Abstract?

Reinvention by ~Shmedgehog on deviantART


What do you think? Acrylic and graphite on paper. My Hamlet designs are over on deviantArt now, so go check those out if you've never seen them.

Goodness me

I need someone to talk to who isn't a relation or relative.

Tonight we had people over for dinner, one of which told me Avril Lavigne's life story, one who said that he trusts Bill O'Reilly, and one who said that she loved the Bush family. Carla was there too, and she's good to be around. But really...I had to keep punching myself in the leg to stop from saying anything liberal or intelligent or sounding like a smartass. Which I think is totally unfair.

I'm tired of eating and listening to Christmas music, and now that I have a lovely new Operating System I don't know what to do on it. And I'm tired tired, too. Tomorrow I get to sleep in and ignore the phone and do nothing, and play guitar and get away from the stifling family for at least a few hours.

I'm thinking of exchanging my gift cards with money to go towards more memory for the lappy. I would just be buying things I don't need to take with me anyway.

God I feel so morbidly bored. I need to take a shower and read more Milton.

And I need to be in a place where I can be around people who think that reading Milton and not confusing Salvador Dali with Henri de Toulouse-Latrouec is important.

Boxing day blues

My family needs a break.  We've been running around putting together schedules and get-togethers and Pre and Post-Christmas festivities.  We need a day where go out to a movie and order a pizza.
I've been sprucing up the computers with OS Leopard, and while I was going through some of my old old documents, I came across this story that I wrote when I was, like, 16:

She only read the letter once. It sat unfolded on the table of the cafe, bright white from the July sun that beat down upon it.

Dear Helen,
I am writing on a sad occasion. You're friend, Joanna Hamilton, was struck by a city bus yesterday and was killed. Mrs. Hamilton has only just told me, and I feel that it is important that you know, since I remember how much you and Joanna were friends. I am sorry to have to tell you this. Please write or call, the funeral will be this week-end.
Love always,
Mother

Helen Gilman folded the letter and put it back in the envelope that it had arrived in. She sipped her water and ate her sandwich in silence. Helen had not seen or heard of Joanna Hamilton since they graduated high school. Joanna stayed home and got a job at the local soda fountain, Helen went to college fifteen hundred miles away. That had been three years ago, when the class of 1966 had taken their graduation pictures. Joanna had held onto Helen's shoulder, kindly looking into her brown eyes and talking about how they needed to write to each other to keep in touch. Joanna had sent one letter, but Helen had become so swept into the world of college that she had never opened it. The world that she had left behind meant little to her then, and Joanna had been part of it. The letter was now somewhere in Helen's desk.

Helen didn't cry, nor did she write or call her mother. She felt no need to; Joanna was dead, and that meant hardly anything in her life. Joanna Hamilton had become a worn black and white photograph in Helen's technicolor world, the loss waned in comparison to the battles Helen had fought and lost and overcame in the past three years.

She finished her lunch and stood up, throwing the letter away with the used plate and cup. She had known people to die before. Her brother had been drafted to Vietnam in 1966, two years later he came home in a coffin, a hole in the side of his head. One of Helen's friends had been beaten brutally in a riot, he died a few days later of internal bleeding. Helen had known people to die, and the death of her brother in a war and her friend protesting that same war were more significant that Joanna being struck by a bus.

Helen walked home, down the street and across the campus to her dormitory room. The sky was clear and blue, the sun heating the dark hair on Helen's head. She passed a few friends in the field, and two young men, Roger and Chris, came over to walk with her, talking about the plans that they had for the rest of the week. A man millions of miles away was scheduled to land on the moon the next day, and the entire country was buzzing with excitement. Helen shrugged at the topic, trying to wonder how a man walking on the moon was going to solve any of the world's problems. It would be a decent distraction, though, she mused. Roger chuckled and asked her to come over to his house that night; a few friends were coming over too, including Helen's roommate Melissa. Helen agreed, and the two men turned around to go back to the group in the field, Roger turning around once more to wave goodbye. Helen smiled and waved back. He did look handsome that day.

Helen's dormitory room was at the topmost floor of the building. It had been the attic, but it became a room when another dormitory building had burnt down and the students had nowhere else to go. Helen opened the window and turned on the ceiling fan. She lay on her small bed, looking up at the rafters that held up the roof of the building, before sitting up and reaching into the bottom drawer of her desk, pulling out an old, yellowed envelope with her name and address written delicately on it. She looked at it, her eyes tracing up the stems of the flowers that were printed on the paper. She tore open the envelope and unfolded the letter, which was written on matching flowered paper. She wondered if Joanna had changed, if she had avoided a correspondence with someone who might have been protesting the war and the injustices in the world at the same time as Helen had. But it took only four lines of the letter to prove these suspicions wrong, and Helen crumpled the paper in disgust, tossing it into the trash along with the envelope.

She went to sleep, and woke up when Melissa came in, home from shopping. They talked for a while, about the moon landing and the upcoming year and the war. Helen had taken part in this conversation before, and her responses were robotic, her eyes fixed on the ceiling. She turned over in bed, toying with a silk scarf on the table, a birthday present from her parents. She had not gone home to see them that summer. She loved them, but never had the urge to get on a plane and go home. It was too far away, and had stopped feeling like home altogether.

Melissa shrugged at Helen's complacency and asked her if she was going to the party that night. Helen nodded, but said that she wanted to take a shower first, so she picked up a towel and went down the hall to the bathroom.

The water was warm, but the heater for it was small. Helen didn't care, though. She sat down, her back against the wall of the shower, and let the cold water fall upon her. She though back to when she was young, when her parents had taken her and her brother to Niagara falls. She remembered asking if she could stand under the waterfall, and just let it all fall down upon her. No, her father had told her. The water was cold and deep, and the pressure from the waterfall was dangerous. But for the next few weeks all that Helen could think about was the feeling of all that water rushing onto her, and she wished for the sensation that she imagined, the cool rush and relaxation of the pummeling, churning water upon her.

Her daydreams were broken by another girl from the dormitory pounding to the door, yelling for her to come out. Helen turned off the water and dried herself, then went back to her room, telling the girl at the bathroom door that she had used all of the hot water. The girl frowned and walked away to wait for the heater to fill up again.

Helen dressed, then she and Melissa walked the few blocks to the house that Roger and Chris shared. A few people were there already, sitting and eating. Helen said hi to those she knew and hello to those she was introduced to. She sat down on the couch next to Roger and looked out the window at the sunset. The darkness set in, and they lit candles, changing everyone in the room into flickering ghosts.

The conversation drifted from the war to the moon to the weather to the economy and back to the war. Helen listened mostly, interested more in what people said than the actual subject at hand. One of the other students had brought grass with him, and they rolled a few marijuana cigarettes to pass around. The smoke filled the room, and drifted into Helen's lungs as she inhaled. She and Roger shared one for themselves, and she let herself relax, let her body be closer to his as he put his arms around her slowly. Her lips trembled with anticipation as he brought his face closer to hers. They kissed, and she opened her mouth and breathed in the smoke from his. They brought each other closer and closer, until she felt herself completely intwined with him. Another one of the students laughed, chiding them. Roger looked down at Helen, and there was a silent agreement between them. Roger handed the joint to the laughing student and led Helen upstairs to his bedroom.

They fell on the bed together, tearing away the apprehension with their clothing. She was under him, Roger was nibbling her ear, he was kissing hard on her neck and chest, they were moving together, crying out in passion and revelry. The drug they had taken only heightened their senses, and each of his warm touches sent a fire through Helen that could not settle. When they had tired, Roger fell beside her with a grunt of exhaustion. She sat up in bed, breathing deeply. She looked down at him, his skin shining from the sweat of lovemaking. He smiled, and she smiled at him. They rested, and then began to talk quietly, not about the war or the moon, but about the things that lay beneath those subjects, the things that started war, the desires that sent men to the moon. But somehow, Helen was not as impassioned about these things as the man lying next to her. He started to talk about how they could change the world, how they were adults now.

