***
Find what you’re looking for in the cabinet—
The white cup with the broken handle.
Tell me about it,
And how its every angle affects you.
I believe that may be your excuse for coming.
It’s time spent,
Lost-touched and separate.
Let the half-hours pass.
***
I caught a song on the radio today-- it was a Harry Connick Jr. one. I thought that it was ridiculously infantile. I think it was from the When Harry Met Sally soundtrack. Suddenly angry, I almost succumbed to the craziness and confusion of anger, of shame, of regret. Why do we feel the need to laugh? Why do we feel the compulsion to express everything we are thinking? Why don't we repress it, engrave it so it becomes incomprehensibly intertwined with our opinions? Then, maybe your cleverness will take a walk. Maybe if you're angry, you should let it go unresolved for the rest of your life, until it turns into boredom, regret, and confusion. You should sacrifice yourself, forget about what makes you happy, reject yourself. By doing so, you'll be doing someone a favor. Then you will stop feeling. Reject the body and accept the brain. Maybe then you'll stop caring about money, and the cleverness of laughing at a Harry Connick Jr. song.
Because he's not funny. And you're probably impressionable and corruptible, or incorrigible.
Please, be quiet. Stop, and forget everything I am. Listen to the air conditioner, or something. Or do what I do, and listen to yourself, and hate yourself. I command you to die alone, and never teach another student for the rest of your life. Don't publish anymore papers on acadamia, because everything you write parades around like an italicized thought. Why should I follow your rules on your terms. I forget if that was a question or not.
***
"Lost" --Ethan Frome? John Locke? Although at times it seems like another Jack bauer-ish 24, it's not. And when the show flies too close to the suspended disbelief sun of God, it backs away...and with good reason. I know, I know, the "Lost" finale was last week. There were going away parties. I even know the finale was some 6 hours long. My favorite sports writer even dedicated a dozen or so podcasts to the series, and a final dedication to it with an hour and a half long podcast (with three TV critics, each going about 30 minutes). But, I didn't listen to it, or any of his other 'Lost' podcasts. Here's the link, for all you "Lost" fans:
http://sports.espn.go.com/espnradio/podcast/archive?id=2864045
. . .it's the 5/24 podcast. Also, 5/14's podcast talks with the "Lost" co-writer Carlton Cuse.
Anyway, I'm just finishing Season 1 on sidereel. One thing I wish was different: the show should be on Showtime or HBO. It could be so much more explicit and sexual. What's for sure, is that it's probably the last show 'of its kind.' Basic cable, really? To give you a quick idea of the shows I like:
1. Six Feet Under
2. Dexter
3. Breaking Bad
4. Seinfeld
8. It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia
9. Arrested Development
Nothing wrong with Dexter. Absolutely nothing. A cool and calm serial killer? With reason and morals? Born out of blood? Hits everything on my wish-list, plus it's on Showtime.
***
Can't write. Haven't been writing. Haven't felt like it. Nothing coming, really. Some good ideas, but nothing past that. Even then, ideas are short to come by. But Stephen King and Bill Simmons say, that as writers, they read or write a couple hours per day. Even with reading: haven't been doing it. Can't do it, don't really feel like doing it. It's not writer's block or laziness. I haven't moved on from writing, like I do with relationships. The conclusion I would say, concerning my lack of writing, would be: if I never wrote another day in my life, I would be ok with it. If I wrote every day, from here on, and never got published, I would be ok with it. If I never accomplished any of my honest goals-- becoming a professor, grad student in New Orleans, or owner of a cabin in Wisconsin--I would be fine with it. If I in fact became a secretary who sets out glass bowls of candy I would still be something. If I never travelled I would be fine. But enough of the 'what-ifs'
There are a few things I do when I can't read or write: I read Samuel Beckett, write about sports, listen to Elliott Smith, watch a movie, or check my cell-phone for texts. In this case, I'm going to write about sports, because a lot has happened in my sports-world--the NFL draft, the NBA playoffs and the Cavaliers second round loss, the Cincinnati Reds in first place, the NBA lottery, the upcoming NBA summer of free-agency, the upcoming World Cup and U.S.'s draw, and probably more.
