Well, for the second time in as many nights, I'm getting off the phone in tears in someone else's house. I haven't cried this much since my last old movie marathon. Last night was...anyway. Tonight was dealing with something I haven't been on the receiving end of in a while: parental disappointment.
Don't get me wrong--the 'rents aren't arms-up shamed by me or anything. No, they're more subtle than that. I called for my weekly check-in-at-the-house phone call, which unfortunately hasn't happened in about two weeks. And I called in the middle of "Studio 60" for them, which was crappy on my part. I forgot that it's at 10/9 central and apparently AK counts as central. (What really bites is that, while I remembered that Steve and Michele don't have cable/tv reception, I forgot that I had shows to watch, so I will have to catch up online tomorrow.)
So I'm on the phone with my parents. My father's computer is acting out again, so he's a little distracted and irritated: understandable. Mom's a little distracted by the show and the fact that it's 9:30, which is kind of late for her. She's usually asleep on the couch by now. I talk about the fact that I'm housesitting for Steve and Michele, which leads to discussion of Steve needing the vacation because he's been a little tetchy in choir, which somehow then led to a confession of my newly-claimed back-row status.
*Sidebar: The back row has always been where "the cool" kids sat; the ones with all the good quips and fun antics in choir. Until this year, I had not been "back row," and have recently been reveling in it. Before you say it, yes, I realize how juvenile it is to care about cool points this late in the game, and I know I'm far beyond the high school age after which this should cease to be a concern. But I...really like being one of the cool ones, for the very reason that it took so long to get there. So there's that piece of baggage for the goat.
Anyway, no big thing in the conversation and we move on. Until about twenty minutes later, and after a variety of topics, my dad, who has been silent for a couple of minutes, pipes up with "Did you ever think that maybe Steve counts on you NOT being back row?' Talk about conversation bombs. Dammit, here I go again. "I mean, you were saying that Steve has been frustrated, and you're making jokes in the back..." It's like the man can see in my head and I hate it. I hate the hypocrisy of it all--a month ago I was bitching about lack of focus in the choir, particularly in large rehearsals, and how it makes us look and sound bad, and have I done anything about it since? No. I have added to the problem. Knowing exactly what I was doing the whole time but refusing to care because I was being a rebel and breaking the rules: something I generally don't do because I'm fairly bad at getting away with it.
Worst part of it is, I know Steve counts on me, not for my voice, but because in the past I have been a focused member of the group during rehearsal. I have been the shusher, as it were, and now I need to be shushed. And I've seen the disappoinment and a little confusion on his face when he looks at me, and I've brushed it off. Because being funny is, apparently, more important to me than his respect. How feking lame that is. What a slap to the face after everything he's done for me.
Now that I'm wallowing in self recrimination, I think it's time for bed. Better outlook tomorrow, though I may need to count a few goats to get to sleep.
Truth of the moment: Just because you have a guilt complex doesn't mean you've done nothing wrong.
Tuesday, October 17, 2006
Thursday, October 12, 2006
Dam.
Okay, so I didn't want to get in trouble for having a swear word in my title--that's the only reason I spelled it without the 'n'. So don't even think about correcting my spelling, because I am in no mood for it.
But honestly--ever have one of those moments where the fates conspire against even the slightest chance you have at a love--or lust--life by means of piddly coincidences that then become insurmountable obstacles, if only because you wrap them in more layers of anguish than that kid from A Christmas Story? Yeah, we're talking some serious overdramatizing, but I can't help myself.
I'm at the Bookstore Cafe, not thinking about Big Block of Cheese Day or anything to do with Aaron Sorkin. No, I am prepping a set of submissions for the Amy Lowell Travelling Poet Prize, due in Boston by Saturday. Yesh: thank God for express mail. Anyway, the prize itself is $47,900, with which the poet must spend 12 consecutive months outside North America or the possessions of any of its countries. I know I could have said a year, but that has different meanings to those within and without the academic system. I discovered this prize last night, while I should have been reading Hegel and Kristeva on the purpose of poetry...and before I spent four delightful, wicked and totally unproductive hours with Greg Ramsower and Jake Teitgen in the Keough dining room. Though I did learn that a house of brands is where the parent company, like Johnson & Johnson, spreads like a roof over the bricks of its brands, while brands of house appear to be like--correct me if I'm wrong--Apple, where you have the iPod and the iBook and iTunes, but all are pasted with the Apple logo.
