Moving -
at a great height,
at all times:
threadbare,
rapunzelled -
too many variables,
too much sheath,
no sword:
i can't lie
though you will and do,
by the by:
i always run from the other shoe
ill seek knowledge of the gods
and burn at my own hand
my mind stalks my heart
in an empty brown school-bus,
watches it undress
staring, jeering
20090427
20090420
i can't help it:
i hateyou us all.
you've we've done as much as a beaten child
but less than theproverbial hypothetical scorned
pillows and blankets and
baskets and chalices and -
funeral laughter - cackling,
like Mephistopheles' fire, crackling
skin so thick to inspire
a tree trunk's envy
o, cold and forsaken sensitivity:
how does the seed bring the rain
and laugh in doubt's face?
but these are mystical questions
i have no need for them
a bayonet pen to my throat -
and all of humanity watching
watching. they do
"do" - in their own way.
but, also, all over
all art and science,
all that is worthy of Man.
She sobs, testifying
in a shrouded, dank courtroom begging,
her killers,
however powerful,
no matter their entrenchment and multiplicity:
be
put
down.
i hate
but less than the
pillows and blankets and
baskets and chalices and -
funeral laughter - cackling,
like Mephistopheles' fire, crackling
skin so thick to inspire
a tree trunk's envy
o, cold and forsaken sensitivity:
how does the seed bring the rain
and laugh in doubt's face?
but these are mystical questions
i have no need for them
a bayonet pen to my throat -
and all of humanity watching
watching. they do
"do" - in their own way.
but, also, all over
all art and science,
all that is worthy of Man.
She sobs, testifying
in a shrouded, dank courtroom begging,
her killers,
however powerful,
no matter their entrenchment and multiplicity:
be
put
down.
20090414
groping at the mirror
like an infant towards anything
or an
epiphanic horizon-hating helio:
i wonder why i
don't remember my dreams --
vacuous black snowflakes:
o, will i ever catch their nothingness?
these palpable privations tumble downward
visible only to my
unpryable third eye.
i don't look anymore,
but sometimes
some Me
somewhere
- I'm not in the loop -
will show home movies
of his dream realities
and remnants will reach this
cogito's city limits:
terrifyingly earnest and pure,
my breached forgetfulness
puts happiness on a milk carton
like an infant towards anything
or an
epiphanic horizon-hating helio:
i wonder why i
don't remember my dreams --
vacuous black snowflakes:
o, will i ever catch their nothingness?
these palpable privations tumble downward
visible only to my
unpryable third eye.
i don't look anymore,
but sometimes
some Me
somewhere
- I'm not in the loop -
will show home movies
of his dream realities
and remnants will reach this
cogito's city limits:
terrifyingly earnest and pure,
my breached forgetfulness
puts happiness on a milk carton
descartes' evil god lives within
me.
it has written, edited and
re-written the book on me.
he is a contrarian:
for happiness is not sought,
but, rather,
the greatest possible sorrow
for the ever singular Me of tomorrow.
and i am most certainly to blame.
i know the location of every empty throne
and that these moments pass
for which i can never atone.
it's not that i
dont know where my interests lie;
i'm a master theorist:
my chair's arm is scalding.
but a philosophy is primally a thought
disconnected from action
by a wide emotional chasm.
i disagree with philosophers
that will look to their peers
for human nature:
all that's there is us,
no human being as such,
only the hands of our time and place,
like Jesus' Anglicized face.
me.
it has written, edited and
re-written the book on me.
he is a contrarian:
for happiness is not sought,
but, rather,
the greatest possible sorrow
for the ever singular Me of tomorrow.
and i am most certainly to blame.
i know the location of every empty throne
and that these moments pass
for which i can never atone.
it's not that i
dont know where my interests lie;
i'm a master theorist:
my chair's arm is scalding.
but a philosophy is primally a thought
disconnected from action
by a wide emotional chasm.
i disagree with philosophers
that will look to their peers
for human nature:
all that's there is us,
no human being as such,
only the hands of our time and place,
like Jesus' Anglicized face.
20090409
"when i think
that i can't blink
without writing:
nothing happens.
the meaning-stuffed-mind
sits satiated
upon its toilet-throne -
erm, chair
- in consternation
linguistically, neurally, constipated:
where's the _________ fiber?
so that my feelings may pass
so that i may feel the cleanliness and solitude
of an enematic colon.
alas -
more marination needed
more time for the parts of my whole
to write their reports,
talk to witnesses -
or: more time.
just: more time."
"NO!
we must choose -
whether sedentary, on a paved road or
with a machete in the brush.
And so it is with my salty blue pen and blood-lined paper:
I can't control that
I can't write when
I think I should.
But I can accept it,
Waiting for release,
Enjoying the suffering,
That only precedes meaning."
"No,
We can."
that i can't blink
without writing:
nothing happens.
the meaning-stuffed-mind
sits satiated
upon its toilet-throne -
erm, chair
- in consternation
linguistically, neurally, constipated:
where's the _________ fiber?
so that my feelings may pass
so that i may feel the cleanliness and solitude
of an enematic colon.
alas -
more marination needed
more time for the parts of my whole
to write their reports,
talk to witnesses -
or: more time.
just: more time."
"what is the sheer passage of time
but the heroic villain,
the will to ignorance?"
but the heroic villain,
the will to ignorance?"
"NO!
we must choose -
whether sedentary, on a paved road or
with a machete in the brush.
And so it is with my salty blue pen and blood-lined paper:
I can't control that
I can't write when
I think I should.
But I can accept it,
Waiting for release,
Enjoying the suffering,
That only precedes meaning."
"... "
"No,
We can."
20090405
20090404
i'm not a man for all seasons:
springs and summers are bottoms up
even falls mostly enthrall;
but winters have long, spitefully introspective youths:
terribly meaningful brief bursts of
awareness,
acceptance,
immediately preceding paradigmatic shifts;
but this:
winter-but-not-winter,
spring-but-not-spring,
fall-but-not-fall,
this clipped wing, peg-legged sprinter,
modernity,
where our mental bris stays for dessert
until we look down and see curly hairs
where:
instinct's under quarantine and observation:
for fear
their superiority is originarily arbitrary,
their morphogenesis obsequious,
their self materially, annoyingly, inchoate;
it strangles everything natural
in favor of artificial nothingness.
relativity frightens,
absolutes somnambulate
springs and summers are bottoms up
even falls mostly enthrall;
but winters have long, spitefully introspective youths:
terribly meaningful brief bursts of
awareness,
acceptance,
immediately preceding paradigmatic shifts;
but this:
winter-but-not-winter,
spring-but-not-spring,
fall-but-not-fall,
this clipped wing, peg-legged sprinter,
modernity,
where our mental bris stays for dessert
until we look down and see curly hairs
where:
instinct's under quarantine and observation:
for fear
their superiority is originarily arbitrary,
their morphogenesis obsequious,
their self materially, annoyingly, inchoate;
it strangles everything natural
in favor of artificial nothingness.
relativity frightens,
absolutes somnambulate
20090322
unconnected dots may soon lie dormant
is meaning's ambulance enough?enough to squash and splatter
the now disparate back together again?my mind is the intricate lattice of
intersecting tree branches:each rising from its trunk, its mother
each lying to me: for they never, ever touch- but my thoughts do -
they:
fornicate like romans and
teach like the greeks, buttheir halcyon dreams will die in utero,
for they are:
American:
They know not how to choose:
(which is to say: what)
They do not do.
(which is to say: dead)
20090314
you cant fall in love with every pretty girl you meet:
a voice that runs marathons through tires
and a microwave smile;
Or, induces insanity-infused storytelling at the
FIRST IMPRESSION,
nuking my lamb shank-heart;
Whilst holding
the heavily foot trafficked
street corner's
street bum's sign:
Will Be Honest/Weird For (soul) Food
like a Doubting Thomas begging,
begging
that:
you might string a supple sentence:
there's something sexual surfacing
inside my mind as your word play spins normatively.
eye up their incorporeality
just past your nose
- in between us.
spit those language loogies sincerely
and:
i may forget beauty ends me.
i may remember.
i may remember i ripple the water
so that i may forget not remembering.
must find actualizing, not paralyzing:
a voice that runs marathons through tires
and a microwave smile;
Or, induces insanity-infused storytelling at the
FIRST IMPRESSION,
nuking my lamb shank-heart;
Whilst holding
the heavily foot trafficked
street corner's
street bum's sign:
Will Be Honest/Weird For (soul) Food
like a Doubting Thomas begging,
begging
that:
you might string a supple sentence:
there's something sexual surfacing
inside my mind as your word play spins normatively.
eye up their incorporeality
just past your nose
- in between us.
spit those language loogies sincerely
and:
i may forget beauty ends me.
i may remember.
i may remember i ripple the water
so that i may forget not remembering.
must find actualizing, not paralyzing:
my dreams, my ideals
leave me a motherless white elephant,
contextless
without hands that live in iceboxes
leave me a motherless white elephant,
contextless
without hands that live in iceboxes
20090312
i knew a girl once that
fervently walked the plank:
self-constructed outta
gold and plutonium
- but mostly guilt.
she'd look in the mirror
with lust, towards divinity.
