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.