JJ

"What makes most people's lives unhappy is some disappointed romanticism, some unrealizable or misconceived ideal. In fact you may say that idealism is the ruin of man."

I'm done.

Perhaps now that I'm done venting my holiday cheer I can try to use this space more constructively.

No more self-indulgent whining... well at least for as long as I can bear without.

writing it away

Whatever whims move me to want to move back to Chicago are always erased after an extended stay at home. Continually I am accused (in laconically manipulative ways though not unfounded) of running away from responsibility and even with distance the guilt overwhelms any chance of true escape. But what would I gain by living here again, immersing myself in outright, never-ending confrontation?

I kept thinking that if I could just make it through Christmas then the rest of my break would be fine and so as family drama kept escalating and escalating, I continued to thwart it by numbing my emotional capacities further and further. Apathy was my default response to everything and by Christmas morning I felt enveloped by a serene indifference, imperturbable, so much so that I lounged around watching Superbad, completely unconcerned by my sister taking a whopping two hours to get ready. Her languid pace, just like my apathy, was infused by dread and we didn't end up strolling out the door until fifteen minutes before we were supposed to arrive at our father's, even though we live an hour away. Making matters worse, we weren't directly going there but instead had to stop by our great-uncle's apartment to drop off the gifts to the four blood-relatives we have left on our dad's side of the family. For reasons too exhausting to go into, they were not invited to Christmas this year, and though we haphazardly assumed we could just walk-in and do a quick exchange, we ended up staying there forty-five minutes talking and joking, feeling too guilty to leave hastily, on top of not really wanting to go where we were required to be. And sure enough on the car ride from our uncle's to our dad's my sister got the hostile call. Again we were embarrassing him. Again we were exceedingly delinquent. Yet another Christmas ruined at our hands. The dread swinging fully over to defeat.

We walked in the door nearly two hours late, our father fuming and a plethora of his wife's relatives yet again looking at us like we're the shittiest daughters in the world. My sister tried to apologize and reason with him upstairs but just ended up crying in the bathroom for a half hour, while I sat at the kitchen table ignored by him and unable to escape his wife's mother politely lecturing me on what a wonderful, wonderful man he is, how much he's been through this year, and how much he doesn't deserve our constant ill-treatment. I sat there with a stupid smile, grinding my teeth together in a silent fury as I stared down at the place mat on the table, knowing full well that it was just as impossible for me to explain my disposition to her, as it would be for me to do so to my father or anyone else in that room.

We can't win. Is our bias just as prejudice as theirs? I can't handle all the fighting, the siding, and forced fakery. As opposite as my sister and I are in personality, I find it amusing that we're dating the exact same type of guy: altrustic, unmotivated, reliable, and forgiving, i.e. the exact opposite of our father. Both of us shy away from our own family gatherings, our boyfriends' families, and from the desire to start ones of our own. Before I came home for break I was so set on initiating confrontation, but now I fail to see the point. Maybe it's because I selfishly don't care enough about the situation to set it right, or maybe it's because I'm already exhausted and I know it's a battle with no winners and no end. Maybe I'm just tired of beating myself up over things that I can't change.

I just keep thinking, "you can't choose your family" but we can be replaced. It really doesn't bother me at all, which makes me feel even more guilty. I just don't know how much more I can tolerate it being rubbed in my face.

...

And a little humor for those who know her (not me)...

J: You're a bitch.
H: If anyone's a bitch, you are.
J: True, but you're a little crazy. One minute you're fine, the next minute... bitch.
H: So what - you're just more of a classic bitch?
J: Hah, that's right! I'm just your good old, classic, old-fashioned bitch.

medicated

Repeatedly I have been lectured this past week by my sister and her boyfriend about my supposed bipolar disorder and each time I become increasingly irritated by their urgings for treatment via medication. (My extremes only display themselves around those closest to me and they'd have a hard time convincing everyone else of their existence. In fact most people find me rather stoic to point of being cold and unconcerned - it's my passion for secrecy.) Although I struggle to contradict their diagnosis, especially since they both work in the biology/medical fields, I can't help but take offense to their suggestions. Perhaps it's hindsight hypocrisy but I've turned increasingly against the use of medication or drugs (for me personally; I'm impartial to what other people do), to the neurotic extreme that I restrain myself from even taking an ibuprofen for pain unless I feel it absolutely unavoidable. I even have to feel that I'm on my deathbed before I'd see a doctor for a cold. Those are merely the physical ailments; I'm even more obstinate with mental ones. Not to say that my recreational dabbling and experimentation sufficed as the end-all trial to dismiss the possible, positive health benefits of prescription medication but they did make me weary of relying on pills to cheat myself out of confronting emotional issues - I'd rather gamble with suicidal ideation than "correct" what I consider personality traits, no matter how hindering they may be.

Although experience and upbringing come strongly into play, in biological terms so much of our unique personalities, our individualities could be accounted for by chemical imbalances and it's incredibly ambiguous trying to draw the line between natural imbalances and unhealthy ones. I think too many people focus on being happy and on being (what I consider) subdued. So what if it's not easy riding on a constant stream of highs and mostly lows, always fighting a slightly paranoid but constant anxiety? Sure I feel held back from numerous things I'd like to do, but then there have also been numerous other things I've learned about myself and life, things that I could never otherwise appreciate or see. A full life can't be all good experiences just so much as a full mind can't be all positive, serene feelings. I'm willing to deal with how I naturally am (though that doesn't imply that I'm necessarily good at it) no matter how unpredictable and malicious that makes me appear. What's it matter; I'm asocial anyway.

sulk

Mere survival takes precedence over all. I get nothing done.

a found dialogue between siblings

click image for details.

ugh

This is me not sleeping................................

i'd rather fail

"So sick and tired of all these pictures of me. Completely wrong. Totally wrong."

My position has become unstable and it's beginning to show. I can see in those dearest that they know: I'm starting to crack. They lecture me on who they see me to be, as if my words, desperate for change, contradict their expectations. They stand tall in the divinity of Outsider, Unbiased imploding me in an inundation of guilt and frustration, further confused, unable to defend my principles amidst collective bigotry. Am I excreting my innards or shedding a skin? My rationale becomes fogged in their good intentions. One by one they debase my aims as impractical idealism, reprimanding in the form of sympathetic advice. I cannot make them understand, to see things through the filter that I do. They worry for me citing that these ideas cannot be my own. Because they are not theirs? They care! They speak of happiness. I hear complacency. They speak of camaraderie in the grind but I only see unendurable survival. I receive corrosive pity in response, sometimes disappointment. I cannot hold up in this environment.

I cannot sleep.

lost

If not the pen, where does the forlorn misanthrope retreat?

discontent

But it's always just a start.

Encouragement

I did my weekly check-in phone call with my dad today. A mixture of prolonged lack of sleep and stress from my job made me sound even more down and monotoned than usual, despite my efforts to mask it. And what was my dad's response when I gave him those excuses for my tone? "Good, it's good that they're working you to the bone." He continued his speech in this manner as if my twenties should be spent couped up with long hours at the office, eagerly working away to earn the respect of my co-workers and overseers. The words of the lecture didn't bother me so much as the tone of them: I could really hear the pride in his voice, as if finally I was in the real world, living my life - a sort of bourgeois rite of passage I suppose. My dad has always upheld the work hard, play hard ethic to life, embracing fifty-hour work weeks and beer-filled, crazed weekends. I don't mean to doubt that my enjoyment of life isn't important to him, but he's unwilling to realize that what worked for him is not right for me. His happiness is not mine. The miscommunication is more my fault than his, but I know that any personal statement I make in contradiction to his philosophy will only be taken with reproach. So per usual, I choose silent disobedience.

On the other hand, when I was home last and my mom inquired about the details of my job, I decided to be candid with her and expressed my dissatisfaction and lack of desire to continue in my chosen profession. She immediately became stern with me and told me to suck it up because nobody likes their job, as if her unhappiness meant inevitable unhappiness for everyone. She went on further about the importance of steady income, health insurance, and continued to stubbornly debase my apprehensions by calling them naive and foolish. We tend to be in a constant, uninhibited feud over my ideals, and although we usually come to a stand still on the verbal banters, my inability to act upon my more prominent beliefs give her grounds over me.