and then whip the knife out:
slandering, plunging deep, and
no longer strung out.
it hurts so good
to own it -
to not die but whither
under sky blue skies.
there is ambiguity and there is idiocy..
heavy and light -
i fought for the right
that you might freely choose me:
put away the stencil,
grab the brush and paint
acceptance and change
theres a time, place.
if everything is perfect,
where is meaning?
you must be dead.
so she'll lie and lie
loving, learning, growing, peachy
check, check, check, check, she'll intone
but then she'll write by the thousands,
salty, stomach-descending poems
her guy's nothing special,
but that barely stated implication
makes him the mythologized High School Jordan,
lends him the principle with some heavy juice.
someone will pay that debt.
and she'll look in the mirror,
yearning brown eyes with rls,
but she won't stretch or take her pills:
obligation, self-loathing, or a dancing dick?
she's not here, not there and never will be.
fervently walked the plank:
self-constructed outta
gold and plutonium
- but mostly guilt.
she'd look in the mirror
with lust, towards divinity.
and then whip the knife out:
slandering, plunging deep, and
no longer strung out.
it hurts so good
to own it -
to not die but whither
under sky blue skies.
there is ambiguity and there is idiocy..
heavy and light -
i fought for the right
that you might freely choose me:
put away the stencil,
grab the brush and paint
acceptance and change
theres a time, place.
if everything is perfect,
where is meaning?
you must be dead.
so she'll lie and lie
loving, learning, growing, peachy
check, check, check, check, she'll intone
but then she'll write by the thousands,
salty, stomach-descending poems
her guy's nothing special,
but that barely stated implication
makes him the mythologized High School Jordan,
lends him the principle with some heavy juice.
someone will pay that debt.
and she'll look in the mirror,
yearning brown eyes with rls,
but she won't stretch or take her pills:
obligation, self-loathing, or a dancing dick?
she's not here, not there and never will be.
20090305
the wandering warbling warty warrior wears
silencing self-snapped shackles
bloody burnt toast crumbs adorn her lips
- she gulps ominously.
silencing self-snapped shackles
bloody burnt toast crumbs adorn her lips
- she gulps ominously.
there's no god but us
we judge
we create
we subjugate
we die empty or full
so just try
don't you hear yourself cry
or remember your forgetfulness?
how long is your pillow dry?
long enough, i guess
when the static becomes the swamp
in suffocatingly muggy despair of
knowing self-sabotage:
isn't it time?
isn't it time?
and when the swamp comes not just
bimonthly but biweekly and
parks itself in your groove
puts it feet on your ottoman
smiling at the slaughters you won't remember
the pieces you won't fit together
though they hover,
nearly colliding:
passionate but glancing blows
you swerve right into the swamp's nuzzle
we judge
we create
we subjugate
we die empty or full
so just try
don't you hear yourself cry
or remember your forgetfulness?
how long is your pillow dry?
long enough, i guess
when the static becomes the swamp
in suffocatingly muggy despair of
knowing self-sabotage:
isn't it time?
isn't it time?
and when the swamp comes not just
bimonthly but biweekly and
parks itself in your groove
puts it feet on your ottoman
smiling at the slaughters you won't remember
the pieces you won't fit together
though they hover,
nearly colliding:
passionate but glancing blows
you swerve right into the swamp's nuzzle
i walk around
the Universe in my pocket
your memory just waiting
to expand into longing
creating worlds i can't bear to see anymore
but it doesn't matter:
my weeping wounded heart is a compulsive elephant:
cinematographer, editor, director, writer of
the best and worst film ever.
the Universe in my pocket
your memory just waiting
to expand into longing
creating worlds i can't bear to see anymore
but it doesn't matter:
my weeping wounded heart is a compulsive elephant:
cinematographer, editor, director, writer of
the best and worst film ever.
20090127
20090117
remember the promise as a kid you made
the singer offers
but that kid's eyes aren't fearful like mine
ive plumbed my coffers
for a shred of him
but the light from those moments
hasn't reached my planet yet
i can't see
what allowed him to be
and why this curtain follows me
how he could see so clearly
that The Good Life needs
ignorance:
a precisely willed hand full of tar
blacking out the inane,
the Not Worth Your Time, Buddy
so that light may reach the sun-starved people
who each can see the forest for the trees
but cant look at a
beautiful
little
leaf
glistening with dew
with chemical potential
with us
the singer offers
but that kid's eyes aren't fearful like mine
ive plumbed my coffers
for a shred of him
but the light from those moments
hasn't reached my planet yet
i can't see
what allowed him to be
and why this curtain follows me
how he could see so clearly
that The Good Life needs
ignorance:
a precisely willed hand full of tar
blacking out the inane,
the Not Worth Your Time, Buddy
so that light may reach the sun-starved people
who each can see the forest for the trees
but cant look at a
beautiful
little
leaf
glistening with dew
with chemical potential
with us
Finding My Own Art
[no vacancy sign in the wilderness
the woods are filled to the hilt
with vermin and wolves and deer and badgers
and me
i'm bitter
a breathing Beast Ice
i'm bitter
i'm bitter
i'm bitter
i'm
people:
look up at towers in full orange ball of fury blaze
smiling
watching their world disintegrate
ashes litter their hair
but they see a child's glitter
their breathing st-
the woods are filled to the hilt
with vermin and wolves and deer and badgers
and me
i'm bitter
a breathing Beast Ice
i'm bitter
i'm bitter
i'm bitter
i'm
(alone)]
people:
look up at towers in full orange ball of fury blaze
smiling
watching their world disintegrate
ashes litter their hair
but they see a child's glitter
their breathing st-
20090109
The End of Shot Clocks (and The Beginning of Injury Time); Or, Contemplations in Surmounting the High School of Human Evolution; Or, Utopia (Really?)
[Two Short Remarks
(One) Each occurrence of "(silence)" represents ~5 seconds passing.
(Two) In place of objective instructions for actors to follow to the letter, there are more subjective, emotional templates.]
EXT. SKY AFTERNOON; June 24, 2007
the blazing sun.
Broken Social Scene's Hotel (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vxgJKhrG3N0)
But from Earth and daytime. And just cut off,just a bit of sky exposed in the screen's four corners.
It is on the screen for approximately 3-4 seconds.
A massive cloud like a freight liner to those lost at sea, juts into view. it shields but also obscures.
we work our way down, out of the clouds, and into the city.
EXT. CITY - AFTERNOON
About 50 feet up, descending on a busy intersection in a commercial epicenter with stores, restaurants, and offices. there is a steady stream in all directions. slowly make our way to our guy. he is stoic. nothing particularly distinguishable from his face, except the complete and utter lack of expression. not sad, not bored but impassive. he does not stare straight-ahead. he glances at people, takes them in, but there is no facial acknowledgment of this and especially no indication of his thoughts.
the steady stream is composed of your standard city fare: men and women in dark suits with briefcases; tight jeaned, sweater wearing hipsters; anonymous college kids with backpacks, iPods, and flip flops; a dude screaming on his blue tooth; a couple arguing; two young men having a very intense but civil conversation; and homeless people begging. one homeless woman who wears such agony that it pains to imagine not only the infrequency with which she must smile, but the bare fact that this very same face could possibly smile. and had smiled many times. perhaps under these very same conditions..the same squalor that on this occasion leads to her despair.
there's people in freshly cleaned aprons, aboard white button down shirts/green polos and black pants, handing out flyer-coupons in complete earnestness outside restaurants. neither self-loathing nor ignorant, they simply work and do their best because they must.
He stays on the same street, walking. everyone from the once mass, diverges at different points, slowly dissipating in correspondence with the exit of what was a popular, commercial downtown area. he is stoic. nothing particularly distinguishable from his face, except the complete and utter lack of expression. not sad, not bored.
He passes a little park area that is a part of a larger park containing running paths and lies up against a sea. There’s a girl sitting, reading and smoking a cigarette. She is reading The Ethics of Ambiguity by Simone de Beauvoir. She has a red pen in her hair. She does not move her head, or even appear to be moving her eyes, though we are not close enough to know for certain. She does not look up or appear to notice as he approaches. Eyes go to cigarette as he advances, then horizontally to the other hand holding the book: feels pocket, no cigarettes, looks back to the girl (book , face, cigarette), breaks her plane slightly and pulls back as if on a fishing rod's hook. Sheepishly, he looks back, pulls out his headphones (bss' hotel stops), and asks for cigarette. Camera is back, 15 feet up to the rear of girl's seat, back and to the left.
Boy: "Hey... Can I bum one of those?"
(silence: she doesn't respond right away. she does not look up until a moment after he finishes)
Girl: "Hello. (pause) A book or a cigarette?" (demonstrates the options in each hand)
B: (laugh) "A cigarette."
(she hands him one. he lingers post-lighting, smiles, looks at her. she is looking at him looking at her. he looks down and away, then tears himself back to her.)
B: "Hi."
G: "Hi. (bemusement of 1/8'' grin)
B: “H-…”
(camera: front, zoom to her)
G: "Ok. I think we've covered greetings already. Is that all you've got? Are you going to stand there and say 'Hi' to me?"
B: "Well. No. hopefully, no. i just can't decide what I want to say next."
G: "Oh."
