Alright...I'm reposting something I had up for a little bit on the 29th. There are a number of reasons why I'm uncomfortable to do so. First of all, it's a poem, and I don't normally write poems. Secondly, it plagiarizes something that was both written (quite beautifully I might add) and experienced by mindovermatter of Synaptic Transmissions, an experience that touched him personally and me vicariously. I encourage you to read about it here. I suppose it conflicts with my notion of "individuality," upon which I have lately written of my frustrations and confusion. As if I couldn't come up with my own experience to write about! Well, in my perhaps completely unnecessary defense, I did not begin writing this poem with the intention of alluding to mindovermatter's blog entry (since that is what I have to go off of). However, it seemed that the point I was making was illustrated quite well in his train story. I had no qualms writing the poem, which was intended to be nothing more than a humble excercise in artistic expression. By posting it, however, I fear of appearing cheap and pretentious. Nevertheless, I seem to have the go ahead from mindovermatter. And because this simple piece of writing is nothing more than honesty, which this blog may need more of from time to time, I give you a little insight into what F'er was thinking about during the transition from 21 to "Twenty-two."
Twenty-two
All I care about is me
And about my discontents
Countless dreams I fail to reach
And wasted time I’ve spent
I just turned twenty-two
Only fifteen minutes ago
Fifteen minutes, twenty-two years
What do I have to show?
So clearly I can see the world
In chaos and decline
My mind can see its problems
Though I only work at mine
I know I’ll never find content
In a world that’s sick and dying
Yet I can claim a love and grace
Sufficient for the trying
I still cannot be selfish
Hoarding love as wealth
It’s given me by overflowing
In sickness and in health
I will fail and I will hurt
And dreams will seem like dreams
But love, how small, will hit its mark
And rivers flow from streams
A boy of four or five
Was walking with his mother
She did not know what train to take
And needed help from others
Her own hard life was pain
Her innocence defiled
And now the debt to pay would be
Exacted from the child
While sitting on the train
A sad young woman boards
Her eyes betray the troubles
That the cruel world awards
And then she sees the boy
Perhaps as in a mirror
She takes her place beside the pair
In love there is no fear
Her soothing voice of comfort
Makes young bright eyes shine brighter
Her candy and her smiles
Will make his burden lighter
As if she were an angel
She comes and disappears
But angels I do not believe
Wear eyes as sad as hers
She will fail and she will hurt
And dreams will seem like dreams
But love, how small, will hit its mark
And rivers flow from streams
Wednesday, June 30, 2004
No safe bets
To give something of one’s self can be both ironically selfish and simultaneously courageous. Why is that? Life among other people is a constant exchange, and our transactions can be absurdly unequal. We give anger for sympathy, empty encouragement for vulnerability. Perhaps the worst exchange is unrequited love. To be hated is one thing, especially when we know that we are undeserving of such feelings. But to give love and receive anything less is truly despairing. For that there is rarely consolation, and a person may seek desperately for an explanation, all in vain. That we may never understand. In our ignorance we anticipate a fair economic system, yet experience will teach us that reality is anything but ideal. There are no safe bets.
Monday, June 28, 2004
Frustrations
Tomorrow I will be 22 years old, and I ask myself what I have to show for my life thus far. All you think about when you turn 21 is about how you can now legally drink and gamble. If you didn't consider yourself an adult at age 18, then you were sure to have reached that status at 21. And now there's nothing left but to face life. There are no special bells and whistles from here on. What is special about 22 is "Oh crap! I'm 22!" I feel like it's time to start figuring things out. I have one more year of college, and then I need to be ready to make some kind of decision as to where the next segment of my life will be positioned to run its course.
I've just spent the weekend in Canada with some friends from college. We were visiting another friend up there. Last night I talked with a guy who had graduated last year as a studio art major. I asked him if he had come to Whitman expecting to be a studio art major, hoping for some reason that he would say no. Turns out my hopes were confirmed. He had had no idea as an incoming freshman, expecting to be a math/physics guy. But he has such a passion and budding knowledge about different kinds of art: painting, architecture, etc. I know this because he often brings up such topics, his thoughts, knowledge and observations, in general conversation, as he sees things out the window from a moving car. He has a passion for art, and it's exciting and encouraging to see.
