him in a trance. One hand is tied to the tightrope walker. And the riot squad, they need somewhere to go. As lady and I look out tonight from Desolation Row. Cinderella, she seems so easy. "It takes one to know one," she smiles. Bette Davis style. You're in the wrong place my friend, you'd better leave. After the ambulances go. Cinderella sweeping up on Desolation Row. The moon is almost hidden, the stars are beginning to hide. The fortune telling lady and the Hunchback of Notre Dame. Everybody's making love or else expecting rain. He's getting ready for the carnival tonight on Desolation Row. Ophelia n'eath the window. On her 22nd birthday. To her, death his quite romantic. Her profession's her religion. She spends her time peeking into Desolation Row. Einstein disguised as Robin Hood, with his memories and his friend, a jealous monk. As he bummed a cigarette, sniffing drain pipes, and reciting the alphabet. You would not think, he was famous long ago, for playing the electric violin on Desolation Row. Doctor Filth, she's in charge of the cyanide. So you better watch out. Don't eat the guacamole, if you value your life. Punished for going to Desolation Row. Just had to cry for a little bit, there. Ezra Pound and T.S. Eliot fighting in the tower. Fishermen hold flowers. Lovely mermaids flow, and nobody has to think too much about Desolation Row. Yes, I received your letter yesterday, about the time the doorknob broke. When you asked me how I was doing, was that some kind of joke? I had to rearrange their faces. Not unless you mail them from Desolation Row.

Bamboozled!

I just like that word.

A Post About Music

Wow. Gorillaz, Stephen Malkmus, and Belle & Sebastian all released CDs today. I want to spend money on music again. (And to a lesser extent, Audioslave and The Wallflowers.)

The new Mars Volta album Frances the Mute is I.N.T.E.N.S.E. and just a little bit schizo. Imagine if the Fiery Furnaces stopped making happy-but-ADD pop and all of a sudden got really screaming angry, and also learned some Spanish - that's what the Mars Volta sound like. Angry and ADD.

Here's something else:

Autumn = Emo
Winter = Goth
Spring = Indie Pop
Summer = Dance-Pop

And the observation: "Hmm... true, you were listening to Madonna and I was listening to Bright Eyes."

D.C.

D.C. was awesome, once again. That city is definitely better than Philadelphia. Their Metro system rocks the hizzouse compared to SEPTASS. Quality of public transportation is really important for a city to be awesome. The Walkmen, my first "real" concert, was great. Having seen my favorite song of all time played live was just a necessary experience. This weekend really kicked off summer for me. I finally feel like summer has begun, that this isn't just a continuation of spring semester anymore. There are things to look forward to! (Hint: it starts with an "f" and rhymes with "bilming-a-movie.")

"Solitude" by Ella Wheeler Wilcox

This poem has some of the best metaphors/imagery I've read in a long time:

LAUGH, and the world laughs with you;

Weep, and you weep alone.

For the sad old earth must borrow it's mirth,

But has trouble enough of it's own.

Sing, and the hills will answer;

Sigh, it is lost on the air.

The echoes bound to a joyful sound,

But shrink from voicing care.

Rejoice, and men will seek you;

Grieve, and they turn and go.

They want full measure of all your pleasure,

But they do not need your woe.

Be glad, and your friends are many;

Be sad, and you lose them all.

There are none to decline your nectared wine,

But alone you must drink life's gall.

Feast, and your halls are crowded;

Fast, and the world goes by.

Succeed and give, and it helps you live,

But no man can help you die.

There is room in the halls of pleasure

For a long and lordly train,

But one by one we must all file on

Through the narrow aisles of pain.