B: "Yeah." (he has the body movement of someone imaginarily kicking imaginary dirt)
G: "What's the first thing that came to mind?
B: "Heh...Yeah...To be honest (looks her over, beat): I don't know...."
G: "You just say 'Hi' and begin speaking without having any idea where you’re headed. Weird."
B: yes i had no idea where I was going and yes I think it’s weird too."
G: "Why do you think it's weird?"
B: "Because this happens all the time."
G: "Well...if it happens all the time, then why is it weird??"
B: "This is the best it's ever gone."
G: "Oh."
(silence)
(silence)
(silence)
(silence)
B: "It was…the sound of your voice." (complete earnestness, sincerity to overcome the natural cheesiness it would be easy for a part of the self to criticize, as if he needed the extra wind from the large exhale to propel himself to finish the sentence, or like a diver taking a deep breath before going under)
(unembarrassed and neither comfortable nor uncomfortable; she looks at him, he's looking out somewhere slightly to the left of her, as if in a waiting room. two evaluative but stoic expressions and then the moment she finds his eyes, she laughs like a child at play. but a furrow reaches her brow.)
G: (perplexed, bemused amusement) “What was?”
B: "The first thing that came to my mind...(she looks quizzical) I don't mean a singing voice or something. Haha. I haven't heard you singing in the shower..."
G: "I hope not."
B: " (half-laugh: the kernel of real confidence. he takes the final drag, stamps it out, and exhales as he speaks) Yeah, that'd be a bad way to start off a conversation: "Hey, you didn't know me prior to 60 seconds ago, but I heard you singing in the shower and you have a really gorgeous soprano."
(laughter on his part, a 1/5'' smile; she smiles, more re: him than the "joke")
(silence)
(silence)
(silence)
(silence)
(she puts her book in her bag and stands up. he remains seated. he is uncertain if the conversation is over. she pulls out her pack of cigarettes and offers him another one which he accepts. she lights both cigarettes and begins walking. he walks beside her. )
(silence)
(silence)
G: (this has an almost soliliquoy feel. tho, she acknowledges his presence intermittently, she mainly looks Around, not directly at him. he is rapt. his eyes smiling the smile his mouth and brow cannot yet form.) I've always been uncomfortable with this infatuation with a woman's physical beauty. It's such an empty compliment really. What part did I play in my looks? Very little...I can maintain...I can style...put on makeup...wear fashionable, flattering clothes, but how much do my.... customizations.. really matter? We’re glorified janitors, in all honesty. no artist: more like a restorer. at best. And the real object of the compliment is something I had nothing to do with! I'm just dabbling on nature's canvas! it's pure luck..
(large cigarette drag, the collection of thoughts and the regathering of an ethusiasm that sputtered out from post-conclusion stress disorder)
They might as well say just that...: ‘what luck you had to stumble upon some facial symmetry, a nice skin tone and hair color ... and a lack of disfigurement (?!): (robotically) this set of features pleases me.’ I'd appreciate that a lot more than a standard (drawled) "You sure are beautiful, missy." Or at the very least show me some creativity if you're gonna focus on something that isnt really the result of me. I mean, a good metaphor or four would be just fine. But, "ya know, you're beautiful" is just...sad. I don't want it. So, I guess what im saying...is..thanks. thanks for not being trite. you and your voice compliment. (chuckles, almost to herself, looks down, then immediately looks at him with concentration.)
B: (sincerely, he's profoundly affected) "you're welcome."
(maintains look out towards X, not him. He is matter of fact. not without emotion but not exuberant per se; as though realizing something which is known to be new but feels so familiar and right that it is perceived as anything but new. He maintains his look outward, completely at ease. no desire to sneak glimpses commissioned by his long-term memory, no fear of never seeing her again. he is able to see her only how and what she is this instant.)
(silence.)
(silence.)
G: (looks to him) "I haven't been that honest with anyone, given from my core being since...i can remember, since i knew i had a core being. since i knew i could choose.
(silence)
And to a “stranger." That's a weird thing to know. Now that I have accepted it...(no longer looking at him, looking out at water, deep exhale) But I guess I've always known it.
B: "Acceptance is good."
G: "It is."
(silence and they look at one another.)
(drunk on passion) People....they don't want it though. And it's just so much easier to give them what they want rather than what you think they need. Even if it is the acknowledged, Right Thing. even if it is the best thing for you...Why is Easy so dynastic?"
B: I'm not exactly sure either, but you're right. I know that much.
G: (grins) Well, that’s good.
B: (smiling, of course) It's probably as simple as it sounds. "Easy" is so pervasive...exactly because of itself - it's the simplest, least contingency-ridden option. Occam’s Razor. You know Occam?
G: (faux solemn) I do.
B: Oh...and its warm and fuzzy and snuggles close with you at night. Whispers in your ear that it’s the right choice while it’s jerking you off..(looks mildly apologetic for going “blue.”)
G: " (laughs) So, who are you, Mysterious Cigarette Bummer? You don't seem a full-on cynical misanthrope yet; are ya? What drags you out from underneath the covers?" (The girl recognizes one who has given themselves as fervently, with as much passion, even if it is in the complete opposite fashion, and against the current, thus, unsuccessfully.)
B: "Ha…Well… (looks to the sky, looks around, looks to her, obviously thinking, over a period of maybe 5 seconds…a tad bit of sheepishness) This."
G: "this?"
B: "Yes. This. Or... the possibility of this… talking with earnest girls who... don't hide who they are and... aren't afraid. of me, themselves..fate, chance.."
(She demurs. blushes. looks to the ground. raises eyes to his, who have not left her. She's uncertain and a heretofore barely seen version of the girl enters. She is sad and unsure. Like Annie Clark at 3:38 of this video ( http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1vxQs84FMWQ ). the whole thing is needed for context, but the look on her face as her eyes lower, break away from the shield, the absolute stare, and embraces the uncertainty of her suffering, of who she is.)
But that goes for men too, minus the romantic connotations. Earnestness, sincerity..autonomy (rights himself; at least in his own mind; tho it remains definitely up for debate whether or not either one is Off the Rail)
..sounds like some 'sweet guy line', but it's also the truth ("open" eyes/ raised brows)...so it's got that...(a
facial appeal of concurrence, as in: "Touche?? Eh? Eh? Eh?...")
(she gives ambiguous skepticism..he continues since he does not know if it was faux or genuine)
But really what motivates me, what keeps me out of the... dark recesses of depression and a life of solitude in the thick labyrinthine forest, is learning and loving...for the sake of themselves but not for sheer...accumulation of knowledge or massive adulation...or...as a means of anything else but it is my - and our - human essence to be conscious, reflect, reason, and love! to become, to become, and to become some more..leaving these impossibly private heavens behind!
(beat)
(zoom to him, from the shoulders up..blazing sun in background, partially obscured by his passionately vibrating head, partially blinding.)
..to feel happiness and suffering...laugh at our folly or wit... living every instant with as much fervor as the last, living for the sake of the best possible world, of the best possible me... and everyone else i know...and...interacting with friends and really anyone who cares about these things...that's my iron lung, my respirator for the day-to-day disappointments that must be endured...and rationalized...."
(enthusiasm undulating much like a plot diagram, crescendo at the climax, sputter into the ending with resolution absent, all that remains are pieces of what seemed like knowledge, that now are no longer intelligible and do not have a trusted place in reality; resentment and disgust outlined in despair; the sun is beating down on them prominently. the camera is behind them a bit, the sun is the background to their foreground)
(silence)
(silence)
Erm…How bout you? What's your food?
G: (looking at him, but breaking intermittently) “…Not nearly as clear as yours. I guess some days I’m not even sure what it is I’m eating. (no longer looking at him) But it keeps me alive… (an almost scientifically sterile tone, she stares out into the sea) I've been passive to the difference between myself and the world around me. The world has given to me. I haven't given to the world. Except in passivity, my acquiescence. I've accepted the limitations of the time. My historical particulars. Haven’t expected much from anyone…. isn't it torturous expecting people to be like you? I don't know how you do it…I mean, I gave up almost immediately…but I usually like to call it “adaptation.”
B: (laughs) Well…that’s the difficult question, isn’t it? To adapt or not to adapt? Should the behavior and beliefs of others affect our conception of our core self, what we value?
(silence)
(laughs)
…I don’t know of course..but it's easier to live with myself if I just go out into the world, with my pieces for a different puzzle, and be the best person I can be, try to put together the puzzle i'm in. not want to be in... Be conscientious. And courageous in my convictions. Compassionate. Reasonable. Loving passionately but not indiscriminately. You’re right, (no longer looking at her) disappointment will surely come…and it has. (oscillating emotions: looks back at her ) but let it be some other ingredient of the equation. Not me. I'm putting forth the effort…
(silence)
So, I guess I just ignore it. As much as possible."
(silence)
(a quickly emerging wide grin on her face; if the rate of acceleration with which her mouth moved from neutral to smile were to be graphed it would be an incredibly steep, ascending, exponential curve)
G: "So, ignorance is bliss??"