And then, for no apparent reason, Helen realized it. She realized that they were not adults, they were just children, that talking about the war was just philosophical jargon that changed nothing, that landing on the moon was a waste of time, that there was no us or them, no me and you, there was only a person or all of humanity. She realized that if there was an afterlife, no one would ever know what it was, and that the earth was just one tiny speck in one giant void. She realized that love and flowers were beautiful, but that lovers left and flowers wilted and old age would bring grief and pain and memory loss. Helen saw it all flashing before her, like a deluge of water over her.

"Niagara Falls." She whispered.

Roger had fallen asleep. She smiled sadly at him, knowing that she had just learned more than he would ever know. She slipped out of the bed and dressed quietly, not even looking for Michelle as she wandered back outside.


That night, Helen Gilman went home and hung herself from a rafter in her dormitory room. It wasn't very high off the ground, all that she had to do was kick away the kitchen table chair that she was standing on. Nine hours and ten minutes later, nobody knew, because nine hours and ten minutes after Helen broke her own neck a man was stepping out of a small capsule and onto the moon. All of Helen's friends and family were watching in awe, doing their best to remember where they were so their children and grandchildren could hear about it from them.

Melissa had spent the night at Roger's, and came home later that afternoon. She gasped when she walked into the room, And called Roger immediately to help take her down. They cut the silk scarf that Helen had used to kill herself and laid her gently down on the bed. Neither of them cried, too pale and shaking from the shock. Neither had ever seen a dead body this closely. Roger ran his hand over Helen's face, closing her vacant eyes and shuddering as his fingers brushed over the now purple mark on her neck where he had kissed her the night before.

Melissa looked around the room for a note. She finally found it, sticking out of the pocket of Helen's jeans. She unfolded the note slowly and with trembling fingers. Roger read it over her shoulder.

Melissa folded the note once more and looked at her friend. the words had explained nothing. Melissa crumbled it into a ball in her fist, putting her elbows on the bed and resting her face in her hands. Roger said nothing, looking out the window at the other students on the field below, who were taking advantage of the warm, clear July afternoon.

They decided to tell Helen's parents in person. Melissa, who knew the family a little more than any of the other students, went to tell them. It was not the first time that Mrs. Gilman had opened her door to such an announcement. She invited Melissa in for tea, and held on to Melissa when she heard the news and tears ran down her cheeks, creating pale streaks in the powder that she had worn that morning when she had gone to church. Melissa cried too, feeling the pain of Helen's death five days after it happened.

Melissa went to the funeral, and Roger came too, bringing Chris with him. Roger wanted to be alone for a while, so Melissa and Chris went out for a drink. Eleven months later they were married. Chris turned out to be a severe alcoholic, and Melissa left him four years later with a bottle of gin and divorce papers to sign. They had one child, a little girl that they almost named Helen, but chose Samantha, and Helen became the girl's middle name. Melissa went on to be a history teacher, and wanted to include the story of her friend's suicide into her lectures about the sixties, but didn't quite know where it fit in. On every anniversary of Helen's death, Melissa took out the small, wrinkled piece of paper that Helen had written and wondered what the words meant. They seemed so bleak, but not so simple.

The question as to why Helen Gilman committed suicide was raised and contemplated by everyone that knew her. Some thought it was one of Helen's existential whims gone too far, others thought it was a side effect of drugs. Mrs. Gilman thought it might be caused by grief over the death of Joanna Hamilton, or maybe her brother. Roger thought that she had had a philosophical epiphany, and hung herself as a result. What the epiphany was, he could not even fathom. He wondered, too, if he had been in love with Helen, but realized that he had not. He graduated and tried his hand at studying history, writing a book on the sixties, but died in a car accident four days before it was on the stands. The death of the author helped the book become a bestseller, but it did not mention the death of Helen Gilman, since, like Melissa, Roger did not know where it belonged.

Years passed, and grass grew and died with the changing seasons over the grave of Helen Gilman, which was buried on the right of her older brother's, and later to the left of her mother's. Mr. Gilman lived to see the first few years of the new century, and one morning his nurse found him still in his bed, clutching a photograph of his family in his hand. The children in the picture were young, and they smiled and squinted in the sunlight in front of a fence where people were standing looking over the edge. Mr. Gilman was wearing his old army uniform from the second great war, though the buttons were a bit tighter on his midsection. He had burned the entire uniform in sorrow the day that he had learned of the bullet that had lodged in the head of his only son.

The nurse took the picture out of his cold, limp hand, looking at the faded smiles of the lost subjects in it. She turned the photograph over, and read the brief description:

Niagara Falls, 1957.



It's not terrible, by far. There's definitely a level of inexperience in reference to the drugs and sex, and the use of Niagara Falls as a symbol seems stilted at points. I'm glad that I've improved since then. But I was somewhat succeeding in the bleak tone that I go for sometimes. And it could have been worse.


I have a package to fill for East Anglia and then some cleaning or whatever to do. I feel congested and would much rather just lay in bed all day, warm and cozy.

Also, I'm trying to fight the post-holiday need to spend my gift cards as soon as possible...

Live and in person

Happy Christmas, blogosphere!

As I had requested, my presents were few but functional, the idea being that any money that would typically go toward a perfect Birthday/Christmas would instead go toward trips and such through England. I did, however, score pretty dang well. I'm typing this to you on my newly updated, fast, sexy, amazing Mac OS 10.5!!!! The interface is gorgeous, and it runs pretty smoothly, though I'm wondering how much it would take to convince the 'rents to help me out in getting another 1 GB of memory, which would make this thing go like lightning but cost $150. For now, though, I'm happy just to have it; I've been drooling over the system ever since it was announced earlier this year and now I can't say I can complain, though I'm sure there'll be wrinkles to smooth out eventually. But a new OS to show off to people!! Updated happy lappy!

Aside from that, the gettin' wasn't extensive, but that's how I wanted it. Here's a breakdown:

• An Herbal Tea making set
• A new leatherbound travel journal
• A travel alarm clock
• Hair sculpting wax that's 500 times better than my pomade
• A bunch of candy
• An international plug converter
• A security...wallet...belt....from....R.E.I......(also known as a fanny pack)
• 50 Pounds
• 50 Euro
• 50 Dollars
• 50 dollar gift card to Target
• 30 dollar gift card to Borders
• 10 dollar gift card to Starbucks
• Razor blades
• Carmex
• A deck of Mucha-illustrated playing cards
• A STICK calendar
• Altoids

So yeah, no clothes, but I have tons of those...and I can get them from Target.  The only thing that made me go "Umm....what?" was the fanny pack, because it was a fanny pack.  That my dad was really excited about for some reason, because he figured it would be a great way to carry money, because people never use bags? or purses? I might take off the belt (ugh) part of it and use it as a passport/important documents/stuff that is small and flat and paper and valuable carrier.

But today is Christmas.  Christmas in my house means getting up, getting excited, playing with whatever new stuff you got, then being lazy for the rest of the day.  Of course, we enjoy getting up at 8 or even 10 o'clock, usually.  But for some reason this year my dad started making coffee at 6:30.  In this part of the northern hemisphere, it's still dark at 6:30.  But did we stay asleep? Noooooo.  So now it's only 11:20, and I feel exhausted, and desperately want to take a nap.  I just might.  Christmas, as I see it, is a day of relaxing.  