Back to the point: upon discovering this prize, I immediately started--no, not revising poems for submission--looking for long term cottage rentals in Australia, Ireland, Scotland and Spain. Yup. Smart. But now, as the deadline looks closer, I am in the Bookstore Cafe, selecting and revising, when who should appear but someone we shall call AH. He's looking very cute and Londonesque as always, very nice black wool peacoat, hair curling just past the unpopped collar, and accompanied by a companion of the young-male-teen persuasion. The situation reeks of Big Brother-ness, which only makes him more appealing.
He comes over and says hi, asks what I'm doing, etc. Charming, between bouts of advising his protege. We close the conversation with him saying he'd like to read some of my work, and that he'd like me to read some of his. I stumble over an idiot's version of "I'd be delighted to" and then he leans over to pat my shoulder at exactly the same moment that I shift in my seat. I do this so I can face him, as opposed to talking sideways, but I'm fairly certain it comes across as "the last thing I want you to do is touch me." When really I'd like it to be both first and last and everything in between.
Honestly, I like him, I think he's incredibly smart and funny and quite attractive, but I'm not stalkerish crazy about him. From all my sources I know that he's fairly well attached to someone else, and I have no jealous-rage issues about that, which tells me that my attraction is pretty superficial. But I really want him to think I'm as cool a friend-type person as I think he is, and subsequently I will spend the next hour and a half obsessing over the chance that now he thinks I have a) a personal disdain for him or b) a general phobia about being touched, neither of which is even remotely true except maybe the last one and only by strangers.
Great. And now the cafe has been invaded by middle school creatures who don't know enough to turn off their iPods if they're going to let the earbuds dangle. Just great. At least one of them has the decency to have brought a well-loved copy of Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire. It's not quite enough to redeem the whole gaggle, but it's close.
Song of the moment: "David Duchovney"~Bree Sharp
But honestly--ever have one of those moments where the fates conspire against even the slightest chance you have at a love--or lust--life by means of piddly coincidences that then become insurmountable obstacles, if only because you wrap them in more layers of anguish than that kid from A Christmas Story? Yeah, we're talking some serious overdramatizing, but I can't help myself.
I'm at the Bookstore Cafe, not thinking about Big Block of Cheese Day or anything to do with Aaron Sorkin. No, I am prepping a set of submissions for the Amy Lowell Travelling Poet Prize, due in Boston by Saturday. Yesh: thank God for express mail. Anyway, the prize itself is $47,900, with which the poet must spend 12 consecutive months outside North America or the possessions of any of its countries. I know I could have said a year, but that has different meanings to those within and without the academic system. I discovered this prize last night, while I should have been reading Hegel and Kristeva on the purpose of poetry...and before I spent four delightful, wicked and totally unproductive hours with Greg Ramsower and Jake Teitgen in the Keough dining room. Though I did learn that a house of brands is where the parent company, like Johnson & Johnson, spreads like a roof over the bricks of its brands, while brands of house appear to be like--correct me if I'm wrong--Apple, where you have the iPod and the iBook and iTunes, but all are pasted with the Apple logo.
Back to the point: upon discovering this prize, I immediately started--no, not revising poems for submission--looking for long term cottage rentals in Australia, Ireland, Scotland and Spain. Yup. Smart. But now, as the deadline looks closer, I am in the Bookstore Cafe, selecting and revising, when who should appear but someone we shall call AH. He's looking very cute and Londonesque as always, very nice black wool peacoat, hair curling just past the unpopped collar, and accompanied by a companion of the young-male-teen persuasion. The situation reeks of Big Brother-ness, which only makes him more appealing.
He comes over and says hi, asks what I'm doing, etc. Charming, between bouts of advising his protege. We close the conversation with him saying he'd like to read some of my work, and that he'd like me to read some of his. I stumble over an idiot's version of "I'd be delighted to" and then he leans over to pat my shoulder at exactly the same moment that I shift in my seat. I do this so I can face him, as opposed to talking sideways, but I'm fairly certain it comes across as "the last thing I want you to do is touch me." When really I'd like it to be both first and last and everything in between.