Drought

I foresee a writing drought. Just warning you.

vague

you know what i'm talking about
that thought i had was about that other thing
remember?
it was like that time, but more... less!
it felt like that place at the usual time of day -
or night - you know better than i do
i couldn't really see, it's sort of hazy now
it's hard to say
there isn't really the right word for it
it's not easy to articulate
(language is so limited!)
it's a subtle point, nuanced
you would just miss it if i tried to explain
i don't exactly recall exactly, exactly...
approximately, give or take
more or less thereabouts
apparently basically partially allegedly in essence
maybe?

hey, you get the idea, i guess
i plead the fifth

Enron: The Smartest Guys in the Room

Everyone must watch this documentary. Especially people in Wharton.

I feel very angry and conflicted right now, about a lot of things. I can't even begin to explain. Money. Corporate power. American culture. Wharton. Selfishness. Bush. Enron. Texas. Business. Greed. Oi. I'm so afraid I will fall into the trap like so many. What a dangerous path, to gain the world and lose one's soul.

It's Red

I sold out a little bit and bought a track jacket today. I wouldn't have except it was 50% off and also had the number "7" stitched on - my lucky number. So yeah. Fashion whore.

Chili J. Rhodes

I found a turtle today in some Fort Worth nature preserve place-a-ma-jig. I took him home, and he is having fun in the bathtub right now. This was probably illegal, but I don't care because turtles are the AWESOMEST animals EVER. I have named him Chili J. Rhodes. "Chili" because he seems like he likes to chill a lot, especially in dark places, and also because he's got red chili pepper tattoos on either side of his face (hardcore!) "Rhodes" because I found him on the side of the road, and also because he looks quite old and therefore distinguished and therefore a nineteenth century British colonialist in South Africa after whom the Rhodes Scholarship is named after. "J." so that he could have the same initials as said nineteenth century British colonialist, Cecil John Rhodes. The "J." doesn't stand for anything, a la Homer Simpson. I'm giving him back to nature on Monday, when I fly back to Philly because he's a little too big to fly with, I think. He's also a bit snappy and cranky when he has to go on extended trips. But for the weekend, I have a pet. He's Mr. Rhodes to you, because he's probably older than all of us. He's probably like fifty.

"You would make an excellent writer..."

Your #1 Match: INFP

The Idealist You are creative with a great imagination, living in your own inner world. Open minded and accepting, you strive for harmony in your important relationships. It takes a long time for people to get to know you. You are hesitant to let people get close. But once you care for someone, you do everything you can to help them grow and develop. You would make an excellent writer, psychologist, or artist.

What's Your Personality Type?

But I Love Gangsta Rap!

Your Taste in Music:

90's Alternative: Highest Influence

90's Pop: Highest Influence

90's Rock: Highest Influence

Classic Rock: Highest Influence

80's R&B: High Influence

80's Rock: High Influence

90's Hip Hop: High Influence

Adult Alternative: High Influence

Punk: High Influence

80's Alternative: Medium Influence

Hip Hop: Medium Influence

Progressive Rock: Medium Influence

Ska: Medium Influence

90's R&B: Low Influence

Alternative Rock: Low Influence

Gangsta Rap: Low Influence

Hair Bands: Low Influence

Old School Hip Hop: Low Influence

R&B: Low Influence

How's Your Taste in Music?

California Sweep! 1-2-3!

American Cities That Best Fit You:

65% San Diego

60% San Francisco

55% Los Angeles

50% Chicago

50% Honolulu

Which American Cities Best Fit You?

I'm Feeling More... Aerodynamic?

I finally got my head shaved today. The idea occurred to me over a year ago, and I finally did it. I look like a monk more than a gangsta. Oh well. Fang did call me David Buddha in high school for a while.

The Shawshank Redemption

Finally saw it. Moving. Powerful. Other generic words film reviewers like to throw around. One thing missing: a scene with Red busting it out on the harmonica.

The Flaming Lips

I just bought a semi-obscure Flaming Lips CD from 1993, Transmissions from the Satellite Heart, and it is really, really awesome. It has the single "She Don't Use Jelly" on it, made famous on an episode of Beverly Hills: 90210, apparently. For those that only know of The Flaming Lips from Yoshimi Battles the Pink Robots, old school Lips is like that, minus the electronic beeps plus electronic buzzing and other assorted noises that grate, but in a really enjoyable way. The sound is truly a fusion of the two words that describe their style: NOISE POP.