Better to rule in heaven than to serve in hell! Take that, God!

Bad news, guys:

I'm two books into Paradise Lost and loving it. It's really really beautiful poetry and has fantastic mythical imagery. Yes, I will be that person, I fear. I don't find it boring. Yet. Aw, man.

Beaux Arts

Today, as one of the Brennan Family pre-Christmas outings, I went for the second time ever to the Portland Art museum. I was upset that I would be gone for the visiting Degas/Renoir/Toulouse-Lautrec exhibit, but then I remembered that I am going to be within a few hours of Musée D'Orsay in a few weeks, so no worries.

We went primarily for the Chuck Close exhibit that was about his printmaking process; halfway through the exhibit I realized: I don't like Chuck Close that much.
I will give him credit where it is due: the method must have taken years to perfect and complete. But to me it doesn't say anything more than, say, pointillism, and it's much less interesting. All he paints is faces. Over and over again. And yeah, his techniques of printmaking are admirable; but I always find it hard to appreciate something if, in order to appreciate it, you need to understand how it was made, all the grids that were used, the mathematical use of color, blending, whatever. In the end, the painting itself just doesn't sell, because the idea behind it, the inspirational part that's supposed to ring out like lightning or a big loud churchbell, is actually pretty dull. Yeah, images are made up of smaller abstract parts that form one complete form. Period.

It's funny, though. I went to the gallery with my parents and fourteen-year-old brother. Tucker didn't really say anything, but my dad was full of opinion, especially in the modern wing. We were in the Minimalism room (and yeah, it's Minimalism, so you know I can't be that crazy about it), and he was scoffing off everything. My dad has a tendency to turn into a crotchety old man at the drop of a hat, and this seemed to be the perfect time to do it. I got a bit fed up with the "Oooh, hey, it's a cube. So what?" and "Ugh, what a waste of paint" after the first ten minutes, it wasn't very nice to have it for a full hour.

But if you've never been to Portland, take a note: the museum is worth a look-through. It's not an incredible collection, by far, but the lesser-known works are still lovely. I've been looking in vain online to post them, especially Eastman Johnson's The Little Harpist, Franz von Stuck's Allegorical Figure of a Woman and Eugene Berman's Time and the Monuments. If you ever happen upon any prints or pictures of them online, let me know. Here are a few of the pieces that I could find online:



Edward Steichen, Lilac Buds; Mrs S. 1906



Joseph Stella, Factories of the Night



Kiki Smith, Saint Genevieve 1909



Vincent Van Gogh, Charrette de boeuf, 1884. This is the museum's most recent acquisition



Pablo Picasso, Head of a Woman, 1909



Auguste Rodin, La défense, 1879


I'm still pretty bummed about not getting prints of those other ones; I might have to go to Powell's and see if there are any books that might feature them.

Christmas is coming up pretty fast, and I'm practically done with my shopping. All my gifts are wrapped and finished and under the tree. There are even a few small gifts under there with my name on them!

Analysis of the mundane

Here's a fantastic line from a terrible trailer for a terrible movie, P.S.: I Love You:

"He gave her the gift of a life without him."

Let that one roll over your tongue for a bit before swallowing it.

Okay, moving on:

It's Christmas Time, which means that, right now, all across the country, thousands of radio stations have switched from their usual "Golden Oldies" playlists to their "Holiday Music" playlist. Now, popular Christmas music (which is different from Traditional Christmas music, and worse by far) only consists of a selection of songs. for example:

Frosty The Snowman
Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer
Santa Baby
Have Yourself A Merry Little Christmas
Baby, It's Cold Outside
Let It Snow! Let It Snow! Let It Snow!
Jingle Bell Rock
Silver Bells
Mistletoe and Holly
The Christmas Song
I'll Be Home For Christmas
White Christmas
Rockin' Around The Christmas Tree

If you're lucky they'll throw in "Joy To The World" or that awful, terrible, no good very bad Barenaked Ladies rendition of "God Rest Ye Merry, Gentlemen" (I swear to god they have like seven competing rhythms in there), but mostly it's those thirteen and maybe a couple I forgot. Nonstop. For the entire month of December. And mostly Celine Dion, Dean Martin, and Diana (eww) Krall. But the song that I hate most is the last one on the list. It's a terrible song. And I will show you why, verse-by-verse.

Rockin' around the Christmas tree
at the Christmas party hop.
Mistletoe hung where you can see
ev'ry couple tries to stop.

First of all, I have never seen a Christmas Tree that you can rock "around". Christmas trees usually go in the corner of the room, where the pine needles can be contained and people don't have to walk around a large spiky thing every time they wander through the living room. Secondly, isn't a "hop" just a type of party? Isn't that redundantly repetitive? And I always got the image of couples fighting each other to get under the mistletoe, because they just don't know where else to make out.

Rockin' around the Christmas tree,
let the Christmas spirit ring.
Later we'll have some pumpkin pie
and we'll do some caroling.

You know what? Rockin' has nothing to do with caroling or eating pumpkin pie. Rockin' has to do with punching things and gettin' sexy. Unless Bing Crosby was a rock star...yeah, this sounds like the most boring "rock" event ever thought into existence.

You will get a sentimental feeling
when you hear voices singing
"Let's be jolly,
Deck the halls with boughs of holly."

No, I will get a miserable feeling when I hear people forgetting the right words to "Deck The Halls". Please don't come caroling to my house.

Rockin' around the Christmas Tree.
Have a happy holiday.
Ev'ryone dancing merrily
in the new old fashioned way.

Yes! We rock so merrily! And the "new old fashioned way"? Do you mean "retro"? The song was written in 1958. The only "old fashioned ways" that they had were the Charleston, the Waltz, and those weird Jane Austen Movie Regency dances. So is it just a weird mash-up of the three that itself is totally new? Is that the way they danced at sock hops? I've seen Grease. That didn't look like a waltz to me.

When you're not feeling holy, your loneliness says that you've sinned

Leonard Cohen is one of those artists that you love, but soon forget. I have a lot of those, but I think that he is definitely the most prominent. He's one of the greatest songwriters of all time, and is finally getting inducted into the Rock and Roll hall of fame this year, so it seems apropro. His first album, Songs of Leonard Cohen, is stuffed full of beautiful, haunting, folky songs that at first seem like narratives, but soon transgress into questions of spirituality and existence. It's interesting that his two biggest themes seem to be loneliness and religion, and alludes to both of them often at the same time, as in "Suzanne" or "So Long, Marianne". The most beautiful song on the album, though, is probably "Sisters of Mercy",

Oh the sisters of mercy, they are not departed or gone.
They were waiting for me when I thought that I just can't go on.
And they brought me their comfort and later they brought me this song.
Oh I hope you run into them, you who've been travelling so long.

Yes you who must leave everything that you cannot control.
It begins with your family, but soon it comes around to your soul.
Well I've been where you're hanging, I think I can see how you're pinned:
When you're not feeling holy, your loneliness says that you've sinned.

Well they lay down beside me, I made my confession to them.
They touched both my eyes and I touched the dew on their hem.
If your life is a leaf that the seasons tear off and condemn
they will bind you with love that is graceful and green as a stem.

When I left they were sleeping, I hope you run into them soon.
Don't turn on the lights, you can read their address by the moon.
And you won't make me jealous if I hear that they sweetened your night:
We weren't lovers like that and besides it would still be all right,
We weren't lovers like that and besides it would still be all right.