Honestly, I like him, I think he's incredibly smart and funny and quite attractive, but I'm not stalkerish crazy about him. From all my sources I know that he's fairly well attached to someone else, and I have no jealous-rage issues about that, which tells me that my attraction is pretty superficial. But I really want him to think I'm as cool a friend-type person as I think he is, and subsequently I will spend the next hour and a half obsessing over the chance that now he thinks I have a) a personal disdain for him or b) a general phobia about being touched, neither of which is even remotely true except maybe the last one and only by strangers.
Great. And now the cafe has been invaded by middle school creatures who don't know enough to turn off their iPods if they're going to let the earbuds dangle. Just great. At least one of them has the decency to have brought a well-loved copy of Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire. It's not quite enough to redeem the whole gaggle, but it's close.
Song of the moment: "David Duchovney"~Bree Sharp
Wednesday, October 11, 2006
It's Beginning to Look a Lot Like Midterms
everywhere you go...
There's a kid with an online test,
trying to do his best,
in tears because his download speed is slow!
It's beginning to look a lot like midterms:
soon the sobs will start,
and the thing that make them stop
are the caffeine pills you pop--
don't mind the racing heart...
A pair of essays to write
and a flu bug to fight
are the curse of every coed;
group projects to do,
no one working but you
make you want to bang walls with your head;
and now you're sexiled from your room
so your roomie can "study" in bed!
It's beginning to look a lot like midterms--
stress that you can't shake...
But just hold on for a week
and the leisure that you seek
will be yours: Fall Break!
Yes, ladies and gentlemen, we are in midterms week here at the University of Notre Dame. Once again it is very strange to watch the undergrads in the painful throes of exams and projects while not having any to do myself. I mean, I do have a paper for my one and only bitchin' hard class, Poetry and Theory, but that isn't due until the Friday after break. Anticipate a rant and breakdown right around next Monday. Maybe Weds, since I tend not to have rants/breakdowns/conversations on Mondays or Tuesdays. You know, because of Studio 60 on Monday and Veronica Mars & Nip/Tuck on Tuesdays. So plan on a Wednesday rant.
I was really panicked about two weeks ago, thinking that I had nothing to offer the world of poetry, and that my thesis wasn't ever going to get done because I was writing only crap, based upon the responses and intense amounts of criticism from my thesis director. *Don't point out to me that criticism, particularly of me, is his job; I know that...its usefulness and accuracy don't make it any easier to accept.* However, in the thesis meeting after that, he noted the improvement in my writing, particularly in my revisions, and said that I have about 20 poems that are almost ready to go--only minor revisions necessary--for my thesis. 20 poem. That's between 25 and 30%, and I still have three months to finish the rest. This is awesome, particularly since I've given myself permission to write what I want: to be quirky or light if that's what I'm feeling, to have a tone shift in a poem (as long as the voice/speaker is unified, which may or may have been the problem before), to use Spanish or not as the poem moves me...these things are all aspects of poetry that I had been denying because I was trying to make my work sound like everyone else's, which is just silly when only one of my multitudinous personalities is anything like anyone else really long sentence that won't seem to die and yet must die right about now. So yeah...having given myself permission to write my poetry, instead of what I think other people think my poetry should be, I'm inspired to write more often, and far more willing to work on the finer points of craft, since I'm interested in the material.
Having spent now three hours in a variety of procrastinatory activities--talking to friends, reading the newspaper (all of it...the Trib and the Times), reading about Studio 60 again--I should probably get some work done before I succumb to temptation and go see Open Season. Talking deer, wussy bears and squirrels with Scottish accents: what's not to love?
Song of the moment: "The Internet is for Porn"~Avenue Q
There's a kid with an online test,
trying to do his best,
in tears because his download speed is slow!
It's beginning to look a lot like midterms:
soon the sobs will start,
and the thing that make them stop
are the caffeine pills you pop--
don't mind the racing heart...
A pair of essays to write
and a flu bug to fight
are the curse of every coed;
group projects to do,
no one working but you
make you want to bang walls with your head;
and now you're sexiled from your room
so your roomie can "study" in bed!
It's beginning to look a lot like midterms--
stress that you can't shake...
But just hold on for a week
and the leisure that you seek
will be yours: Fall Break!