These two constant, opposite though equally opposing forces matched against my frail will makes my path seem less surprising. Too well, I see both their reasons and good intentions, despite my invariable disagreement.

sigh

What becomes text is always so much more shallow than what I really wanted to say.

continual steps

Yesterday I finished Carney's book on film director Carl Dreyer, and throughout my reading, I continually felt as if I might as well have watched his films with my eyes shut and my hands pressed over my ears. Carney's analysis articulated depths which seemed so obvious and luminary upon reading but remained so confused and elusive not only when I watched the discussed films, but also in the weeks spent mulling them over on my own with great difficulty. I know that it's asinine to expect that I could grasp after a single set of viewings all that Carney ascertained during his extensive research on Dreyer's work (not to mention his far exceeding studies in general) but I can't help but stutter in dismay at my own lack of absorption. In fact it only brings to surface the looming concern that I am only getting the most superficial (and perhaps completely wrong) insights, bastardizing otherwise profound works. My surface-level studies, a frantic effort in quantity, are not exercising nor enhancing my perceptive skills but rather formulating a permanent dilettante.

Okay, that's not completely true as I have developed significantly, but rather I'm expressing my concern for the ways in which I find myself cheating, namely, relying too heavily on critical analysis for insight than on the works themselves and my own ability to interpret them. Why am I not writing more about the films I watch, on my reflections and confusions? Why am I only watching certain films once, swiftly letting go of them the moment they end, when I am missing depths of which I know are there? I'm attracted to challenges but always shy from those grandiose, marking them lower priority to the smaller, more attainable feats.

And so my time with Dreyer is not over, but instead I'm going to make an attempt to spend time these next weeks watching his last three films repetitively, honing my perceptive abilities: listening to the tonal patterns in characters' voices and not deafly relying on the subtitles for dialogue; paying attention to lighting, framing, blocking, and camera movements not just in terms of pure technique but in terms of the film's spirit and tone; meditating on faces and relationships between characters including parallels and possible representations of ideals. [Am I punctuating correctly here? I don't think so. I've been taking notice of more complex grammar structures recently in other texts and I am trying incorporate them into my own rhetoric. (I should put myself in grammar lessons.)] Carney's insights have graced me with a profound foundation that I need to test out and practice on my own while his ideas are still fresh in mind; now that I am better prepared with how to look at Dreyer's work, can I see what I've been told is there? It's another start.

Song of the Week!*

Joanna Newsom - Only Skin

* Not to imply that all weeks are granted song.

his "attempt to reinject vision into the world"

"Dreyer's characters may be visionaries or dreamers in many respects, but the ultimate test he exacts of them is that they express themselves and their visions in words and actions in the world. That is why they are not allowed to go off on their own, to become transparent eyeballs, to ascend into the solipsistic heaven of the avant-gardists, but are asked to engage themselves practically and energetically with groups of others."

"The tragic fear here, which becomes a tragic recognition there, is that to live in the world is to have to give up one's soul."

incomplete and passing

the burden of living up to one's own intelligence

practical expression

i Johannes

"I am sitting in a room...

...different from the one you are in now."

In I Am Sitting in a Room, experimental composer Alvin Lucier recites a paragraph's worth of text describing how he is recording his voice and re-recording it over and over until the room's resonance effect overwhelms the original speech to be unintelligible and resolves it into pure, rhythmic tones. I've grown partial to playing his Music on a Long Thin Wire in the background occasionally when I'm working on something tedious, so I've been curious to here this, his most prominet work. The version I recently acquired runs forty-five minutes long, so I decided to pop it in my CD player, turn off all the lights, bundle up under some blankets on my couch, and listen to it in a near meditative state without interruption. Listening closely to the words, I lay staring up at the fragmented streaks of light up on my ceiling, which were coming from the nearby window. The narration remained clearly audible for the first six or so repetitions, though the words became increasingly more distorted, muffled, and robotic-sounding with each re-recording of them. As the words began to disappear until finally the voice became less and less discernible, the distortion grew surprisingly harmonious as the resonant frequencies sang against one another like a wind chime, but much more languid and deeper in tone. Around this point, I closed my eyes to concentrate further, since my thoughts had started to wander, and I'm not sure but I may have fallen asleep for a brief period of undetermined time. The pure resonance comprised well over half the recording's time, sounding almost like deep sea whales communicating to one another. With patience and attention, this musical piece can be an enchanting, ethereal experience. And although not as drastically intense, it reminded me slightly of Michael Snow's film, WVLNT, as it was just as hypnotic and compelling.

Arguments could easily be made that this is not music but rather merely an experiment in the physics of sounds, but choosing to use his own voice, especially as the re-recordings slowly mask his slight stutter which he alludes to in the last line of his narration, makes the piece incredibly personal. One can't deny the serenity the slow progression yields over an attentive listener.

As I'm becoming increasingly bored with hearing the same old music not just in mainstream music but even within my own collection and tastes, Lucier's compositions have proven to be refreshing, if not extreme in their difference. I've been trying to move beyond my typical pop rock preferences and as so, I have been getting back (not to imply that I was ever that immersed) into classical, non-lyric oriented music lately, though my knowledge at this point remains highly superficial, for now.

thud

In contrast to the rigidness of Friday's impromptu proclamation , I'm learning to put less weight on time in the short-term. My watch battery died a month ago, and although I still wear it, I have not bothered, nor now intend, to replace it. I've grown to enjoy letting the seconds tick by unconsciously, which is in deep contrast to how burdened I allowed myself to be before, especially when it came days when I'm bent on being productive. Of course I still make to-do lists in the mornings, and periodically check the hour: I still make notes to read for X amount of hours, write from Y to Z o'clock, but I rest them as merely motivational guidelines which I breach according to my tempers. After all, I've learned that there is nothing less productive than forcing myself to read for an hour when I don't feel like it: words are skimmed but not processed. So now I try to read until I don't feel like reading, but at the same time, try to ensure that I'm reading in large segments, since I absorb best that way. I treat everything in this manner lately.

Apparently I'm becoming increasingly neurotic.

half empty

Do I expect too much out of myself or not enough? I think of the question as a sort of glass half empty or half full. What brings it to mind though is how frustrated I get when someone tells me I'm being too hard on myself, expecting too much, as if he thinks so little of me. So in fact it's his expectations of me that come into question more so than my own. I know it can't be easy for him to watch me tear myself apart so voraciously, but unhealthy as it may be, that's just how I function.

Phooey to moderation

I haven't written in awhile because I've been locked in a film fixation, watching 2+ movies a day. Although I've been watching a variety of films, I've also been trying to keep a partial focus on the works of Kieslowski and Dreyer. Focusing on one or two directors at a time is vastly more fruitful than the sporadic (lazy) mood-driven ways I was doing earlier. Not only does it make the parallels between a director's collected works more apparent, but it also invigorates me to be more meticulous in my research and reflections.

In fact, my recently recovered focus has only further highlighted my weakness in two correctable ares: attention and memory. My attention span is still abominable. My thoughts still drift too much during certain films, Dreyer's later works especially. I also find myself relying too heavily on "kicks," like this month I'm on a film kick, last month I was on a reading kick, and maybe this is the beginning of my writing kick. If I take a couple days off from reading, it can take weeks to get back into the habit and by that point I'm usually hung up on something else. I can't seem to disperse my attention amongst multiple interests simultaneously. My efforts shouldn't be so mood dependent; they should be reliable and uniform. Of course it would be unnatural for me to completely eliminate my whims, but the degree to which I allow them to overwhelm, if not inhibit, me is excessive. As for my poor memory, I generally have to run across information at least two or three times before it has any chance of becoming ingrained into my head. I tend to very rarely make this repetitious effort, especially with vocabulary, but this again relates to my low attention span / lack of focus.