I've also been listening to Okkervil River's Down The River Of Golden Dreams, a collection of rants and raves and broken-up hopes and fears. Though this isn't their best album, and when you're in a really good mood the pessimism seems grating and annoying, but the lyrics and the music--which sounds sometimes like punk rock on mandolin and accordion--deserve all the points you can give. Will Sheff has described it as the "water record" to Don't Fall In Love With Everyone You See's earth, which seems pretty fitting. Where Don't Fall In Love is rolling around in itself, trying to cling to whatever sanity or substance that might be left in the world (like a murderer's somehow sound justification in "Westfall" or a stripper trying to reconnect with her unstable mother in "Red"), River Of Golden Dreams is the letting go and floating away, letting yourself drown in insecurity, heaertbreak, or self-destruction. Like most of Okkervil's work, you could call it a narrative, this one of a post-breakup life: realization ("It Ends With A Fall"), anger ("For The Enemy, "Blanket and Crib"), disillusionment ("The War Criminal Rises and Speaks"), signs of recovery ("Dead Faces", "The Velocity of Saul at the Time of His Conversion"), a relapse ("Maine Island Lovers"), independence ("Song About a Star"), regret ("Yellow"), and finally a bittersweet recovery, moving on and accepting ("Seas Too Far to Reach"). Here's a sample, the one that gets me every time:

The heart wants to feel.
The heart wants to hold.
The heart takes past Subway,
past Stop and Shop, past Beal's,
and calls it "coming home."
The heart wants a trail
away from "alone,"
so the heart turns a sale
into a well-worn milestone
towards hard-won soft furniture,
fought-for fast food,
defended end table that holds paperbacks
and back U.S. News.
The mind turns an itch
into a bruise,
and the hands start to twitch
when they're feeling ill-used.

And you're almost back now,
you can see by the signs;
from the bank you tell the temperature
and then the time, and the billboard reads some headlines.
The head wants to turn,
to avert both it's eyes,
but the mind wants to learn
of some truth that might be inside reported crimes.

So they found a lieutenant
who killed a village of kids.
After finishing off the wives, he wiped off his knife
and that's what he did.
And they're not claiming that
there's any excusing it;
that was thirty years back,
and they just get paid for the facts the way they got them in.

Now he's rising and not denying.
His hands are shaking, but he's not crying.
And he's saying
"How did I climb out of a life so boring
into that moment? Please stop ignoring
the heart inside,
oh you readers at home!
While you gasp at my bloody crimes,
please take the time to make your heart my home:
where I'm forgiven by time,
where I'm cushioned by hope,
where I'm numbed by long drives,
where I'm talked off or doped.
Does the heart wants to atone?
Oh, I believe that it's so,
because if I could climb back through time,
I'd restore their lives and then give back my own:
tens of times now it's size
on a far distant road
in a far distant time
where every night I'm still crying, entirely alone."

But the news today always fades away as you drive by,
until at dinnertime when you look into her eyes,
lit by evening sun - that, as usual, comes
from above that straight, unbroken line, the horizon -
it's rising is a given, just like your living.

Your heart's warm and kind.
Your mind is your own.
Our blood-spattered criminal is inscrutable;
don't worry, he won't
rise up behind your eyes
and take wild control.
He's not of this time, he fell out of a hole.

uh huuuuuuh

Isn't it great that the entire Bush family is one giant idiot?

It's incredible how they can take two things that I love, Scottish Terriers and Christmas, and make them seem related to a hole drilled in my skull and some Tabasco sauce.

Look out for: George poorly reciting facts, dogs being thrown glass ornaments so that they can bite them, one of the Bush girls plugging that she is engaged and thus not worthy of all the scandal that she cooked up a few years back, Laura reading from a coloring book, and Tony Blair generally disgracing himself.

The most hilarious thing about this video is the combination of the presidential family's lack of looking smart in front of a camera combined with the indifference of the dogs. Priceless.




Oh yeah, and that the most powerful man in the world calls his pets "Barney" and "Miss Beasley".

parties for hosting, marshmallows for toasting

So I'd feel silly if I didn't post a blog at some point about my Decemberian excitement for the upcoming Holidays. With the exception of Kwanza, which is not a holiday, I've always had affection for the end-of year celebrations. And yes, I know that I'm not Jewish, but that includes Hannukah to an extent as well. What's better than Cindy Greenstein bringing over her leftover latkas, or getting to go over to a friend's house for a fancy, fun dinner? (I always loved the Jewish tradition of eating things to remember miracles. In Christianity, people don't eat things to remember miracles). Do you realize how much of a shocker it was for me when I learned that today, December 12, was the last night of Hannukah? I missed it! I never even knew it had started! Do you see what living away from South Florida has done to me?

But yes, Christmas. Christmas is good. As an American, to me Christmas is primarily rooted in decorating everything in sight with sparkly red, gold, green, and silver; repeating the same seven motifs over and over (Santa, Present, Tree, Deer, Bell, Snowman, Candy Cane). Preferably these decorations belong on the lamp-posts of your local mall parking lot, on the back wall of an office, or the front window of whatever drycleaning or coffee-shop establishment decides to show joy. And really, what would the holidays be without them? It's not Christmas unless I am reminded by it at every turn with the sight of shiny, gaudy, wonderful plastic and window paint.

This year Christmas will be spent with (hopefully) snow, my younger cousins, and my family. We're in a new house and a new town this year, so it's a whole new way of looking at Christmas...and, of course, at Christmas break. The overall feeling of the season is never lost, though. I'm excited for being home and warm and doted upon by dogs and cats and children and cocoa.

But then there's New Year's. Since I won't be going to any decadent parties this year (re: no friends in PDX), I'm starting to question what's so bloody great about it. Drinking? We could do that every day. Most of us do. Resolutions? As though you're going to keep them?

And they're always the ridiculous resolutions like "this year I'm going to put MYSELF first and not date any men who take advantage of me!" As though for all of 2007 you thought that was a good idea, and only a giant ball going down a pole in the middle of Manhattan can make you realize your faults. That, and the fact that most resolutions are just re-hashes of the ones you made last year, only proving that you probably won't live up to them this year. Also, there's no indication that a new year is really a clean slate; otherwise they might as well absolve me from any credit card payments I owe and stop my parents from getting angry about past offenses. Wait, that's a good idea.

I have lost friends, some by death, others by inability to read their blog

Well, the uncontrollable Virginia Woolf puppet has gone and started a Blog of her Own, which I have nothing to do with. For now I think she's just complaining about mundane things, which is what she's best at. But keep yourself tuned in, she might just say something worthwhile.

Actually, scratch that.

We here at Arts Deux headquarters (NIZA) have often described our humor as "lowbrow jokes about highbrow topics". It's sad to see that what we find most amusing would probably only appeal to a small demographic of people. I can't really go into most places and start making jokes about the surrealists, silent films, or modernism versus postmodernism in order to get attention or, say, attract some comely nymph. Such is my lot in life--the literary vaudevillian.

I don't have much else to talk about today. My head is a bit swimmy because I am a bit sick; my ears and throat feel like they're on lockdown and I really hope that I don't have to take the elevator anywhere. A week from now I'll be home, and probably cleaning something. That's a nice thought.

Chances of snow Thursday and Friday, then rain for the rest of my stay in Vancouver!! Oh DAMN.

procrastination blues

I keep taking study breaks to listen to the Spamalot cast recording. Why am I doing this? I didn't even think it was that good of a show. It was so inferior to the film. The songs weren't as good as I'd hoped, and yet.......

...Once in every show there's a song that goes like this,
It starts off soft and low, and ends up with a kiss
Oh where is the song that goes like this?
A sentimental song that casts a magic spell
They all will hum along, we'll overact like hell
Sing me the song that goes like this.
Now we can go straight into the middle eight
A bridge that is too far for me
I'll sing it in your face while we both embrace
And then we change the key!..