Yes, ladies and gentlemen, we are in midterms week here at the University of Notre Dame. Once again it is very strange to watch the undergrads in the painful throes of exams and projects while not having any to do myself. I mean, I do have a paper for my one and only bitchin' hard class, Poetry and Theory, but that isn't due until the Friday after break. Anticipate a rant and breakdown right around next Monday. Maybe Weds, since I tend not to have rants/breakdowns/conversations on Mondays or Tuesdays. You know, because of Studio 60 on Monday and Veronica Mars & Nip/Tuck on Tuesdays. So plan on a Wednesday rant.
I was really panicked about two weeks ago, thinking that I had nothing to offer the world of poetry, and that my thesis wasn't ever going to get done because I was writing only crap, based upon the responses and intense amounts of criticism from my thesis director. *Don't point out to me that criticism, particularly of me, is his job; I know that...its usefulness and accuracy don't make it any easier to accept.* However, in the thesis meeting after that, he noted the improvement in my writing, particularly in my revisions, and said that I have about 20 poems that are almost ready to go--only minor revisions necessary--for my thesis. 20 poem. That's between 25 and 30%, and I still have three months to finish the rest. This is awesome, particularly since I've given myself permission to write what I want: to be quirky or light if that's what I'm feeling, to have a tone shift in a poem (as long as the voice/speaker is unified, which may or may have been the problem before), to use Spanish or not as the poem moves me...these things are all aspects of poetry that I had been denying because I was trying to make my work sound like everyone else's, which is just silly when only one of my multitudinous personalities is anything like anyone else really long sentence that won't seem to die and yet must die right about now. So yeah...having given myself permission to write my poetry, instead of what I think other people think my poetry should be, I'm inspired to write more often, and far more willing to work on the finer points of craft, since I'm interested in the material.
Having spent now three hours in a variety of procrastinatory activities--talking to friends, reading the newspaper (all of it...the Trib and the Times), reading about Studio 60 again--I should probably get some work done before I succumb to temptation and go see Open Season. Talking deer, wussy bears and squirrels with Scottish accents: what's not to love?
Song of the moment: "The Internet is for Porn"~Avenue Q
Tuesday, October 10, 2006
If You Like Pina Coladas...
And who doesn't? I mean, seriously.
So, tonight's episode of Veronica Mars is definitely a step in the right direction...quite the turnaround from last week. I couldn't be more pleased.
Problem is, I really want to share the best parts, but with the advent of TiVo and DVR, it's possible that people, even those in my time zone, might not be up to speed, and I certainly don't want to spoil it. So I won't, however much pain it brings me.
On the bright side, I've been having a fairly prolific week, as far as writing goes. I'll put the poems up in a bit, but the best part of it all is that I've done it because of--not in spite of--spending hours in front of the television. Let me explain: yesterday, there were a couple of specials on the History Channel...episodes of a series called "Engineering an Empire." Those featured were Rome, with the marvels of Hadrian's wall and the Pantheon, etc. Then on to the Egyptians, and all of the pyramids, the dams, the mud ramps and sand traps to prop obelisques... Very cool. They also shared some smatterings of information about the various reigns of emperors and pharoahs, and that's where the poems originated. It's nice to know that I can write at least some of my sloth off as research for my job which is, of course, writing. At least until May.
Lessons of Empire
Rome
1
the victor in any decent fratricide
will not simply etch out his brother's name
paint a new face on a familial body
no
a good political murder requires evidence
a chipped stone
smudged ink
a brother beheaded in effigy
evidence
anyone can be erased
2
while the baths may be for everyone
warm water spilling from tilted jars
and flowered fountains
steam beading on marble facades
rising to painted dome heavens
someone must stoke the fires
senators will always leave their stains
in the bath house
in the heated sweat of coal caked slaves
the open mouths of bath house queens
3
without water
even a gilt kingdom
will crumble like poorly
mixed concrete
aqueducts are a necessary beauty
an exposed vein
begging for a razor
Stay tuned for Egypt, currently a work in progress.
Song of the moment: "Right Here Waiting for You"~Richard Marx
So, tonight's episode of Veronica Mars is definitely a step in the right direction...quite the turnaround from last week. I couldn't be more pleased.
Problem is, I really want to share the best parts, but with the advent of TiVo and DVR, it's possible that people, even those in my time zone, might not be up to speed, and I certainly don't want to spoil it. So I won't, however much pain it brings me.