B: (big laugh but not long - not cracking up, a slight scoff) not at all. That would require bliss! there is perpetual disappointment in this stance. Warring standards with no bridge… I didn't mean to imply I was motivated by pleasure. It's an ethical issue and my standard views pleasure maintenance as…well…a disgusting waste of my freedom... if pleasure was the end for which i acted in most situations.. (a sort of mutter:) but i do believe in willed ignorance..and sensual pleasure..to some degree.."
(now she is the one observing intently..while he is somewhat unnerved..not by the release of some big secret or bottled up thought, but from her question's power, his convoluted answer, and from the sheer power of her gaze: it startles and in so doing confounds. her face is conflicting and complicated. it is almost an evaluative bemused amusement look; as if: "Ok. Sweet sensitive, neurotic routine but:)
G: I see. I see...So, how does all this relate to my beautiful voice? Is it a soaring violin accompanying the final step onto Everest's peak or a... gentle harp, comforting as a slight breeze on a muggy summer night???
B: "Haha. Damn it, I committed! I left the matzoball hanging. Is there no return from here? (exaggerated look to the heavens) Can't I just leave the pinata hanging with all the kids revved up expecti-"
G: (impatient) (clears throat) "nope. you can't. stop with the verbal rain delay already!"
B: "-Candy..Wow. (narrating) She’s on to me so soon, he thought with an inaudible chuckle.”
G: " (laughs) others are more than willing to let you ramble?"
B: "Yeah. Usually. That whole "give em enough rope to hang himself', i suppose..."
G: " Yeah I can really see that being continuously entertaining. (assesses him) Ok. So...my voice: beautiful...could start wars..."
B: "Hey! I never promised warfare...I clearly remember that."
G: "Ok. Well, I suppose I can concede the bloodshed. It's not a deal-breaker. I guess I can take the subjective musings of what seems to be a fairly sensible dude. (sizes up)
B: "Why, thank you, my dear!"
(silence)
(silence)
Ooooh. Too soon? Too soon with the affectionate generic name substitution? I've always suspected that to be some sort of flaw…"he was too familiar, too soon." (put on anchorman, stone phillips gravitas)
(laughter)
(silence)
(silence)
(silence)
(silence)
"It’s a huge gust of warm wind in the Arctic. A beautifully realigning slap in the face. It's the sound that satisfies an unspoken, intangible...inchoate desire I've felt for the better part of a decade...or more.. Mischievous. Curious. Refreshing. That "shining" spine Jeff Tweedy sang about...'No automaton present here, General. House is clear.' (a kind of half salute)
(silence)
(she goes to speak, attempts to clear throat: bone dry. she passionately grabs his head and kisses him as if the force herein will deter even Custer at Big Horn)
G: "(eyes darting, making her way from sea to sky to him to ground to him)Yeah...(clears throat)..(mumbles unintelligibly).. I was really parched...and there was no water handy...the saliva in your mouth seemed the most appropriate place to quench my thirst." (mildly awkward since of course, these people have just met. Intense connection or not, time still must have its way) (she wears a 1/2" grin. the boy, purely metaphorically, has appeared to pissed himself. and reached nirvana, or its base, truly been eye-to-eye for the first time with everything he imagined must/should be true which is very, very different than actually experiencing, knowing)
…(laughing in an attempt to make light of something that is anything but light) that was literally my thought process there..
B: "Oh...no judgment here... (Gives the "Don't shoot!" hand expression)"
(silence)
(silence)
G: (stunned) "So all that in the first 30 seconds you knew me?!?!"
B: "Well, no, most were from difficult to distinguish language/voice reads later on, but... two were there at that point: the autonomy, the strength of character...and the knowledge... that your voice was so....in tune.. with a set of internal, intangible standards I have felt and battled for years...and just recently been able to articulate and understand on even the most fundamental level.
G: How can this exist, this ability to judge and accurately feel my truth through my voice? Or anything so ethereal?
B: (medium-sized self-deprecating belly laugh) I don't claim that answer. I don't claim many answers. My only claims are rational argument, theory, synthesized with a spattering of feeling and experience. I believe they call it The Gut.
G: Haha. Well, what's your theory then?
B: My theory on this feeling borne of my incredible dearth of experience?
G: Yeah. Give it to me. Why such faith??
B: (chuckle) "Language and reason have tremendous power in identifying truth... but there are areas outside their jurisdiction requiring resolution from a sister court... in the forum of Emotion and Intuition where language, reason, science are unable to discern reality with any kind of the accuracy they achieve within their natural homes. It's like...instead of being run through just the reason filter or just the emotion filter..the thought runs through some hybrid filter, encompassing all thought."
G: "So, its not an abandonment of reason; its just good ole highly calibrated and refined intuition, the product of a fully assimilated "I?" But what is so special to you about the voice? What separates it from..
(silence)
B: "Voices are like eyes...and hands…they are windows...extensions of the words we utter and the actions we take...the themes and motivations that lie beneath and extend through our actions like vertebrae. however much words or action may serve as a curtain...the sun, or darkness, from an eye, a hand, or... a voice.. shines through..and is clearly evident to the person willingly to look ...Truth in Action, in Words, Logic, or in subconscious physical mannerisms? I'll take the truth from my voice read.. here today, up against Einstein's relativity, Ghandi's hunger, Godel's Incompleteness Theorem, Hendrix's Red House: none is more real than the others.
G: I'd say you're putting quite a bit more pure faith into that conclusion than all of them..
B: (laughs) Yeah..maybe. This is a form of faith. Acknowledged. I'm not afraid to say it. But what doesn't require some extension of hope, some constructed sun. even science is built on a foundation of faith, and mine isn't completely unregulated, tyrannical dogmatic faith. It comes from a purer place, much more empirical and reflective…open to change..I assure you. (funny looks exchanged at mini cop out.)
…And it's faith in you. And people like you. That I'm not alone, we're not alone, and maybe the future isn't partly cloudy with a strong chance of thunderstorms and golf ball hail. That maybe our conversation here today isn't a dream, an aberration, a sick reminder of squandered possibilities..."
(camera begins a slow pan back amid silence. circles. zoomed in on: the nearby tide coming in, somewhat violently against apparently the same pier but much further down. it fills the screen: the variable wave crashing its will into the fixed and determined pier. the waves are crashing furiously from the middle of the sea into the side of the pier. the pier appears to extend miles out, remote. The crashing is the only background sound to speak of. Outside of the opening walking tune.)
[the scene moves from the sea to blackness to the boys eyes and eyes alone. camera moves to his mouth, a grin resides. camera pans out, the boy's head swivels, looks around in the darkness. his face twists in anguish, fury, bitter disappointment. the conversation is a dream, the boy's dream, a dream in framework he has dreamed far, far too many nights; in the darkness he stumbles furthering his misery (kind of a play on radiohead's there there: in pitch dark/ i go walking through your landscape/broken branches trip me as i speed); he cries out while continuing his path to the bathroom as he falls into his computer, exposing a computer screen with itunes open. the artist: the beatles; the song: happiness is a warm gun; it is on repeat. (in a perfect world this would be playing as he woke up, starting just around the title refrain) he is huddled above the toilet bowl. he is vomiting, sweating profusely, and spitting, drooling a long continuous globule of 1/3 saliva, 1/3 bile, and 1/3 food chunks. he attempts to compose himself, gets up, looks in the mirror, hovering, shaking above the sink. he gives an exasperated exhale, followed by muttering: "pfftsh: (spits loogie, sees his pale-faced, sweaty-haired, blood-eyed, tear-stained reflection) the good dream is the real nightmare."]
(black)
"Boys and girls in America have such a sad time together; sophistication demands that they submit to sex immediately without proper preliminary talk. Not courting talk -- real straight talk about souls, for life is holy and every moment is precious." - Jack Kerouac
(One) Each occurrence of "(silence)" represents ~5 seconds passing.
(Two) In place of objective instructions for actors to follow to the letter, there are more subjective, emotional templates.]
EXT. SKY AFTERNOON; June 24, 2007
the blazing sun.
Broken Social Scene's Hotel (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vxgJKhrG3N0)But from Earth and daytime. And just cut off,just a bit of sky exposed in the screen's four corners.
It is on the screen for approximately 3-4 seconds.
A massive cloud like a freight liner to those lost at sea, juts into view. it shields but also obscures.
we work our way down, out of the clouds, and into the city.
EXT. CITY - AFTERNOON
About 50 feet up, descending on a busy intersection in a commercial epicenter with stores, restaurants, and offices. there is a steady stream in all directions. slowly make our way to our guy. he is stoic. nothing particularly distinguishable from his face, except the complete and utter lack of expression. not sad, not bored but impassive. he does not stare straight-ahead. he glances at people, takes them in, but there is no facial acknowledgment of this and especially no indication of his thoughts.
the steady stream is composed of your standard city fare: men and women in dark suits with briefcases; tight jeaned, sweater wearing hipsters; anonymous college kids with backpacks, iPods, and flip flops; a dude screaming on his blue tooth; a couple arguing; two young men having a very intense but civil conversation; and homeless people begging. one homeless woman who wears such agony that it pains to imagine not only the infrequency with which she must smile, but the bare fact that this very same face could possibly smile. and had smiled many times. perhaps under these very same conditions..the same squalor that on this occasion leads to her despair.
there's people in freshly cleaned aprons, aboard white button down shirts/green polos and black pants, handing out flyer-coupons in complete earnestness outside restaurants. neither self-loathing nor ignorant, they simply work and do their best because they must.