I don't get it, but it's like a guilty pleasure thing. Oh, and before I forget, I present to you the official mascot of Arts Deux:


It is Virginia Woolf, and she is beyond tipsy.

She will also be contributing to this blog on a regular basis, you can e-mail her at virginny.woolf@gmail.com.

I'm gonna have a talk with her about all these terrible biographies that I'm being forced to read. Good grief, it's tough. The good thing is that, after tomorrow, I can never open this stupid packet again.

Oh! And my download of The Golden Compass will be complete!

I know that I've written a lot about how much I was looking forward to the film, and now that I've seen it, I should post a general review.

First and foremost, the film had a flawless production quality; the cast, the CGI, the sets, the costumes, the atmosphere, all were created so perfectly and flawlessly that I have no qualms about it. When you're going to see a movie based on a book that you're in love with, it doesn't really matter if they get the story completely right, just that the look of the film and the faces of the characters matches what's in your mind. And everything was perfect, especially Dakota Blue Richards, the girl who "beat out" thousands of other girls to get the coveted part of Lyra. She was perfect-her voice, her movements, her reactions, every bit of her the perfect embodiment of her character. This was a big deal because she's completely unknown; we could at least have faith in the other cast members, who all have a considerable amount of well-documented acting chops (Daniel Craig, Eva Green, Nicole Kidman, Sam Elliot, Ian McKellan, and a blink-and-you-miss-him Christopher Lee). With them, of course, I have no comments. Kidman was particularly spot-on as the metallically sweet Mrs. Coulter, and since this is Kidman's first villainous role, it was especially juicy, and she stole every scene that she was in. Elliot, too, commanded the camera, proving that he is the only person in the world who could pull off a stereotypical Texan and make it seem heartwarming and genuine. Everyone else? Perfect perfect perfect. The Aletheiometer was done well, though the "going inside the machine" sequences dried out after the second time, seeming much too formulaic. But the script, as far as dialogue goes, was well written enough to get the story across, to explain the importance of dust, et. al.

The only real problem I had with the film was that obvious involvement done on the part of the New Line producers. Where they were more than happy to give Phil Jackson a three hour minimum film, The Golden Compass clocks in at barely two hours. The film, which begins at a perfect pace with Lyra's life in Oxford (the best part of the film, for anyone who's read and loved the books), picks up a faster and faster pace, using more transitional shots than conversational ones, shifting the plot without leaving time to think. His Dark Materials is a coming of age story, and what gives those strength is the in-between bits, showing the characters slowly fitting into whatever new pair of shoes or boots they have. I understand taking those parts out for the sake of time in a film, but when it's such a short time...well, it doesn't make much sense. Equally unsettling is the pointless decision to cut the last part of the film, which encompassed three chapters of the book, one of the best climaxes I've ever read and what I was really hoping for. The even put parts of the scenes in the trailers, but removed them from the film in order to save them for the beginning of The Subtle Knife, which is again a bad choice. Much of the film, especially the exposition and the stressing of Dust and a multiverse, seemed to be for setting up the second film so that they can jump right into the action, which is good; those who have read the entire trilogy will recognize the opening "portal" as the one that Will travels through from our world into Citágazze. There's rumor of a possible Director's Cut of the movie to be released to DVD, which would be a longer version and include some of the in-between scenes. Even though Philip Pullman says that saving the last part of The Golden Compass for the beginning of The Subtle Knife was a good idea, a good portion of the trilogy's fans are up in arms about the choice, so maybe that'll rub off on the studio.

So yeah, the pacing could have been better. There's a debate going on with those who have reviewed the film on BridgeToTheStars.net about whether or not the Magesterium was portrayed correctly. My thoughts? Yes and no. The depiction of London as one giant St. Peter's Cathedral and the long robes of the Magesterium's officials, as well as Fra Pavel's (Simon McBurney, as if he wasn't British enough) rosary beads constantly in his palm and his denouncement of Asriel's decision to find other words where there is no God as "Heresy". But the Magesterium is also depicted as a "big bad wolf" sort of organization, like the shadowy figures behind a terrorist cartel or the Emperor in Star Wars. This, I think, is done to prove how wrong it is, but it also takes away from its strength by pigeon-holing them as such. Some criticize that the role of the Magesterium as the Church has been downplayed; despite the fact that it is never really explained in depth as being a completely religious organization until the second book. I personally think that it was done well, though I have a few qualms about them constantly referring to the importance of "the last Aletheiometer...also known as The Golden Compass", which they probably say about seven times in the film. No one ever calls it "The Golden Compass", and the Aletheiometer is not as important as Lyra is. Her fate, of course, is not to be the person who can read the Aletheiometer, but the person who ends the Authority and stops death. Hopefully that will be more important in the next film, which I hope doesn't take three years to make.

Final verdict? 4.5/5

Now I really have to get back to work (dammit) on this Woolf final (dammit dammit) before getting to bed so I can get up for work. Whooee. Can't wait to be getting myself home, nope.

I'z havin selebrashun fr glden compas?

In recognition of the greatest movie of the season, based on one of the best works of Children's literature and, to a great extent, modern literature ever written--filled with mature, deep, and truly fantastic imagination and philosophy--I present to you the lolcats version of The Golden Compass

Frosted Windowpanes

Well, a few things have happened that truly signify the beginning of the Christmas season (the real Christmas season, not that one signified by the end of the Macy's parade; that's the Holiday season). First and I guess most important, it was my birthday yesterday, which makes me twenty. I would say that I was old, or that I feel weird, but pretty much everyone I know has already crossed that threshold, so I just feel like I've finally caught up. Anyway, I got some fantastic bottles of beer, a beautiful Neko Case record (Blacklisted), a cute self-portrait, and--the coolest thing--a dictionary of symbolism! We went out for drinks and it was wonderfully fun; there will definitely be pictures soon somewhere. Second, today is not only the first of December, but the first of Snowcember. Though technically we have already had snow this year, this is the small little fluffy snowflakes, that are covering the campus in a quiet whiteness. I'm incredibly excited for Christmas now, because it finally looks like Christmas. And finally, classes are over, and that's the most mind-blowing part. That's it? That's the semester? Just five days left? Just those five tests and then I'm off to Portland, then I'm off to England?

Well, in any case it's all wonderful. So much to look forward to!

25 things that help you get through that last essay of the term:

1. Opening six or seven generally-related books and placing them in various areas of your vision
2. Opening Microsoft Word even when you have no idea what you're going to write
3. Changing the font size, line spacing, and margins until they are just right
4. Relocating the laptop to the floor
5. Relocating the laptop to the bed
6. Re-relocating the laptop to the desk
7. Taking a shower
8. Getting completely dry with your fuzzy towel (approx. drying time: 30 min.)
9. IMing all the people you really should talk to, because it's been so long
10. Looking out the window. Maybe you'll see someone get mugged and be a hero by calling the cops!
11. Turning on the space heater
12. Turning off the space heater
13. Checking Myspace
14. Checking Facebook
15. Sending people free gifts on Facebook--they need to know they are appreciated
16. Figuring out the words to that Fleetwood Mac song that's on the veeeeery edge of your head
17. Read CNN or BBC because you have a responsibility to stay informed
18. Blog
19. Skim through one of the open books on the floor, get all huffy about its uselessness
20. Look up your topic on Wikipedia
21. End up reading about something completely unrelated but awesome, i.e. Zelda Fitzgerald
22. Wondering why your jaw hurts so much and wonder if you've been unwittingly stabbed by a rusty object
23. Listen to the wind blooooooooooooooow, watch the sun riiiiiiiiiiiiiiise. Run in the shadooooooooooooooows, damn your love, damn your lies
24. Search through all your classical music to find just the thing to set the mood
25. Switch from Stravinsky to Beethoven to Brahms, end up on the Fantasia soundtrack. again. Start writing.

