went over to morgan's tonight. watched two really terrific films: minnie and moskowitz and the extended cut of scenes from a marriage. reminded me of every thing i loved and hated about my last long-term relationship--the exhaustive properties of love and affection--the value of honesty, etc. both films, with their jarring ups and downs, made me feel like i was watching something honest, raw, blah blah blah.
i like how neither followed any sort of formula. i really like how both cassavetes and bergman didn't glorify or romanticize the difficult subject matter they were dealing with--i felt like there was an equal balance of good and bad, ups and downs in the films. minnie and seymour, in particular, really fascinated me. there were moments where i was nearly in tears, completely swept off my feet with the film's charm--seymour's bleeding-heart optimism and minnie's inability to open up to anyone, be honest with herself. both characters possessed very human qualities--that is, seymour, for all his charisma, his graceful eloquence and ability to express himself in a very human way and, ultimately, win over minnie, still fucked up. it would have been very easy for cassavetes to just allow minnie to fall completely head-over-heels in love with seymour from the beginning, after the whole knight-in-shining-armour routine at the restaurant. however, i felt like minnie's reluctance, her ambivalence, created the necessary degree of tension needed in the film to make the predictable ending that much more touching.
story short, i liked it.
however...
i'm pretty spent. so, in lieu of anything really expansive or profound...
here are some quotes from both films:
"i think about you so much i forget to use the bathroom!"
"you can say anything about anyone. it will always seem to fit."
yeah. i don't feel like putting them into context or expanding on either one of these ideas. just thought i'd throw them out there before my brain throws them away...forever.
Tuesday, May 26, 2009
Monday, May 25, 2009
memorial day part III: in space!
here is a quote from the hours by michael cunningham. it sums up my mental state since i was sixteen:
"the headache is always there...they seem sometimes to be conversing, in whispers, among themselves...."
yeah. i know. it sounds really emo. but it's pretty accurate. and it's nothing i can help. sometimes, when i'm on the verge of sleep (there's a name for this, i know) i can hear people, in my head, talking. long after the party is over and the host has gone to bed, they linger. i can hear them, muddled, through the walls. they are talking "among themselves." it's not about me. it's not even directed at me. i'm not involved in any way. i give them life. i think them up (unintentionally) and this is how they behave--completely removed from myself, completely autonomous. it's really bizarre and not altogether disturbing. it's kind of nice--like listening to music before sleep.
also, there's the headaches. which is another thing, altogether. i don't know why i get them, but i do. maybe it's because i smoke as much as i do--like a chimney--or because i have this thinking pattern, this framework i can't escape, no matter how hard i try--mental recitations, which mean a great deal to me--deeply steeped in my own religious ideals--"to pray without ceasing," i guess. everyday, though, i experience these headaches. i've almost gotten used to them. though sometimes they become unbearable and all i can do is shut my eyes and force myself to sleep.
it works. but...then again. i never have the energy to perform for my friends like they want me to--that is, i'm always tired or unconscious. i never have the energy to humor people or entertain friends, even when they expect it of me. i mean, i want to. i have fantasies about living my life to the fullest, realizing every possibility. but then, it's so much easier just to stay at home and daydream, lay in bed all day and stare up at the ceiling, nap, etc.
i don't know.
i've been listening to tiny vipers lately. a lot. they are my new beach house. great music to just feel lazy to--sink your nocturnal teeth into and wallow around in, conquer like a bedset.
i've fallen in love with jesy fortino, who performs under the moniker, and her music (her sense of music?). it reminds me of my own attempts at writing songs--sparse, fragile and never defined. mostly, though, it reminds me of the word "lackadaisically," which is my favorite word of all time.
i guess, despite being moderately successful, she still makes burritos at some crappy mexican restaurant in seattle. this makes me sad. it also makes me wonder about jeff mangum.
what's that guy up to these days?
amy says he's probably living in some crappy house in athens. while his wife is off making documentaries, he's constantly finding new things to fix or repair around the house.
this makes sense. or, at least, it's a good generalization.
like hemingway...
i asked amy about hemingway once--her opinion. she said she liked him. "hemingway wrestled lions," she said.
i asked her if that was true.