As I said, I began to talk with him last night, voluntarily beginning to talk about myself and my own desires. I have such a deeply rooted desire to create. I feel as if there is a reservoir of potential energy building up within me ready to be released and put to use. But I don't know what to say or how to say it. I just read the recent posted entries from the blogs of my friends, and I though they were beautiful. In many ways I connected with them. I enjoy this blog, and I have had some genuine fun writing some of it. And maybe that is good. But how is it important? How is writing about my thoughts of film all that important? I've never created a film. I dream about how awesome such an experience must be, but I have nothing of value to say, or if I do, I have no idea how to fashion my ideas into any kind of cohesive form. I have tried to express my creativity through playing the guitar. Yet I realize that I am not that good, nor will I ever be all that much better than I am. That's just the way it is. I've tried writing songs, but I can't ever do it. There have been plenty of various riffs and chord progressions that I have come up with, but I cannot for the life of me put anything together! I have no idea how to put together a song! And I'm not even talking about writing or applying lyrics. That's another obstacle that I can't overcome on its own. I wish I could write stories, but I don't know where to start or where to take them. My own experiences? Ok, I can do that, but what do I say through that, how do I describe this particular experience? I begin to write, not having any idea of what my objective is, and immediately stumble on how to form a sentence. I am so critical of what I do, that I silence myself before I ever even allow myself to speak. How will I ever get from the point of merely envying the passion and genius of other people to being able to express my own?
I remember being a very happy kid in the sixth grade. I was nerdy, scrawny, four-eyes, what have you. But my classroom that particular year became a comfortable environment in which I felt encouraged to be myself, to revel in the hidden corners of my ridiculous 12 year old imagination, and bring them to life. I am romanticizing the experience, of course, but it was truly a time that I was allowing myself to create in different ways. There were these humorous comic characters that I invented, such as a character who did nothing but played ping pong. I suppose to describe him, he was invisible except for a smily face, two arms and pair of shorts. He permanently carried around a ping pong paddle in his left hand. I'll never forget that stupid little character. And it makes me proud that I can claim complete creative ownership over that.
It is difficult enough for me to create my own opinions. It seems that anything I argue is simply an amalgam of opinions and ideas that I have collected from various conversations, sermons, eavesdroppings, speeches, etc. Is it just me, or does anyone else feel like they are so easily persuaded? Two people will be arguing against each other, and I will be able to do nothing but perceive the truth and validity of the claims of both sides! What do I have to argue that comes directly from me? Should I try and cut myself of from the opinions and exclamations of other people. Do I just need to sit down and be patient, and begin to ponder about the world and its problems, and from this patience and isolation, allow individual thoughts to flow? Can it be, in fact, somewhat dangerous to our individuality when, although upon good intentions, we seek out knowledge and ideas from alternate voices? When we read books from African Americans writers and watch films by Native American directors? What if our individuality is, in fact, more like something that is slowly shed and torn off like old skin, the more we experience the world and listen to the voices of its different people?
Well, this is probably not it. But I must say, I do not know how to reconcile my frustrations. This past weekend has been strange. I have hung out with three different groups of friends: some people I used to be friends with from school who I eventually drifted apart from, friends from college, and my best friends who came from church and youth group. It was a fun and unique experience being among all three groups. The first group made me wonder what my life would have been like had I shared their similar group experiences in high school. The second group made me think about how much a college experience like the one we share has forever opened up our eyes to a new way of looking at the world and the lives ahead of us. Among the third group of friends, I realize that remaining in the same place will probably limit a person's development. One's ideas will not be changed. Unless you force yourself to adapt to the challenges of a new environment, you will not easily change much at all. What this means, I suppose, it is that my individuality is indeed not completely my own. I owe who I am as much to myself as to these different groups of friends, with whom I have shared similar experiences. In retrospect, that ping pong character from sixth grade would probably not have been invented had it not been for my friendship with a particular friend from that class.
Previously, I had been asking myself, why don't I feel like I completely belong to any of these groups of friends? But then I also remember a brief situation from last night, in which I was sitting with the friend I had gone to visit in one of his hometown cafes. He was approached by one of his old friends, and their conversation was brief. This guy must also know what it's like to be caught in the middle of past and present experiences. He must also have old friends who he has trouble relating to now that he has been away at college for the past 3 years.
Maybe my individuality is the very reason I feel such unrest among groups of people. Where am I going with this? This has become sort of stream-of-consciousness. I think I am trying too hard to build up to a resolution. A few minutes ago, I felt I was on the verge of something profound. But my indecisive nature, my too critical thinking and my fear of writing too much (too late) has perhaps reared its ugly head once again.
