Friday, July 25, 2008
Wednesday, July 23, 2008
True Stories Continued...
Having aimed Margaret Atwood's poetry at those who color attrocities against women with a racial undertone, I can't help but rally her again against those in our administration who work to make such attrocities more common:
"...If mother-
hood is sacred, put
your money where your mouth is. Only
then can expect the coming
down to the wrecked & shimmering earth
of that miracle you sing
about, the day
when every child is a holy birth."
(excerpt from "Christmas Carols", found in True Stories by Margaret Atwood)
"...If mother-
hood is sacred, put
your money where your mouth is. Only
then can expect the coming
down to the wrecked & shimmering earth
of that miracle you sing
about, the day
when every child is a holy birth."
(excerpt from "Christmas Carols", found in True Stories by Margaret Atwood)
True Stories...
I read this this morning. The post itself is about the subconscious racism shining through in how two women in similar situations are either humananized or dehumanized by the language used to describe them. They discuss it more effectively than I might, so I'll leave it to them.
This weekend I picked up True Stories, a book of poetry by Margaret Atwood. She has never been one to soft-step touchy subjects, but the poems contained in this book struck me as particularly... 'brutal' is not the word I am looking for and neither is 'gruesome'. Either of those words suggests some intent to harm or titilate, and I detect none of that here. Maybe 'direct' could be the word, but compared to how these poems communicate that word seems timid. They illuminate an unblinking awareness and put up a challenge to our tendency to beautify reality in an attempt to forget/ignore the harshness of the world. Yesterday i read the poem "Christmas Carols", which starts off, "Children do not always mean/ hope. To some they mean despair." Elaborating a few lines later, "This one had her pelvis/ broken by hammers so the child/ could be extracted. Then she was thrown away,/ useless, a ripped sack." Before and after this description were the descriptions of two other women who killed themselves because of pregnancies they were unwilling parties to, which were both gruesome descriptions, but somehow the image of a woman gutted so the child could be removed and then cast aside knocked the wind out of me. It seemed particularly barbaric, like it couldn't be believably imagined out of nowhere and could only be snatched from real life to be in this poem. The descriptions of a woman raped and killing herself or another dying while trying a home abortion rather than be forced to carry a child again seemed things that could be pulled out of the back of your mind, not because they are unbelievable, but rather because they are, however horrible, somewhat commonplace (or they are where access to abortion and birth control are blocked). The existance of either is not something any sentient adult could be shocked to know has happened. One might be shocked being presented with it (and you are when you read this poem), but the shock is at having it laid out in front of you, not in the possibility of such things happening.
But the child extracted from the mother like pea from a pod struck me as unreal. Not that I doubted that such things could happen, but I found myself wondering where this thing had happened. This was not a generalized possible horror, but felt like it must be a specific one, a terrible thing Ms. Atwood had read about somewhere and incorporated into this poem for its punch, some atrocity acted out in some war zone at the extreme edges of desperation. These thoughts were just sort of automatic in my mind. I didn't spend the last day meditating on this poem; one should never stare too long at something clear and searingly bright. Rather I read it through several times and each time kept sticking on this image of a woman as a wrapper, to be removed and thrown away like trash once the desired product was taken out.
Perhaps that is exactly the point I was trying to make: this struck me as something that had happened to a woman, one woman; not a thing that happens to women, a thing that could happen to any women.
Then, one day later, I stumble across an article on two of these crimes, one recent one a few years ago, both in this country. They weren't in war zones or on the fringes of humanity. It isn't a crime that happened to one woman; it is a crime which happens to women, though apparently the color of the victim affects how it is reported. Perhaps the authors of those articles could use Ms. Atwood's admonition from later in the poem: "Think twice then/ before you worship turned furrows, or pay/ lip service to some full belly/ or other, or single out one girl to play/ the magic mother, in blue/ & white, up on that pedestal,/ perfect & intact, distinct/ from those who aren't. Which means/ everyone else."
This weekend I picked up True Stories, a book of poetry by Margaret Atwood. She has never been one to soft-step touchy subjects, but the poems contained in this book struck me as particularly... 'brutal' is not the word I am looking for and neither is 'gruesome'. Either of those words suggests some intent to harm or titilate, and I detect none of that here. Maybe 'direct' could be the word, but compared to how these poems communicate that word seems timid. They illuminate an unblinking awareness and put up a challenge to our tendency to beautify reality in an attempt to forget/ignore the harshness of the world. Yesterday i read the poem "Christmas Carols", which starts off, "Children do not always mean/ hope. To some they mean despair." Elaborating a few lines later, "This one had her pelvis/ broken by hammers so the child/ could be extracted. Then she was thrown away,/ useless, a ripped sack." Before and after this description were the descriptions of two other women who killed themselves because of pregnancies they were unwilling parties to, which were both gruesome descriptions, but somehow the image of a woman gutted so the child could be removed and then cast aside knocked the wind out of me. It seemed particularly barbaric, like it couldn't be believably imagined out of nowhere and could only be snatched from real life to be in this poem. The descriptions of a woman raped and killing herself or another dying while trying a home abortion rather than be forced to carry a child again seemed things that could be pulled out of the back of your mind, not because they are unbelievable, but rather because they are, however horrible, somewhat commonplace (or they are where access to abortion and birth control are blocked). The existance of either is not something any sentient adult could be shocked to know has happened. One might be shocked being presented with it (and you are when you read this poem), but the shock is at having it laid out in front of you, not in the possibility of such things happening.
But the child extracted from the mother like pea from a pod struck me as unreal. Not that I doubted that such things could happen, but I found myself wondering where this thing had happened. This was not a generalized possible horror, but felt like it must be a specific one, a terrible thing Ms. Atwood had read about somewhere and incorporated into this poem for its punch, some atrocity acted out in some war zone at the extreme edges of desperation. These thoughts were just sort of automatic in my mind. I didn't spend the last day meditating on this poem; one should never stare too long at something clear and searingly bright. Rather I read it through several times and each time kept sticking on this image of a woman as a wrapper, to be removed and thrown away like trash once the desired product was taken out.
Perhaps that is exactly the point I was trying to make: this struck me as something that had happened to a woman, one woman; not a thing that happens to women, a thing that could happen to any women.
Then, one day later, I stumble across an article on two of these crimes, one recent one a few years ago, both in this country. They weren't in war zones or on the fringes of humanity. It isn't a crime that happened to one woman; it is a crime which happens to women, though apparently the color of the victim affects how it is reported. Perhaps the authors of those articles could use Ms. Atwood's admonition from later in the poem: "Think twice then/ before you worship turned furrows, or pay/ lip service to some full belly/ or other, or single out one girl to play/ the magic mother, in blue/ & white, up on that pedestal,/ perfect & intact, distinct/ from those who aren't. Which means/ everyone else."
Tuesday, July 22, 2008
Synchronicity of the Lambs
Right as I was reading the comments for this post on Hunters and Gatherers, "Lotion" by the Greenskeepers started playing on my itunes...
Thursday, July 10, 2008
My state always knows how to make me proud!
I've been spinning my wheels and starting to write and then not publishing anything, but this will shake me back into commentary. My state always makes me so damn proud.
And honestly, this sounds like such sweeeet just desserts that I wouldn't mind some fucking idiot asswipe like troy king getting served, but I bet you a dollar that this all just gets swallowed up and quietly washed away. There is something about Alabama that let's controversy stay gossip and never acknowledges it as news. When something distasteful appears, it is like being in the middle of a field during a flood. You can scream bloody murder, but the background din of social chatter about nothing just slowly rises until whatever taboo subject is drowned like unwanted puppies. People know it happened, but afterwards you are just left with a sore throat from hollering and as this emergency chatter drains away everything sort of settles back where it started.
In Alabama, all public memory is secret. Everyone may know and remember whatever troubling detail, but never underestimate the power of a polite southerner to be unable to recall an uncomfortable detail. If it doesn't get you killed, the community will just hush damn near anything over. Blame someone, remove them, edit them from stories or vaguely recall their existence.
There is no Post or Daily News. There are a thousand reasons to hate either of those publications, but they also keep shit like this from dying unceremoniously. Like I predict this fellow will. It is either true and it will be whispered near and wide, but never officially published (please let me be wrong about this) and if he has reciprocal dirt he will quietly shift into some other lucrative position out of the search lights, or it isn't true and is some kind of political hit piece (remember that Alabama is where karl rove honed his skills), maybe retribution for not pulling off the Siegleman frame-up smoothly, and the rumors will do their damage and he will quietly be scooted into oblivion. Granted, it might be true and still be getting spread as some kind of retribution from his repub overlords, or just plain old pissed off enemies, but either way I'll be amazed and proud if even ONE newspaper in Alabama has the balls to run with this story openly. Maybe they already have, I've only just heard about this story and so haven't really started digging yet. Oh, but I will...
And honestly, this sounds like such sweeeet just desserts that I wouldn't mind some fucking idiot asswipe like troy king getting served, but I bet you a dollar that this all just gets swallowed up and quietly washed away. There is something about Alabama that let's controversy stay gossip and never acknowledges it as news. When something distasteful appears, it is like being in the middle of a field during a flood. You can scream bloody murder, but the background din of social chatter about nothing just slowly rises until whatever taboo subject is drowned like unwanted puppies. People know it happened, but afterwards you are just left with a sore throat from hollering and as this emergency chatter drains away everything sort of settles back where it started.