On the bright side, I've been having a fairly prolific week, as far as writing goes. I'll put the poems up in a bit, but the best part of it all is that I've done it because of--not in spite of--spending hours in front of the television. Let me explain: yesterday, there were a couple of specials on the History Channel...episodes of a series called "Engineering an Empire." Those featured were Rome, with the marvels of Hadrian's wall and the Pantheon, etc. Then on to the Egyptians, and all of the pyramids, the dams, the mud ramps and sand traps to prop obelisques... Very cool. They also shared some smatterings of information about the various reigns of emperors and pharoahs, and that's where the poems originated. It's nice to know that I can write at least some of my sloth off as research for my job which is, of course, writing. At least until May.
Lessons of Empire
Rome
1
the victor in any decent fratricide
will not simply etch out his brother's name
paint a new face on a familial body
no
a good political murder requires evidence
a chipped stone
smudged ink
a brother beheaded in effigy
evidence
anyone can be erased
2
while the baths may be for everyone
warm water spilling from tilted jars
and flowered fountains
steam beading on marble facades
rising to painted dome heavens
someone must stoke the fires
senators will always leave their stains
in the bath house
in the heated sweat of coal caked slaves
the open mouths of bath house queens
3
without water
even a gilt kingdom
will crumble like poorly
mixed concrete
aqueducts are a necessary beauty
an exposed vein
begging for a razor
Stay tuned for Egypt, currently a work in progress.
Song of the moment: "Right Here Waiting for You"~Richard Marx
Wednesday, October 04, 2006
This End Up...
A short note before we begin: The new Godiva is far too focused on art and peanut butter, and needs to go back to what it does best, which is classic amazing chocolate. Why does my caramel taste slightly of toasted coconut? Further proof of my assessment's validity.
Also: I am thoroughly tired of login pages telling me that my password is wrong. It is not wrong. It is a saved password, and pops up automatically. So why said password should be rejected on the first attempt and accepted--without changes or corrections; same automated password--on the second try is a mystery.
NOW: on with the profundity, which is really just spectacular fecundity of thought.
I was sitting in the Bookstore Cafe today, reading my Sartre like a good little grad student, when I had a thought. Backstory: the Sarte was from Black Orpheus, an assessment of the Negritud poetry movement that effectively made the Black voice a "true" voice by virtue of its removal from worldliness, simultaneously essentializing and primitivizing it, and also Othered the so-called White voice by making it unnatural. The essay did this, not the Negritud movement, which began in the Caribbean and was seen as the first kind of Black poetry, despite the fact that the writers of it were largely of a privileged or criollo background that was itself traditionally racist. But then so were most things in the 20s-50s. Of any century so far.
Anyway, sitting in the Cafe, drinking my mocha and reading when I am thumped on the head by a realization. I always thought that the idea posited in the West Wing first season episode called "The Crackpots and These Women," about Big Block of Cheese Day-- *Note: I looked it up, and it's not actually that episode; it's a second season episode called "Somebody's Going to Emergency, Somebody's Going to Jail." But I just couldn't get rid of Big Block of Cheese Day; when am I ever going to be able to write that again? Seriously.*Note 2: I was not wrong! It just happened to be Big Block of Cheese Day: Season II. Yay me. And no more reading Sorkin scripts.
Regardless, in this episode, CJ take a meeting with an organization that wants to flip the map upside-down, so that North is down. I pretty much dismissed it as weird and moved on. But when I was reading this really skewed version of reality and literature by Sartre, the episode came to me again. I never thought that maps, of all things, might be influenced by politics or racial privilege, but here's what I started thinking about in the Bookstore Cafe.
Let's say that the universe is viewed on a horizontal plane, two dimensional. Who's to say which side of that plane is "up?" What if God, wherever He happens to reside, views it from the "other" side? We're just as upside-down from Australia as it is from us, so why is North up? It really only makes sense when you consider who was doing the cartography.*Note: I have since been surfing around on the Internet--between reading West Wing scripts and checking Facebook for outside recognition of my existence--and found "upside-down" maps that dovetail quite well with this idea. Maps from Australia that have it up and the Eastern hemisphere front and center.
Also (this is where it gets a little more harebrained, but at the time I thought it was inspired), if magnetic north is why north is "up," then we have to consider: why would a very large deposit of exceptionally heavy magnetic material be on top of the world, instead of at the bottom of it?