she said no. but it makes complete sense. if you were to describe hemingway to someone, someone unfamiliar with the man, the myth, his work, etc., you could probably tell them the facts and that would be OK. or you could just say "he wrestled lions" and it's, basically, the same general idea. both are perfectly acceptable conceptions of the man, though one is a generalization and the other is not.
it's a lie but it couldn't be closer to the truth.
i'm glad no one reads this. well, i'm glad no one who knows me reads this. i'm sure it's been stumbled upon, a detour on the way to some weird kind of porn. i wonder how much that person read before deciding they'd rather look at people naked.
how much of a deterrent are my thoughts and musings compared to fake tits and horse-fucking (hyphen?)? do i even stand a chance?
blah.
oh, before i forget, i've come up with a new turn of phrase:
"...at the cellular level."
no? you don't like it?
here, i'll use it in a sentence:
"man, that bitch is crazy!"
"for real?"
"at the cellular level, dude!"
(i know, really inspired stuff, here. i'm sure that's pretty offensive. oh well.)
it's synonymous with "hardcore," i think. it means "to the extreme."
so, i don't think i'll ever use it. but i like the idea.
"the headache is always there...they seem sometimes to be conversing, in whispers, among themselves...."
yeah. i know. it sounds really emo. but it's pretty accurate. and it's nothing i can help. sometimes, when i'm on the verge of sleep (there's a name for this, i know) i can hear people, in my head, talking. long after the party is over and the host has gone to bed, they linger. i can hear them, muddled, through the walls. they are talking "among themselves." it's not about me. it's not even directed at me. i'm not involved in any way. i give them life. i think them up (unintentionally) and this is how they behave--completely removed from myself, completely autonomous. it's really bizarre and not altogether disturbing. it's kind of nice--like listening to music before sleep.
also, there's the headaches. which is another thing, altogether. i don't know why i get them, but i do. maybe it's because i smoke as much as i do--like a chimney--or because i have this thinking pattern, this framework i can't escape, no matter how hard i try--mental recitations, which mean a great deal to me--deeply steeped in my own religious ideals--"to pray without ceasing," i guess. everyday, though, i experience these headaches. i've almost gotten used to them. though sometimes they become unbearable and all i can do is shut my eyes and force myself to sleep.
it works. but...then again. i never have the energy to perform for my friends like they want me to--that is, i'm always tired or unconscious. i never have the energy to humor people or entertain friends, even when they expect it of me. i mean, i want to. i have fantasies about living my life to the fullest, realizing every possibility. but then, it's so much easier just to stay at home and daydream, lay in bed all day and stare up at the ceiling, nap, etc.
i don't know.
i've been listening to tiny vipers lately. a lot. they are my new beach house. great music to just feel lazy to--sink your nocturnal teeth into and wallow around in, conquer like a bedset.
i've fallen in love with jesy fortino, who performs under the moniker, and her music (her sense of music?). it reminds me of my own attempts at writing songs--sparse, fragile and never defined. mostly, though, it reminds me of the word "lackadaisically," which is my favorite word of all time.
i guess, despite being moderately successful, she still makes burritos at some crappy mexican restaurant in seattle. this makes me sad. it also makes me wonder about jeff mangum.
what's that guy up to these days?
amy says he's probably living in some crappy house in athens. while his wife is off making documentaries, he's constantly finding new things to fix or repair around the house.
this makes sense. or, at least, it's a good generalization.
like hemingway...
i asked amy about hemingway once--her opinion. she said she liked him. "hemingway wrestled lions," she said.
i asked her if that was true.
she said no. but it makes complete sense. if you were to describe hemingway to someone, someone unfamiliar with the man, the myth, his work, etc., you could probably tell them the facts and that would be OK. or you could just say "he wrestled lions" and it's, basically, the same general idea. both are perfectly acceptable conceptions of the man, though one is a generalization and the other is not.
it's a lie but it couldn't be closer to the truth.
i'm glad no one reads this. well, i'm glad no one who knows me reads this. i'm sure it's been stumbled upon, a detour on the way to some weird kind of porn. i wonder how much that person read before deciding they'd rather look at people naked.
how much of a deterrent are my thoughts and musings compared to fake tits and horse-fucking (hyphen?)? do i even stand a chance?
blah.
oh, before i forget, i've come up with a new turn of phrase:
"...at the cellular level."
no? you don't like it?
here, i'll use it in a sentence:
"man, that bitch is crazy!"