In Alabama, all public memory is secret. Everyone may know and remember whatever troubling detail, but never underestimate the power of a polite southerner to be unable to recall an uncomfortable detail. If it doesn't get you killed, the community will just hush damn near anything over. Blame someone, remove them, edit them from stories or vaguely recall their existence.
There is no Post or Daily News. There are a thousand reasons to hate either of those publications, but they also keep shit like this from dying unceremoniously. Like I predict this fellow will. It is either true and it will be whispered near and wide, but never officially published (please let me be wrong about this) and if he has reciprocal dirt he will quietly shift into some other lucrative position out of the search lights, or it isn't true and is some kind of political hit piece (remember that Alabama is where karl rove honed his skills), maybe retribution for not pulling off the Siegleman frame-up smoothly, and the rumors will do their damage and he will quietly be scooted into oblivion. Granted, it might be true and still be getting spread as some kind of retribution from his repub overlords, or just plain old pissed off enemies, but either way I'll be amazed and proud if even ONE newspaper in Alabama has the balls to run with this story openly. Maybe they already have, I've only just heard about this story and so haven't really started digging yet. Oh, but I will...
Wednesday, July 02, 2008
on Gay Pride...
This last weekend I went to the Gay Pride Parade here in New York. I've got tons of thoughts about it which I'll sort out in the coming days, but I'll save the long analysis for another day. The short of it is I still think the day and the parade are significant. Call it a parade or a march or whatever, it matters to me that it can and does happen. This is partially in response to comments friends have made over the years, invariably other urban homos for whom being gay can easily be a casual part of their life, just one more thing about them and nothing that threatens their safety or livelihood.
A number of years back, a friend wrote a "gay shame" email complaining about 'what gay pride has become' and I began a response which got lost in my email drafts. I'm all about digging up old things and subjecting them to scrutiny, so here from the vaults is my response to these curmudgeons who blush at the commercialism and flamboyance of our numbers let loose in the streets each year (there are a few comments in here which I know might ruffle a feather or two and strike me now as mildly offensive but I leave in for historical accuracy; please hold full judgement for my forthcoming modern update, reflecting on my most recent Pride experience):
At this point in my life and with all the bizzare that I have seen around me, I have come to love the things that just make life surreal. We all know that there is nothing more surreal than Pride events. I like that they exist, I like that people go crazy, I like that there are middle aged men who have reduced all their goals in life to basically just trying to look the most like an exaggerated charicature of a musclebound adolescent Ken doll.
I like all of this of course in theory. Not unlike communism, it just isn't funny when you apply it to real people. But I guess I can still enjoy the spectacle and the hoopla, and anything that really gets under the skin of the religious right is ok by me. Just look at it like you would a freak show or a scary movie or a highschool valedictorian delivering an impassioned speech: take it very serious while you watch it so you can enjoy the full effect but only remember the really comical bits and repeat them to your friends.
People know that the section at pride isn't the only section of the gay world. We do look rather funny when mixed all together like that, but it is fun. Sure the drag queens and dykes on bikes get all the air time, but everyone gets to throw their own party. And I will tell you, Pride isn't important to the people who attend who live in those cities where they have them; they are important to the terrified closeted fags who are living on the front lines out in bumfuck (what a fitting name) nowhere who just need there to be some gay presence that makes itself felt and lets them know that something else exists.
So you say it doesn't set a good example for them, showing them a big event that is just a bunch of half naked muscle clones and men in tiaras? Well, it isn't any worse than any homecoming parade anywhere in the country. At least at the Pride parades we have grown men and women dressing any damn way they choose instead of the town's pretty adolescents dressed up in team hoochie gear to shake it for their parents and neighbors. Every week in the fall the girls get thrown into the air to better spread their legs and show their crotches to the crowd while the boy don stretch pants,codpieces, and shoulder pads and slam into each other for the thrill of the community. The difference between a highschool football game and a gay pride parade is the lack of violence and pedophilia in the latter.
A number of years back, a friend wrote a "gay shame" email complaining about 'what gay pride has become' and I began a response which got lost in my email drafts. I'm all about digging up old things and subjecting them to scrutiny, so here from the vaults is my response to these curmudgeons who blush at the commercialism and flamboyance of our numbers let loose in the streets each year (there are a few comments in here which I know might ruffle a feather or two and strike me now as mildly offensive but I leave in for historical accuracy; please hold full judgement for my forthcoming modern update, reflecting on my most recent Pride experience):
At this point in my life and with all the bizzare that I have seen around me, I have come to love the things that just make life surreal. We all know that there is nothing more surreal than Pride events. I like that they exist, I like that people go crazy, I like that there are middle aged men who have reduced all their goals in life to basically just trying to look the most like an exaggerated charicature of a musclebound adolescent Ken doll.
I like all of this of course in theory. Not unlike communism, it just isn't funny when you apply it to real people. But I guess I can still enjoy the spectacle and the hoopla, and anything that really gets under the skin of the religious right is ok by me. Just look at it like you would a freak show or a scary movie or a highschool valedictorian delivering an impassioned speech: take it very serious while you watch it so you can enjoy the full effect but only remember the really comical bits and repeat them to your friends.
People know that the section at pride isn't the only section of the gay world. We do look rather funny when mixed all together like that, but it is fun. Sure the drag queens and dykes on bikes get all the air time, but everyone gets to throw their own party. And I will tell you, Pride isn't important to the people who attend who live in those cities where they have them; they are important to the terrified closeted fags who are living on the front lines out in bumfuck (what a fitting name) nowhere who just need there to be some gay presence that makes itself felt and lets them know that something else exists.
So you say it doesn't set a good example for them, showing them a big event that is just a bunch of half naked muscle clones and men in tiaras? Well, it isn't any worse than any homecoming parade anywhere in the country. At least at the Pride parades we have grown men and women dressing any damn way they choose instead of the town's pretty adolescents dressed up in team hoochie gear to shake it for their parents and neighbors. Every week in the fall the girls get thrown into the air to better spread their legs and show their crotches to the crowd while the boy don stretch pants,codpieces, and shoulder pads and slam into each other for the thrill of the community. The difference between a highschool football game and a gay pride parade is the lack of violence and pedophilia in the latter.
Wednesday, June 25, 2008
farmers market, etc.
I went to the farmers market and came home with two books(The Strand is dangerously close to Union Square); an ukulele, tuner, and how-to-play guide(so is The Guitar Center); tomatoes, carrots, romaine lettuce, lady apples, strawberries, blue berries, a sweet basil plant, Empress of India nasturtiums, a pink ivy geranium, and a pint of hazelnut crunch icecream. I did not buy the Psycopsis papilio orchid that I wanted to buy; this was not restraint, but rather a matter of the physical limitations of my arms.
instead...
I've been up and out of bed since early this morning, and scanning through blogs and news sites I decided I would use some of these beautiful morning hours to write a bit and get back into the political commentary game. I that james dobson was commenting on Barack Obama and spouting his typically narrow-minded Us vs. Them bullshit, and I was going to take the bait (and perhaps later I still will), but it can wait.
The sun is shining so I'm off to find fresh flowers and veggies and perhaps even a ukelele.
The sun is shining so I'm off to find fresh flowers and veggies and perhaps even a ukelele.
Monday, June 23, 2008
The Red Queen
I almost put it down, but I'm glad I didn't. I grabbed The Red Queen: Sex and the Evolution of Human Nature on a whim. I'm a bio nerd, and at the same time I had grabbed a couple of other books in a similar vein at the same time so why not? I've been consuming books like a mad man on this trip, but this one was hard to get into at first. Red flags went up when I was inspecting it before committing as I noticed that the blurbs about the book weren't from biologists, but rather from various newspapers. I don't care what the Boston Globe thinks about any science book unless a scientist wrote the damn review. And their review was crap anyway. This book was not "literary and witty."
Which is partly why I almost put it down. Until he finds his stride and gets out of laying groundwork and into the subject at hand, Matt Ridley's writing is more irritating than anything. He isn't a bad writer (obviously) but there are little things about the way he writes that kept irritating the fuck out of me for the first few chapters. Partly this is the irritable know-it-all in me that is sifting through the necessary groundwork of a science book written for a popular audience and bristling at feeling condescended to having all these basic concepts rehashed, but I go through that every time I read science from any author and I know that my memory is a big fat jumble and I like rehashing these ground rules before setting out on this journey with whatever teacher. Most bio writers don't get my back up like this when I read them, but this guy really did. Partly it was how he presented conflicting ideas as a sort of Highlander death match: "There can be only one." Biology isn't a clean pretty sort of clockwork science, particularly when we start talking about how this or that might have evolved or what selective pressures might have led to whatever. There might be various pressures playing out or different ones at work in different cases, but the tone at the beginning of the book was the opposite. There are answers and this or that is the correct conclusion blah blah blah. He was more nuanced the further into the subject we went, but his discussion of why sex exists was, though extremely informative and wide ranging, barely tolerable. That sounds harsh and it kind of is, particularly since I now think fondly of the book having finished it. I feel like I really took something away from reading it and plan on recommending it to friends, but I really almost just put it back on the shelf.