He stays on the same street, walking. everyone from the once mass, diverges at different points, slowly dissipating in correspondence with the exit of what was a popular, commercial downtown area. he is stoic. nothing particularly distinguishable from his face, except the complete and utter lack of expression. not sad, not bored.
He passes a little park area that is a part of a larger park containing running paths and lies up against a sea. There’s a girl sitting, reading and smoking a cigarette. She is reading The Ethics of Ambiguity by Simone de Beauvoir. She has a red pen in her hair. She does not move her head, or even appear to be moving her eyes, though we are not close enough to know for certain. She does not look up or appear to notice as he approaches. Eyes go to cigarette as he advances, then horizontally to the other hand holding the book: feels pocket, no cigarettes, looks back to the girl (book , face, cigarette), breaks her plane slightly and pulls back as if on a fishing rod's hook. Sheepishly, he looks back, pulls out his headphones (bss' hotel stops), and asks for cigarette. Camera is back, 15 feet up to the rear of girl's seat, back and to the left.
Boy: "Hey... Can I bum one of those?"
(silence: she doesn't respond right away. she does not look up until a moment after he finishes)
Girl: "Hello. (pause) A book or a cigarette?" (demonstrates the options in each hand)
B: (laugh) "A cigarette."
(she hands him one. he lingers post-lighting, smiles, looks at her. she is looking at him looking at her. he looks down and away, then tears himself back to her.)
B: "Hi."
G: "Hi. (bemusement of 1/8'' grin)
B: “H-…”
(camera: front, zoom to her)
G: "Ok. I think we've covered greetings already. Is that all you've got? Are you going to stand there and say 'Hi' to me?"
B: "Well. No. hopefully, no. i just can't decide what I want to say next."
G: "Oh."
B: "Yeah." (he has the body movement of someone imaginarily kicking imaginary dirt)
G: "What's the first thing that came to mind?
B: "Heh...Yeah...To be honest (looks her over, beat): I don't know...."
G: "You just say 'Hi' and begin speaking without having any idea where you’re headed. Weird."
B: yes i had no idea where I was going and yes I think it’s weird too."
G: "Why do you think it's weird?"
B: "Because this happens all the time."
G: "Well...if it happens all the time, then why is it weird??"
B: "This is the best it's ever gone."
G: "Oh."
(silence)
(silence)
(silence)
(silence)
B: "It was…the sound of your voice." (complete earnestness, sincerity to overcome the natural cheesiness it would be easy for a part of the self to criticize, as if he needed the extra wind from the large exhale to propel himself to finish the sentence, or like a diver taking a deep breath before going under)
(unembarrassed and neither comfortable nor uncomfortable; she looks at him, he's looking out somewhere slightly to the left of her, as if in a waiting room. two evaluative but stoic expressions and then the moment she finds his eyes, she laughs like a child at play. but a furrow reaches her brow.)
G: (perplexed, bemused amusement) “What was?”
B: "The first thing that came to my mind...(she looks quizzical) I don't mean a singing voice or something. Haha. I haven't heard you singing in the shower..."
G: "I hope not."
B: " (half-laugh: the kernel of real confidence. he takes the final drag, stamps it out, and exhales as he speaks) Yeah, that'd be a bad way to start off a conversation: "Hey, you didn't know me prior to 60 seconds ago, but I heard you singing in the shower and you have a really gorgeous soprano."
(laughter on his part, a 1/5'' smile; she smiles, more re: him than the "joke")
(silence)
(silence)
(silence)
(silence)
(she puts her book in her bag and stands up. he remains seated. he is uncertain if the conversation is over. she pulls out her pack of cigarettes and offers him another one which he accepts. she lights both cigarettes and begins walking. he walks beside her. )
(silence)
(silence)
G: (this has an almost soliliquoy feel. tho, she acknowledges his presence intermittently, she mainly looks Around, not directly at him. he is rapt. his eyes smiling the smile his mouth and brow cannot yet form.) I've always been uncomfortable with this infatuation with a woman's physical beauty. It's such an empty compliment really. What part did I play in my looks? Very little...I can maintain...I can style...put on makeup...wear fashionable, flattering clothes, but how much do my.... customizations.. really matter? We’re glorified janitors, in all honesty. no artist: more like a restorer. at best. And the real object of the compliment is something I had nothing to do with! I'm just dabbling on nature's canvas! it's pure luck..
(large cigarette drag, the collection of thoughts and the regathering of an ethusiasm that sputtered out from post-conclusion stress disorder)
They might as well say just that...: ‘what luck you had to stumble upon some facial symmetry, a nice skin tone and hair color ... and a lack of disfigurement (?!): (robotically) this set of features pleases me.’ I'd appreciate that a lot more than a standard (drawled) "You sure are beautiful, missy." Or at the very least show me some creativity if you're gonna focus on something that isnt really the result of me. I mean, a good metaphor or four would be just fine. But, "ya know, you're beautiful" is just...sad. I don't want it. So, I guess what im saying...is..thanks. thanks for not being trite. you and your voice compliment. (chuckles, almost to herself, looks down, then immediately looks at him with concentration.)
B: (sincerely, he's profoundly affected) "you're welcome."
(maintains look out towards X, not him. He is matter of fact. not without emotion but not exuberant per se; as though realizing something which is known to be new but feels so familiar and right that it is perceived as anything but new. He maintains his look outward, completely at ease. no desire to sneak glimpses commissioned by his long-term memory, no fear of never seeing her again. he is able to see her only how and what she is this instant.)
(silence.)
(silence.)
G: (looks to him) "I haven't been that honest with anyone, given from my core being since...i can remember, since i knew i had a core being. since i knew i could choose.
(silence)
And to a “stranger." That's a weird thing to know. Now that I have accepted it...(no longer looking at him, looking out at water, deep exhale) But I guess I've always known it.
B: "Acceptance is good."
G: "It is."
(silence and they look at one another.)
(drunk on passion) People....they don't want it though. And it's just so much easier to give them what they want rather than what you think they need. Even if it is the acknowledged, Right Thing. even if it is the best thing for you...Why is Easy so dynastic?"
B: I'm not exactly sure either, but you're right. I know that much.
G: (grins) Well, that’s good.
B: (smiling, of course) It's probably as simple as it sounds. "Easy" is so pervasive...exactly because of itself - it's the simplest, least contingency-ridden option. Occam’s Razor. You know Occam?
G: (faux solemn) I do.
B: Oh...and its warm and fuzzy and snuggles close with you at night. Whispers in your ear that it’s the right choice while it’s jerking you off..(looks mildly apologetic for going “blue.”)
G: " (laughs) So, who are you, Mysterious Cigarette Bummer? You don't seem a full-on cynical misanthrope yet; are ya? What drags you out from underneath the covers?" (The girl recognizes one who has given themselves as fervently, with as much passion, even if it is in the complete opposite fashion, and against the current, thus, unsuccessfully.)
B: "Ha…Well… (looks to the sky, looks around, looks to her, obviously thinking, over a period of maybe 5 seconds…a tad bit of sheepishness) This."
G: "this?"
B: "Yes. This. Or... the possibility of this… talking with earnest girls who... don't hide who they are and... aren't afraid. of me, themselves..fate, chance.."
(She demurs. blushes. looks to the ground. raises eyes to his, who have not left her. She's uncertain and a heretofore barely seen version of the girl enters. She is sad and unsure. Like Annie Clark at 3:38 of this video ( http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1vxQs84FMWQ ). the whole thing is needed for context, but the look on her face as her eyes lower, break away from the shield, the absolute stare, and embraces the uncertainty of her suffering, of who she is.)
But that goes for men too, minus the romantic connotations. Earnestness, sincerity..autonomy (rights himself; at least in his own mind; tho it remains definitely up for debate whether or not either one is Off the Rail)
..sounds like some 'sweet guy line', but it's also the truth ("open" eyes/ raised brows)...so it's got that...(a
facial appeal of concurrence, as in: "Touche?? Eh? Eh? Eh?...")
(she gives ambiguous skepticism..he continues since he does not know if it was faux or genuine)
But really what motivates me, what keeps me out of the... dark recesses of depression and a life of solitude in the thick labyrinthine forest, is learning and loving...for the sake of themselves but not for sheer...accumulation of knowledge or massive adulation...or...as a means of anything else but it is my - and our - human essence to be conscious, reflect, reason, and love! to become, to become, and to become some more..leaving these impossibly private heavens behind!
(beat)
(zoom to him, from the shoulders up..blazing sun in background, partially obscured by his passionately vibrating head, partially blinding.)
..to feel happiness and suffering...laugh at our folly or wit... living every instant with as much fervor as the last, living for the sake of the best possible world, of the best possible me... and everyone else i know...and...interacting with friends and really anyone who cares about these things...that's my iron lung, my respirator for the day-to-day disappointments that must be endured...and rationalized...."
(enthusiasm undulating much like a plot diagram, crescendo at the climax, sputter into the ending with resolution absent, all that remains are pieces of what seemed like knowledge, that now are no longer intelligible and do not have a trusted place in reality; resentment and disgust outlined in despair; the sun is beating down on them prominently. the camera is behind them a bit, the sun is the background to their foreground)
(silence)
(silence)
Erm…How bout you? What's your food?