I am not really all that worried about turning 22. It does sound dramatic to say that I am. I just listened to a song by Switchfoot called "Let That be Enough." In it the singer says, "It's my birthday tomorrow / No one here could know / I was born this Thursday / 22 years ago." Remembering this line is what caused me to listen to it, because although tomorrow is NOT Thursday, it is my 22nd birthday. The first words to the song say, "Wish I had what I needed / To be on my own / Cause I feel so defeated / And I'm feeling alone / And it all seems so helpless / And I have no plans / I'm a plane in the sunset / With nowhere to land." I don't know if this was really what the songwriter was feeling when he wrote the song. Maybe it too was a bit of romanticism, but I can definitely relate to what it says. My station is nothing new. Perhaps even the writing of such a beatiful song was not enough to satisfy his anxieties. Perhaps he too felt critical of what he had created, annoyed that his poetry was too simple and lacking a true sense of individuality. The song actually continues, "And all I see, it could never make me happy / And all my sandcastles spend their time collapsing." He has seen much of the world by 22. But no matter what new places he travels, no matter how many new experiences he might enjoy and be influenced by, he will never be completely at ease, never quite feel like he can belong. All of the things he creates never quite acheive the greatness that he strives for in his mind. They are like sandcastles that get trampled on or demolished by the tide in the midst of their construction. Maybe they just buckle under their own poor design, because they were never built strong in the first place.
The friend who I talked to last night told me a particular piece of advice that I should probably consider. He told me that to become great at an art, one has to practice it every day. Maybe this sort of excersize is a step in the right direction. Maybe allowing myself to ramble on like this as a way of conveying my frustrations is a means to settling them. Who knows? And more importantly, who cares?
I've just spent the weekend in Canada with some friends from college. We were visiting another friend up there. Last night I talked with a guy who had graduated last year as a studio art major. I asked him if he had come to Whitman expecting to be a studio art major, hoping for some reason that he would say no. Turns out my hopes were confirmed. He had had no idea as an incoming freshman, expecting to be a math/physics guy. But he has such a passion and budding knowledge about different kinds of art: painting, architecture, etc. I know this because he often brings up such topics, his thoughts, knowledge and observations, in general conversation, as he sees things out the window from a moving car. He has a passion for art, and it's exciting and encouraging to see.
As I said, I began to talk with him last night, voluntarily beginning to talk about myself and my own desires. I have such a deeply rooted desire to create. I feel as if there is a reservoir of potential energy building up within me ready to be released and put to use. But I don't know what to say or how to say it. I just read the recent posted entries from the blogs of my friends, and I though they were beautiful. In many ways I connected with them. I enjoy this blog, and I have had some genuine fun writing some of it. And maybe that is good. But how is it important? How is writing about my thoughts of film all that important? I've never created a film. I dream about how awesome such an experience must be, but I have nothing of value to say, or if I do, I have no idea how to fashion my ideas into any kind of cohesive form. I have tried to express my creativity through playing the guitar. Yet I realize that I am not that good, nor will I ever be all that much better than I am. That's just the way it is. I've tried writing songs, but I can't ever do it. There have been plenty of various riffs and chord progressions that I have come up with, but I cannot for the life of me put anything together! I have no idea how to put together a song! And I'm not even talking about writing or applying lyrics. That's another obstacle that I can't overcome on its own. I wish I could write stories, but I don't know where to start or where to take them. My own experiences? Ok, I can do that, but what do I say through that, how do I describe this particular experience? I begin to write, not having any idea of what my objective is, and immediately stumble on how to form a sentence. I am so critical of what I do, that I silence myself before I ever even allow myself to speak. How will I ever get from the point of merely envying the passion and genius of other people to being able to express my own?
I remember being a very happy kid in the sixth grade. I was nerdy, scrawny, four-eyes, what have you. But my classroom that particular year became a comfortable environment in which I felt encouraged to be myself, to revel in the hidden corners of my ridiculous 12 year old imagination, and bring them to life. I am romanticizing the experience, of course, but it was truly a time that I was allowing myself to create in different ways. There were these humorous comic characters that I invented, such as a character who did nothing but played ping pong. I suppose to describe him, he was invisible except for a smily face, two arms and pair of shorts. He permanently carried around a ping pong paddle in his left hand. I'll never forget that stupid little character. And it makes me proud that I can claim complete creative ownership over that.