So if you pick it up, expect to do some trudging before it catches its stride; or if you have started it and put it down, consider picking it up again. It is well worth the effort.
Which is partly why I almost put it down. Until he finds his stride and gets out of laying groundwork and into the subject at hand, Matt Ridley's writing is more irritating than anything. He isn't a bad writer (obviously) but there are little things about the way he writes that kept irritating the fuck out of me for the first few chapters. Partly this is the irritable know-it-all in me that is sifting through the necessary groundwork of a science book written for a popular audience and bristling at feeling condescended to having all these basic concepts rehashed, but I go through that every time I read science from any author and I know that my memory is a big fat jumble and I like rehashing these ground rules before setting out on this journey with whatever teacher. Most bio writers don't get my back up like this when I read them, but this guy really did. Partly it was how he presented conflicting ideas as a sort of Highlander death match: "There can be only one." Biology isn't a clean pretty sort of clockwork science, particularly when we start talking about how this or that might have evolved or what selective pressures might have led to whatever. There might be various pressures playing out or different ones at work in different cases, but the tone at the beginning of the book was the opposite. There are answers and this or that is the correct conclusion blah blah blah. He was more nuanced the further into the subject we went, but his discussion of why sex exists was, though extremely informative and wide ranging, barely tolerable. That sounds harsh and it kind of is, particularly since I now think fondly of the book having finished it. I feel like I really took something away from reading it and plan on recommending it to friends, but I really almost just put it back on the shelf.
So if you pick it up, expect to do some trudging before it catches its stride; or if you have started it and put it down, consider picking it up again. It is well worth the effort.
Where are you?
I've been thinking about my dreams lately. My dreams have always been vivid and bizarre, but right now they are really striking me. This may be simple because I'm currently well rested and am sleeping as much as I can stand (though not always straight in a row).
Last night I dreamed that I been just woken after some sort of ten-year hibernation, which for some reason meant that I had to hang out with some lesbians talking about the photo book their talented friend had made of photos of them after they had all been in Usher's wedding, which was held during a timeout in a baseball game, out on the diamond with the players still on the field ("I'm not a player, I just crush alot..."). The book was ridiculously thick and had been simply titled "L", which one of them told me the producers of The L Word didn't like, but you can't copyright a whole letter, right? I just wanted to know where exactly I was and when i got to go somewhere else. I found my computer and was able to check my messages, and my inbox was full of messages from all kinds of people I wanted to hear from, but one stood out. My Liz had sent me a picture. No message, just a picture of her smiling and laying on a couch in a loose yellow dress. She used to avoid wearing yellow because her skin was so fair she said it didn't look good on her, but it did in this picture. I was preparing to send her a picture in return and more came from her. Her sitting, her again on the couch with a couple of friends, always smiling.
The pictures had that sort of over saturated color that pics from the 70's sometimes have. Before I could respond with my picture, stumbling trying to decide what kind of picture to send- old or shoot a new one, silly or just smiling, flattering or plain?-, she showed up at the door. What had sort of been a room in a mall like supercomplex was now a converted version of my grandparents old living room, and I invited her in and we hugged and began talking immediately. We stumbled over each other trying to explain the last few years that we have been apart (that whole ten year hibernation thing sort of evaporated like things do in dreams). Nothing really that we talked about was all that important, but I remember feeling so relieved to have found my friend again.
When I said "My Liz" earlier, I mean the Liz who I was friends with in highschool and became better friends with in college. I called her my Liz to distinguish between the other Liz's in my life, who became known as Mason's Liz, Lisa's Liz, and Sculpture Liz, each according to how I came to know them. Once Sculpture Liz took offense and told me she was going to make t-shirts which said, "I'm my own Liz" for all of them. I never meant to offend and don't mean to now. If I have ever met anyone who was their own person it would be her.
The dream was remarkable in how comfortable it was just sitting and talking and realizing how much I've missed her. I hope I can find her again.
Last night I dreamed that I been just woken after some sort of ten-year hibernation, which for some reason meant that I had to hang out with some lesbians talking about the photo book their talented friend had made of photos of them after they had all been in Usher's wedding, which was held during a timeout in a baseball game, out on the diamond with the players still on the field ("I'm not a player, I just crush alot..."). The book was ridiculously thick and had been simply titled "L", which one of them told me the producers of The L Word didn't like, but you can't copyright a whole letter, right? I just wanted to know where exactly I was and when i got to go somewhere else. I found my computer and was able to check my messages, and my inbox was full of messages from all kinds of people I wanted to hear from, but one stood out. My Liz had sent me a picture. No message, just a picture of her smiling and laying on a couch in a loose yellow dress. She used to avoid wearing yellow because her skin was so fair she said it didn't look good on her, but it did in this picture. I was preparing to send her a picture in return and more came from her. Her sitting, her again on the couch with a couple of friends, always smiling.
The pictures had that sort of over saturated color that pics from the 70's sometimes have. Before I could respond with my picture, stumbling trying to decide what kind of picture to send- old or shoot a new one, silly or just smiling, flattering or plain?-, she showed up at the door. What had sort of been a room in a mall like supercomplex was now a converted version of my grandparents old living room, and I invited her in and we hugged and began talking immediately. We stumbled over each other trying to explain the last few years that we have been apart (that whole ten year hibernation thing sort of evaporated like things do in dreams). Nothing really that we talked about was all that important, but I remember feeling so relieved to have found my friend again.
When I said "My Liz" earlier, I mean the Liz who I was friends with in highschool and became better friends with in college. I called her my Liz to distinguish between the other Liz's in my life, who became known as Mason's Liz, Lisa's Liz, and Sculpture Liz, each according to how I came to know them. Once Sculpture Liz took offense and told me she was going to make t-shirts which said, "I'm my own Liz" for all of them. I never meant to offend and don't mean to now. If I have ever met anyone who was their own person it would be her.
The dream was remarkable in how comfortable it was just sitting and talking and realizing how much I've missed her. I hope I can find her again.
fruit danishes, eating disorders, and Tom Cruise
I'm sitting in the galley at the square plywood table with astro-turf on its surface (this isn't as strange as it sounds; on these boats there is almost always some non-slip something on all the horizontal surfaces, especially in the kitchen) eating a strangely delicious pineapple danish. It is one of those not quite industrial but still too manufactured to call baked fresh. They aren't individually packed and sealed to last for months on shelfs, but rather the kind baked in mass at some big bakery then crammed together in an open-topped cardboard box and wrapped in cellophane and sent off to grocery stores. These then found there way into the ice-hold on a fishing boat and have only just come out to the inside refrigerator. Sitting eating this pastry and thinking about how intensely delicious it is and how delicious the apple one I ate yesterday was, I suddenly want to eat the whole box. Not just an expression, I literally want to eat the whole box and find myself thinking about eating disorders.
This isn't because I associate consuming whole boxes of pastries with eating disorders, rather eating has taken on a rather capriciously religious aura when I am on the boats: sometimes enthralling me, sometimes horrifying me. I've become much more intimate with food as a necessity and limits of it and what is and isn't luxury in consumption. And the strange appeals both of gorging and withholding. These are faint siren calls to me that don't have me particularly worried, but they make me think about eating disorders from time to time which otherwise I wouldn't be inclined to think about abstractly.
And then I found myself thinking about Tom Cruise. These two things are not related; he appeared from the ether as I sat eating and pondering because I found myself looking at the dvd case on the table. Almost every boat with anything of a dvd collection has Mission Impossible: III. Why that movie? I have no idea, though action movies are always popular. But this one has been on most of the boats I've been on and one day I'll watch the whole thing. I've seen the beginning and the end, seeing the end earlier today which surely prepped me to think of Mr. Cruise when I saw the dvd case sitting there. There is slightly more synergy to it, though.
There is always a weird unintentional synchronicity out here that I find myself noticing. Like the same actors showing up in every movie and I don't mean someone being a fan of one actor, like the Stephen Segal marathons I'm subjected to, but completely unrelated movie choices piling up, like me watching Alien by myself in my bunk, then someone putting in Holes (also starring Ms. Weaver) then Steel Magnolias (Tom Skerritt) and back to Segourny with Ghost Busters. Today's tangle was less spectactular: Mission Impossible: III on the main TV while I eat lunch and a passing Tom Cruise joke by Dan Savage on a This American Life podcast.
I've discovered podcasts and am in love. They are perfect for this time away from civilization and I didn't download near enough when I was on land this last time, but I did get one episode of This American Life. I've always liked that program on NPR, so I was psyched to have it to listen to here in my bubble life. In this episode, one of the commentaries was Dan Savage talking about portrayals of straight people on television, arguing that they are just as ridiculously stereotyped as portrayals of gay people. To make his point he was listing various straight characters from tv-land , reminding us that real straight people don't act like that. He naughtily adds in, "Tom Cruise on Oprah's coach: real straight people don't act like that." This got hearty laughs. I laughed too; it is funny.
But hours later, scarfing down a danish and thinking about eating disorders, I see the cd folder and suddenly wonder what Tom Cruise thinks when he hears these jokes. Sincerely, like actually wondering what he really thinks, not some kicked in auto-guilt response programmed in to be casually pondered to try to balance out my evil sense of humor. I suddenly really started wondering about it.