***
Being an Ohio sports fan, much of my sports-world rotates around Ohio related teams. So, for me the NFL draft is all about the Browns, Bengals, Ravens, and Steelers. Being at heart a Browns fan, I know more about their draft and offseason than any of the latter. Colt McCoy. I'm elated with this pick, and with the time in the draft they got him. Shorter, but shifty in the pocket like a Brees. Light arm, but accurate. Won and won in college. Played in the high pressure and insanely loud state of Texas, for high school and college. The best way I can explain it: the burnt orange of Texas translates fatefully to the brown of the Browns. The colors compliment. However, it's long term. McCoy won't start in '10. So, what can Cleveland do-for-me-now? They can win 6 games, and hopefully beat Cincinnati twice. Other than that, they can find the high potential between Mangini-Holmgren.
I know the Bengal's fan. He grew up in-and-around Cincinnati. Later in life he goes to the home games, but also listens in on his AM-headphone-radiostation to the commentary. Early in life, when he first begins to appreciate the commentary and analysis of the game, he attaches the team and this analysis to home-town pride. A mob of un-curbed enthusiasm walks, in union, into Paul Brown in continual agreement.
I know the Bengal's fan better than I know the Browns' fans. I live, and have lived in Cincinnati, as a Brown's fan, for my life. I've argued with genuine hatred with Bengal fans. Ironically, the arguments always start with the 'cities' of Cleveland and Cincinnati, and end with the team' mascots. There is never a solution.
But I have the advantage of being a fan of the team from their city which I'm not from. Or, I'm a fan of the city that I've never lived in.
***
Movies I've watched recently:
Exotica, U-Turn, Valentine's Day, Angel Heart, The Man Who Wasn't There, The Deep End
A Walk in the Clouds, Cache, Oldboy, The Salton Sea
Kiss Kiss Bang Bang, George Washington
Lost Highway, Trees Lounge, Layer Cake, The Dreamers,
The Talented Mr. Ripley, The Professional, The Sweet Hereafter,
Brothers, Avatar, The Hurt Locker, Bright Star, The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo, 2012,
Broken Embraces, Disgrace, You The Living,
Shutter Island, Leaves of Grass, Chloe, Bad Lieutenant: Port of Call, New Orleans,
Humpday, Chop Shop, Mon oncle Antoine, Brick, Without Limits, Hable Con Ella, L'Enfant,
4 Months, 3 Weeks, and 2 Days, The Class, You Can Count on Me, Paranoid Park
1. The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo-- A gothic, lesbian computer hacker and a political journalist have seriously (in my opinion) great chemistry.
2. Leaves of Grass-- Edward Norton plays two characters who are identical twins: a stoner and an Ivy-league, Classics professor.
3. L'Enfant (The Child)--The casted couple are unfamiliar faces, but perfect for the film. Best ending of a movie that I can remember.
4. Oldboy--A man kidnapped and locked in a hotel room for 15 straight years. Why? And what does he watch on TV?
5. You Can Count on Me-- I've been wanting to watch this movie for awhile. Mark Ruffalo as a drifter-- doing the Kerouac-beat travelling brother.
***
Genre takes away mystery, as I've recently found out. Or, genre takes away that specific quality we appreciate in art. Another way to put it: the definition of a term takes away the intuitive meaning we naturally give it. The mystery of meaning is really our enjoyment of the feeling which is unexplainable. Genre, like all definitions, will take
***
A man announces to a crowd: "I am lying to you.". . . So, is the man telling the truth because he confesses to being 'untruthful,' or is he lying, by saying, 'I am lying to you,' and by using the verb 'lying' in the sentence.
