nopenope

i finally watched woman under the influence tonight. i think it was because i saw a blurb on a website (which i frequent too much) saying that peter falk died. also: because i'm a huge cassavetes fan and i've been meaning to watch w.u.i. for a long time now.

i don't know if i liked it as much as the first cassavetes film i saw: minnie and moskowitz. but i don't think the two should be compared.

i liked it because like all cassavetes films it was emotionally turbulent and seemingly raw.

it amazes me from the one time i glanced at a cassavetes script that he's able to get something (either from the actors themselves or from his visceral directing style) that bleeds so honest and poetic and unfolds so dream-like. watching his movies: it's a feeling akin to automatic writing or stream-of-consciousness writing, whichever sounds less pretentious.

i like gena rowlands in the movie. sure, her performance as a lunatic housewife was a little over-the-top and hammy but it worked. you could tell she had fun with the part.

i also enjoyed peter falk. though: i was distracted the whole time by his glass eye, which, if he moved his head a certain way and remained staring in the other, made him appear cross-eyed. not that it takes away from his skills as an actor. i just had trouble overlooking it in spots.

we also played a show tonight which went horribly. everything that could go wrong, did go wrong. andrew broke a string, decided to tune during the middle of a song. matt unplugged himself. i unplugged myself. and vince went into a part too early. andy also came up on stage (while andrew was changing his string) and told a racist joke. he got booed off.

some good did come of it, though: we met a guy who knows people who book shows at other, more popular scene-type venues. he said that he liked our sound and that we should be playing in front of two or three hundred people. the whole thing sounded kind of fishy to me. but we'll see what happens.

d

the first time he remembered hearing about nowhere road was in fifth grade when he heard m.s. say it so casually that he felt dumb for never having heard the name before--like it was a big secret which everyone knew but nobody talked about--though, once he learned what nowhere road was, he didn't think there was much to talk about. it was the first time he felt uncool.

apparently: all the high schoolers knew. they referred to it, he imagined, off-hand when telling their friends how to get to such and such a place or explaining to them some scandalous event that happened over a crazy drug and alcohol-heavy weekend.

it was called nowhere road because it went nowhere. at either end: it just stopped--at the northern point: it turned into a cornfield. and at the other: nothing, just a place where the concrete ended and the grass began.

nothing happened on nowhere road. but everyone talked about it (or didn't talk about, thereby adding to its unfounded legend) like the town would crumble without it.

i want to say beautiful things

i saw a sign this morning
on my way home from work
commanding me
to turn right on e. thompson rd
it was a sign for a spa
something-or-other
i thought it was odd:
minutes before
after i was leaving the
employee parking lot
immobilized bodily by heartburn
and reeling mentally
from the excessive amount
of caffeine i'd sifted from
a standard size bottle of soda
(which also explains the heartburn)
i thought about how
attractive it is sometimes
to want to do things which
seem conventional--things like
giving my dad a gift card
for father's day in lieu
of something tacky yet meaningful
or wearing clothes that are
not necessarily in style
but ubiquitous, shrouding the sleek bodies
of people who have their act together
people who buy gift cards for
their dads for father's day
because the thought comes
automatically to them
there's an allure in this type of
thinking
and doing
and me
being the contrarian that i am
and always have been--i always have to
do the exact opposite of what's conventional
(does that make me sound like an obstinate
middle-schooler?)
sometimes: i get excited (not in any sexual s&m way/dominant and submissive role-play, etc.) because it seems so wrong
to be obedient or to want to be
obedient
like following orders from a large sign
telling me directly to turn this direction or that
when i get to this road or that one

for the hell of it

finished reading David Copperfield this morning--it was a marathon session towards the end. on the whole, though, i think i parceled it out pretty well--so that i was able to enjoy what i was reading and really appreciate the little things i look for in writing--peculiar turns of phrase, etc.

i'm just amazed at how well dickens was able to bring these scenes to life--and to pack them so densely with detail--not the sort that loses readers but enriches the story. i guess being paid by the word motivates a writer to leave nothing out.

some of the scenes he came up with and some of the dialogue rang too real to be made up. though it was an accepted notion of "real" because so many things, by that same token, seemed distinctly fictional--too fantastical to be real. i'm mainly referring to dickens's characters--specifically some of the more cartoonish quirks he gave them. it made the narrative easier to navigate--and no doubt more enjoyable than if it'd been written to represent life 100% (which is probably not all that interesting anyway)--but it was just so impressive to me (speaking from the point of view of someone who's tried--albeit unsuccessfully--to write fiction and map out plots and all the rest) that he was able to construct a story so without flaws and so true to life, like the smoothest animation, so real as to make you believe what you're reading is actually happening--as if divinely written. it just amazes me that writers and artists can be that fucking consistent--like machines, cranking out flawless story after flawless story. i've never been able to locate the trick--because it is a trick, a sleight of the writer's hand--that makes you believe in what you're reading, when it reaches that point where it transcends words on a page and becomes something else--and not only that--but glides to that next level where you forget that the images the author is putting in your heads are completely fabricated--you forget that you're reading. i've always been equally impressed and frustrated with people who can do that, because i could never do it myself. that goes for music, too--it's obvious when i listen to a song i've recorded that i'm listening to a song i've recorded. all the transitions seemed rushed, the playing seems clunky and awkward not unlike so many other parts of the song. i've never been able to trick people into liking something i've produced. they either like it because they're supposed to (because they're close to me) or because they want to (for their own snobby reasons). i'd like to make something that represents me: that people can listen to without knowing who i am and actually appreciate--want to listen to.

i'm working on it but the more i try, the more discouraged i become. there's just so much to be mindful of and it's painful trying to work beyond my already-established method. i guess that's how you grow.

themes

the first voice i hear
through sliding glass-doors
which open onto a small patio
is the voice of a hard-looking
latino man from Brooklyn

i step out onto the patio
because i'm already up
to smoke a cigarette and
it's then that i am able
to place this man's voice
and associate it with a face and
all the other things which give a person character

it first sounds violent and
commanding without
any other shade of distinction

then i hear the new york
or possibly boston
accent

i wonder:
boston or new york?

it sounds more like boston
but i see he's wearing a
yankees cap and
i know that no self-respecting
boston-ite roots for the yankees
because they all root for
boston
or
at least that's
the way it is in movies
and television

he's walking back and forth
hauling stuff either out from or into
a handmade trailer with
wood that looks thin but new
and not nailed down altogether well

the sun is mild compared to
the unpleasant brat it was
yesterday and the week preceding it
but it still looks
meaner than ever

his kids are just as vocal
though not as loud
and they are skimming in and out
and around and through
the scene
the boy chasing the girl or
occasionally disrupting his dad
and provoking him to say things in
either a mild Brooklyn accent or a
harsh Boston one like:
get away from the frickin' chair, chris
get away from the frickin' chair

i am up now but i am still tired
i don't plan on going back to sleep because
there is too much in the way of
reading and other things i hope to accomplish today
my last day off before
the work-week
resumes and disrupts the lazy pace
of the weekend
which i sink into
every time and without fail
like a morphine-induced haze
(or so i assume from what i've seen in movies and from
watching drug-related programs on television)