I mean, on the one hand, suppose he is gay. What the hell goes through his mind feeling attracted to men and feeling compelled to publicly disavow it but having everyone assume that he is gay anyway despite him taking on all the trappings of a straight identity? Ok, writing out that sentence reminds me why every gay man finds the possibility uber-tragicomic: most of us have been there. Repressive omnipresent evangelical religion into which your identity has been publicly and intimately intertwined? Check. Serious intimate heterosexual partnerships? Check. Feelings of being surrounded by others whose lives would be negatively affected by you going public with your 'secret'? Check. We could go on, but point being been there done that, so if I for a moment treat Mr. Cruise as a real person rather than simply a public figure then I've got to empathize for a moment with how this stuff hits against you when you feel trapped in the best-little-boy-in-the-world loop.
And what if he is actually really and truly straight, totally not into guys? Would it then all be funny to him? Annoying? Actually, if he is really straight, then who cares? I've always gone with the "if it ain't true, who cares?" approach to gossip and such, so if he is really fully total hetero then this gets boring.
He has a look in his eyes that says he is hiding something. His eyes scream it. This is part of why he is interesting as an actor despite over-saturation. There is something there; it might not be that he is gay and for that matter if he was and came out I don't think he'd look any less guarded and walled up behind those eyes. But something is back there and every one of these jokes pokes at it even if we've got our conclusion wrong, so maybe it could still be interesting even if he is straight. Anyway about he is a person and I wonder how he takes it all in. Does he just shrug it off and laugh? I imagine that's what he does in person if cornered and he can't just pretend like he doesn't hear or understand.
Is this whole mental game empathy or just a more vulgar and violating kind of voyeurism? I think I can honestly say that it originated in a sympathetic place, suddenly struck thinking of the actual person behind the facade of celebrity, thoughts of him and his feelings bubbling up from my subconscious. And I pursued the thoughts here in text from a similarly sincerely thoughtful place, just following the original quandry a little further, but at some point, perhaps the moment that this becomes a public musing and no longer a personal sympathetic pang, I can't help but feel that it tipped over into the same celebrity voyeurism that something in me had been reacting against.
Since writing this I've returned to land. In San Francisco I followed a random urge for a french cruller to a donut shop that I've stumbled into in the middle of the night after drinking at Aunt Charlie's, where I found in addition to the desired french cruller an apple danish which cried out for me to consume it. It was delicious and smiled eating it as I walked down the street and remembered how powerful the flavor was in my deprived weeks at sea, but I only wallowed in memory of the flavor and didn't think at all about eating disorders or Tom Cruise.
This isn't because I associate consuming whole boxes of pastries with eating disorders, rather eating has taken on a rather capriciously religious aura when I am on the boats: sometimes enthralling me, sometimes horrifying me. I've become much more intimate with food as a necessity and limits of it and what is and isn't luxury in consumption. And the strange appeals both of gorging and withholding. These are faint siren calls to me that don't have me particularly worried, but they make me think about eating disorders from time to time which otherwise I wouldn't be inclined to think about abstractly.
And then I found myself thinking about Tom Cruise. These two things are not related; he appeared from the ether as I sat eating and pondering because I found myself looking at the dvd case on the table. Almost every boat with anything of a dvd collection has Mission Impossible: III. Why that movie? I have no idea, though action movies are always popular. But this one has been on most of the boats I've been on and one day I'll watch the whole thing. I've seen the beginning and the end, seeing the end earlier today which surely prepped me to think of Mr. Cruise when I saw the dvd case sitting there. There is slightly more synergy to it, though.
There is always a weird unintentional synchronicity out here that I find myself noticing. Like the same actors showing up in every movie and I don't mean someone being a fan of one actor, like the Stephen Segal marathons I'm subjected to, but completely unrelated movie choices piling up, like me watching Alien by myself in my bunk, then someone putting in Holes (also starring Ms. Weaver) then Steel Magnolias (Tom Skerritt) and back to Segourny with Ghost Busters. Today's tangle was less spectactular: Mission Impossible: III on the main TV while I eat lunch and a passing Tom Cruise joke by Dan Savage on a This American Life podcast.
I've discovered podcasts and am in love. They are perfect for this time away from civilization and I didn't download near enough when I was on land this last time, but I did get one episode of This American Life. I've always liked that program on NPR, so I was psyched to have it to listen to here in my bubble life. In this episode, one of the commentaries was Dan Savage talking about portrayals of straight people on television, arguing that they are just as ridiculously stereotyped as portrayals of gay people. To make his point he was listing various straight characters from tv-land , reminding us that real straight people don't act like that. He naughtily adds in, "Tom Cruise on Oprah's coach: real straight people don't act like that." This got hearty laughs. I laughed too; it is funny.
But hours later, scarfing down a danish and thinking about eating disorders, I see the cd folder and suddenly wonder what Tom Cruise thinks when he hears these jokes. Sincerely, like actually wondering what he really thinks, not some kicked in auto-guilt response programmed in to be casually pondered to try to balance out my evil sense of humor. I suddenly really started wondering about it.
I mean, on the one hand, suppose he is gay. What the hell goes through his mind feeling attracted to men and feeling compelled to publicly disavow it but having everyone assume that he is gay anyway despite him taking on all the trappings of a straight identity? Ok, writing out that sentence reminds me why every gay man finds the possibility uber-tragicomic: most of us have been there. Repressive omnipresent evangelical religion into which your identity has been publicly and intimately intertwined? Check. Serious intimate heterosexual partnerships? Check. Feelings of being surrounded by others whose lives would be negatively affected by you going public with your 'secret'? Check. We could go on, but point being been there done that, so if I for a moment treat Mr. Cruise as a real person rather than simply a public figure then I've got to empathize for a moment with how this stuff hits against you when you feel trapped in the best-little-boy-in-the-world loop.
And what if he is actually really and truly straight, totally not into guys? Would it then all be funny to him? Annoying? Actually, if he is really straight, then who cares? I've always gone with the "if it ain't true, who cares?" approach to gossip and such, so if he is really fully total hetero then this gets boring.
He has a look in his eyes that says he is hiding something. His eyes scream it. This is part of why he is interesting as an actor despite over-saturation. There is something there; it might not be that he is gay and for that matter if he was and came out I don't think he'd look any less guarded and walled up behind those eyes. But something is back there and every one of these jokes pokes at it even if we've got our conclusion wrong, so maybe it could still be interesting even if he is straight. Anyway about he is a person and I wonder how he takes it all in. Does he just shrug it off and laugh? I imagine that's what he does in person if cornered and he can't just pretend like he doesn't hear or understand.
Is this whole mental game empathy or just a more vulgar and violating kind of voyeurism? I think I can honestly say that it originated in a sympathetic place, suddenly struck thinking of the actual person behind the facade of celebrity, thoughts of him and his feelings bubbling up from my subconscious. And I pursued the thoughts here in text from a similarly sincerely thoughtful place, just following the original quandry a little further, but at some point, perhaps the moment that this becomes a public musing and no longer a personal sympathetic pang, I can't help but feel that it tipped over into the same celebrity voyeurism that something in me had been reacting against.
Since writing this I've returned to land. In San Francisco I followed a random urge for a french cruller to a donut shop that I've stumbled into in the middle of the night after drinking at Aunt Charlie's, where I found in addition to the desired french cruller an apple danish which cried out for me to consume it. It was delicious and smiled eating it as I walked down the street and remembered how powerful the flavor was in my deprived weeks at sea, but I only wallowed in memory of the flavor and didn't think at all about eating disorders or Tom Cruise.
Monday, June 16, 2008
fucking idiot
You can suggest that much stupider things have been accomplished by someone attempting to come up with the singularly most idiotic action possible by a human, but at this very moment I personally doubt even the possibility. I have a bag filled with cords and cables: power cords for my computer, cell-phone, old cell-phone, external hard drive, USB cable to connect my phone to my computer and another to connect my camera to it as well. I have anywhere from three to five sets of headphones and two different battery chargers for my camera. But somehow, I managed to take the only cord which isn't a uniform black and forget to return it to my bag.
So I'm now out at sea, where the single most difficult part of my job is staying awake during long hauls and have the single most useful tool for keeping me awake, the i-pod, but not the cable to synch it with my computer and which is also used for charging it. On white little bundle of wires carelessly forgotten on my bedroom floor even as I obsessively downloaded songs and podcasts and audiobooks. So now I've got a half charged i-pod to dole out preciously over three weeks of 10-14 hr. shifts.
Harumphh.
So I'm now out at sea, where the single most difficult part of my job is staying awake during long hauls and have the single most useful tool for keeping me awake, the i-pod, but not the cable to synch it with my computer and which is also used for charging it. On white little bundle of wires carelessly forgotten on my bedroom floor even as I obsessively downloaded songs and podcasts and audiobooks. So now I've got a half charged i-pod to dole out preciously over three weeks of 10-14 hr. shifts.
Harumphh.
dreams
I should probably pay more attention to my dreams. It isn't like they are subtle. I've always been one of those people who dreams intensely. I know that supposedly we only dream for a few hours each night, but I have a hard time believing it. I've always felt like dreaming from eyes shut to wide awake was the way my body functioned. This may of course simply be perception, but there are times that I wonder.