"for real?"
"at the cellular level, dude!"
(i know, really inspired stuff, here. i'm sure that's pretty offensive. oh well.)
it's synonymous with "hardcore," i think. it means "to the extreme."
so, i don't think i'll ever use it. but i like the idea.
underneath the head and horns: memorial day pt. II
"The second head sat atop the main head inverted and simply ended in a neck-like stump. The second head seemed to, at times, function independently from the main head. When the boy cried or smiled the features of the second head did not always match. Yet, when the main head was fed, the second head would produce saliva. Furthermore, if the second head was presented with a breast to suckle – it would attemp to do so. While the main head was well formed the secondary head did posses some irregularities. The eyes and ears were underdeveloped. The tongue was small and the jaw malformed but both were capable of motion. When the Boy slept, the secondary head would often be observed alert and awake – eyes darting about." -author unknown, from a case study on the two-headed boy of bengal (circa 17??)
memorial day pt. I
summer has just begun and i already have way too much on my plate--too, too many summer projects. i'm not that ambitious. i don't know what i was thinking.
i might just make a list of all my summer projects. and not actually accomplish any of them.
if i at least had a list, something i could go to periodically and run my eyes over, i think, then, i'd feel the same as if i'd actually done the things i set out to do in the first place.
i mean, it's kind of the same thing.
it's like lying. i guess. you could tell yourself, tell others, that you can read minds, that your brother died when you were in kindergarten, your mother kept him sick and, as long as the idea is out there, it doesn't really matter if it's true or not. what's important is that it's out there. execution is shit. good ideas should remain theoretical. always. dreams realized are rarely satisfying.
or maybe i'm just lazy.
summer project #271: make a list of all my summer projects and don't actually follow through on a single one.
summer project #272: relax. you've earned it.
i talked to amy last night. we went on one of our epic walks. it was really sort of gratifying, masturbatory in nature--a perfectly acceptable waste of time.
we came to the conclusion that most of the things we, and other people, enjoy are masturbatory in nature--that is, most of the things we do on a day-to-day basis are generally unconstructive, soul-sucking and perfectly acceptable ways to waste one's time.
like t.v. on dvd.
who stops after just one episode? who has that kind of will-power, patience anymore?
it's like consuming an entire box of cheez-its. or milk and oreos.
one episode of dexter turns into the entire first season. no one watches television on television anymore. it's not as instantly gratifying. we need things to be fast and sleazy. this is probably why we don't talk on the phone anymore. i mean, the telephone. that thing that plugs into your wall and doesn't have texting capabilities.
we express ourselves in blurbs. twitters.
america needs to take its riddlin.
i might just make a list of all my summer projects. and not actually accomplish any of them.
if i at least had a list, something i could go to periodically and run my eyes over, i think, then, i'd feel the same as if i'd actually done the things i set out to do in the first place.
i mean, it's kind of the same thing.
it's like lying. i guess. you could tell yourself, tell others, that you can read minds, that your brother died when you were in kindergarten, your mother kept him sick and, as long as the idea is out there, it doesn't really matter if it's true or not. what's important is that it's out there. execution is shit. good ideas should remain theoretical. always. dreams realized are rarely satisfying.
or maybe i'm just lazy.
summer project #271: make a list of all my summer projects and don't actually follow through on a single one.
summer project #272: relax. you've earned it.
i talked to amy last night. we went on one of our epic walks. it was really sort of gratifying, masturbatory in nature--a perfectly acceptable waste of time.
we came to the conclusion that most of the things we, and other people, enjoy are masturbatory in nature--that is, most of the things we do on a day-to-day basis are generally unconstructive, soul-sucking and perfectly acceptable ways to waste one's time.
like t.v. on dvd.
who stops after just one episode? who has that kind of will-power, patience anymore?
it's like consuming an entire box of cheez-its. or milk and oreos.
one episode of dexter turns into the entire first season. no one watches television on television anymore. it's not as instantly gratifying. we need things to be fast and sleazy. this is probably why we don't talk on the phone anymore. i mean, the telephone. that thing that plugs into your wall and doesn't have texting capabilities.
we express ourselves in blurbs. twitters.
america needs to take its riddlin.