My methods are lazy. My mind is clogged with tired memories and rehashed day dreams, which yield no opportunity for growth. I consistently catch myself indulging in spaced-out indifference. Apathy. I waste too much of my time consumed in bipolar fits, but this is something completely out of my direct control - the best I can hope for is that it might be abated as a side effect of other rectifications. So what can I change?

I am partial towards inflicting strict programs and regiments upon myself, otherwise I just end up staring at blank screens, blank walls, and blank pages. Living in such rigidity isn't ideal, but it's the only way I know how to relieve myself of such slumps. And although I don't think I'm currently in one of those states, I still feel inclined to act so not only as a preventative measure, but as a method of increasing productivity.

So.........................................

Watch a minimum three films per new-to-me key directors. Read a minimum of fifty pages per sit down session. Books should never take longer than ten days to read, two weeks at most. Look up words instead of lazily breezing over them, guessing their meaning based on context. Internet usage should be cut to looking up a set list of curiosities, not as a means to pass the time. Conversation must express opinions and not smiles. Listen - make an effort to be less hostile and mean towards others but more demanding of my own input. Try engaging instead of observing. Interact with everything.

Sheesh, I feel like I'm writing a lame self-help book... soon to be hitting your local grocery store check-out line!

But there is sincerity. I'm tired of my deranged methods, an inundation that only promotes laziness: I spaz out at how slowly I'm understanding the increasing number of subjects piquing my interest. What I'm looking for is a means of reducing my focus, learning to once again take the time to look at things in depth, in smaller pieces, but at the same time not giving up the ever-expanding big picture. I'm looking for a livable equilibrium.

whine

I WANT TO WATCH STROSZEK!

*real entries will be posted over break*

Restraint

No more black & white films on VHS.

it was then

It was then that she realized that it wasn't a natural ineptness for conversation; she had just never spoken.

awkward and awful

She hated everyone and felt so awful for it. Were they all just pretending to connect, trying to mask their own loneliness? She couldn't bear to be conceited enough to think she was the only one so frustrated and disconnected. In particular, she avoided engagements which required her to socialize with her friends' friends. It sickened her to associate in such collectivity for she always remained detached, an inner spectator. Perhaps jealously, perhaps selfishness, she could not share her friends; she could not compete. But in sudden recollection, she couldn't recall ever having a single true friend, but instead realizing she had just never declined any entity offering to tolerate her sporadic and awkward company. She made do, for she understood too well that the absolute solitude which she so longingly craved would not bring her any closer to delectation but only further from her delusions of sanity.

Part I

I want to care.

Oh, the mess I've made.

warmth

Sometimes she looked upon him and did not recognize the face, as if she had been so absorbed in her own outpouring that she no longer noticed the person she was directing her conversation towards, but that merely a warm, breathing body, was all she needed to feel next to her for her speech to continue. His lack of response or even reaction was all she needed to let loose. Perhaps days or even full weeks had gone by without her glancing at his face. How could she be so callous, so impenetrable? So cold.

Uh oh here I go

My irritable, vacillating mood of the past few weeks has not only made me unbearable to be around but unfocused as well, as I cannot hold on to a single motivation without being lured away by another. And hence I've started now three different texts and fear that I will not finish a single one. I was very excited to begin my first de Sade, and merely meaning to glance at its first sentences one night before bed I instead found myself staying up nearly 'til morning reading it.

However, my now inflexible, sour mood makes the novel unbearable to even open and so instead I returned to my bookshelf to skim the titles for something more somber. I thought about re-reading Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man, but resisted as I don't have the time, nor the composure, right now to begin my Joyce unit. (It's quite derisory the number of authors whose novels I seem to collect but never read.) Instead Dostoevsky's The Devils caught my eye and knowing full-well that perhaps it was a poor choice given it's length and my current flightiness, I nevertheless tucked it into my messenger bag and headed to my reading spot.

And I am officially in over my head!

With an obnoxious number of Wikipedia tabs opened and me avoiding them by griping here, I realize that while reading Book I of the novel, I will most likely spend more of my time on the internet researching 19th century Russian history and terms than reading the book itself. But perhaps losing myself in this endeavor will aid in freeing me from the state of self-absorbed wallowing that has rendered me so useless lately. Simultaneously, both excitement and pessimism inundate me now.

...

"You may be sure that those who cease to understand the people and lose all contact with them, at once and to that extent lose the faith of their fathers and become atheists or are indifferent."

Control

dir. Anton Corbijn

When I first heard about the Ian Curtis biopic early last year, I didn't want to see it. After it played at Cannes with some success my interest was piqued and increased only further with time. When I heard it was coming to town, I was all set to see it opening day but then continually postponed it until I finally ended up seeing the last show, the last night of its run.

Control starkly played like a visual time line, marking each crucial moment in Ian Curtis' life (beginning with him meeting his future wife), playing the scene out with care and then abruptly jumping to the next pivotal tick without explanation. I'd be curious to know how well one would follow (and like, for that matter) the film not already knowing the sequence of events. I could hear the guy next to me explaining background on the scenes to his friend and I'd catch him laughing here or there at key points that he caught but that were not explained. In fact, the film carried itself in this sort of "for fan's only" approach. The recreation of Joy Division's first television appearance was so meticulous it could be mistaken for digitally restored archival footage. Sam Riley's on stage performances as the singer were so remarkable that I couldn't help but smile every time he broke out in dance. But like most rock biopics, uncanny impersonations can't be expected to carry the film. But then nor do I think that to be the failing of this particular film.

I questioned for a moment why they showed the laundry hanger in the kitchen a second time before I caught the foreshadowing. The third reference, stripped of all subtlety this time, was unnecessary. In fact the inevitability of Curtis' suicide was so increasingly alluded to that it inundated the scenes themselves, as if the present moment was less significant and merely building up to that final, looming tragedy. Twenty minutes before suicide scene, I was ready to walk out of the theater because the anticipated voyeurism brought me nothing but agony in its mistreatment.

Although the film strained for a trueness to fact and focused on showing the increasing pressures which drove Curtis to his end, the film ended up feeling as cold to its main character as its black and white photography was to England, with of course only the latter being intentional. How many still shots of Curtis standing morosely in his trench coat amid the desolate Macclesfield backdrop can one take before one can no longer see him as a person but only as a rock icon? Isn't that what the film should be working against? Corbijn's photography background shows and overwhelms the supposed realism of his camera work: too pretty despite it's rugged texture, it leaves the entire cast, and hence the film, rather lifeless.

caution

I long to be shocked, but it's becoming increasingly difficult. More and more ideas and images are becoming normal, acceptable. This is not a bad thing. But still, I crave the discomfort.


(This is me reaching my quota.)

To pass your own despair on to other people...

"I don't think a despairing man can communicate his despair
because he is offering his despair as an emotional spectacle."

A sloppy quote whose orator is immaterial. I make myself a spectacle and that is why I chose not to speak. I no longer want this. Experiment for next month: say everything with confidence, regardless of whether you believe it or not. I pretend in the wrong direction. Delude myself until I believe it.

I am tired of mocking my own interests as my only means of sharing them. The insecurities of others are insignificant for I am only exploiting my own.

I am ready to speak once again, on probation though.

I am no longer allowing myself to speak.
I shall only be permitted to read.

...until further notice.


...and for good reason!

can't sleep

I am at a loss for words both in conversation and in text. I have been in an inexpressible huff since Sunday and only now (at 7am on a Saturday) I am beginning to feel myself coming out of it. ... I've changed my mind and I'm not going to detail how I got there.

I'm so lazy! My film and book queues are growing faster than I can keep up, constantly discovering things I want to learn about but never finding the time to thoroughly explore them. This in itself isn't unexpected (probably typical) but rather the rate at which I'm working through them is what I find so dismal. I keep getting sidetracked. What exactly do I do all day? I spent most of this week fussing about work, without resolution, and stuck in malls trying to shop for gifts. (So much for my goal of trying to avoid malls for a year. (Not just an attempt to reduce my consumerism but my irritability as well.)) In the interest of making more time, I've been trying to ween myself back into the habit of only sleeping six hours a night but this week I spent the first two nights only sleeping four hours each and then the next two sleeping nine. Granted that works out to an average of six hours, but I spent the last two days in a useless, zombie-like state. If I don't regiment my life into schedules and lists I wallow torpidly, but then I also have been trying not to live so methodically, allowing more to chances and whims. Ugh. The passion is there but the focus is vacillating. I've become completely high-strung and spasmodic.