I usually dream vividly, though I can't always recall the dreams themselves. I can usually recall the associated emotions, be it joy or terror or frustration or whatever. It can be disorienting to wake with an underlying intense emotion that is completely disconnected from your surroundings. Even more disorienting though is when the emotion isn't entirely inappropriate to the situation, but was somehow connected to it in the dream, like when I dreamed I've had a discussion the night before with the first person I see the next morning, which had in the dream been heated and I find myself sitting across from my roommate trying to reconcile my feelings that one of us should apologize to the other with their apparent complete obliviousness to what takes me a few groggy minutes to realize was all in my head.
Sometimes I can remember bits of my dreams and understand that they are telling me something. I knew needed to get out of my desk job when I would wake to realize that I had spent the entire night frustratedly databasing. I didn't like doing it in the day time; I really hated doing it throughout the night. Right now my dreams aren't screaming for me to find a new job, but they are stretching out and feeling around at different jobs. From last night's dream I can take away that I need to get back to diving and perhaps make moves which allow me to maybe move towards more adventurous employment. When I write "more adventurous" from my bunk on a boat in the middle of the ocean, I think I also mean more entertaining. There is a certain adventurousness to working on a boat in the middle of the ocean, but on the other hand it can also be amazingly boring. I'm required by my job to NOT take risks. Maybe trying more aggressively to get on board for collecting trips and maybe see if I can get my foot in the door with adventure film-making or something like that. Oddly enough, the other extreme that I see as a possibility is making this damn written word pastime into employment somehow. How, i have no idea, since writing is one of those things that I fiercely guard from outside encroachment. The opposite of guarding something is selling it.
I usually dream vividly, though I can't always recall the dreams themselves. I can usually recall the associated emotions, be it joy or terror or frustration or whatever. It can be disorienting to wake with an underlying intense emotion that is completely disconnected from your surroundings. Even more disorienting though is when the emotion isn't entirely inappropriate to the situation, but was somehow connected to it in the dream, like when I dreamed I've had a discussion the night before with the first person I see the next morning, which had in the dream been heated and I find myself sitting across from my roommate trying to reconcile my feelings that one of us should apologize to the other with their apparent complete obliviousness to what takes me a few groggy minutes to realize was all in my head.
Sometimes I can remember bits of my dreams and understand that they are telling me something. I knew needed to get out of my desk job when I would wake to realize that I had spent the entire night frustratedly databasing. I didn't like doing it in the day time; I really hated doing it throughout the night. Right now my dreams aren't screaming for me to find a new job, but they are stretching out and feeling around at different jobs. From last night's dream I can take away that I need to get back to diving and perhaps make moves which allow me to maybe move towards more adventurous employment. When I write "more adventurous" from my bunk on a boat in the middle of the ocean, I think I also mean more entertaining. There is a certain adventurousness to working on a boat in the middle of the ocean, but on the other hand it can also be amazingly boring. I'm required by my job to NOT take risks. Maybe trying more aggressively to get on board for collecting trips and maybe see if I can get my foot in the door with adventure film-making or something like that. Oddly enough, the other extreme that I see as a possibility is making this damn written word pastime into employment somehow. How, i have no idea, since writing is one of those things that I fiercely guard from outside encroachment. The opposite of guarding something is selling it.
"crooked-letter state"
I just read Kevin Sessum's memoir, Mississippi Sissy, and I'm for the moment speechless. Wow, just wow.
I have a bad habit of starting out to write about a song/book/movie that I've just heard/read/seen and barely mentioning that work of art before I basically just start rambling about myself. It seems a bit narcissistic, which I suppose it is (which I also suppose is exactly the adjective you should expect when you start blogging), but I also like to think there is something complementary in finding a stepping stone to self-reflection in someone else's artwork and only lazy people with book reports to write want to read someone else's synopsis.
So I'll skip over all the critical commentary that I'm sure someone else has already done better anyway; suffice to say the book was well-written and an engaging read. I had seen it when it came out in hardback and was immediately drawn to it. It was obviously written for me to read, but I refrained and patiently waited for it to come out in paperback, not -for once- so much out of cheapness as books and music for my trips at sea are currently considered life-saving expenses rather than luxuries, but because the hardback book was large and heavy and wouldn't travel well. When you typically bring an extra bag just for books in addition to those you cram in your duffle bag and other pack, such considerations matter. But after this long wait, let's say that the book was better than I ever could have expected.
I don't know what I did expect. I was drawn to it because I'm also something of a Mississippi sissy. I grew up straddling the state line between Mississippi and Alabama, born in the former and growing up mostly in the latter, but within a few miles of the border the whole time. So I suppose I was looking for someone else's story about growing up gay down there. And I found that, in spades. I ended up taken in more by the landscape than the coming out bit, though.
This is a different way of rendering the same landscape that I keep talking about whenever I go on about Faulkner or O'connor or most recently McCullers. This wasn't a fictionalized snapshot from some omniscient point above or looking in from outside through the eyes of a created character. The fictional accounts are only believable if the landscape feels familiar, feels realistic, but the difference between feeling realistic and being real can be jarring. I've said many times how much trouble I have reading Faulkner, because to me it is too realistic and too traumatizing most of the time so I've only made it a very short way through his catalog of fiction despite being a fan, but at the end of the day it is fiction and I can back away from the characters and argue with myself that he cast the landscape in harsher light to make these masterworks of tragedy.
Memoirs are different.
Assuming the writer is being honest, you can only explain away so much as dramatic lighting and theatrical staging. They tell their story, choosing their scenes, shaping the trajectory of the plotline, framing everything just so, but unless it is a fanciful retelling the backdrop is already there in each scene. This emotional/political/literal landscape is where the story already has happened, not a believable facsimile rendered to plant a story in, but a place to harvest what crop it has already brought forth. If the writer has any talent as a storyteller, which Mr. Sessums certainly does, the seams don't show and the background is just that: background. If I read this as more of an outsider I don't know that it would have struck me as anything other than an element in the story, but being from this same landscape it loomed large in my reading. Not distractingly so, but as I read about his experiences I couldn't help thinking how familiar or foreign everything seemed.
I'm from a younger generation. I caught the tail end of the Seventies and grew up a child of the Eighties. Integration had already happened and it was a very different South in many ways. But in many others not so much, and I recognized the people and pictures he painted in his retelling. The foreground was different for me when I was growing up there, but oh how I recognized all that swirled in the background. Sometimes though, recognition isn't enough. Once you've got something in your sights, its remains a thing apart until you've completed Adam's task and named it. This first and most slippery charge of humankind is where a writer's magic lies. The ability to present and describe is his power over our surroundings and minds. I've thought quite a bit lately about the power of names and language and how we describe things. Names can maim or contain or cut free depending on how they are wielded.
I could get off track and begin speaking abstractly about names and words and such (especially since I've just finished reading two books on the English language and am gurgling with thoughts about word usage in the current election), but I mention all this simply because Mr. Sessums finally game me the name for that landscape when the black lady who had helped raise him at his grandparents house remarks, "Love? Hmmph. It ain't never 'nough in a crooked-letter state like this."
"Crooked-letter state". Maybe when I read I leave myself wide open to being struck, but that phrase caught me square between the eyes. I had to put the book down for a moment and just breathe. If you aren't from Mississippi, you might not have been taught how to spell the state with the sing-song description: "M, I , crooked-letter, crooked-letter, I, crooked-letter, crooked-letter, I, humpback, humpback, I" but this is how we were taught and it still goes through my head each time I have to spell it. The childhood phrase turned into a scornful descriptor made it, for me at least, terrifyingly potent. It hits enough of a subconscious place that I wonder if it clangs in the mind of anyone else who reads it. The whole sentence is harsh enough, but the overt anger and frustration paled compared to what was said by her name for our landscape.
Kevin Sessums and I grew up differently and similarly but both of us grew up in a "crooked-letter state". Having found it so aptly named only made his rendering (and my remembering) of our common landscape so much more beautifully potent.
I have a bad habit of starting out to write about a song/book/movie that I've just heard/read/seen and barely mentioning that work of art before I basically just start rambling about myself. It seems a bit narcissistic, which I suppose it is (which I also suppose is exactly the adjective you should expect when you start blogging), but I also like to think there is something complementary in finding a stepping stone to self-reflection in someone else's artwork and only lazy people with book reports to write want to read someone else's synopsis.
So I'll skip over all the critical commentary that I'm sure someone else has already done better anyway; suffice to say the book was well-written and an engaging read. I had seen it when it came out in hardback and was immediately drawn to it. It was obviously written for me to read, but I refrained and patiently waited for it to come out in paperback, not -for once- so much out of cheapness as books and music for my trips at sea are currently considered life-saving expenses rather than luxuries, but because the hardback book was large and heavy and wouldn't travel well. When you typically bring an extra bag just for books in addition to those you cram in your duffle bag and other pack, such considerations matter. But after this long wait, let's say that the book was better than I ever could have expected.
I don't know what I did expect. I was drawn to it because I'm also something of a Mississippi sissy. I grew up straddling the state line between Mississippi and Alabama, born in the former and growing up mostly in the latter, but within a few miles of the border the whole time. So I suppose I was looking for someone else's story about growing up gay down there. And I found that, in spades. I ended up taken in more by the landscape than the coming out bit, though.