***
So begins the idea of absolute truth and certainty. Pilgrimages and journeys have been made over the question of reality.
***
You start reading, or listening, on a whim. There is an assumption, like what you're about the hear or read or listen to has already been heard, read, or listened to. There is a comparison, or a prior conviction.
***
I've finally started Stephen King's book On Writing and a volume of Yeats's poems. Something from King's book: ". . .good story ideas seem to come quite literally from nowhere, sailing at you right out of the empty sky: two previously unrelated ideas come together and make something new under the sun."
***
Little did I know it would mean nothing just a week later.
***
--"Who's that singing?"
-"Edith Piaf."
--"What's she so upset about?"
-"Her lover left her, and she sees his face everywhere she goes."
She sings, 'You say things that make my eyes close.'
***
I'm writing this while waiting for the film Hannah and Her Sisters to finish illegally downloading, so I'm trying to finish this post in '15 min 47 sec.' The movie is another Woody Allen. For the most part I'm choosing to watch it, among the infinite list of internet movies, for a few reasons:
Its a Woody Allen from 1986--an interesting in-between time for directors in general. I can only compare my attraction to 1986 to the '86 or '87 David Lynch film Blue Velvet-- its my favorite Lynch film, after Dune but before Mulholland Drive, because its more polished than Dune but less experimental than Mulholland Dr.
I'm finding that Woody Allen has done a lot more movies than I thought, however I follow the same opinion of a friend that all Woody Allen movies have a recurring element that tends to dominate his movies (you decide what the element is), and thus most of his movies are the same. So Annie Hall is revisited over and over if you were to purchase the Woody Allen box set at Boarders (which I have). But what director or artist doesn't have this hackneyed fault?
As for the march madness tourney I'm really looking forward to the Michigan St/Northern Iowa game --mostly because I'm a huge state fan. Hopefully CBS airs the whole game because they really missed the boat with state's last game vs. maryland. Vegas is giving them 1 1/2 points but the overall feeling is that N. Iowa should win by, say, 4 pts. I feel that either MSU will either win by 1/2 pts or get blown out. I'm discovering every game that involves a team I'm a fan of is not a game where I should hedge my bet. Nonetheless, I'll be watching the game with my dad, an MSU grad, hopefully with his self-proclaimed famous nachos, and German beer.
***
As for what I'm reading right now, my cousin recently gave me Stephen King's On Writing which is pretty awesome, and Stoppard's Rosencrantz and Guildstern. I feel both books are sort of must-reads for the reader/writer.
***
Finally, here is an incomplete poem I've been working on, but cannot find a way to end:
In Treatment
From the glass bowl in the cafeteria,
full of apples pears and peaches,
we would fill up a paper bag
with a half dozen Red Delicious
and walk to the horse stables.
On the way, Charis Ann and I
would stop by the small pond
and watch the orange coy zip
from rock to rock.
Clear sky spread purple and gold during these evenings.
We would split the apples
into halves against the wooden fence,
and reach our hands through the stable's gate
to feed the horses.
The stables overlooked
the shaded Santa Catalina Mountains
and acres of rolling ground
sectioned off by picket fence.
The Paolo Verde trees were in yellow bloom
and purple violets emerged into groups
from hard, dry Tucson dirt.
These horses were once wild horses,
but now were domesticated horses
helping patients with therapy.
The first time I met Henrietta
was in front of my focus group in a gated ring.
Coincidentally, I chose the alpha-female,
and she wasn't enthusiastic
as I shyly approached her.
My glands were inflamed from the horses' hair and hay.
She drove her hooves into the ground
as I sneezed repeatedly.
This was Equestrian Therapy
and my life long battle with allergies was surfacing.
Henrietta's frayed tail swatted flies
while her muscles flexed smooth and taught.
I ran my fingers down her long nose while snot
dripped from her nostrils.
***
I guess I'm in-between days--its Monday and my next final isn't until Thursday, and then Friday, and then spring break.
***
Well,