Well, I obviously had nothing to say this morning but to rant in snippets. Perhaps now I can concentrate and do something more productive.

thhh

cut slice shear drip

the problem with peas

I have always enjoyed tormenting my friends with my vulgarity and my most recent victim has been my one friend whom I’ve been keeping updated on my problems with digesting peas. I tend to eat it in such haste that I don’t bother chewing and hence the peas come out whole on the other end. My friend isn’t easily grossed out, or moved to any emotions for that matter, so it brought me great joy to see how much my story disgusted him.

I kept pushing him to experiment at home to see if this was a common problem but he’s an incredibly picky eater and won’t eat peas, let alone vegetables. So I invited him over a couple times to view the problem in person since he didn’t sound like he believed me, but he declined. I then offered to photograph it. Please keep in mind that this is all in jest and that I’m not really this obsessed with my excrement.

So I decided to create a mock photograph of the incident by dumping a bunch of peas and Tootsie Rolls in the toilet and posting it on his myspace page. The next time I was at the store I looked to buy the Tootsie Rolls but they were sold in such large quantity bags that it hardly seemed worth it: I needed only a few for the photograph and I’d never eat the rest. Plus I was worried that they would clog my toilet if I tried to flush them and I didn’t know if fishing them out by hand, or even net, would be worth it. So I decided to just use one large candy bar instead, thinking that wouldn’t be as awful to extract.

I put the idea off for another week or so until I was at the store with my boyfriend. We stood in front of the checkout line, staring at the numerous types of candy bars and trying to decide which one looked the most like feces. Not only for extraction but for ascetic reasons as well, I thought it would be best to try and select one that would float. Since I not only don’t like chocolate but candy in general, I felt like I lacked the necessary qualifications to decide which one. We finally agreed that a Milky Way would look best in terms of shape, size, and color, but we both thought that the Twix bars might have a better chance of floating due to their wafer insides. I purchased both and went home to set-up.

Luckily during the car ride home I realized that I didn’t have to drop them in the toilet to see if they would float, but that dropping them in any body of water would suffice as a test. (Yes, I’m that slow witted.) So when I got home I did my own rendition of Letterman’s Will It Float, filling a Tupperware container with water and dropping the Milky Way bar in. It sank like concrete. Next I tried one of the Twix bars. It floated momentarily but was inclined to flip upside-down and then sink slowly. If I could keep it topside-up somehow, it might stay afloat but that hardly seemed worthwhile. I grew a little disheartened but then realized that I had some invisible thread I had used previously to hang things.

I ran to the bathroom, grabbed it along with a pair of scissors, and began to tie one end into an adjustable noose. I then tightened the noose around the candy bar, which seemed to hold pretty tight, but the bar was beginning to melt so I threw it in the freezer while I made a couple more nooses to hold it more securely. I also grabbed a rock-climbing carabiner I had and tied the other end of the string to that so I could just hold the carabiner hook, having the candy bar hang from it. I tied three noosed strings to the hook and used one of my protein bars to test it, giving the Milky Way more time in the freezer. It worked wonders: I should have been a civil engineer!

Next I took out some peas from the freezer and dropped them in the water. They floated momentarily but began to sink as they defrosted. I tried microwaving some and then dropping them in, but those sank even faster. I would just have to use frozen ones and work quickly. I loosened my protein bar from the strings, pulled the Milky Way out of the freezer, tightened the nooses around it, and viola, my very own excrement marionette! I had to call over my boyfriend to hold the candy bar in the toilet while I dumped the peas in and took pictures. He seemed less than eager but he participated. Sure enough the peas all sunk to the bottom but I made do. I also had to avoid using the flash, because the strings holding the Milky Way afloat showed. When I was done I just took hold of the carabiner, swung the candy bar over the garbage can and cut the strings.

I posted the best picture on my friend’s myspace page the next day, knowing that I’d see him that evening. He assumed I found the picture online and when I told him I made it, he still seemed unmoved. Actually his first reaction was to ask if I put in my hand in the toilet to pull out the fake feces, but beyond the description of the contraption I made, he seemed less than impressed by my overall effort. Out of spite, I’m debating on creating monthly installments, perfecting the faux-poo photography genre since I’ve already got a trial run under my belt. Muahahah, I already have numerous corrective action plans in mind!

hush

Bits of paper smeared with microscopic penciled text - Everywhere - Never to be read - Never to be expanded - Such sterile release might as well be left as passing thoughts.

My efforts are still lethargic.

a shy, impromptu dirge

myconsciencelacksauthorityevenovermyownactionsmystomachknotted
inguiltishallnoteattodaythoughidonotgiveupidonotknowwhattocallthis
statethatiseemtohavepermanentlyaffixedmyselftoremaininiremaininli
mbounabletoletgoofeventhemostobviousunwantedhelooksatmeforans
werswhenihavenonetogivemyselficannotmakehimhappyihaveremained
inlifeforguiltandihavepinnedmyselfdownfurtherfortakinghimundermyfra
yedwingssothatihaveensuredhisdestructionbutwhoshallgofirsthowwilli
managetwowhenonestillseemssoinconceivableisthismotivationorinevit
ableruinwhereisselfishnessappropriatewherearemyweaknessnolongerw
eightsonmycapabilitieshowlongcaniremainhereifearitcouldbeforeverwh
eredidilosethecouragewasthisabirthdefectorsomethingtakenfrommeiny
outhihavenomemoryoftrustingmyselfihavealwaysreliedonsomeoneandt
heneglectohtheneglectnopersonwasatfaultthesearesocialskillswhichon
eshouldbenaturalwhydoilackthesemostbasehumantraitsandihidemylac
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thewalllostinthoughtunabletocommunicateborderlineautisticifrightena
waythoseiwantnearestihavelesstosaytothemthananyoneelsebecauset
heycanseethathiddenfeaturethatmysterybutirestrainmyselfinwardiami
mprisonedwithinthiscarcassmymindisnosanctuaryittormentsitselfsinis
terlyicannotescapeittearsaboutmyinsidesthisbottledselfthisfearofinte
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ngevenmoresuspiciousisitnotallbackwardsallreallyadeeprootedfearofli
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tcanirevealthesesecretsthatiamtoodimwittedtodiscoverwithoutbutare
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indtheanswersthesolutionsthewilltolivethatiseeinsomanyothersthejoy
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toilluminatemypathonlyconfusesmydirectionfurtherwhatnowwhatnoww
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ersnotdecipheredtoocomplextobeworththeeffortiwillhidemyselflikethi
salthoughiamnotcompleximustonlyleadthemtobelievesosothaticanfin
allyhavepeacefinallyhavemyowntimeoutsideoftheirtimecaninotmainta
inmyownexistencestillwithintheirstogounnoticedisthatunreasonableto
expectofmyselforisthataskingtoolittleofmyselficannottellthedifference
anymoreicannotdescribemysurroundingsthislifeseemssounfamiliaryeti
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ncitingincidentmustiinflictuponmyselfineedtothrowallofthisawayitismy
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nyprogresslosteveninalowerplacethatiamnotjusttohavemadeeffortrega
rdlessofoutcomewouldbeenoughtomakeitworthwhiletoquitmyjobtoleav
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leavehimpretendicouldtoleavehimtoselleverythingarethesedaydreamsa
rethesewastefulthoughtsnoteventhoughtsbutcomplacenciestowardsmy
continueddegradationwhataretherightthoughtstheonesthatwillleadmet
osomethingascertainablethedirectthoughtsthatonesthatscreamactionia
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eguiltistoomuchpeoplearecountingonmeandiamunabletoinflicttheneces
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tiusedtodreamasachildaboutfakingmyowndeathletthemmournherinever
dreamtofafamilychildrenhousecardogidreamtofsolitudeandnotjustinado
lescencebutasatoddleraswellasalwaysistilldoishouldishouldfocusmyatt
entiononselfsufficiencyithinkiammorecapableoflovinglonelinessthanano
therpersonwhynotwhycaninotconnectiwillnotletitmatteranymorearedire
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allthatwasforceduponandfindthatpersonthatiwasininnocenceandallowh
erallthecontrolthatshedesiresnomatterherwillnomattermydestructioniw
illgivemyselftohermytasknowmustbetofindher..................................

out continued

What is this sensation overtaking me? No aspect of my life is safe from its clutches. What once was vaguely looming is now omnipresent.