G: (looking at him, but breaking intermittently) “…Not nearly as clear as yours. I guess some days I’m not even sure what it is I’m eating. (no longer looking at him) But it keeps me alive… (an almost scientifically sterile tone, she stares out into the sea) I've been passive to the difference between myself and the world around me. The world has given to me. I haven't given to the world. Except in passivity, my acquiescence. I've accepted the limitations of the time. My historical particulars. Haven’t expected much from anyone…. isn't it torturous expecting people to be like you? I don't know how you do it…I mean, I gave up almost immediately…but I usually like to call it “adaptation.”
B: (laughs) Well…that’s the difficult question, isn’t it? To adapt or not to adapt? Should the behavior and beliefs of others affect our conception of our core self, what we value?
(silence)
(laughs)
…I don’t know of course..but it's easier to live with myself if I just go out into the world, with my pieces for a different puzzle, and be the best person I can be, try to put together the puzzle i'm in. not want to be in... Be conscientious. And courageous in my convictions. Compassionate. Reasonable. Loving passionately but not indiscriminately. You’re right, (no longer looking at her) disappointment will surely come…and it has. (oscillating emotions: looks back at her ) but let it be some other ingredient of the equation. Not me. I'm putting forth the effort…
(silence)
So, I guess I just ignore it. As much as possible."
(silence)
(a quickly emerging wide grin on her face; if the rate of acceleration with which her mouth moved from neutral to smile were to be graphed it would be an incredibly steep, ascending, exponential curve)
G: "So, ignorance is bliss??"
B: (big laugh but not long - not cracking up, a slight scoff) not at all. That would require bliss! there is perpetual disappointment in this stance. Warring standards with no bridge… I didn't mean to imply I was motivated by pleasure. It's an ethical issue and my standard views pleasure maintenance as…well…a disgusting waste of my freedom... if pleasure was the end for which i acted in most situations.. (a sort of mutter:) but i do believe in willed ignorance..and sensual pleasure..to some degree.."
(now she is the one observing intently..while he is somewhat unnerved..not by the release of some big secret or bottled up thought, but from her question's power, his convoluted answer, and from the sheer power of her gaze: it startles and in so doing confounds. her face is conflicting and complicated. it is almost an evaluative bemused amusement look; as if: "Ok. Sweet sensitive, neurotic routine but:)
G: I see. I see...So, how does all this relate to my beautiful voice? Is it a soaring violin accompanying the final step onto Everest's peak or a... gentle harp, comforting as a slight breeze on a muggy summer night???
B: "Haha. Damn it, I committed! I left the matzoball hanging. Is there no return from here? (exaggerated look to the heavens) Can't I just leave the pinata hanging with all the kids revved up expecti-"
G: (impatient) (clears throat) "nope. you can't. stop with the verbal rain delay already!"
B: "-Candy..Wow. (narrating) She’s on to me so soon, he thought with an inaudible chuckle.”
G: " (laughs) others are more than willing to let you ramble?"
B: "Yeah. Usually. That whole "give em enough rope to hang himself', i suppose..."
G: " Yeah I can really see that being continuously entertaining. (assesses him) Ok. So...my voice: beautiful...could start wars..."
B: "Hey! I never promised warfare...I clearly remember that."
G: "Ok. Well, I suppose I can concede the bloodshed. It's not a deal-breaker. I guess I can take the subjective musings of what seems to be a fairly sensible dude. (sizes up)
B: "Why, thank you, my dear!"
(silence)
(silence)
Ooooh. Too soon? Too soon with the affectionate generic name substitution? I've always suspected that to be some sort of flaw…"he was too familiar, too soon." (put on anchorman, stone phillips gravitas)
(laughter)
(silence)
(silence)
(silence)
(silence)
"It’s a huge gust of warm wind in the Arctic. A beautifully realigning slap in the face. It's the sound that satisfies an unspoken, intangible...inchoate desire I've felt for the better part of a decade...or more.. Mischievous. Curious. Refreshing. That "shining" spine Jeff Tweedy sang about...'No automaton present here, General. House is clear.' (a kind of half salute)
(silence)
(she goes to speak, attempts to clear throat: bone dry. she passionately grabs his head and kisses him as if the force herein will deter even Custer at Big Horn)
G: "(eyes darting, making her way from sea to sky to him to ground to him)Yeah...(clears throat)..(mumbles unintelligibly).. I was really parched...and there was no water handy...the saliva in your mouth seemed the most appropriate place to quench my thirst." (mildly awkward since of course, these people have just met. Intense connection or not, time still must have its way) (she wears a 1/2" grin. the boy, purely metaphorically, has appeared to pissed himself. and reached nirvana, or its base, truly been eye-to-eye for the first time with everything he imagined must/should be true which is very, very different than actually experiencing, knowing)
…(laughing in an attempt to make light of something that is anything but light) that was literally my thought process there..
B: "Oh...no judgment here... (Gives the "Don't shoot!" hand expression)"
(silence)
(silence)
G: (stunned) "So all that in the first 30 seconds you knew me?!?!"
B: "Well, no, most were from difficult to distinguish language/voice reads later on, but... two were there at that point: the autonomy, the strength of character...and the knowledge... that your voice was so....in tune.. with a set of internal, intangible standards I have felt and battled for years...and just recently been able to articulate and understand on even the most fundamental level.
G: How can this exist, this ability to judge and accurately feel my truth through my voice? Or anything so ethereal?
B: (medium-sized self-deprecating belly laugh) I don't claim that answer. I don't claim many answers. My only claims are rational argument, theory, synthesized with a spattering of feeling and experience. I believe they call it The Gut.
G: Haha. Well, what's your theory then?
B: My theory on this feeling borne of my incredible dearth of experience?
G: Yeah. Give it to me. Why such faith??
B: (chuckle) "Language and reason have tremendous power in identifying truth... but there are areas outside their jurisdiction requiring resolution from a sister court... in the forum of Emotion and Intuition where language, reason, science are unable to discern reality with any kind of the accuracy they achieve within their natural homes. It's like...instead of being run through just the reason filter or just the emotion filter..the thought runs through some hybrid filter, encompassing all thought."
G: "So, its not an abandonment of reason; its just good ole highly calibrated and refined intuition, the product of a fully assimilated "I?" But what is so special to you about the voice? What separates it from..
(silence)
B: "Voices are like eyes...and hands…they are windows...extensions of the words we utter and the actions we take...the themes and motivations that lie beneath and extend through our actions like vertebrae. however much words or action may serve as a curtain...the sun, or darkness, from an eye, a hand, or... a voice.. shines through..and is clearly evident to the person willingly to look ...Truth in Action, in Words, Logic, or in subconscious physical mannerisms? I'll take the truth from my voice read.. here today, up against Einstein's relativity, Ghandi's hunger, Godel's Incompleteness Theorem, Hendrix's Red House: none is more real than the others.
G: I'd say you're putting quite a bit more pure faith into that conclusion than all of them..
B: (laughs) Yeah..maybe. This is a form of faith. Acknowledged. I'm not afraid to say it. But what doesn't require some extension of hope, some constructed sun. even science is built on a foundation of faith, and mine isn't completely unregulated, tyrannical dogmatic faith. It comes from a purer place, much more empirical and reflective…open to change..I assure you. (funny looks exchanged at mini cop out.)
…And it's faith in you. And people like you. That I'm not alone, we're not alone, and maybe the future isn't partly cloudy with a strong chance of thunderstorms and golf ball hail. That maybe our conversation here today isn't a dream, an aberration, a sick reminder of squandered possibilities..."
(camera begins a slow pan back amid silence. circles. zoomed in on: the nearby tide coming in, somewhat violently against apparently the same pier but much further down. it fills the screen: the variable wave crashing its will into the fixed and determined pier. the waves are crashing furiously from the middle of the sea into the side of the pier. the pier appears to extend miles out, remote. The crashing is the only background sound to speak of. Outside of the opening walking tune.)
[the scene moves from the sea to blackness to the boys eyes and eyes alone. camera moves to his mouth, a grin resides. camera pans out, the boy's head swivels, looks around in the darkness. his face twists in anguish, fury, bitter disappointment. the conversation is a dream, the boy's dream, a dream in framework he has dreamed far, far too many nights; in the darkness he stumbles furthering his misery (kind of a play on radiohead's there there: in pitch dark/ i go walking through your landscape/broken branches trip me as i speed); he cries out while continuing his path to the bathroom as he falls into his computer, exposing a computer screen with itunes open. the artist: the beatles; the song: happiness is a warm gun; it is on repeat. (in a perfect world this would be playing as he woke up, starting just around the title refrain) he is huddled above the toilet bowl. he is vomiting, sweating profusely, and spitting, drooling a long continuous globule of 1/3 saliva, 1/3 bile, and 1/3 food chunks. he attempts to compose himself, gets up, looks in the mirror, hovering, shaking above the sink. he gives an exasperated exhale, followed by muttering: "pfftsh: (spits loogie, sees his pale-faced, sweaty-haired, blood-eyed, tear-stained reflection) the good dream is the real nightmare."]