This is a different way of rendering the same landscape that I keep talking about whenever I go on about Faulkner or O'connor or most recently McCullers. This wasn't a fictionalized snapshot from some omniscient point above or looking in from outside through the eyes of a created character. The fictional accounts are only believable if the landscape feels familiar, feels realistic, but the difference between feeling realistic and being real can be jarring. I've said many times how much trouble I have reading Faulkner, because to me it is too realistic and too traumatizing most of the time so I've only made it a very short way through his catalog of fiction despite being a fan, but at the end of the day it is fiction and I can back away from the characters and argue with myself that he cast the landscape in harsher light to make these masterworks of tragedy.
Memoirs are different.
Assuming the writer is being honest, you can only explain away so much as dramatic lighting and theatrical staging. They tell their story, choosing their scenes, shaping the trajectory of the plotline, framing everything just so, but unless it is a fanciful retelling the backdrop is already there in each scene. This emotional/political/literal landscape is where the story already has happened, not a believable facsimile rendered to plant a story in, but a place to harvest what crop it has already brought forth. If the writer has any talent as a storyteller, which Mr. Sessums certainly does, the seams don't show and the background is just that: background. If I read this as more of an outsider I don't know that it would have struck me as anything other than an element in the story, but being from this same landscape it loomed large in my reading. Not distractingly so, but as I read about his experiences I couldn't help thinking how familiar or foreign everything seemed.
I'm from a younger generation. I caught the tail end of the Seventies and grew up a child of the Eighties. Integration had already happened and it was a very different South in many ways. But in many others not so much, and I recognized the people and pictures he painted in his retelling. The foreground was different for me when I was growing up there, but oh how I recognized all that swirled in the background. Sometimes though, recognition isn't enough. Once you've got something in your sights, its remains a thing apart until you've completed Adam's task and named it. This first and most slippery charge of humankind is where a writer's magic lies. The ability to present and describe is his power over our surroundings and minds. I've thought quite a bit lately about the power of names and language and how we describe things. Names can maim or contain or cut free depending on how they are wielded.
I could get off track and begin speaking abstractly about names and words and such (especially since I've just finished reading two books on the English language and am gurgling with thoughts about word usage in the current election), but I mention all this simply because Mr. Sessums finally game me the name for that landscape when the black lady who had helped raise him at his grandparents house remarks, "Love? Hmmph. It ain't never 'nough in a crooked-letter state like this."
"Crooked-letter state". Maybe when I read I leave myself wide open to being struck, but that phrase caught me square between the eyes. I had to put the book down for a moment and just breathe. If you aren't from Mississippi, you might not have been taught how to spell the state with the sing-song description: "M, I , crooked-letter, crooked-letter, I, crooked-letter, crooked-letter, I, humpback, humpback, I" but this is how we were taught and it still goes through my head each time I have to spell it. The childhood phrase turned into a scornful descriptor made it, for me at least, terrifyingly potent. It hits enough of a subconscious place that I wonder if it clangs in the mind of anyone else who reads it. The whole sentence is harsh enough, but the overt anger and frustration paled compared to what was said by her name for our landscape.
Kevin Sessums and I grew up differently and similarly but both of us grew up in a "crooked-letter state". Having found it so aptly named only made his rendering (and my remembering) of our common landscape so much more beautifully potent.
Thursday, June 05, 2008
"Go Don King! Go Don King! Go Don King!"
So I didn't watch john mccain's "speech" the other night. Dude is just a crazy old kook at this point...and actually, sadly, that description makes him sound like a more likable candidate than he actually is at this point.
Still, I kind of didn't want to believe that the speech was as horrible as everyone said. The guy used to be at least reasonably capable of speaking publically but apparently 8 years of bending over and grabbing his ankles while bush/cheney sodomized his credibility has damaged more than just his reputation (sadly the most likely comment that I am going to get on any post is someone berating me for perpetuating the attachment of negative connotations to homosexual acts -not that sodomy can't be a heterosexual act- or connoting sex and violence; and they will be right, but can you come up with a better description of his last 8 years in office?) and upon watching it tonight I realize that no one was exaggerating about how bad the speech was.
Other people have already made enough funny comments about that lame ass speech, so I'll refrain, but listening to the horribly staged crowd interaction -mccain's pregnant pause and giggling at his jokes waiting for the crowd to start clapping and their unified idiotic chanting and stilted applause- there was this awesome moment where the crowd starts chanting what one has to assume was meant to be "Go john mccain! Go john mccain! Go john mccain!" but they were a little off on their pronunciation so I had to sit for a second trying to figure out what the fuck they were saying and the only likable moment in this miserable lowpoint in the history of public speaking was the moment of pleasant absurdity when my occasionally non-sensical brain interpretted their cries as "Go Don King! Go Don King! Go Don King!". It honestly sounded more like that than the mccain's name and that moment of confusion was the only pleasant moment of the clip. (at 16:28 in the clip found here: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=A7RuX4pQPLY&eurl=http://www.groupnewsblog.net/ )
I paused for a second and reflected on how much better Don King would be as republican candidate for the presidency. At least he knows how to speak in public and probably even knows how to pronounce "New Orleans".
Oh, and for half a second can we collectively roll our eyes at how many times he said "change". The democratic candidates hammered that word into the fucking ground and I didn't think it was possible for anyone to make it a more annoying soundbite. I stand corrected.
Still, I kind of didn't want to believe that the speech was as horrible as everyone said. The guy used to be at least reasonably capable of speaking publically but apparently 8 years of bending over and grabbing his ankles while bush/cheney sodomized his credibility has damaged more than just his reputation (sadly the most likely comment that I am going to get on any post is someone berating me for perpetuating the attachment of negative connotations to homosexual acts -not that sodomy can't be a heterosexual act- or connoting sex and violence; and they will be right, but can you come up with a better description of his last 8 years in office?) and upon watching it tonight I realize that no one was exaggerating about how bad the speech was.
Other people have already made enough funny comments about that lame ass speech, so I'll refrain, but listening to the horribly staged crowd interaction -mccain's pregnant pause and giggling at his jokes waiting for the crowd to start clapping and their unified idiotic chanting and stilted applause- there was this awesome moment where the crowd starts chanting what one has to assume was meant to be "Go john mccain! Go john mccain! Go john mccain!" but they were a little off on their pronunciation so I had to sit for a second trying to figure out what the fuck they were saying and the only likable moment in this miserable lowpoint in the history of public speaking was the moment of pleasant absurdity when my occasionally non-sensical brain interpretted their cries as "Go Don King! Go Don King! Go Don King!". It honestly sounded more like that than the mccain's name and that moment of confusion was the only pleasant moment of the clip. (at 16:28 in the clip found here: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=A7RuX4pQPLY&eurl=http://www.groupnewsblog.net/ )
I paused for a second and reflected on how much better Don King would be as republican candidate for the presidency. At least he knows how to speak in public and probably even knows how to pronounce "New Orleans".
Oh, and for half a second can we collectively roll our eyes at how many times he said "change". The democratic candidates hammered that word into the fucking ground and I didn't think it was possible for anyone to make it a more annoying soundbite. I stand corrected.
Tuesday, June 03, 2008
Breathe in, breathe out...
At the very top of the list of things that I never want to experience again is listening helplessly to violence involving a loved one from the other end of a cell phone call. Friends out on a boisterous night on the town, yelling at a passing car that almost runs them down, car stops, words exchanged, the sound of blows to the head, a quick good bye and brief assurances that all was well. And it all will be fine and they are probably laughing about the altercation right now, amped up on booze and adrenaline; I'm sure I would be.
But I'm helpless on the otherside of the world, too far from the situation to be able to laugh at it, with far too vivid an imagination, particularly for doomsday scenarios and snowballing calamities, to just let it be something that has concluded and relax about it. Listening to violence in realtime... I've got mother hen and big brother instincts from hell. I don't particularly worry about threats to my person; every concern I've ever had about personal physical violation is fossilized in the protection of a bowl, a cup, and a cactus (yes, crazy, but it works for me), but when it comes to others it is a whole different ball game.
I'd repeat my New Orleans hostage situation again without hesitation if I had to choose between that and this again.
This certainly isn't the most riveting subject matter for a blog, but at the moment this is the extent of what I can do, which may work only to amplify my feelings of helplessness but I've got to do something to try to talk this oncoming panic attack out of existence.
breathe...
breathe...
breathe...
But I'm helpless on the otherside of the world, too far from the situation to be able to laugh at it, with far too vivid an imagination, particularly for doomsday scenarios and snowballing calamities, to just let it be something that has concluded and relax about it. Listening to violence in realtime... I've got mother hen and big brother instincts from hell. I don't particularly worry about threats to my person; every concern I've ever had about personal physical violation is fossilized in the protection of a bowl, a cup, and a cactus (yes, crazy, but it works for me), but when it comes to others it is a whole different ball game.
I'd repeat my New Orleans hostage situation again without hesitation if I had to choose between that and this again.
This certainly isn't the most riveting subject matter for a blog, but at the moment this is the extent of what I can do, which may work only to amplify my feelings of helplessness but I've got to do something to try to talk this oncoming panic attack out of existence.
breathe...
breathe...
breathe...
Tuesday, May 13, 2008
today is special...