As if suddenly I feel like I can see through walls, but instead of being consumed by a sense of absolute power, I am utterly and absolutely petrified.


I no longer know how to live.

out

I met my boyfriend for lunch today. Our relationship hasn't been doing the greatest lately and as usual this is in direct relation to my own mood swings. When I am happy, we are perfect for each other; I become completely carefree and puerile in his presence and he consumes my aura, finding in it the pleasure he otherwise finds life devoid of. These moments are precious, but all too rare. More commonly, he endures my fits of mournful detachment. He comforts me, stays with me, listens to me, but he doesn't understand. Whenever I break down and lose my composure he asks me what's wrong, what can he do to help me, looking for some specific trigger and an even more specific solution. The rare times I do muster up discernible responses, they seem cryptic and vague to him. I can feel a silent panic within him as he realizes he'll never be able to help me. He knows I know this, but I make no offer of solace.

So we sat across the table from on another as usual: he with nothing to say and me in charge of carrying the conversation. But I was not there. My eyes were fixated on the row of tiles encircling the bottom of a nearby support beam. What color were they supposed to be? Why would only one row be carried from the flooring to the bottom of the beam? Why not more or none at all?

At work this morning I was stricken with the urge to start bawling and shivering, yet nothing was happening, no one was moving, everyone was just going about their routines. Something just felt so unnatural about it all. The smiles seemed lost. The laughter sounded like chocking. The fabric covering the cubicle walls seemed like it was merely there to mask the underlying prison-like bars. But it's not just at work anymore; I see it everywhere now. Everything seems so artificial and what scares me the most is the disguised desperation in their faces, an urgency for something I can't discern. If I close my eyes, stand still and breathe in deeply, out slowly, and open my eyes, if I remove all the knick-knacks, all the furniture, all the walls, I can see nothing but shadowy figures moving at alarming speeds but in the most chaotic patterns. Where are they going? Quiescent, I stand surrounded and want nothing more than to remove myself completely from this spectacle. But how does one excuse herself from such a stage? I'm terrified to take even the smallest of steps as if I could be trampled to death by their disorder.

After I broke my concentration on the beam tiles, I finally looked over towards him and began relaying these thoughts aloud. I don't know why. I keep thinking that if I say them enough times, he'll begin to understand, but every time the tacit response is the same: pity. However it's not a condescending pity, but rather almost a self-pity, as if he knows that this will always keep us separated from one another. The feeling is mutual and always unspoken.

chin up, cheer up, ...another kind. [end quote]

I haven't done a single productive thing all week. I seem to have made a hobby of wavering between blankly staring at my laptop screen, not being able to think of a single thing to look up or anything useful to write, and just laying in bed for hours listening to the same CD, if not the same song, over and over and over. What happened? I was doing so well. Sunday I got up early and went for a walk, finally roaming around the cemetery that's not too far from my apartment, which I had been eying a number of times via car. I've developed an affinity for morning walks, playing some pensive music and collecting my thoughts before I start the day. (At heart I'm an eighty year old woman.) I spent the afternoon like usual at my cafe reading for hours. I get so easily distracted at home that it sadly seems I can only read in public, but even then the setting has to be just right. I don't know how I'll read if Meshuggah ever closes down, as all the other places I have tried have been a bust. I dunno, I've always enjoyed being surrounded by people yet completely ignoring them. I hardly want to be noticed, nor do I sit there people watching unless I'm really having trouble concentrating. My favorite feeling though is looking up after hours of sitting there absorbed in text and realizing that all the people that were there when I came in have been replaced by new people, almost as if I'd momentarily stepped out of time. It sounds cheesy, but I'm being sincere. Then afterwards I came home, made dinner, watched a film and wrote some. I really think I'd be content if I could live every day that way. It's even economical! But now? Nothing.

I cannot manage to maintain focused behavior for a significant length of time. Sometimes wallowing is just too alluring, and it envelops me so cunningly that I don't even notice until the evening is gone. I've been really physically unmotivated for weeks now, sleeping too much, eating poorly, moping around, and depending on large quantities of tea to keep from sleeping non-stop, but even the powers of tea are waning. Perhaps this weekend I can turn myself around. I am already forced to leave my abode and be social two days in a row.

I need out.

wallow

Seasick, Yet Still Docked

looping endlessly.

Madame Bovary

I meant to write about each book upon completion but I neglected writing about Humanity, and I'm delayed in writing about Madame Bovary. At least this time I took unusually diligent notes (though still a scattered mess) because I wanted to ensure that I'd remember enough of my thoughts for a later discussion of the novel with a friend.

A side note: I just noticed that my sister wrote "LOSER!!" at the bottom of one of my Bovary pages in my notebook. Apparently boredom lead her to take advantage of one of the instances when I left it unattended during our stay in Boston. Such encouragement! I'll get her back.

Anyway, I was surprised by not only how much I enjoyed the novel overall but how much I related to Emma (as neither of which I was anticipating). One note I jotted down, which simplifies just one aspect, was "how uselessly I daydream just the same to make the present circumstances bearable and although I am not limited as obviously by the social decorum of her day, I remain just as naive and wishful." I'm really interested to hear what my friend found so deplorable about Flaubert's characterization of Emma. (We haven't discussed it yet as she is still reading it, though she's read it before.) I didn't find it the least bit demeaning or ill-conceived, but rather honest and even considerate.

My friend has tried to get me to read the works of Jane Austen, which she feels she connects with so deeply, but I feel that I wouldn't connect with them beyond a shallow, underdeveloped sense of feminine romanticism. This assumption however is based off the numerous Austen film adaptations I've sat through since I've never actually read anything of hers, so I am perhaps speaking in ignorance. I'm not saying I would dislike them as stories per say but that I wouldn't find her characters' plights portrayed with the same realism. Perhaps that's more my affinity for Flaubert's cynicism talking than for his interpretation of the feminine psyche. Then again, I can't relate to most all women in real life, so why shouldn't I relate more to a male's rendering! *sigh* I know the novel was criticized for obscenity and although I don't have any depth on the case, what struck me as "obscene" for its time was not the sexuality in itself but rather Flaubert's detailing of Emma's frustrations, giving her outbursts justification instead of demonizing them.

Some of my more abstract blog entries while reading Madame Bovary dwelled on one reoccurring thought: the vile yet enduring female fantasy that prince charming will come and save everything, a fantasy I succumb to in certain aspects of my own. Emma found her life dull and clung to naive beliefs to continue living her given life: she thought she would love Charles upon marrying him, that her wedding day would be her happiest day, but such was not the case. To escape the dullness of her husband she clung to the fantasy that wealth guaranteed happiness and although this fantasy was never stomped out by actualization like her marriage, it drove her into debt and ruin. She thought an affair would bring passion and love but she was deceived by a pro and hence corrupted irreversibly. And even when there was mutual love in her second affair, it was only ephemeral. Perhaps that was in part because Rodolphe stole an innocence from her that would have been necessary for her love for Leon to endure, or at least for it to last longer than it did, but I can't imagine it lasting either way. Her passions in general seemed insatiable that ruin was practically inevitable.