The Colossus of New York

is a wonderful book. Colson Whitehead has quite a way with fragments, clauses, and other assorted incomplete sentences. Ultimately, New York is an incomprehensible city.

In other news, as I am on vacation, this blog will also be on a vacation of sorts. Oh, sure, there will be updates, perhaps even frequently, but the point is, I'm not really going to try anymore. Yeah; hence, short, pointless updates about nothing (i.e., my life) instead of, you know, something more meaningful. [Shrugs with sheepish resolve] That's the way it is. Sorry.

In more other news, I can apparently eat a whole Wendy's Triple Decker cheeseburger (that's 3 hamburger patties, a 50% bonus from the traditional Big Mac) and an order of Biggie fries in less than 10 minutes. I can feel a massive food coma slowly creeping up my torso and hitting my braiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii

(That was me pretending to fall asleep on my keyboard.)

Kung Fu Hustle

I loved it. Like Kill Bill Vol. 1 mixed with Looney Tunes. Very entertaining.

Gin and Lipstick

I heard you coming down the hall
Like a grand piano falling down the stairs;

I sensed you sneaking into the dark apartment
Smelling like gin and lipstick;

I watched you slowly undress
As if peeling plastic wrap off your body;

I felt you crawl into bed
It felt like a ghost;

I tasted your good night kiss
While I pretended to be asleep;

I knew.

Whoo Hedonism!

Advanced Global Personality Test Results Extraversion |||||||||||| 46% Stability |||||||||||||||||||| 83% Orderliness |||||| 26% Empathy |||||||||||| 50% Interdependence |||||||||||||||||| 76% Intellectual |||||||||||||||||||| 90% Mystical || 10% Artistic |||||||||||||||||||| 90% Religious || 10% Hedonism |||||||||||||||||||| 90% Materialism |||||| 30% Narcissism |||||||||||||||| 63% Adventurousness |||||||||||||||| 70% Work ethic |||||| 30% Self absorbed |||||| 23% Conflict seeking |||||| 23% Need to dominate |||||| 30% Romantic |||||||||||| 43% Avoidant |||||||||||| 50% Anti-authority |||||||||||||||||||| 83% Wealth |||||||||||||| 56% Dependency |||||| 30% Change averse |||||||||||| 43% Cautiousness |||||||||||||| 56% Individuality |||||||||||||||||||| 90% Sexuality |||||||||||||||||||| 83% Peter pan complex |||||||||||||||||||| 83% Physical security |||||||||||||||||||| 90% Food indulgent || 10% Histrionic |||||||||||| 50% Paranoia |||| 16% Vanity |||||||||||| 43% Hypersensitivity |||| 16% Female cliche || 10%

Take Free Advanced Global Personality Test
personality tests by similarminds.com

shamble shamble

after the door slammed behind you and you left my room and my life forever
i remembered the night before when i thought you looked happy asleep
on the couch and i remembered how that made me cry because
you were never that happy awake maybe if i remembered to clean the sink
this time we would love each other honestly that's what i thought
how sad is that? i knew it wasn't the sink though or the snoring
or the time i accidentally opened the cupboard too fast and hit your head
and you yelled at me and cried for two hours and left the apartment
while it was raining and i thought you crashed and died it was already 3 am
where the fuck were you? and i yelled at you when you got back
and called you a bad thing maybe two bad things but it was late
so we both went to bed pretty soon after that and i never got to say sorry
we just went to our favorite restaurant in silence the one we go to
every saturday morning and you always got the chicken
and i always tried something different until i tried it all
well it just so happened that day would be the last day
we would eat there together it would be the last day i would ever eat there
because i could never go back anyway there was only one dish left
i hadn't tried it was the chicken i said this was momentous
and you looked at me with tired eyes but a smile
that smile made me remember the time in the summer we went to the park
and i bought you some ice cream and you spilled it on your shirt
and got upset but then i thought what the hell
and smashed my ice cream cone over my shirt and we both laughed
and laughed on the park bench as people walked by wondering
who the hell these two lunatics were with ice cream on their chests
you said we should tell people we just escaped from the hospital
and needed pretzels and that made me laugh
because it was our little inside joke about the pretzels
nobody would ever understand about the pretzels
and i'm not going to explain it now
because you already know what i'm talking about
and i don't want anyone else to know as i heard your car drive away
i wanted to remind you to wear your seatbelt because you always forget
to wear your seatbelt and i always have to remind you
but then i realized again that you had just left my room
and my life forever so it didn't matter now if you wore your seatbelt
or not because if you got into a car crash today and died or not
i'd never see you again anyway