Think about it: in our world, heavy substances are drawn toward the center of the earth, the point around which we rotate. What if the solar system, in terms of the universe as a whole, does the same thing? What if, a hundred or a thousand years from now, we discover the rotational center of the universe? And what if our magnetic north has been drawn toward it this whole time? Doesn't it just make sense that something like a big lump of magnetic material--it seems like it would not be on top of anything, is my point--not acting like some sort of planetary paperweight, but more as ballast, meaning it would be on the bottom of the planet.
I do believe that I have just blown my own mind.
I'd also be willing to bet that I just blew yours, too, if only with the fact that, if you're still reading, you read this whole thing. Why in God's name didn't you do something more productive with that time? Read a West Wing script, have dinner, get blasted out of your skull? You do know you're never going to get that time back, right? But that is what happens here: randomness, from big blocks of cheese to ontological geology and astronomy. Yet another example of how I roll, and how wobbly that trajectory really is.
Poem in progress:
Also: I am thoroughly tired of login pages telling me that my password is wrong. It is not wrong. It is a saved password, and pops up automatically. So why said password should be rejected on the first attempt and accepted--without changes or corrections; same automated password--on the second try is a mystery.
NOW: on with the profundity, which is really just spectacular fecundity of thought.
I was sitting in the Bookstore Cafe today, reading my Sartre like a good little grad student, when I had a thought. Backstory: the Sarte was from Black Orpheus, an assessment of the Negritud poetry movement that effectively made the Black voice a "true" voice by virtue of its removal from worldliness, simultaneously essentializing and primitivizing it, and also Othered the so-called White voice by making it unnatural. The essay did this, not the Negritud movement, which began in the Caribbean and was seen as the first kind of Black poetry, despite the fact that the writers of it were largely of a privileged or criollo background that was itself traditionally racist. But then so were most things in the 20s-50s. Of any century so far.
Anyway, sitting in the Cafe, drinking my mocha and reading when I am thumped on the head by a realization. I always thought that the idea posited in the West Wing first season episode called "The Crackpots and These Women," about Big Block of Cheese Day-- *Note: I looked it up, and it's not actually that episode; it's a second season episode called "Somebody's Going to Emergency, Somebody's Going to Jail." But I just couldn't get rid of Big Block of Cheese Day; when am I ever going to be able to write that again? Seriously.*Note 2: I was not wrong! It just happened to be Big Block of Cheese Day: Season II. Yay me. And no more reading Sorkin scripts.
Regardless, in this episode, CJ take a meeting with an organization that wants to flip the map upside-down, so that North is down. I pretty much dismissed it as weird and moved on. But when I was reading this really skewed version of reality and literature by Sartre, the episode came to me again. I never thought that maps, of all things, might be influenced by politics or racial privilege, but here's what I started thinking about in the Bookstore Cafe.
Let's say that the universe is viewed on a horizontal plane, two dimensional. Who's to say which side of that plane is "up?" What if God, wherever He happens to reside, views it from the "other" side? We're just as upside-down from Australia as it is from us, so why is North up? It really only makes sense when you consider who was doing the cartography.*Note: I have since been surfing around on the Internet--between reading West Wing scripts and checking Facebook for outside recognition of my existence--and found "upside-down" maps that dovetail quite well with this idea. Maps from Australia that have it up and the Eastern hemisphere front and center.
Also (this is where it gets a little more harebrained, but at the time I thought it was inspired), if magnetic north is why north is "up," then we have to consider: why would a very large deposit of exceptionally heavy magnetic material be on top of the world, instead of at the bottom of it?
Think about it: in our world, heavy substances are drawn toward the center of the earth, the point around which we rotate. What if the solar system, in terms of the universe as a whole, does the same thing? What if, a hundred or a thousand years from now, we discover the rotational center of the universe? And what if our magnetic north has been drawn toward it this whole time? Doesn't it just make sense that something like a big lump of magnetic material--it seems like it would not be on top of anything, is my point--not acting like some sort of planetary paperweight, but more as ballast, meaning it would be on the bottom of the planet.
I do believe that I have just blown my own mind.
I'd also be willing to bet that I just blew yours, too, if only with the fact that, if you're still reading, you read this whole thing. Why in God's name didn't you do something more productive with that time? Read a West Wing script, have dinner, get blasted out of your skull? You do know you're never going to get that time back, right? But that is what happens here: randomness, from big blocks of cheese to ontological geology and astronomy. Yet another example of how I roll, and how wobbly that trajectory really is.