All these pursuits were to escape the mundaneness of her bourgeois life, a desperate pursuit of which her husband, lovers, and everyone else remained completely oblivious to. Her affairs didn't strike me as inspired by the hedonistic, selfish, gratifications of a nympho but that of a woman trying to liberated herself from a suffocating environment but only further oppressing herself in her attempts to escape. (Sounds too familiar.) Not her husband nor her lovers could save her. When she realized that financial ruin was at hand, exasperated, she ran from one male to the next for help but not a finger was lifted nor an ounce of sympathy granted. Arsenic was her last desperate solution and even her death was ill-fated and arduous. What seemed the most horrific to me was her looking upon Charles in the last hours of her painful death and seeing the deep, impassioned love in his eyes that she was so incapable of ascertaining herself.

running in circles, repetitiously

I always have to multi-task whenever I talk on the phone with my mom because it's the only way to mollify my temper and avoid heated arguments. Tonight I spent the conversation sorting through a box of old, miscellaneous papers trying to find items I could throw away. The box contained anything from magazine clippings, posters, old homework assignments, quotes, and other writings, and I stumbled upon a ranting page of free-verse I had written long ago:

"Is it true, that some people just are not meant to make it? Imbalances, guilt, sympathy, and physical restraints are all in the way. We are given these dreams, uncontrollable and so very frail, and full heartedly believe that a full life is one where these dreams are conquered. We all know these, no matter how many choose to look away, but under what circumstances? Reality, right? That is so indefinable, but really it is not. We just make so many excuses for ourselves, that we lose touch with what we are given, instead of what we desire. It is so much easier. Society and specialization make it so much easier. That is why they were developed so long ago. A horrible, horrible fairy tale. Yes, we have made life easier, but at what expense? It was once about survival, but we are beyond that. It is now about dreams. Dreams that we avoid. Dreams that we try to manipulate but then only leave us feeling spiritually vacant. And I fear that no one cares. I fear that I will grow to no longer care..."

It continues further, but goes off on a tangent. I have no recollection of writing it and there's no way of dating it beyond the roughness of the sides, which imply printing from one of those ancient dot-matrix printers with the perforated, tear-off edges. Of course, every instance of "we" should more appropriately say "I." Some points in it are confusing, others melodramatic, but what struck me as disheartening was that even realizing all that at a younger age, I still took the path that I did.

If there's anything good to say, at least I still care.

complacency, instigator

My quiescence desensitizes. Zombie-like I skate through life half-heartedly waiting to fuck up, waiting to be forced to change, subconsciously calling for it, eagerly. It's not happening. I endure in patience praising vice as virtue. Dreamily I stall hoping to find someone willing to plunge in with me or someone on the other side reaching his arm out towards me. No one is there. No one is coming. Change may not come slowly but it can be forced brutishly.

The difficulty no longer lies in giving all this up. I feel at last ready to do that. The difficulty lies in that there is nothing to replace it with, nothing but the one escape I must not give in to.






(Minimum 15 entries per month (versus previous desire of 20). One a week must be film related.)

Emma

"She might have been glad to confide all these things to someone. But how speak about so elusive a malaise, one that keeps changing its shape like clouds and its direction like the winds? She could find no words; and hence neither occasion nor courage came to hand."

about

This isn't a blog but an eloquence of excuses.
I need output. Creation. Dialogue.

[I lack risk.]

Unintentionally, it lacks truth as well, though I have been able to gain some from reading it. I'll usually read (and edit) an entry the day after I write it, hoping that during that time I have gained some level of separation from the previous day's emotions. Through this less biased eye, I have realized numerous self-delusions and a snide, bitter tone looming over too many of the entries. There are more laments here than revelations. Do I think like this? Probably, but I just can't see it in the moment. Can this be unlearned, corrected? I seem to want to unlearn just as much as I want to learn but I'm not doing anything to reverse my bad habits: it's so much easier for me to start something new than fix something broken.

detachment

A visit with family is a silent huddle around the television. I can't watch TV anymore. I don't understand how I used to waste so much time staring at bad drama. It's always the same thing every week - the set-up, the triangles, intense music, obvious jokes, and all packaged neatly with a summating narration. Am I losing my attention span or just becoming increasingly pretentious? I am losing the ability to interact not only with my television but with my peers, my family, everyone. (Okay that's not exactly new, but it's getting worse.) I have shut down. I am cold. How do I maintain social humility with my increasingly high personal expectations? I can't find commonality. I have nothing to add to the everyday. I stick out in silence as much as I would in speech.

Who could put up with me?

My interests are becoming increasingly specialized and I'm worried about the direction they're taking me. If I continue to pursue film in my current velocity of recreational torpor, never gaining the momentum I delude my ambition with, then where will that leave me say, fifteen years from now?

My fear took visual form a couple of months ago during the intermission of an Out1:Spectre screening. I was already panicked that day for other reasons and although the film provided some level of escapism, its conspiracy-driven tone probably didn't help my mood. As I sat there in my seat, waiting for the second half of the film to start, I noticed a group of men in their forties near the front of the theater, standing up to stretch their legs and talking to one another. They were spaced randomly enough among the rows to imply that they each showed up alone, but nevertheless seemed to know one another. The theater was still nearly empty and I could over-hear their conversation. One stated that he had seen the film three times. Another, in an obvious attempt to trump the first, stated that he had seen it a few times before as well and one of those occasions was in Paris. The others made similar statements, all in the same increasingly snide tones. The conversation continued in this boasting fashion until I suddenly got the image of Seymour's record party in the film Ghost World; they even looked as if they were straight out of the film. Was this my future - ostentatiously vaunting, putting more weight on the number of times I've seen a film than on the film itself? I can only imagine the eye-rolls I'd get for being a first-timer. I felt sick. I curled up into a ball, my head resting on my knees, my arms wrapped around my shins, and gently rocked in my chair, trying to tune them out until the film started up again.

All this absorption without outlet will wilt me decadent and shallow.

s s s s s s s

At night I cuddle with my false hopes. My skin a winter window's pane. Untouchable. Chilled. Frozen by internal agitation, eternal agitation. When is he coming? No. I am not looking for that. Relapse, relapse. I will not personify my ambitions. I will not personify my ambitions.

I must be he.

strike one

I'm stuck.

For two weeks I have sequestered myself in the 'burbs to read, write, and watch films; however, I wasted the entire last week predominantly sulking for reasons of which are superfluous yet typical. Regardless, my time here is ending and I must return to my previous existence. Today marked the first in a sequence of three days of planned social interaction. It did not go well. I consistently find myself frustrated in a no-man's-land between two extremes: one that I cannot return to and another of which I cannot reach. Today was a mingling with the former and tomorrow will be one of the latter. Day three will be a frolic with an alternate yet no longer desirable version of myself (though the implication of anticipated mirth is not for the activities themselves so much as for my curiosity in how I will manage to interact with my doppelganger).

I'm being vague.

What went so wrong today? The situation and reasons are similar to a previous blog entry. I find myself bored in everyday conversation and frustrated by the so-called inappropriateness of my own interests. For too many, entertainment seems to exclude real discussion and debate and any attempt I make to contradict this is viewed as pedant. Tonight I didn't even bother trying. Repeatedly the conversation triggered ideas I have only recently acquired from the book I'm currently reading, but each time propriety withheld me from speaking. I am so unwilling to offend people and no matter how desperately I want to unlearn this, I continually shy away from every opportunity, especially when it comes to existing friends.

Actually I do have a planned attempt to challenge this inability. As soon as I finish Humanity, my friend and I are going to read Madame Bovary together and discuss it. Normally this isn't something I would agree to, but I have ulterior motives. The idea was actually hers and it came up when she was saying that she believed it was impossible for any man to write from the perspective of a woman. Although I disagreed, I left her unchallenged as usual because I have trouble sugar-coating my opinions to her in a way that she won't take personal offense to. (Actually my rebuttal thought was that her thinking that a man couldn't write through a woman's perspective was merely a reflection of her own incapacity to understand men, which would not have gone over well.) My silence to her defensiveness inhibits our friendship and I think contradicting each other indirectly via discussing a book could help break such barriers. It'll be a good challenge for me to start with.

familjen

I have too much text... need to break it up with something.

I can't get this out of my head (as the song title warned).
Argh, cursed be those catchy Swedish pop tunes!