(black)
"Boys and girls in America have such a sad time together; sophistication demands that they submit to sex immediately without proper preliminary talk. Not courting talk -- real straight talk about souls, for life is holy and every moment is precious." - Jack Kerouac
20090102
20080916
20080914
David Foster Wallace (1962-2008) Or, Art, The Artist, and Suicide Or, Why I Like Dystopian Art (Or Any Art.) Or, Is Art a Naturally Social Relation?
i had never heard of this guy before tonight when i clicked on a link announcing his death. turns out he killed himself. he was a relatively young - 40's - american author. he seems just brilliant – and was also thought to be so by a great many people. i've read some blog comment sections and people are devastated. of course, the people most likely to post are the people that care the most. but i've read a little about the main themes of his work, a poignant excerpt or two, and a quote on dostoevsky (coincidentally enough since i’ve been reading him lately); and i've become just horribly broken up myself.
it's no secret that i am commited to the belief that the artist can affect change in the larger social structure of which he is a part through reaching individuals on a mass basis (and really defining them as a part of a community). it's of slightly less certainty that my life is committed to this view. but it's as near certain as possible that i believe my life needs to reflect this value in the deepest possible way.
however, it is clear that we, as a people, do not appropriately deal with the artist's contribution. perhaps we are even unequipped and therefore unable to do so. This is really the chief concern. but first: who is the artist? upon asking this, there appears to be an even more prescient question: what does the artist do? what is the artist's contribution? for artists are human beings - first and foremost - and we are defined by our actions, not our professed beliefs. Aristotle said it best: "We are what we repeatedly do." almost at once though, this categorization seems problematic, and i think i am putting the wrong issue at the fore. the first issue is of course: what is art? The rest will follow since they are inevitably, inextricably linked.
[[this is not a new issue. the definition of art has been under attack in private for sometime, but it has reached more mainstream ears and minds with forums such as blogs and youtube, arenas designed for rapid idea dissemination. this was not the first step, though. with the creation, installation, and occupation of the internet, the information age, which had been accelerating for years, brought this new ability to the masses. But in this entire time previous, we had been building towards such freedom, like so many training wheels and tricycles. we rode under our own direction; we steered we decided. we filled our baskets with information, idiosyncrasies, and beliefs - we used our own creative design or we stenciled with the help of a template, knowingly or unknowingly. either way, it was an act of creation; there was a sense of ownership in the idea. we had been learning and growing with these newfound talents - as a culture - for quite some time before the internet came along with its forum for mass individual-to-individual expression. the most relevant consequence here is that the market for ideas became flooded. though nearly everyone will give some form of the now grumbling cliche, "Don't believe everything you read/see/watch (ed - "experience") on the internet"; it is highly unlikely that they consider any contributions they might make as within that subset of suspicious activity.
On the one hand, expertise is now a matter of the person's trust in the source. On the other hand, it seems more pertinent to examine intent: what is the desired end? Does one desire truth - as relative and undefinable a term that there may be? Or does one desire to maintain previously accepted beliefs, some static empty, box of truth that is packed and re-packed, wrapped and re-wrapped? ]]
The point is this: art has gone the way of every other discipline; it did not find itself immune to a flooded marketplace and, perhaps, an undiscerning consumer. the quality of acceptability is broadening with the increase of evaluators, and the definition of art, like most words or concepts, is dynamic but increasingly hard to get a good grasp on- akin to super string theory's progeny of intermittent existence (erm. the string.). here is the massive distinction i have been building towards: art and entertainment. entertainment provides a nicely wrapped happiness box with a note: please take me as i am. art asks something substantive and meaningful - no, it demands it: take me into your mind, mix me around with your reflective experience, and see how i change you. it is clear that this is a two way process. the intent, the willingness, the openness must be there on the part of both creator and receiver.
the artist transmits their subjective experience, the sum of their perceptions and reflections, in whatever form possible. this subjectivity is not a limitation; in fact, my usage here is not necessarily indicative of the artist's intent at all. [the artist may acknowledge that their work is an embracing of subjectivity. or, they may maintain that their work is a groping towards, or perhaps even a reflection of, objective reality. i argue that these are two sides of the same coin. but this merely belies the fact that i believe there is no real, objective reality out there. we can have truth, but only on our own terms. we are not reaching out and grabbing something that wouldn't be there without us; it is contingent on us - our mind, our senses, our memory, our reason. so, in reality, these "opposing" sides are expressing the same idea but with different underlying assumptions. one accepts the situation, the other strives toward a perfect one. either way, though, they both concern themselves with ideas that they believe to be manifestly universal. this is an odd thing, to say that the subjectivist believes himself to be creating ] it is representative of my belief that all we have is subjective experience, whether the writer is embracing it fully as in the case of a Henry Miller, putting a moderately subtle filter on reality in Fitzgerald's work, or creating whole new characters as Hemingway strived towards. so, whether the writer wrote word for word from conversations that actually happened, or whether the writer never used a single autobiographical word or event, is not actually relevant; this is: that the artist creates through a lens and this lens is the product of a person from a certain socio-historical time, a certain set of genes, a certain set of environmental conditions. when the artist creates, these ideas are necessarily the result of different conceptions of love, justice, beauty et al. but this does not mean that everyone's conceptions are different. it just means that each individual had a different life experience which informed them. and the degree to which they are particulars to generals we all share in, the smaller the difference between those two concepts, and the depth to which it makes us delve into our own experience is the barometer for art.
i believe in the power of the artist - not because of their ability to concoct direct polemics to the head (polemic-on: apply directly to one's mind) - but as a mediator of the most troubling parts of human experience, the oil in water of ethereal feelings. these are the emotions that many struggle to put into words for themselves (for myriad reasons), and much of the time are not even talked about. i like to characterize this as The Lacking - the feeling of a void without the ability/willingess to cognize it further if in fact it can ever be fully known! i think we'd need a person from a different paradigm altogether - different conditioning, different values - in order to evaluate what the fuck is going on. They of course would be bringing their own preconceived notions to the table, as well, but perhaps they stand the best chance from the outside looking in. of course all we have is ourselves. we don't have that luxury. and im torn on the implications: does this mean we can never see It? and i don't mean objective reality. i don't mean that at all. When we have the capability of freedom, how can we deal with the problem of being the (somewhat) natural outgrowth of our particular time and place; of the conditioning that was necessarily a part of that age; of picking up our own brush and painting freely. How able are we to recognize our own plight?
If we go by ourselves as the measure of plight understanding, the answer is typically disappointing. Millions upon millions have read salinger and Huxley, and yet we still live in an inane, phony filled world. Is this the result of a rational rejection or a lack of understanding? I do not know. I do know, however, that many artists commit suicide, and I can’t help but wonder how much guilt resides on our doorstep. The artist seems driven to create as an ethical existential imperative, despite whatever foreknowledge they may have as to the improbability of impact.
does it not seem as tho the artist is predisposed to suicide? especially within our society? despite the fact that it can't help but create capable, feeling human beings unable to stifle transmission? the social structure seems even more likely to produce individuals who are incapable/unwilling to deal with these universal feelings, and this is why suicide seems almost inevitable. The need to transmit, and stay firm in one’s standards, outweighs the pressure to conform to dissonant surrounding standards. The artist has chosen a life of meaning and this does not mean happiness. But it does not preclude it either. Happiness derived from meaning is superior to any other happiness. Meaning is the product of the sum of one’s actions. It is our character. It is not the product of any singular item. In the Greek vein, happiness is the result of living well.
Why do I suggest that the artist commits suicide because of this lack of reception? Though the art springs from a particular mind, there seems to be a inherently social facet to artistic creation, a reaching out. For we are not individuals in isolated pods, as much as we are trying to fit ourselves into that definition.
Perhaps the most important point is left for me to make at the end of this rambling string: the artist chooses to deal with the responsibility of consciousness, of thinking, head on. At least to a point, then seemingly the disappointment, the lack of effect, the lack of actual change or meaning, overwhelms the ability to rationalize one’s actions as “the best I could do.”
I’m going to end with a little bit of a speech David Foster Wallace gave a few years back. I can’t help but feel him alluding to some of the issues I’ve touched on here, especially the problems of incompatible standards, no change, and no meaning. Further, I sense a stress to have the courage of one’s convictions, thereby reducing the social nature of it and maybe a large chunk of the tension. But I could be way off.
it's no secret that i am commited to the belief that the artist can affect change in the larger social structure of which he is a part through reaching individuals on a mass basis (and really defining them as a part of a community). it's of slightly less certainty that my life is committed to this view. but it's as near certain as possible that i believe my life needs to reflect this value in the deepest possible way.
however, it is clear that we, as a people, do not appropriately deal with the artist's contribution. perhaps we are even unequipped and therefore unable to do so. This is really the chief concern. but first: who is the artist? upon asking this, there appears to be an even more prescient question: what does the artist do? what is the artist's contribution? for artists are human beings - first and foremost - and we are defined by our actions, not our professed beliefs. Aristotle said it best: "We are what we repeatedly do." almost at once though, this categorization seems problematic, and i think i am putting the wrong issue at the fore. the first issue is of course: what is art? The rest will follow since they are inevitably, inextricably linked.