applecores and valentines

sleep
(is a) pillow;
in the mirror
she's not t(here)
friday night
tv + me
holding hands.
and? i don't ask
floating; beautiful
it hurts!
perfect-ly clean
beginning and (the)nd
finish i ash
the hounds are coming for me
help

The Universe

And so it begins
With the very first sparkle
BANG! we unfold forth

Pollen Counting on a Sunbeam

I used to get springtime allergies sometimes when I lived in California, but not too often. I get allergies in Texas every time the seasons change, and those last for about a week. But in the two academic years I've spent here in Philadelphia, I've never had to deal with allergies. For some reason, my nose and the air found each other rather agreeable here. I'd always been able to enjoy the springtime and sunny weather outside before.

Lo, the folly of man.

I woke up today, looked outside my window at the 80 degree weather, silently rejoiced, put on summer clothing, hopped down the stairs, burst through the double doors, took in a deep breath of fresh spring air, and promptly sneezed it back out. I sneezed uncontrollably all the way to class, sometimes violently. Passersby, strangers, felt the need to say, "Bless you," with concerned looks on their faces at every calamitous convulsion, every pollinated paroxysm. I sneezed so much and so hard, my throat felt ripped and dry from all the fast air coming out of my lungs, and it even made me start coughing for a bit. I could not stop sniffling; that is, if I did stop, I'd have to deal with a runny face. Not my best look, I assure you.

In the afternoon, I found time to buy some Claritin. It did nothing. The hya!choo-ing kept up, as did my marathon sinuses. They could have run for miles. I realized there was only one solution. I would have to convalesce. Invalidate. Stay inside. Wait it out. The pollen storm.

So much for enjoying the beautiful weather.

Oh, and if you happen to see me sneezing outside, please do not say, "Bless you," because it would be a lie, a mockery - for I am not as such, but verily the opposite - I am the cursed.

The Spring Fling Post

Thursday:
- can't remember

Friday:
- Sonic Youth
- can't remember

Saturday:
- can't remember

Sunday:
- trying all day to remember, and then forget

I Wrote This Before Ever Taking A Single Philosophy Class

There isn't one unique electrical impulse inside my cranium. My mental gears have been fashioned by the blacksmiths of great thought, and anything my brain's incessant rotations turn out has little or nothing to do with me, in an actual sense, and everything to do with those before me. No so-called thought, no neurological paroxysm crossing the miles of synapses in my head, is my own. Everything I know, understand, perceive, and observe about the world is irreversibly colored by the lenses through which I am required to focus in on the universe. These lenses are not of my making. They are the lenses of F.S. Fitzgerald, A. Einstein, B. Dylan, M.L. King, Jr., P. Picasso, S. Freud, everyone I've ever met in my entire life, television. If I were to remove these lenses I would be blind. The world would not just be blurry in a myopic sense. The world would disappear completely. The world would not exist. That is the essential significance of my borrowed thoughts, my hijacked brain. Is it possible for any man to use his own mind freely? How do we know the world truly exists before us if nothing in our cognition comes from our own selves? Perhaps the greats have been fooling us all, pulling the wool over our eyes. Perhaps nothing they have ever said has ever really existed. After all, their minds were equally borrowed from their predecessors. Perhaps nothing exists at all. My mind is not mine, and so what it tells me can not be trusted. In all practicality, I'm being told right now by my "inner voice" that the world exists, that I'm being completely illogical. But tell me why I should listen to this inner voice? It's not my inner voice, after all. Everything about me is stolen. There isn't one original thought in my brain. And so perhaps there isn't thought at all. And since me being requires me thinking (thank you, Descartes), that would mean, therefore, that I am not. I do not be. I don't exist. And neither do you. Neither does our universe.