Sunday, May 24, 2009
helicopter trees
"you know how sometimes, when people see a little kid, they say 'oh, i just want to eat it or it's so cute, i just want to squeeze it to death--it's just so adorable?' well, when i see matt, i just want to fix him."
i almost killed someone yesterday. i was driving home from the bar. it was late--dark. i was on the phone with matt at the time. i asked him to call me when he got home--just to make sure he made it home OK. he was kind of drunk.
i was driving down bluff and suddenly, in the headlights, i see a dark figure. it took me a moment to register that it was an actual human being and not an animal. i mean, it would have been bad enough if it were an animal. i'm not saying that. hitting either would have been traumatizing, perhaps equally so, but the shock of seeing an actual human being--it was akin to accidentally seeing someone naked.
luckily, i collected myself in time to swerve. i looked back and the guy didn't even flinch. he was walking purposefully, staring straight ahead, stomping his feet as if prepared to march defiantly into death--not fearing the consequences. he probably wasn't religious. can you imagine a life worse than the prospect of hell?
like i said, he seemed defiant--maybe he'd had it with the world.
i'd like to think he was smart. dumb people don't commit suicide. i mean, they do. but it's always the smart ones that seem so tragic. maybe it's just something we attach to people who choose to end their own lives--something we assume, after the fact. that there's inherent wisdom in following through with such an act--maybe we've just got everything ass-backwards and it's just really easy to mistake abstractions, concepts like courage, determination and nihilism for genuine understanding.
probably he was drunk and mad at his girlfriend. his mother. his boss. who the fuck knows what drives people to act so childish.
"oh, fuck. fuck. fuck," i said. matt asked me what was wrong. "i almost hit someone. i think i need to call somebody."
i was really freaking out. matt didn't seem to care. that or he was just really tired--intoxicated. at some point the two become hard to separate. "dude, let him get hit."
"no, man. that's not cool. that's not right," i said. "i need to call someone."
"it's not your problem," he said. "let someone else deal with it."
"yeah. the police. i need to call the police and let them deal with it."
"whatever, dude."
i hung up and dialed 911. the possibility of the man actually getting hit became more and more plausible with each passing second. i knew i should do something. i mean, i didn't want to feel responsible--in the chance that something did happen. i don't think i could handle that. it amazes me that some people can--they deal with that kind of thing everyday. i don't know what that says about them, exactly. i didn't want to have to babysit this complete stranger, though. i'd done enough that night--babysitting matt. making sure he got home in one piece. why should i have to deal with someone else's bullshit?
i kind of wish it were that easy. if you ever felt overwhelmed or depressed or lonely, you could just stand somewhere, in the middle of a road, in the dark, and wait for someone to hit you. or, maybe, they wouldn't. maybe someone would care enough and attempt to save you. the ultimate trust game. i wish i could be so reckless. throw myself and all my bullshit to the wind and rely on someone else, someone with a less murky sense of morality, to go and fetch the scattered pieces. put me back together, again.
god, i sound like a moron.
i called 911 and they said they'd dispatch an officer--they'd be there shortly. the operator didn't seem at all concerned. i guess, looking back, i don't blame her. i'm not even sure, myself, if it was that big of a deal. i mean, maybe the guy was just being melodramatic. maybe he knew no one would hit him. or he would jump at the last minute. i don't know.
i went back five minutes later, just to check on him--see if the cops had arrived. on my way back, he had switched lanes. now, he was waiting to get hit on the other side. i didn't see any cops and i didn't want to turn around again--keep at this game any longer. i mean, after a while, he might have gotten wise and tried something. i don't know. if you're crazy enough to kill yourself, you're probably crazy enough to kill someone else.
also, i knew that, even if i tried to stop and talk to him, there's nothing i could really say that would change his mind. i mean, he seemed pretty sure of himself and his decision. how do you talk someone out of that? especially, if you're me? he probably would have just gotten irritated. who knows, he could have become violent towards me. and then what?
i'm probably just a coward who scatters at the first sign of conflict.
yeah. that's probably more accurate.