Yule

Christmastime by ~Shmedgehog on deviantART

In the spirit of the season, here's a collage piece that I did a while back. I really want to start doing this again, especially in Photoshop...less mess.

Cataloging

Hey, I bet you think I mean Looking at Catalogues! Nope. I mean it in the boring sense. I mean, here are the books that I've read over the semester, my rating of them (out of 10, of course), and a short review. Thus I will be able to look back on what I read, because I tend to forget pretty quickly.

20th Century British and Irish Studies: Virginia Woolf, Pacifism, and Feminism

Mrs. Dalloway Probably my personal favorite of Woolf's novels. (9/10)
To The Lighthouse Another great one, though some of the characters seemed too stilted at times. (8/10)
A Room of One's Own The better of Woolf's feminist essays. (8/10)
Three Guineas The worse of Woolf's feminist essays. (4/10)
The Years Beautifully written but incredibly long. (7/10)

20th Century Studies: Postmodernism

A Postmodern Reader I honestly think that if it weren't for the philosophy crap, Postmodernism would generally seem like an okay idea. (5/10)
A Wild Sheep Chase Interesting at first, but the story became so uninteresting and hard to believe that in the end I didn't care about the stupid hypnotic religion cult sheep. (4/10)
Midnight's Children Magical Realism! Eastern Theology! Noses! (8/10)
Mao II Tended to dry out after the first half, but pretty interesting, engaging, and easy to get into. (7/10)

Shakespeare and the Renaissance

Hamlet Um, well, it's Hamlet. Best play ever written. Not really, but pretty flawless. (9/10)
Twelfth Night Very fun and clever, one of my favorite Shakespeares and possibly my favorite comedy. (9/10)
Henry V Okay, yes, it's great. But the speeches are too long-winded and the stereotypes are annoying. (6/10)
Titus Andronicus So me saying that I'm sort of in love with this play will make me come off as an awful person; because it's not so greatly written and it's full of rape, dismemberment, and people pies. But....yes, I'm sort of in love with it. (7/10)
The Merchant of Venice Ugh. No redeeming characters. Awful take on society. I don't even see how it can count as a comedy, while most of the scenes are tense. Not really that great, you guys. (5/10)
The Winter's Tale A sweet, sweet beauty of a play, that desires a good filmed adaptation. (7/10)

Metaphor and Thought
Arcadia Oh Tom Stoppard, you're soooo clever. Still, was a lot of fun to read, though the philosophical doscourse can get carried away at times. (7/10)


My other class was Grammar, and there weren't any deep readings in that. So hey, all in all it seemed like a pretty nice semester! I'll leave you with a short excerpt from my final project for Virginia Woolf class, an experimental journal (here I'm trying to fiddle with stream-of-consciousness):

now it is silent, though not completely. a truck from the construction site had been whining constantly in a low and insipid tone for nearly an hour, and the person living above me (who i do not know were i to encounter them in an elevator) has stopped doing what sounded to be bouncing a basketball continuously while i was trying to nap. even so, it is never silent here--a car skids outside, the elevator climbs smooth and well-oiled, a door slams, someone cooks in the kitchen. i would cover my ears, but then would be berated by the noise of my own blood. i tried to take a shower, just now, but the truck's whirr followed me even there. now clean and sitting on my bed, i can revel in the silence that is really less-noise around me. it seems impossible to me. october commands silence. i don't know how i stand it.

there is one place in the world where i know it is silent. my grandfather's farm in stony ford, california. to get to the nearest town takes an hour's drive through the gentle hills spotted with cows and horses and jackrabbits and families of quail. trees top the hills like many-branched candelabra. in most months it is hot beyond belief, but at least there is silent, walking down to my grandfather's pond, or sitting, as my mother did when she visited him years ago when she was younger than me, on the top of the hill behind the house he built himself, watching the world retire again and the air punctured with cicadas. and that place has a silence you notice-even on the quietest days in the suburbs where i grew up there is still the din of voices and cars and the buzz of electricity. but not at stony ford. no, there it is a waving peace, letting your ears suddenly realize that there is empty and beautiful air around them. it is like so many people say about the country: "a guy can really breathe out here".
here, i'm afraid, there is no (or very little) room to breath. the molecules of carbon expelled from the mouth must immediately fight with falling pieces of steel and pounding slabs of wood, boiling water and mutters and groans and bangs and booms and crashes and creaks. the walls whistle and pop.


I really like "the molecules of carbon expelled from the mouth must immediately fight with falling pieces of steel and pounding slabs of wood, boiling water and mutters and groans and bangs and booms and crashes and creaks." part. I'm proud of that.

Hey look, cross promotion

If you're bored and wanna see something that I think should be looked at, head over to my DeviantArt page and look at all my new fantasy-esque sketches.

River Sprite Detail by ~Shmedgehog on deviantART

Isaiah by ~Shmedgehog on deviantART

Adonis Detail by ~Shmedgehog on deviantART

And that's just a TASTE of what's to come.

Don't you hate describing what you write or draw as "fantasy"? There was a time when the word conjured up thoughts of The Brothers Grimm and J.M. Barrie and Arthur Rackham, or the mythologies of the Old World. Now it makes you think of some chubby-esque guy wearing tights, cardboard armor, and a sword that he has given some pseudo-Norse name ("Behold---Niflgrassryodr!"). No offense to people that this statement might offend, but J.R.R. Tolkein ruined fairytales and mythology. FOREVER. I'm not even going to expand on that statement, because deep down you know it's true.

So that's what I've been up to these past few days, along with working on schoolstuffs, reading (The Winter's Tale is really good!!), and planning for upcoming things, which include:

November 23: Thanksgiving. Sit on couch with blanket and hot cocoa, watch parade.
Nov. 24: Family visits, big Thanksgiving dinner for everybody.
Nov. 30: Birthday. Turn 20. Drink, dance, celebrate fear of turning 30 in 10 years.
Dec. 2: Tori Amos concert. Wear face-paint, get adopted by Tori Amos.
Dec. 7: Golden Compass. The fact that I'm even putting that as a date equal to "Birthday" or "Thanksgiving" says it all.
Dec. 17: Go home, check out of Gage for the last time. Don't return to UBC for nine and a half months.
Dec. 25: Um, Noel.
Jan. 1: New Years. Will probably sit in my parent's basement watching something lame on TV.
Jan. 10: Fly to England
Jan. 11: Move into room at UEA.

So that's pretty much something significant happening every week for the next two months, not to mention all the ridiculous stuff that'll happen once I'm in England. And that's not even counting final exams or term papers.

Also, the exchange rate between the US and Canada is now a slim .98 to 1, which means that we should be getting back up some time in the next few weeks. I hope Canada enjoyed its month and a half of triumph. I found it annoying.

Seriously, go look at the arts! If nine million people look I get a lolipop!

Golden Compass: again

holy out of context!

if you're unfamiliar with Frank Miller's The Dark Knight Returns, then I doubt you get the joke. Completely.

Also: watched Titus. Eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeyup.

Mindfuck of a movie; still, I loved a lot of it. And that kind of disturbs me.

hooray political snarkisms

Found this on the Facebook group '"A noun, a verb, and 9/11"-The Rudy Giuliani campaign slogan'. I'm not big into joining groups on Facebook anymore, but this one made me smile. I love (sarcasm) how it actually makes sense to some people to have this guy run for president. Or even BE president. The truth is that when he was the mayor of New York it was hardly squeaky-clean, until 9/11. And it just so happened that Giuliani was there. It was really a matter of-albeit, twisted-convenience. If anyone had been the mayor of NYC at the time, and they had a good team behind them, they would come out a hero. You couldn't argue with it, it would seem cruel to criticize someone so harshly when they are the figurehead of responsibility and leadership in a grieving city. To a good extent, you could say the same about Bush--had he not been president during 9/11, or if it had not happened, I doubt he would be as liked as he is now, or if he would have lasted past the first term.