Poem in progress:
Her Name was Lola
wicked she was--must have been
as any little girl given rubies before her time
little girls in gingham and rubies
on a path of gold to a rich man's house
and such a good witch
whipped white like butter and
frosting--or cotton candy
queen sending a little girl
all gingham and rubies
to an old man's house
that's why, Glinda dear, you too are witch
no fairy or godmother who might
serve up milk, cookies and a home
without clicking heels or ultimatums
not you, not godmother
finding a little lost girl
dust her off, dress her up
on a path paved with gold intentions
To Be Continued (then revised)
Song of the Moment: "New York Minute"~Don Henley
Sunday, October 01, 2006
Oh, Nostalgia
Ever notice how the movies you loved when you were little usually end up being total cheese if you watch them as an adult?
This is, of course, not true of all movies, such as Charlotte's Web, Fern Gully, anything Disney, animated or live action. But things like, say, Labyrinth. Or the movie that I just finished watching, Dragonheart. I remember loving that movie. But watching it just now on--what else---the CW, I was struck by what an absolutely horrid movie it really is. In all honesty the storyline has a lot of promise: dragon shares a heart with dying boy only to have boy turn into evil king, and in the ultimate sacrifice dies so that evil king might die, too. Seriously, the stuff of classic fantasy. I even like the way the dragon is animated, in a digitized Jim Henson style. But as soon as you see his mouth moving and Sean Connery's voice coming out of it, we're done. Added to that the lame dialogue; the declarations of plot by the main characters; the freakish combination of Dennis Quaid, long hair and a semi-developed character; the piss-poor fight choreography, including a few scenes in which a 5'6" woman takes on and beats two full-fledged knights, not by being nimble but in a blow-for-blow axe fight--right, that's gonna happen; and last but not least, the ridiculous "look to the stars" epilogue. Gag me.
The cool thing, though is that there were several actors in it who have since moved on to better things. Dennis is, fortunately, not one of them. But obviously Sean Connery is just amazing, end of story. And then there are David Thewlis and Jason Isaacs. No, they're not exactly Brad or Mel (in)famous, but they are ever so much more important. Why, you may ask. Because they, Mssrs. Thewlis and Isaacs, are key players in the ongoing Harry Potter saga. I was watching the Dragonheart, and knew that I knew the evil king from somewhere, so the next step was logical: the Internet Movie Database (IMDb). Turns out the actor was our Mr. Thewlis, who just happens to play Professor Remus Lupin in The Prisoner of Azkaban and in the forthcoming Order of the Phoenix, which is due to wrap filming this month. Also featured in those movies, and I believe in all the other ones, is Mr. Isaacs, aka Distilled Disdain, aka Lucius Malfoy. Such a good pick for the role, especially after his performance in The Patriot.
One of the actors that I have not seen in a Harry Potter movie and would like to see is Patrick Stewart. Yes, I know that he's pretty much Captain Picard, but I always thought that Alan Rickman would always be the Sheriff of Nottingham (Robin Hood, Prince of Thieves), and yet he is not only a wonderful Snape but has been able to branch out and do a marvelous job in Love Actually. I think that Jean-Luc--I mean, Patrick--would be able to branch out just as admirably. Also, I think it might be cool if Sean Connery had a part, though that might be to many Lowlandesque accents.
Well, that was a lot. I think I'm going to watch David Bowie in near-drag now. I know, I know--I just finished saying that Labyrinth was cheese, but it's cult cheese with some good music, awesome Jim Henson puppets, and great childhood memories attached. Not gonna lie, I'm still kind of turned on by David like this, even though my brain goes euuw. I may follow it up with one of Tom Cruise's earlier works, Legend. Also cheese, but I have an absolutely clear memory of the first time we watched it. I was either 6 or 7, and we were living on East Carmel in Mesa, AZ. My dad was at an academy--I think it was the NCO (Non-Commissioned Officer) academy that time. When Dad went away, Mom and my brothers and I would have at least one night that was a "sleepover" night. That day we went to Blockbuster, got Labyrinth, and then to the Giraffe Frozen Yogurt place for pistachio fro-yo. That night we had dinner then got into our PJs. Mom gave us each a pillow and sent us out the back door so we could go around to the front door and ring the bell like at a real sleepover. We had M&Ms, and I was eating the pistachio yogurt the first time I saw Tim Curry as the Lord of Darkness. It was awesome.