I've probably gotten the date wrong, but this is the date my brain settles on when I try to remember when the world got brighter and I learned to smile again. The world is so amazing and brilliant, with all the ripples and convolutions and absurdity. I forgot that for a while; I'll never forget it again. Everything hasn't been perfect for me since then and I didn't suddenly start believing that the world was perfect or ever would be, but suddenly that was ok. I didn't need everything in its place, I just needed to know that someone out there could look at me like that, that I could feel so...much. Good/bad, all of it sparkling and glowing but rotten and smudged too. The world chose me and someone reminded me how to be fully involved in it again, for better or worse and full-steam ahead. Today I am somewhere in the middle of the ocean, probably a little seasick and miserable (this was written before my departure), but looking at all that I can and can't understand and loving it all. Cheesy and silly, yup, but sometimes I am.
I saw a smile today some blurred number of years ago and I smiled back. I've been smiling ever since.
Celebrate something today, anything and everything. Today is special.
I saw a smile today some blurred number of years ago and I smiled back. I've been smiling ever since.
Celebrate something today, anything and everything. Today is special.
Saturday, April 26, 2008
It's the little things...
I'm always blabbing about how the movie selection at sea is completely nonsensical. Which, of course, is not a complaint. Today one of the crew was letting me look through a collection of dvd's that he had with him and he explained that he had watched most of his dvd's a thousand times so he had borrowed his kids' collection. I thought this was great, since I'm a total sucker for kid's movies and can't wait to watch Chicken Little and Open Season sometime, but today I settled on Zoom: Academy for Superheroes.
Why not? I really didn't know anything about it except that it was big budget, so it should have good special effects and it has Tim Allen in it, so it shouldn't take itself too seriously. And I like super hero flicks and kids-kicking-ass movies are always the best. If you don't expect too much and just want to be entertained, this kind of thing can be perfect.
And really, based on the criteria that I just laid out, it was perfect. Special effects were spot on, the visual presentation was great, the story silly but you could roll with it, the movie made fun of itself and was slap-stick goofy. I really wanted to just like it, just enjoy the schlocky comic-ness of it, but a couple of things stuck in my craw and just ruined the whole damn thing (ok, didn't ruin it all, I still enjoyed it, but pissed me off enough that I'm sitting here tapping away about it).
It is always the little details that fuck things up. Just a couple of slightly different changes and it wouldn't have left any bad taste in my mouth. The one that was the tipping point is a stupid one; I'll concede that right here at the beginning. The whole schtick of the movie is there are these sort of weirdo outcast kids who have special powers who are brought together by the military to turn into this super team. One of the team members is the requisite hot redhead with psychic powers. You'd think I'm getting in a huff because this is such a blatant Jean Grey rip-off, but no, I just let that go. Cheesy "let's throw together a super team" movies are always ripping off classic comic heroes. It happens. But to introduce her to us, they show a scene in high school where the cheerleaders are treating her like shit and she makes the cafeteria food attack them, so all in all a completely satisfying scene. For the record, I don't hate cheerleaders, kind of actually love that they exist and plan on watching the Bring It On sequel that is in this same movie collection, but we all knew some cheerleaders who were straight-up bitches and who deserved more than anything to have cafeteria food explode all over them. So anyway, I like this girl from the start. The actress playing her is so unbelievably beautiful, but in a quiet kind of way and she plays the character well.
So everything goes great and they win (suprise!) and they have a stupid back to their daily life sequence. This was painful and idiotic enough as these things inherently are, but, aside from the little princess girl's bit which was kind of cute and didn't make you hate the director, the rest of them were nothing except cringe-inducing. Part of what made them so obnoxious is how they were obviously supposed to show how these outcast kids were now socialized and included and celebrated by their families and peers. Don't they get that we liked the kids because they were outcasts and weirdos? Show that they've learned to deal with their differences, but don't put the fat kid on a soccer team and DON'T DON'T DON'T turn the hot redheaded outcast into a fucking cheerleader!!!! Again, I have nothing against cheerleaders as a whole though I will concede that as a rule teenage girls who become cheerleaders tend towards the dark side. But high school is a dark time, we all tended towards the dark side in our own little ways back then. I just don't want my cheesy fun movies to feed up evil cheerleader nightmare bitches as the foil to the cool outcast that they treat like dirt and then after showing me how likable and fun she is and giving her super powers to show me an after-the-adventure sequence about how she is now using her superpowers as a cheerleader!!!! Let her and her hot super boyfriend be all cute and obnoxious teen-lovebirdy but don't turn her into the evil thing you started out pitting her as different from. Look, she'll show those bitches; oh look, now she is one. Good job, geniuses.
So I warned you that this was something stupid to get pissed off about, but I'm blogging about it. Blogging is all about petty rages over things that are too stupid to actually discuss in real life (though had I watched this movie with my friends instead of here in solitary confinement, I'd be having this conversation in realtime, but we can pretend like I am socially savvy enough to not waste actual quality time on such petty complaints). The second major complaint is perhaps a little more cogent.
So they assembled this super team and they bring them in and decide to have this stupid try-out bit. The whole try-out thing was dumb to start with since they had already shown us little a-day-in-the-life sequences for each of the ones who would be picked so it wasn't like we didn't already know who the super heroes were going to be. Still, it was kind of funny so I can't really hate on it being in the movie. I can hate on their casting for it. I'm not Mr. Super-PC. I get exhausted by political correctness as much as the next guy, but you can pull your head out of your ass and show a little bit of sense when you cast for shit like this. I don't care that the whole team was white kids. Big fucking deal, not the only superhero movie and every silly film doesn't have to be an equal opportunity event, but if you are going to have a team of lily white kids, do you have to have the casting sequence where every person not picked for the team isn't white and has lame-ass super powers? I mean, come on. So you want to have a little American Idol moment so Tim Allen can play Simon to Courtney Cox's Paula (and Chevy Chase's Randy Jackson), fine. Ha ha, get some laughs with it. And you want to have a team that is all white kids, again, I don't care. Fine, do it, I liked the kids they cast for the parts. Just make all the lame kids white too. Or most of the lame kids white... or even one of them! Because when you make all the lame kids black/hispanic/asian/mixed and all the super kids white, I can't just enjoy my cheesy damn movie and instead have to think about racial politics and if that is really what I wanted to be doing I'd have been watching The Color Purple (ok, so if they had The Color Purple on this boat, I would so be watching it instead but you know what I mean). This isn't a real super hero movie, leave the racial metaphors for the X-Men, just make your Tim Allen feel-good family fun flick. Having lot's of people of color for extras doesn't make the movie racially sensitive, it makes it racially distracting. It doesn't make me furious or troubled, it just makes me think whoever did the casting for the extras is an idiot.
So anyway, should you watch the movie? If you are stuck on a boat in the middle of the pacific ocean, completely cut off from society and facing a limited number of movie options like moi, then I heartily recommend it. You'll love it and it will be a nice break from Steven Segal flicks. If you are in a movie store and could pick anything you want? You could do worse and if you have the stomach for kid action movies, you'll probably enjoy it. It is worth watching just for the little blonde girl with super strength's outfits and temper tantrums.
Why not? I really didn't know anything about it except that it was big budget, so it should have good special effects and it has Tim Allen in it, so it shouldn't take itself too seriously. And I like super hero flicks and kids-kicking-ass movies are always the best. If you don't expect too much and just want to be entertained, this kind of thing can be perfect.
And really, based on the criteria that I just laid out, it was perfect. Special effects were spot on, the visual presentation was great, the story silly but you could roll with it, the movie made fun of itself and was slap-stick goofy. I really wanted to just like it, just enjoy the schlocky comic-ness of it, but a couple of things stuck in my craw and just ruined the whole damn thing (ok, didn't ruin it all, I still enjoyed it, but pissed me off enough that I'm sitting here tapping away about it).
It is always the little details that fuck things up. Just a couple of slightly different changes and it wouldn't have left any bad taste in my mouth. The one that was the tipping point is a stupid one; I'll concede that right here at the beginning. The whole schtick of the movie is there are these sort of weirdo outcast kids who have special powers who are brought together by the military to turn into this super team. One of the team members is the requisite hot redhead with psychic powers. You'd think I'm getting in a huff because this is such a blatant Jean Grey rip-off, but no, I just let that go. Cheesy "let's throw together a super team" movies are always ripping off classic comic heroes. It happens. But to introduce her to us, they show a scene in high school where the cheerleaders are treating her like shit and she makes the cafeteria food attack them, so all in all a completely satisfying scene. For the record, I don't hate cheerleaders, kind of actually love that they exist and plan on watching the Bring It On sequel that is in this same movie collection, but we all knew some cheerleaders who were straight-up bitches and who deserved more than anything to have cafeteria food explode all over them. So anyway, I like this girl from the start. The actress playing her is so unbelievably beautiful, but in a quiet kind of way and she plays the character well.