[[this is not a new issue. the definition of art has been under attack in private for sometime, but it has reached more mainstream ears and minds with forums such as blogs and youtube, arenas designed for rapid idea dissemination. this was not the first step, though. with the creation, installation, and occupation of the internet, the information age, which had been accelerating for years, brought this new ability to the masses. But in this entire time previous, we had been building towards such freedom, like so many training wheels and tricycles. we rode under our own direction; we steered we decided. we filled our baskets with information, idiosyncrasies, and beliefs - we used our own creative design or we stenciled with the help of a template, knowingly or unknowingly. either way, it was an act of creation; there was a sense of ownership in the idea. we had been learning and growing with these newfound talents - as a culture - for quite some time before the internet came along with its forum for mass individual-to-individual expression. the most relevant consequence here is that the market for ideas became flooded. though nearly everyone will give some form of the now grumbling cliche, "Don't believe everything you read/see/watch (ed - "experience") on the internet"; it is highly unlikely that they consider any contributions they might make as within that subset of suspicious activity.
On the one hand, expertise is now a matter of the person's trust in the source. On the other hand, it seems more pertinent to examine intent: what is the desired end? Does one desire truth - as relative and undefinable a term that there may be? Or does one desire to maintain previously accepted beliefs, some static empty, box of truth that is packed and re-packed, wrapped and re-wrapped? ]]
The point is this: art has gone the way of every other discipline; it did not find itself immune to a flooded marketplace and, perhaps, an undiscerning consumer. the quality of acceptability is broadening with the increase of evaluators, and the definition of art, like most words or concepts, is dynamic but increasingly hard to get a good grasp on- akin to super string theory's progeny of intermittent existence (erm. the string.). here is the massive distinction i have been building towards: art and entertainment. entertainment provides a nicely wrapped happiness box with a note: please take me as i am. art asks something substantive and meaningful - no, it demands it: take me into your mind, mix me around with your reflective experience, and see how i change you. it is clear that this is a two way process. the intent, the willingness, the openness must be there on the part of both creator and receiver.
the artist transmits their subjective experience, the sum of their perceptions and reflections, in whatever form possible. this subjectivity is not a limitation; in fact, my usage here is not necessarily indicative of the artist's intent at all. [the artist may acknowledge that their work is an embracing of subjectivity. or, they may maintain that their work is a groping towards, or perhaps even a reflection of, objective reality. i argue that these are two sides of the same coin. but this merely belies the fact that i believe there is no real, objective reality out there. we can have truth, but only on our own terms. we are not reaching out and grabbing something that wouldn't be there without us; it is contingent on us - our mind, our senses, our memory, our reason. so, in reality, these "opposing" sides are expressing the same idea but with different underlying assumptions. one accepts the situation, the other strives toward a perfect one. either way, though, they both concern themselves with ideas that they believe to be manifestly universal. this is an odd thing, to say that the subjectivist believes himself to be creating ] it is representative of my belief that all we have is subjective experience, whether the writer is embracing it fully as in the case of a Henry Miller, putting a moderately subtle filter on reality in Fitzgerald's work, or creating whole new characters as Hemingway strived towards. so, whether the writer wrote word for word from conversations that actually happened, or whether the writer never used a single autobiographical word or event, is not actually relevant; this is: that the artist creates through a lens and this lens is the product of a person from a certain socio-historical time, a certain set of genes, a certain set of environmental conditions. when the artist creates, these ideas are necessarily the result of different conceptions of love, justice, beauty et al. but this does not mean that everyone's conceptions are different. it just means that each individual had a different life experience which informed them. and the degree to which they are particulars to generals we all share in, the smaller the difference between those two concepts, and the depth to which it makes us delve into our own experience is the barometer for art.
i believe in the power of the artist - not because of their ability to concoct direct polemics to the head (polemic-on: apply directly to one's mind) - but as a mediator of the most troubling parts of human experience, the oil in water of ethereal feelings. these are the emotions that many struggle to put into words for themselves (for myriad reasons), and much of the time are not even talked about. i like to characterize this as The Lacking - the feeling of a void without the ability/willingess to cognize it further if in fact it can ever be fully known! i think we'd need a person from a different paradigm altogether - different conditioning, different values - in order to evaluate what the fuck is going on. They of course would be bringing their own preconceived notions to the table, as well, but perhaps they stand the best chance from the outside looking in. of course all we have is ourselves. we don't have that luxury. and im torn on the implications: does this mean we can never see It? and i don't mean objective reality. i don't mean that at all. When we have the capability of freedom, how can we deal with the problem of being the (somewhat) natural outgrowth of our particular time and place; of the conditioning that was necessarily a part of that age; of picking up our own brush and painting freely. How able are we to recognize our own plight?
If we go by ourselves as the measure of plight understanding, the answer is typically disappointing. Millions upon millions have read salinger and Huxley, and yet we still live in an inane, phony filled world. Is this the result of a rational rejection or a lack of understanding? I do not know. I do know, however, that many artists commit suicide, and I can’t help but wonder how much guilt resides on our doorstep. The artist seems driven to create as an ethical existential imperative, despite whatever foreknowledge they may have as to the improbability of impact.
does it not seem as tho the artist is predisposed to suicide? especially within our society? despite the fact that it can't help but create capable, feeling human beings unable to stifle transmission? the social structure seems even more likely to produce individuals who are incapable/unwilling to deal with these universal feelings, and this is why suicide seems almost inevitable. The need to transmit, and stay firm in one’s standards, outweighs the pressure to conform to dissonant surrounding standards. The artist has chosen a life of meaning and this does not mean happiness. But it does not preclude it either. Happiness derived from meaning is superior to any other happiness. Meaning is the product of the sum of one’s actions. It is our character. It is not the product of any singular item. In the Greek vein, happiness is the result of living well.
Why do I suggest that the artist commits suicide because of this lack of reception? Though the art springs from a particular mind, there seems to be a inherently social facet to artistic creation, a reaching out. For we are not individuals in isolated pods, as much as we are trying to fit ourselves into that definition.
Perhaps the most important point is left for me to make at the end of this rambling string: the artist chooses to deal with the responsibility of consciousness, of thinking, head on. At least to a point, then seemingly the disappointment, the lack of effect, the lack of actual change or meaning, overwhelms the ability to rationalize one’s actions as “the best I could do.”
I’m going to end with a little bit of a speech David Foster Wallace gave a few years back. I can’t help but feel him alluding to some of the issues I’ve touched on here, especially the problems of incompatible standards, no change, and no meaning. Further, I sense a stress to have the courage of one’s convictions, thereby reducing the social nature of it and maybe a large chunk of the tension. But I could be way off.
[L]earning how to think really means learning how to exercise some control over how and what you think. It means being conscious and aware enough to choose what you pay attention to and to choose how you construct meaning from experience. Because if you cannot exercise this kind of choice in adult life, you will be totally hosed. Think of the old cliché about quote the mind being an excellent servant but a terrible master.
This, like many clichés, so lame and unexciting on the surface, actually expresses a great and terrible truth. It is not the least bit coincidental that adults who commit suicide with firearms almost always shoot themselves in: the head. They shoot the terrible master. And the truth is that most of these suicides are actually dead long before they pull the trigger.
20080907
the hallway is Bright,
but an anviled feather.
it keeps you proud and right
but you're a horse wrapped in pleather
a gross abomination.
a stain.
sincerity? (pssh)
you're an atheist bishop
dogma the world 'round
the answer is money?
does a voice need money?
or just an open mind?
you can't break the mirror
so don't even try
you should hear your terror
as you lie, lie, lie.
but an anviled feather.
it keeps you proud and right
but you're a horse wrapped in pleather
a gross abomination.
a stain.
sincerity? (pssh)
you're an atheist bishop
dogma the world 'round
the answer is money?
does a voice need money?
or just an open mind?
you can't break the mirror
so don't even try
you should hear your terror
as you lie, lie, lie.
the king's dead
but everyone's keen for the crown
the thrill fills your head
but you're just a clown
i hate pretension, you cry
but it's just a lie
a silly mask
one puts to mind like lips to flask
a douche by any other name
i wouldn't blame
but spitting in one's own face
deserves a special place
words, words, words, words
without action
you're a lord
with no army.
but everyone's keen for the crown
the thrill fills your head
but you're just a clown
i hate pretension, you cry
but it's just a lie
a silly mask
one puts to mind like lips to flask
a douche by any other name
i wouldn't blame
but spitting in one's own face
deserves a special place
words, words, words, words
without action
you're a lord
with no army.
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- steven
- "Seeing that before long I must confront humanity with the most difficult demand ever made of it, it seems indispensable to me to say who I am. Really, one should know it, for I have not left myself "without testimony." But the disproportion between the greatness of my task and the smallness of my contemporaries has found expression in the fact that one has neither heard nor even seen me. I live on my own credit; is it perhaps a mere prejudice that I live? ... I need only to speak with one of the "educated" who come to the Upper Engadine for the summer, and I am convinced that I do not live ... Under these circumstances I have a duty against which my habits, even more the pride of my instincts, revolt at bottom, namely, to say: Hear me! For I am such and such a person. Above all, do not mistake me for someone else!" - Nietzsche, Ecce Homo