The Up Series

"Give me a child until he is seven and I will give you the man."

This British documentary series chronicles the lives of fourteen individuals beginning at age seven and revisiting them every seven years. Seven Up! begins the series in 1964, interviewing fourteen children chosen from an array of social class backgrounds. The children are asked questions about their daily activities, their thoughts on relationships, and their dreams for their futures. The tone is playful and their answers are both amusing and insightful. Similar lines of questioning, though with increasingly higher levels of maturity and reflection, are brought up to them again every seven years. The earlier films try to draw some conclusions about how their aspirations and development are affected by their social class, but as the series unravels the uniqueness of each of the participants becomes more apparent, and where they come from becomes less important to the series than who they are as individuals.

The films are definitely not meant to be watched consecutively as much of each film consists of footage from those prior, but spacing them out appropriately can make for a fruitful, unique experience. They are hardly socio-economic studies of the English class system, which the series may have originally intended and the participants themselves have repeatedly protested during interviews as being seen as; the number of participants is far too small to represent any sort of all-encompassing spectrum. But nor are they in-depth studies of the individual participants since approximately ten minutes of Q&A every seven years can hardly be expected to sum up a person’s life.

So what is the benefit? Beyond the obvious sociological conclusions it demonstrates (such as no man is wholly a product of his environment, people can rise or fall quite easily, who we are by nature can be just as prominent at forty-nine as it was at seven, etc., etc.), I think a lot of the benefit resides in the assumptions and reflections of the audience. The viewer is really only given a sort of first impressions look at the participants over the course of their lives and is forced to fill in the gaps with their own knowledge (if not stereotypes). I found it interesting to see how my predictions after seeing them at fourteen contrasted with who they became at twenty-one. And probably like most viewers I became drawn to the personalities that most represented my own, which would change to different individuals during different years. I watched the entire series within this past year but it's interesting think how my reactions would differ if I had waited and watched each film at that prospective age.

With these films especially, it's really what the person wants to take out of it that makes it. For just as the participants are forced, usually grudgingly, to assess their lives every seven years, so are we as viewers.

nnnnnnnmmnmnnnnn

The more I learn, the more my expectations grow. Yet my skill level remains stagnant.

dullllllllllll lllllllll lll lllllll llllllllll lll

I am thinking myself in circles and not getting anywhere, nor really saying anything. Continual absorption (mere surface level) but no creation. The bored becomes boring! Insipid. I hadn't noticed. I had. I cannot gasp nor make a sound. A frost covers my trachea. This is not new. This is typical.

No progress, only relapse. I will not survive the night.

an enginerd's remorse

I don't know how much longer I can keep up the charade of my current profession. I majored in engineering because studies in concrete, rational subjects always came easiest to me and I didn't see the point of going to college for a degree that would not earn me the financial independence I so desperately believed would to be the cure-all. My real passion at the time though was writing. At twelve I began carrying a miniature notebook and pen in my back pocket at all times, a habit of which I kept up until the age of twenty-one. I compulsively wrote every little thought I had. The majority of the time when I excused myself from public situations to go to the bathroom, I was actually rushing to write a new line or thought down, not to pee. I have a box in my closet filled with these notebooks though their content is hardly worth reviewing beyond sporadic fits of nostalgia. At the right university I could have vastly improved my rhetoric and maybe even made a profession of it but a slew of bad English teachers in high school arrogantly made me feel that it was a faculty that would be best developed on my own. And of course, given my laziness, it became a malnourished skill.

And so I went into engineering, but about three-quarters of the way through the degree my interest in the subject had wained to naught. I came very close to dropping out, but in a haze (unfortunately quite literally) I managed to stick it out. I couldn't even bring myself to start looking for a job until after graduation and even then the task was agonizing. Regardless of how close my education matched each position's qualifications, they all appeared so distant from my true aspirations, each one being more a sentence than a career. After months of applying, by shear dumb luck I got not only an interview but a job. Of all the arduous steps in the process, I remember most gruelingly sitting on the living room couch with the acceptance letter in my hand, debating to myself for over an hour as to whether I should accept the position or not. In the end, I figured it was best to have income, regardless of how it was earned, because I could always quit when I was ready.

Surprise, surprise another four years has gone by and I'm still an engineer, not anywhere closer to getting out. Earlier this year, I was seriously considering going into teaching. I worked the idea around every which way and really believed that it was the best solution. After months of deliberation I managed to fess up my plan to a friend, the one friend I go to whenever I want complete honesty, and he proceeded to laugh for a good long minute or so before saying, "X, I never thought you'd give up that completely." I tried to debate the issue with him further but he was barely listening, still trying to catch his breath from his prior spout of laughter. Needless to say I was infuriated and injured. It wasn't until the next day that I understood what he meant.

Having sufficiently debunked that prospect, I decided upon finding a career more inline with my interests. I've thought about going back to school for a degree in film preservation or restoration (at least then a technical bachelor's degree might become useful) but there are hiccups in these aspirations as well. Looking into a couple universities' programs, I don't have anywhere near the necessary prerequisites, not to mention that their tuitions would wipe out my entire savings. It would take a year or two of taking classes on top of work and volunteering before I even felt apt for applying. Frankly, it requires a long-term commitment for something that I only feel passive interest for right now.

So I am still directionless in terms of finding a dignified way to sustain myself. I only hope that as I pursue my interests outside of work, finding a means to support them will come more naturally. (Hah!)

. - - - |||| -|| +

this is me being morose

and unproductive.

a dialogue

Not feeling particularly hungry, the girl glances about the restaurant, inspecting the people at the other tables. Her eyes stop at a table of four middle-aged women. Though she cannot make out anything that they are saying, she presumes them to be four old friends, now wives, mothers and home-makers, meeting up for a sort of girls’ night out. Although each one is different in features, they all appear as if dressed from the same closet and done-up much more so than the casual restaurant necessitates. They seem to be taking equal turns telling stories, each one wearing the same enthusiastic expression that oddly strikes the girl as fraught and lonely. They giggle in unison whenever called for by the conversation.

She looks across her own table and asks, “Do you think I’m mean?” “No,” the boy says quickly, “not at all.” She looks back at the other table and focuses on one of the women who is eagerly listening to the other with an open mouth smile and slightly nodding her head periodically in anticipatory agreement. “But I’m hateful,” the girl says, still looking at the woman and barely realizing that she has spoken. The boy continues chewing and though still not looking at the girl, his face changes into a thought-filled, distracted expression. After swallowing he says passively, “You just don’t say what you’re thinking. That's all.” He plunges his fork in for another bite. She looks away for a moment, then drops her eyes down to the plate on the table, expressionless.

defense

Most people are defensive but I don't mean defensive in the same way that I am. Most people are porcupines with their needles raised to any new idea that they take to undermine who they think they are. They never outright attack but instead constantly shield themselves in their bigotry from any chance of change, true intimacy, or criticism. I am more like a roly-poly, capable of concealing myself from any possible attack, but forced to expose myself if I want to make any progress. When under assault, I coil up into a ball and though my shell protects who I am I still feel the brunt of the blows, getting pushed and rolled around helplessly. When I finally feel safe enough to uncurl, I find myself lost in new terrain and forced to try and make my way back to where I was before. So much progress lost, needed to be retraced, but with all my legs - all my assets - I still trudge along so laggardly. Not that that's of much matter; I spend most of my life closed-up in curl anyway.

lack of focus

I lack focus: I sit down to write about one subject, but begin writing about another. Then by the time I have finished, I not only did not discuss the intended subject but never even scratched more than the surface of the one I began with.

expanded tastes

What's been the most shocking for me about my interest in film is the ways it has expanded my interest into other important issues. I grew up on Hollywood melodramas and I sadly wonder if I would have been content with them if not for the by chance encounters I had with a few foreign films during my late teens, namely Tarkovsky's Stalker and von Trier's Dancer in the Dark. I ended up going to college in a town with only one movie theater and where the best I could do to feed my curiosity was a sparse shelf or two's worth of foreign films at a couple of video stores. Mind you this is all pre-Netflix and I had trouble justifying not only purchasing videos I had never seen and had little knowledge of but of renting them as well since I was on a rather limited budget. And so it remained a passing interest until recently. But I digress!