So everything goes great and they win (suprise!) and they have a stupid back to their daily life sequence. This was painful and idiotic enough as these things inherently are, but, aside from the little princess girl's bit which was kind of cute and didn't make you hate the director, the rest of them were nothing except cringe-inducing. Part of what made them so obnoxious is how they were obviously supposed to show how these outcast kids were now socialized and included and celebrated by their families and peers. Don't they get that we liked the kids because they were outcasts and weirdos? Show that they've learned to deal with their differences, but don't put the fat kid on a soccer team and DON'T DON'T DON'T turn the hot redheaded outcast into a fucking cheerleader!!!! Again, I have nothing against cheerleaders as a whole though I will concede that as a rule teenage girls who become cheerleaders tend towards the dark side. But high school is a dark time, we all tended towards the dark side in our own little ways back then. I just don't want my cheesy fun movies to feed up evil cheerleader nightmare bitches as the foil to the cool outcast that they treat like dirt and then after showing me how likable and fun she is and giving her super powers to show me an after-the-adventure sequence about how she is now using her superpowers as a cheerleader!!!! Let her and her hot super boyfriend be all cute and obnoxious teen-lovebirdy but don't turn her into the evil thing you started out pitting her as different from. Look, she'll show those bitches; oh look, now she is one. Good job, geniuses.
So I warned you that this was something stupid to get pissed off about, but I'm blogging about it. Blogging is all about petty rages over things that are too stupid to actually discuss in real life (though had I watched this movie with my friends instead of here in solitary confinement, I'd be having this conversation in realtime, but we can pretend like I am socially savvy enough to not waste actual quality time on such petty complaints). The second major complaint is perhaps a little more cogent.
So they assembled this super team and they bring them in and decide to have this stupid try-out bit. The whole try-out thing was dumb to start with since they had already shown us little a-day-in-the-life sequences for each of the ones who would be picked so it wasn't like we didn't already know who the super heroes were going to be. Still, it was kind of funny so I can't really hate on it being in the movie. I can hate on their casting for it. I'm not Mr. Super-PC. I get exhausted by political correctness as much as the next guy, but you can pull your head out of your ass and show a little bit of sense when you cast for shit like this. I don't care that the whole team was white kids. Big fucking deal, not the only superhero movie and every silly film doesn't have to be an equal opportunity event, but if you are going to have a team of lily white kids, do you have to have the casting sequence where every person not picked for the team isn't white and has lame-ass super powers? I mean, come on. So you want to have a little American Idol moment so Tim Allen can play Simon to Courtney Cox's Paula (and Chevy Chase's Randy Jackson), fine. Ha ha, get some laughs with it. And you want to have a team that is all white kids, again, I don't care. Fine, do it, I liked the kids they cast for the parts. Just make all the lame kids white too. Or most of the lame kids white... or even one of them! Because when you make all the lame kids black/hispanic/asian/mixed and all the super kids white, I can't just enjoy my cheesy damn movie and instead have to think about racial politics and if that is really what I wanted to be doing I'd have been watching The Color Purple (ok, so if they had The Color Purple on this boat, I would so be watching it instead but you know what I mean). This isn't a real super hero movie, leave the racial metaphors for the X-Men, just make your Tim Allen feel-good family fun flick. Having lot's of people of color for extras doesn't make the movie racially sensitive, it makes it racially distracting. It doesn't make me furious or troubled, it just makes me think whoever did the casting for the extras is an idiot.
So anyway, should you watch the movie? If you are stuck on a boat in the middle of the pacific ocean, completely cut off from society and facing a limited number of movie options like moi, then I heartily recommend it. You'll love it and it will be a nice break from Steven Segal flicks. If you are in a movie store and could pick anything you want? You could do worse and if you have the stomach for kid action movies, you'll probably enjoy it. It is worth watching just for the little blonde girl with super strength's outfits and temper tantrums.
blue magic
I've seen blue
eyes like that
before
they were also
yours: you looked
back
before turning to
walk away from
me
in the morning
sun they cast
spells
that i now
find I'm still
under
eyes like that
before
they were also
yours: you looked
back
before turning to
walk away from
me
in the morning
sun they cast
spells
that i now
find I'm still
under
A hunting we will go...
"But I feel like I shouldn't be reading this book. Well, not like I shouldn't be reading it, but like you should be reading it." Ben says this to me a couple of days before I head out to sea for this most recent trip while telling me about how beautiful The Heart is a Lonely Hunter is, which he was then reading. I've bought the book several times when I've come across it at used book stores, always intending to read it but never getting around to it. Of course these various copies are scattered across states and various places, so when my friend Ian who had been sick wanted to go to Barnes & Noble to escape his apartment, I jumped and was determined to find a copy for this trip. In bookstores I turn into a weird beast who easily loses all sense and is tugged from one book to another and lost in a trance, so when I staggered to the counter laden with books, Carson McCullers wasn't with me.
And she wouldn't have been with me on this trip, but sometimes a thing's time has come and even my absent-minded stumbling and procrastination can't keep it from happening. On a whim I stopped in this bizarre Japanese import store they have in the mall, which I've only ever gone in before for the inexpensive electronics but as I was leaving I noticed they have a book section. Mostly Japanese titles but there was also a substantial section of books in English, most of which were only a dollar! I started casually perusing and noticed that there were some good books and suddenly remembered The Heart is a Lonely Hunter and bam! Only one copy, but they had it for a buck. Having a funny feeling while looking through the cd section next to the books, I picked up a Reba cd which naturally was the one containing the song of the same title. Personalized recommendation, song, and hard copy in hand there was no way around this book except right through the middle.
I'd bought so many copies of it because I liked the title. This is largely also why I kept not reading it: fear that the book would kill the title. Maybe that sounds silly or just ridiculous, but some titles hit me and make some vague impression about what the book the describe should be like. Not a clear feeling or some ghost outline of story, but just leave an impression and something in me worries that if the book's impression and the title's impression don't feel the same that it would be somehow disconcerting. I know this is crazy and it is mostly subconscious but certain books I feel like I have to have a reason to pick them up to get over this hump and this was certainly one of them. If someone telling you as they read a book that they feel vaguely like they are cheating because you are the person who should be reading it can't get you to pick up a book nothing will. So I did.
And I have no idea what to say. Wow. There is so much that could be written about this book. The cross section of the characters. The running theme of messianic projection or of the blurring of gender and racial distinctions contrasted against the community/individual enforcement of black and white interpretations of each. I hope to dig deeper into the different subtleties when I've got more time and be objective and not personalize the story or its impact so much, but I'll need a little time. Partially because there is the sorting out of what was meant when I was told that I should be reading this book. In a way that totally makes sense and I immediately understood and further understand having read the book, but like the impressions certain titles make on me, the understanding is subconscious and it would make less and less sense to me if I tried to articulate it right now.
But largely I've just got to deal with this book the way I have to deal with any decent Southern writer. Every time I read Faulkner I'm blown away by his writing and feel like my head has been both beaten up and revived. Emotions flood back and I'm populated by feelings that come at me like they are out of a different lifetime and from a different person, and in a way are. This is not to compare McCullers to Faulkner. They are very different writers, but they write in the same emotional landscape and it is the same landscape that I grew up in. So in a way I can't read these stories without asking which character I could have ended up like if I hadn't escaped (that is the right word and not meant in a strictly geographic sense). Few of these characters ever escape.
And she wouldn't have been with me on this trip, but sometimes a thing's time has come and even my absent-minded stumbling and procrastination can't keep it from happening. On a whim I stopped in this bizarre Japanese import store they have in the mall, which I've only ever gone in before for the inexpensive electronics but as I was leaving I noticed they have a book section. Mostly Japanese titles but there was also a substantial section of books in English, most of which were only a dollar! I started casually perusing and noticed that there were some good books and suddenly remembered The Heart is a Lonely Hunter and bam! Only one copy, but they had it for a buck. Having a funny feeling while looking through the cd section next to the books, I picked up a Reba cd which naturally was the one containing the song of the same title. Personalized recommendation, song, and hard copy in hand there was no way around this book except right through the middle.
I'd bought so many copies of it because I liked the title. This is largely also why I kept not reading it: fear that the book would kill the title. Maybe that sounds silly or just ridiculous, but some titles hit me and make some vague impression about what the book the describe should be like. Not a clear feeling or some ghost outline of story, but just leave an impression and something in me worries that if the book's impression and the title's impression don't feel the same that it would be somehow disconcerting. I know this is crazy and it is mostly subconscious but certain books I feel like I have to have a reason to pick them up to get over this hump and this was certainly one of them. If someone telling you as they read a book that they feel vaguely like they are cheating because you are the person who should be reading it can't get you to pick up a book nothing will. So I did.
And I have no idea what to say. Wow. There is so much that could be written about this book. The cross section of the characters. The running theme of messianic projection or of the blurring of gender and racial distinctions contrasted against the community/individual enforcement of black and white interpretations of each. I hope to dig deeper into the different subtleties when I've got more time and be objective and not personalize the story or its impact so much, but I'll need a little time. Partially because there is the sorting out of what was meant when I was told that I should be reading this book. In a way that totally makes sense and I immediately understood and further understand having read the book, but like the impressions certain titles make on me, the understanding is subconscious and it would make less and less sense to me if I tried to articulate it right now.
But largely I've just got to deal with this book the way I have to deal with any decent Southern writer. Every time I read Faulkner I'm blown away by his writing and feel like my head has been both beaten up and revived. Emotions flood back and I'm populated by feelings that come at me like they are out of a different lifetime and from a different person, and in a way are. This is not to compare McCullers to Faulkner. They are very different writers, but they write in the same emotional landscape and it is the same landscape that I grew up in. So in a way I can't read these stories without asking which character I could have ended up like if I hadn't escaped (that is the right word and not meant in a strictly geographic sense). Few of these characters ever escape.
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