So, a message to you guys, and anyone who tries to do the same thing: just because you were in the right place at the right time doesn't mean that you're a good leader, a strong leader, or even a smart person. It means you were there. A lot of people were there.

Today marks the first time all year that I came home and passed out. Of course, it was at 9 pm, but despite being well caffeinated, I collapsed for a good hour. Yay naps?

sight (a short story)

"You know, someday you're going to hurt yourself doing that." the man said, sitting in his armchair and resting his elbows condescendingly.

"Oh hush." the woman replied. She groped for the tap and turned on the faucet, running the water over the knife's edge until all the blood was gone. "You always talk about it like I've done something so terrible. You know that they'll grow back. Besides" she put the knife on the counter, as clean as it was when it was new and unused. "it was about time for a change anyway." She felt her way from the kitchen to the lounge, where he sat, finding the armchair across from his and sinking into it.

"Yes, I suppose it was. You were complaining too much as it was."

"Complaining! You would complain, if everything all looked the same." She said. "All blue. blue houses, blue skies, blue streets, blue cars, blue people. Always twilight. God, it was unspeakably terrible."

"I remember you rather liked it at first."

"Of course. New is always likable." She twiddled her thumbs. 'But new doesn't last, does it?'

He sighed and took his pipe out of a box on the table. If she knew he was staring at her, he would look away, but situation as it was, he stared unabatedly. Her eyes were still two empty sockets, miniature pitfalls of black tendon and bone, but already tiny pink veins were branching from the depths towards the light, hundreds of fingers extending. Blood, which had been a deluge only minutes before, was now trickling contentedly down her cheeks.

"And what, do you think, you will see this time?"

Despite her hollowed visage, the woman still managed to look hopeful, almost excited, leaning back in her chair. "Oh, I can't say for sure. Maybe it will be a color again. Or a shade. That happens often."

"Red?" He suggested, his eyes lingering on her cheeks.

"I hope not!" She exclaimed. "I have had red once before. The whole world was bleeding;" she self-consciously wiped a small pool from the furrow of her chin. "I would never recover from nightmares. Or I would always think I was ill. Perhaps it will be like when everything was square. Or when everything was glowing with some heavenly light. Or when everything was made of separate little things that all looked the same-"

"Fractals."

"Yes! Fractals. I liked that. A jacket made of thousands of jackets, and all of them made of thousands of jackets. It really made everything fascinating." She wiped her hands, still wet from washing the knife.
Now a tiny, clear membrane was starting to creep like a cloud from under her eyelid.
He puffed on his pipe and crossed his right leg over his left knee. "I still believe it is irresponsible. You can't turn around and cut out your eyes when you don't like what you see." A pile of smoke issued from his mouth. "Would you cut off your tongue if you didn't like the way that things taste?"

"Of course not! That's ridiculous. It's much more than that." she collapsed her thumbs and clenched her fingers together. "I'm sure that you wouldn't understand it if I explained it to you. Though I wish they would hurry up and grow."

"And," he said, smirking a grin she couldn't see. "What will you do if you see things in black? If black covered everything?"

"Black?" She froze, even her eyes paused their slow progression into spheres. "I don't know. Well...I think it would be awful. Absolutely; I would rather go blind than see everything in black."

There was something missing in the smoke-filled air at that moment, a triumphant laugh or some sort of decree of truth, or a sigh of revelation, awe, acceptance, anything...but there was only stillness, broken by the slight shuffling whisper of two eyes recreating themselves into existence. In the kitchen, the knife sat, wet on the counter, silver as if it had never stirred. The man sat and smoked, the woman sat and waited, her mouth open just the slightest, perched on the edge of the sentence she was meaning to say but didn't know the words to. then-

"Aah," she said. He put down his pipe.

"Aah."

"Well?" he asked.

"It's the most beautiful. It's the most beautiful world I've ever seen." she replied softly, her eyes staring up to the ceiling-or perhaps, beyond it. "Yes. The most beautiful, the most wonderful. The most true..."

And the woman sat and stared around her with wide newborn eyes, and the man watched her, smoking his pipe, and in the kitchen, the knife gleamed in the dim twilight.

anticipation

YEAH LET'S TALK ABOUT HOW GREAT THIS IS GOING TO BE.

No, seriously. If you've never picked up Philip Pullman's His Dark Materials series (The Golden Compass, The Subtle Knife, and The amber Spyglass), well, I'm probably not the first person to tell you to do so. It's gushworty. And the first of the three films is coming out December 7th:


Awesome score+breathtaking production design+Daniel Craig+Nicole Kidman+talking animals+the voice of Ian Mckellan+the voice of Freddie Highmore+Eva Green+Sam Elliot+polar bears+airships+Gyptians+witches=Ten billion types of YES

And here's a sweet featurette about Daemons with lots of fantastic footage:




go obsess about it for a while. It's a good thing to do.

espresso grief; early morning intellectualism; webcomics reccommendations

Whenever I go to Starbucks in the mornings (this happens at least once a week) and order an added shot of espresso, the nice barista lady thinks I'm suicidal.
"I'll have a tall soy sugar-free hazelnut latte with two shots" (don't judge me, it tastes good)
"Tall has two shots."
"I know, I'd like two added shots."
"that's four shots...."
"I know."
"FOUR SHOTS?!"

You's think that espresso was made of herion, or perhaps bullets. Shoot me four times.

Also, I think that the general intellectuality level of us NIZA girls (read: Myself, Manda, and Shmaletheia) is starting to bite us in the bum. We have a horrible tendency for having long, thoughtful discussions about art, life, sexism, film, culture, literature, et cetera at two a.m. on a Sunday night, when we need to wake up at eight or nine the next morning. And it really seems like we can't help ourselves; we're addicted to being smart.

Last night's personal revelation question: Is it possible to begin an artistic movement without believing that your movement is the be-all end-all of art, and knowing that in a short time another movement will supplant your ideas, or at least expand on them in ways that you wouldn't? Is it worth it to create when you are simply acting as a link in the chain of creation? I think there is, but it's a tough truth to swallow.

I'll finish today with a list that I've been meaning to make for a while: Webcomic Recs!! If you know me, you know that i'm a partially closeted fan of comic books and graphic novels, so it should come as no surprise that i show more than a passing interest in the web- type comics. Here's a short list of the one's I like:

A Softer World: Sure, sometimes the indier-than-thou sentimentality can get kind of grating. And this is more of a one-two nudge than a one-two punch as far as jokes go. But it's often well-written, the three panel format works every time, and even the most ridiculous strips can still make you smirk a bit.


nataliedee.com
Married To The Sea/Toothpaste For Dinner/Natalie Dee: Ohio's premiere married strange people of Drew and Natalie are scattered in various places all over the internet; from Myspace to Youtube to these comics, which also include blogs and a fourth non-regular comic by Drew, Where Are The Dogs Humping. True, Married to the Sea has been lacking ever since it changed its format from /victorian-style etchings to 1970s-style advertisements, but it's still damn funny most of the time. All three have a great sense of irreverent humor, mocking almost everything that the internet-savvy 16-24 year-olds would want to see mocked. And sometimes it's just weird.


Questionable Content: This one is a bit of a guilty pleasure for me. A serialized webcomic that's evolved into one of the best-drawn ones on the web. A bit silly at times, but you can't help but get sucked in. Pretty entertaining stuff!