So why am I still doing homework?

[1.28.04]

dialogue with God

by d.x. liu

one day i sat in my armchair,
     right by the Fireplace--
          it was night outside,
               and i saw a Face in the flames;

                              i asked:
                         why was i made?
               to feel? to be?
          i never asked for this;
     i never wanted this;

and God replied:
freedom raped reason
in the backseat of a car
and she birthed the absolute I

Dialogues

"It's fine, Gus."
"Are you sure, man?"
"Yeah, seriously, it's fine."
"I just want to make sure we're cool, you know? I wanna make sure we're still friends."
"It's fine, Gus. Really. I don't care."
"OK, Al."
"'Alan.'"
"Peace out, dude."
"Yeah."
Alan decided he hated Gus, and should avoid ever talking to him again. Gus never noticed.

* * *

"Hi."
"Hey."
"How are you?"
"Good."
"Well, it's been a while. How have you been?"
"I've been good, Alan."
"That's good. I've been good, too. I mean, I've been all right. I've been OK. Been about the same. You know."
"That's good."
"Yep. Listen. Can I apologize? I mean, would that be, you know, appropriate for me to apologize? Because I'd really like to. But if that's gonna be too much for you or something, or if that would offend you or make you mad, then, you know, I won't apologize. But I just want you to know that... I want to apologize."
"It doesn't matter to me."
"OK. OK. I see. Well, then, in that case, I'm sorry. I'm really sorry, Grace. I apologize for everything."
"Don't. It's not your fault."
"I know. I mean, but it is. But I know what you mean. I just hope you can forgive me, you know, for my part."
"I forgive you, Alan."
A pause.
"Grace. I think I'm still in love with you."
"What?! Please don't say things like that! I don't want to hear anything like that right now."
"I'm sorry. I don't know why I said that. I didn't really mean it."
"Yeah. Well. Oh my God, Alan! I can't be here right now. This is just really weird. I'm gonna go."
"OK. I'm sorry. I didn't mean for it to sound weird."
"Forget it, Alan. Good bye."
Alan watched Grace get smaller and smaller and then disappear. He felt the emptiness of having arms just short of long-enough. They felt like chains. Grace calmed down. She knew Alan was lying. She thought he was, at least.

* * *

"I don't know what to tell you anymore."
"It's OK, Donald. It's not as serious as you probably think it is."
"I'm just worried for you, that's all."
"It just happens to me sometimes. Not all the time. You know that. You've seen me."
"I know, I know! But whenever I don't know for sure, I think you're being different. It's just hard to know for sure. Maybe I don't know Alan as well as I should."
"Trust me. I'm fine, Donald. I'm really fine. I'm not jumping out of a building tomorrow."
"I know that. Don't make fun of me. I just want to make sure you're OK."
"All right, sorry. Next week, though? No guarantees."
"Shut the fuck up, man. That's not funny."
"Just trying. Look. Thank you."
"For what?"
"Nothing. Just for you. Thank you. I really appreciate your concern. It means a lot to me. Thanks."
"Any time, man. That's what I'm here for. I'm here for you."
"Thanks."
Alan felt guilty for being annoyed at Donald. Donald knew he was being annoying, and appreciated Alan for not snapping at him. They became better friends, one out of guilt, the other out of appreciation.