Oh, nostalgia.
Song of the Moment: "Dance Magic"~David Bowie from Labyrinth
PS. If you've never heard Meli Barber swear, you really should. Seriously, one of the funniest and most shocking things ever.
This is, of course, not true of all movies, such as Charlotte's Web, Fern Gully, anything Disney, animated or live action. But things like, say, Labyrinth. Or the movie that I just finished watching, Dragonheart. I remember loving that movie. But watching it just now on--what else---the CW, I was struck by what an absolutely horrid movie it really is. In all honesty the storyline has a lot of promise: dragon shares a heart with dying boy only to have boy turn into evil king, and in the ultimate sacrifice dies so that evil king might die, too. Seriously, the stuff of classic fantasy. I even like the way the dragon is animated, in a digitized Jim Henson style. But as soon as you see his mouth moving and Sean Connery's voice coming out of it, we're done. Added to that the lame dialogue; the declarations of plot by the main characters; the freakish combination of Dennis Quaid, long hair and a semi-developed character; the piss-poor fight choreography, including a few scenes in which a 5'6" woman takes on and beats two full-fledged knights, not by being nimble but in a blow-for-blow axe fight--right, that's gonna happen; and last but not least, the ridiculous "look to the stars" epilogue. Gag me.
The cool thing, though is that there were several actors in it who have since moved on to better things. Dennis is, fortunately, not one of them. But obviously Sean Connery is just amazing, end of story. And then there are David Thewlis and Jason Isaacs. No, they're not exactly Brad or Mel (in)famous, but they are ever so much more important. Why, you may ask. Because they, Mssrs. Thewlis and Isaacs, are key players in the ongoing Harry Potter saga. I was watching the Dragonheart, and knew that I knew the evil king from somewhere, so the next step was logical: the Internet Movie Database (IMDb). Turns out the actor was our Mr. Thewlis, who just happens to play Professor Remus Lupin in The Prisoner of Azkaban and in the forthcoming Order of the Phoenix, which is due to wrap filming this month. Also featured in those movies, and I believe in all the other ones, is Mr. Isaacs, aka Distilled Disdain, aka Lucius Malfoy. Such a good pick for the role, especially after his performance in The Patriot.
One of the actors that I have not seen in a Harry Potter movie and would like to see is Patrick Stewart. Yes, I know that he's pretty much Captain Picard, but I always thought that Alan Rickman would always be the Sheriff of Nottingham (Robin Hood, Prince of Thieves), and yet he is not only a wonderful Snape but has been able to branch out and do a marvelous job in Love Actually. I think that Jean-Luc--I mean, Patrick--would be able to branch out just as admirably. Also, I think it might be cool if Sean Connery had a part, though that might be to many Lowlandesque accents.
Well, that was a lot. I think I'm going to watch David Bowie in near-drag now. I know, I know--I just finished saying that Labyrinth was cheese, but it's cult cheese with some good music, awesome Jim Henson puppets, and great childhood memories attached. Not gonna lie, I'm still kind of turned on by David like this, even though my brain goes euuw. I may follow it up with one of Tom Cruise's earlier works, Legend. Also cheese, but I have an absolutely clear memory of the first time we watched it. I was either 6 or 7, and we were living on East Carmel in Mesa, AZ. My dad was at an academy--I think it was the NCO (Non-Commissioned Officer) academy that time. When Dad went away, Mom and my brothers and I would have at least one night that was a "sleepover" night. That day we went to Blockbuster, got Labyrinth, and then to the Giraffe Frozen Yogurt place for pistachio fro-yo. That night we had dinner then got into our PJs. Mom gave us each a pillow and sent us out the back door so we could go around to the front door and ring the bell like at a real sleepover. We had M&Ms, and I was eating the pistachio yogurt the first time I saw Tim Curry as the Lord of Darkness. It was awesome.
Oh, nostalgia.
Song of the Moment: "Dance Magic"~David Bowie from Labyrinth
PS. If you've never heard Meli Barber swear, you really should. Seriously, one of the funniest and most shocking things ever.
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