The Adventures of Dr Mcninja: He's a ninja who is also a doctor, who is also Irish! Yeah, I have no excuse.


Dinosaur Comics: Consistently fantastic. Also, you should know my love of all things dinosaur. Also an intriguing format; using the same six frames per comic with different text (and sometimes thought balloons, moustaches, beach balls, and a floating Batman head). And you can spend hours hitting the random comic link at the top of the page. HOURS.


Animals Have Problems Too: Probably the most irreverent and satisfying comic of the bunch, with more lols than you can imagine. Each comic is a solid hit, brief but awesome. Make sure to check out all the scrollover comments; they make it twice as good. Currently my absolute favorite webcomic.


A Lesson is Learned But the Damage is Irreversible: Thought I'd just throw this one in there. It's not a currently updating webcomic, given that the creators are on an unexplained hiatus; but if you have an extra half hour one day, go look at what's up there. It's almost completely abstract and nonlinear, but the writing is still poignant in an unexplainable way, and the art is fascinating. There aren't a lot of comics up there, so it'll be a quick read. I promise it's worth it.

This Halloween, I'm gonna dress up as a slutty sailor cop....bunny.

Halloween has always been a pretty fantastic holiday, and like most fantastic holidays, it is ruined by people between the ages of 16 and 22. It's amusing that most "costumes" aren't really costumes at all, just odd outfits and color combinations.

So, since Halloween falls on a Wednesday (booo) this year, festivities are mostly taking place this weekend, which is why I write to you from under a very loud, bass-heaving party. No doubt they are having a seance! And resurrecting the spirits of all the people who have died in mosh pits. Let us never forget them.

Our Pre-Halloween (Pralloween?) weekend has been a rather enjoyable one. Last night, we went to FUSE, a weekly party hosted at the Vancouver Art Gallery. There was art, dance, and drink, all of which I enjoyed greatly and would very much like to experience again. The centerpiece of the evening was a performance art........performance that was two women sitting at a tabe set for a great and decadent feast that consisted of cakes and tortes, while the audience member's mouths watered over the various marzipan-colored delicacies that were spread across the banquet table. The performance itself had lasted for twelve hours, and throughout the evening the table was wrapped in cellophane until every inch of it, cake and all, was covered. Then, at the end of the evening, the artist unwrapped the table and walked away, leaving us to eat what was left of the cakes and such. There was a lot. Deciding to keep with the performative aspect of it all, we ate some cake and shoved the rest in each other's faces:







Ugh, we are all so cute. (the ladies in the pic-a-tures are Aletheia and Manda, and they are the greatest)

So then tonight was the Parade of Lost Souls, which had some entertaining aspects....but to tell you the truth, I had more fun at FUSE. There's something about the Vancouver community events or art scene events that sometimes leaves a bit more to be desired, at least in my opinion. Still, there was lots to enjoy...an interesting performance on a fire escape, dancing on stilts, dancing with fire, and lots of musicians and groups everywhere playing music. I wish we had been there to see the parade, as it was, we showed up an hour late. Oh well. Hopefully we can get a complete taste of it next year.

One last picture; the facepaint that I did this evening for the festivities:




It was supposed to look like a mask of leaves, but now I think I just looked like an owl. Huh. A girl on the bus told me that I should say I'm "Autumn".

"What are you going as this Halloween?" "Oh, I dunno. An abstract seasonal concept, maybe." "nice."

Come on, little buck, you can do it

Today's exchange rate is a depressing 1.00::0.962, in favor of Canada (of course).

I'm not trying to turn this into a political or economics blog, because I'm just not capable of that sort of thing. But I did learn today that the increase in Canadian prices is due to there being a distributory "middleman". The idea is (in typical Canada-wants-recognition style) that every U.S. company has to have a specific Canadian "branch" that imports most of the products but spends extra on the packaging and distributing, so that the product can then be written in poorly translated Franglais (ex: Ketchup="Ketchup") and be covered in maple leafs. This additional packaging jacks the price up. Add on the provincial and government taxes, and you can see why we're in such a fix over here. Now that the dollar is in surplus, you would think the problem would be solved (or less bad), but such is not the case. Also, Canada's biggest trade partner of exports is the U.S., and now the states aren't really as interested in buying Canadian. So, like before, nobody wins, and we're getting shafted all the more.

Mix Tape!

Every now and again I like to put these together, driven by fancy of curiosity or that cumpulsion of "I wish I could hear these 10-14 songs all together instead of skipping around on my iTunes, that would be the best. The best!". This is the first time I've done it on Blogger, but there are a couple over on Myspace. On that note, have you ever noticed that by one's mere existence on Myspace, they automatically think that you will want to listen to whatever crappy band takes an interest? Call me loopy, but I don't think that's the case with most people; even though it's nice to get the "THANKS FOR ADDING OUR CRAPPY BAND WE LOVE THE SUPPORT YOU ARE THE GREATEST" comments afterwards, because it gives you the impression that the fame of such a band relies on a single person who they've never met.

Moving on to the tape. Actually, it's a bunch of mp3s.

The theme here is loneliness. Not outright despondent "my lover has left me for another and i'm so far behind on my electric bill it's not even funny, but i'll sit in the dark and cry anyway" loneliness, but that sort of growing loneliness that wraps around you like a warm blanket. It's comforting and painful at the same time. At times like this, all you want to do is wallow in your lonely adriftness, and this is the soundtrack for you. The download (if you choose to download it) won't list the tracks in the order i want them to be on the list, so here's how I have them:




As is the best way to do it, here's a short lyric from each of the non-instrumental pieces to help explain how they got there:

"River": I wish I had a river I could skate away on (duh)
"Disappear": I don't think we're meant to stay here very long//I don't dream of bringing heaven down//not like this, I'd rather move on
"I Wish I Was The Moon": God bless me I'm a free man with no place free to go//I'm parylized and collar-tight//no pills for what I fear
"Listening to Otis Redding At Home During Christmastime":Home is where beds are made and butter is added to toast//On a cold afternoon you can float room to room like a ghost//Take the creche out and argue about who gets to set up the kings//And I know that it's hom because that's where the stereo sings "I've got dreams to remember"

"There is a Light that Never Goes Out": Driving in your car//oh I never never want to go home//because I haven't got one anymore
"Hallelujah":Even though it all went wrong//I'll stand before the Lord of Song//With nothing on my tongue but "hallelujah"
"Fox In The Snow":Girl in the snow, where do you go//to find someone who will do//to tell someone all the truth before it kills you//and listen to your crazy laugh before you hang a right and disappear from sight
"The District Sleeps Alone Tonight":The district sleeps alone tonight after the bars turn out their lights//and send the autos swerving into the loneliest evening//and I am finally seeing why I was the one worth leaving

"Onliest":Sweetness of the salty wind//Depth of love when it just begins//A pint for me and one for you//Say a toast with all who knew
"The Absence of God"I say there's trouble when everything is fine//the need to destroy things creeps up on me every time
"You're Gonna Make Me Lonesome" Purple clover, Queen Anne lace//crimson hair across your face//you could make me cry if you don't know

As you noticed, the songs are split into three categories, that are loosely linked thematically. Most of the correlation is in the style of music. The first section is folk or country-esque songs, as they are reprisented by "Dora Mae's Funeral". The next section is more poppy, and melancholy; dealing more with personal relationships. The last three are more up-tempo and brighter. The melancholy mood ends after "Onliest", and the last two songs are still lonely but a little happier to listen to. And I thought that Peyroux's lovely cover of "You're Gonna Make Me Lonesone" was a perfect cap on such a sweet little set of songs.

So feel free to download, wallow, and enjoy. You can find the file here.