i finally forced myself to drive home, in complete silence--i needed to think. i took an alternative route. i didn't want to pass by him anymore. i resolved to lay all my trust in the apathetic dispatcher i spoke to earlier. and the cops. it was easier that way.
i almost killed someone yesterday. i was driving home from the bar. it was late--dark. i was on the phone with matt at the time. i asked him to call me when he got home--just to make sure he made it home OK. he was kind of drunk.
i was driving down bluff and suddenly, in the headlights, i see a dark figure. it took me a moment to register that it was an actual human being and not an animal. i mean, it would have been bad enough if it were an animal. i'm not saying that. hitting either would have been traumatizing, perhaps equally so, but the shock of seeing an actual human being--it was akin to accidentally seeing someone naked.
luckily, i collected myself in time to swerve. i looked back and the guy didn't even flinch. he was walking purposefully, staring straight ahead, stomping his feet as if prepared to march defiantly into death--not fearing the consequences. he probably wasn't religious. can you imagine a life worse than the prospect of hell?
like i said, he seemed defiant--maybe he'd had it with the world.
i'd like to think he was smart. dumb people don't commit suicide. i mean, they do. but it's always the smart ones that seem so tragic. maybe it's just something we attach to people who choose to end their own lives--something we assume, after the fact. that there's inherent wisdom in following through with such an act--maybe we've just got everything ass-backwards and it's just really easy to mistake abstractions, concepts like courage, determination and nihilism for genuine understanding.
probably he was drunk and mad at his girlfriend. his mother. his boss. who the fuck knows what drives people to act so childish.
"oh, fuck. fuck. fuck," i said. matt asked me what was wrong. "i almost hit someone. i think i need to call somebody."
i was really freaking out. matt didn't seem to care. that or he was just really tired--intoxicated. at some point the two become hard to separate. "dude, let him get hit."
"no, man. that's not cool. that's not right," i said. "i need to call someone."
"it's not your problem," he said. "let someone else deal with it."
"yeah. the police. i need to call the police and let them deal with it."
"whatever, dude."
i hung up and dialed 911. the possibility of the man actually getting hit became more and more plausible with each passing second. i knew i should do something. i mean, i didn't want to feel responsible--in the chance that something did happen. i don't think i could handle that. it amazes me that some people can--they deal with that kind of thing everyday. i don't know what that says about them, exactly. i didn't want to have to babysit this complete stranger, though. i'd done enough that night--babysitting matt. making sure he got home in one piece. why should i have to deal with someone else's bullshit?
i kind of wish it were that easy. if you ever felt overwhelmed or depressed or lonely, you could just stand somewhere, in the middle of a road, in the dark, and wait for someone to hit you. or, maybe, they wouldn't. maybe someone would care enough and attempt to save you. the ultimate trust game. i wish i could be so reckless. throw myself and all my bullshit to the wind and rely on someone else, someone with a less murky sense of morality, to go and fetch the scattered pieces. put me back together, again.
god, i sound like a moron.
i called 911 and they said they'd dispatch an officer--they'd be there shortly. the operator didn't seem at all concerned. i guess, looking back, i don't blame her. i'm not even sure, myself, if it was that big of a deal. i mean, maybe the guy was just being melodramatic. maybe he knew no one would hit him. or he would jump at the last minute. i don't know.
i went back five minutes later, just to check on him--see if the cops had arrived. on my way back, he had switched lanes. now, he was waiting to get hit on the other side. i didn't see any cops and i didn't want to turn around again--keep at this game any longer. i mean, after a while, he might have gotten wise and tried something. i don't know. if you're crazy enough to kill yourself, you're probably crazy enough to kill someone else.
also, i knew that, even if i tried to stop and talk to him, there's nothing i could really say that would change his mind. i mean, he seemed pretty sure of himself and his decision. how do you talk someone out of that? especially, if you're me? he probably would have just gotten irritated. who knows, he could have become violent towards me. and then what?
i'm probably just a coward who scatters at the first sign of conflict.
yeah. that's probably more accurate.
i finally forced myself to drive home, in complete silence--i needed to think. i took an alternative route. i didn't want to pass by him anymore. i resolved to lay all my trust in the apathetic dispatcher i spoke to earlier. and the cops. it was easier that way.
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