A couple months ago I watched my first to Kiarostami films and although I struggled a bit with the first (mostly due to wrongful preconceived expectations which created more distance and confusion than any sort of dislike per say), halfway through the second film I was hooked. But as I began researching Kiarostami as a director, my studies began to diverge more into an interest in modern Iranian history and culture than on cinema directly. This was in part sparked by recent viewings of a few documentaries on the Iraq War, which emphasized my complete ignorance on the Middle East. This correlation between cinema and understanding history, politics, and cultures is nothing new though. I had already struggled with this during my periods of studying early Russian, modern Chinese, and post-war Japanese cinema, among others. But this time, something in me had changed.

Before my interest was predominantly cinematic but now feels more sincere. I genuinely want to understand global issues in the hopes of becoming more actively involved/invested in them. I've used passivity as a defense mechanism for survival and always saw it as a bad habit in need of being unlearned. I think one of my friends said it best when asked if he saw me as a rebel (off one of those cheesy how-well-do-you-know-me forwards), he said he saw me as an admirer of rebels, planning her escape. I question the likelihood of that escape, but I am approaching it now with a velocity never before expected.

And so how is this all materializing? I'll expand on this tomorrow.

...

smile even less.

break away commence

Yes, it is shameful to follow, but without talent what option does life offer? I can't support myself in a life of study but nor can I accept being supported by those around me. So I continue to follow (I won't hide this) but I am planning my escape. Through my studies I have been building the strength and courage to make my break and live my life. Will I make it out the gate? As a pessimist who knows the limitations of her own mental instabilities, I doubt it. Only I no longer let this sentiment stop me.

Who wouldn't want epiphanies? Who wouldn't want to question his/her core beliefs and be reborn a new? I am so naive to think that such cravings would be common. I rush out into the world anew, desperate to share, but only find deaf ears. I was so excited to meet my friend for dinner one night. I had had a number of revelations since the last time we hung out and I couldn't wait to tell her, dumbly thinking that she would be just as enthralled in these discoveries as I. Of course this was not the case. Now granted I can be a bit inarticulate in person, but from my opening sentence I could see that she was not listening so much as waiting for her turn to speak. The excitement I walked in with dwindled and my voice once again grew meek. She was not listening. There I was trying to tell her about the plans I was beginning to implement to change my life and the only responses I could get were demeaning verbal pats-on-the-back before she'd go back to relaying her not-so-funny anecdotes.

Why do people focus conversation on fun stories? "So the other day..." Why don't people want to talk about issues and art and change? What's wrong with debate? I fight so desperately to control my natural tendency towards apathy (and silence), to become a person of substance, a person who cares, but it's difficult for me to keep up the fight with the necessary vigor when everyone around me lives in such a state of ease, passionless.

Note - I sit here not to preach, as I deem my own sins worse than others: it is worse to knowingly sin than to do so unknowing. But rather I press my fingers to these keys because it is work, because it is struggle and frustration. I suffer to find the right words, to sort through my mind, to give these abstractions clarity. I am building strength.

If not, then this is mere vanity.

blah, blah, blah

I guess I'll take a moment to explain myself. For the past two years I have been engrossed in an intense research phase, absorbing as much as I can on film, music, and literature, all in the hope of reawakening a soul I had sacrificed a few years prior. I will remain vague in my reasons for that sacrifice and only say that given my predicament I made the necessary wrong decisions purely for survival's sake. But having somewhat successfully overcome those obstacles I turned to the arts, mainly film, for my regeneration.

So I have been watching up to ten films a week, though lately it's only been about three, on top of reading tons of articles and commentaries but I seem to have hit a blockade. All the exhilaration that I felt in the beginning is waning along with my attention span; I'm still watching the same amount of quality films but I'm taking less from them in terms of new ideas and thoughts. I think I've finally developed the foundation I was lacking but I need to do something to push myself further. Hence the blog!

I've focused too much on the opinions of others, which is fine when you're starting out, but now it's time to really start forming my own. I'll write some about film here, but some about other things as well. My writing skills are pretty poor, mainly because I seem to be incapable of thinking coherently. I was always better at abstract expression, i.e. cryptic poetry or abstract ink drawings. But practice, practice, practice... *sigh*

Why choose to publish this work effort? Because improving my rhetoric has been a neglected goal for too long, and although I currently have no intentions of telling anyone about this blog, I think just the looming thought that someone might come across it is enough to help keep me in line. This subconscious logic only proves how much the opinions of others weighs more on me than my own. How disgustingly obsequious.

happiness is not an option

"To be stupid, and selfish, and to have good health are the three requirements for happiness; though if stupidity is lacking, the others are useless." Flaubert

Perhaps my liking for this quote is sparked by the bitter cynicism that my own happiness is rarely anything more than ephemeral, but then I've never admired hedonism. People who are consistently happy, naturally or by their own assertion, have always seemed counterfeit, (sub)consciously naive. Or as Tarkovsky said, "I can't stand mirth. Cheerful people seem guilty to me, because they can't comprehend the mournful value of existence."

I disagree with selfishness being a requirement, as I have known a number of altruistic (sincerely even), happy people, though they're usually either delusional or bigoted. Maybe a lack of ambition, dreams, or imagination should be the third.

Faux meat and a film

Today I ingested my first and perhaps last faux-meat hot dog, though I still have six left (that's right, I actually got someone else to eat one with me!) in the package and I hate to let food go to waste. I never even liked hot dogs when I did eat meat so I'm not quite sure what inner compulsion drove me to such an odd purchase. In fact the idea had been lurking in my head for weeks. It's not exactly unexpected though; every now and then I develop a hankering for something that at any other time would disgust me.

Grape juice is a reoccurring example. I loathe grape juice, but about once a year I am overtaken by a monomaniacal craving for it, convinced that I have discovered my new beverage of choice despite my prior bad experience. Although I remain hindered from explicitly going to a store solely to purchase it, my thirst for it lingers in the back of my head until I finally have an excuse to leave my abode to begin my not-so-subtle search. I'll creep slowly past vending machines, browse restaurant menus, or lurk passed local quickie marts until I finally happen to find myself at an establishment that has it. I purchase it immediately and upon the moment the first drop touches my lips I know that my revelation was in error. I'll proceed to drink the rest of the bottle with a sour look upon my face, which tends to only further vex whoever I'm with as he/she has already been forced to tolerate me throughout my fixated quest.

****

Manufactured Landscapes - The long introductory tracking shot of a Chinese assembly factory pulled me in immediately as I tend to be a downright sucker for films of the Koyaanisqatsi variety (most recently enjoying Our Daily Bread), but soon took a turn in a slightly different direction than I was anticipating. I became a bit hesitant when the stumbling, explanatory narration came on followed by a sort of behind-the-scenes look at how one of the mass factory worker photographs was shot, and again followed by a scene of that very photograph hung on the wall among others at an art museum exhibit. In fact the film does not take the tacit observer stance but instead is a documentary following photographer Edward Burtynsky as he travels mainly through China capturing some of the most monumental and surreal photographs of modern industry ranging from coal mines, ship yards, factories, electronics landfills, to Shanghai cityscapes. The most haunting images were those of the piles upon piles of old computer parts and metal waste that are brought to a small town to be sorted through by women and children for reusable metal. Another scene shows a heap of old rotary phone parts that lays untouched and may very well remain as so indefinitely. Burtynsky's still photography images play a prominent part and tend to overshadow the film itself though director Jennifer Baichwal does her best to mimic/accentuate his style by mixing in her slow panning shots to give his photographs increased dimension. Together they create a disturbing visual of the environments we create (which also makes us think of the ones we must have destroyed) so that we can have all the luxuries that we now feel completely unable to live without. Although in his narration Burtynsky claims not to take sides on the issue, it's hard to deny the strains our relentless progress must be causing our planet. These are images that all consumerists should have instilled in their head.