It is difficult enough for me to create my own opinions. It seems that anything I argue is simply an amalgam of opinions and ideas that I have collected from various conversations, sermons, eavesdroppings, speeches, etc. Is it just me, or does anyone else feel like they are so easily persuaded? Two people will be arguing against each other, and I will be able to do nothing but perceive the truth and validity of the claims of both sides! What do I have to argue that comes directly from me? Should I try and cut myself of from the opinions and exclamations of other people. Do I just need to sit down and be patient, and begin to ponder about the world and its problems, and from this patience and isolation, allow individual thoughts to flow? Can it be, in fact, somewhat dangerous to our individuality when, although upon good intentions, we seek out knowledge and ideas from alternate voices? When we read books from African Americans writers and watch films by Native American directors? What if our individuality is, in fact, more like something that is slowly shed and torn off like old skin, the more we experience the world and listen to the voices of its different people?
Well, this is probably not it. But I must say, I do not know how to reconcile my frustrations. This past weekend has been strange. I have hung out with three different groups of friends: some people I used to be friends with from school who I eventually drifted apart from, friends from college, and my best friends who came from church and youth group. It was a fun and unique experience being among all three groups. The first group made me wonder what my life would have been like had I shared their similar group experiences in high school. The second group made me think about how much a college experience like the one we share has forever opened up our eyes to a new way of looking at the world and the lives ahead of us. Among the third group of friends, I realize that remaining in the same place will probably limit a person's development. One's ideas will not be changed. Unless you force yourself to adapt to the challenges of a new environment, you will not easily change much at all. What this means, I suppose, it is that my individuality is indeed not completely my own. I owe who I am as much to myself as to these different groups of friends, with whom I have shared similar experiences. In retrospect, that ping pong character from sixth grade would probably not have been invented had it not been for my friendship with a particular friend from that class.
Previously, I had been asking myself, why don't I feel like I completely belong to any of these groups of friends? But then I also remember a brief situation from last night, in which I was sitting with the friend I had gone to visit in one of his hometown cafes. He was approached by one of his old friends, and their conversation was brief. This guy must also know what it's like to be caught in the middle of past and present experiences. He must also have old friends who he has trouble relating to now that he has been away at college for the past 3 years.
Maybe my individuality is the very reason I feel such unrest among groups of people. Where am I going with this? This has become sort of stream-of-consciousness. I think I am trying too hard to build up to a resolution. A few minutes ago, I felt I was on the verge of something profound. But my indecisive nature, my too critical thinking and my fear of writing too much (too late) has perhaps reared its ugly head once again.
I am not really all that worried about turning 22. It does sound dramatic to say that I am. I just listened to a song by Switchfoot called "Let That be Enough." In it the singer says, "It's my birthday tomorrow / No one here could know / I was born this Thursday / 22 years ago." Remembering this line is what caused me to listen to it, because although tomorrow is NOT Thursday, it is my 22nd birthday. The first words to the song say, "Wish I had what I needed / To be on my own / Cause I feel so defeated / And I'm feeling alone / And it all seems so helpless / And I have no plans / I'm a plane in the sunset / With nowhere to land." I don't know if this was really what the songwriter was feeling when he wrote the song. Maybe it too was a bit of romanticism, but I can definitely relate to what it says. My station is nothing new. Perhaps even the writing of such a beatiful song was not enough to satisfy his anxieties. Perhaps he too felt critical of what he had created, annoyed that his poetry was too simple and lacking a true sense of individuality. The song actually continues, "And all I see, it could never make me happy / And all my sandcastles spend their time collapsing." He has seen much of the world by 22. But no matter what new places he travels, no matter how many new experiences he might enjoy and be influenced by, he will never be completely at ease, never quite feel like he can belong. All of the things he creates never quite acheive the greatness that he strives for in his mind. They are like sandcastles that get trampled on or demolished by the tide in the midst of their construction. Maybe they just buckle under their own poor design, because they were never built strong in the first place.
The friend who I talked to last night told me a particular piece of advice that I should probably consider. He told me that to become great at an art, one has to practice it every day. Maybe this sort of excersize is a step in the right direction. Maybe allowing myself to ramble on like this as a way of conveying my frustrations is a means to settling them. Who knows? And more importantly, who cares?
Thursday, June 24, 2004
Happy Veemas Eve!
Well, folks, it is another 6 months to Christmas Eve. Which means that today is 1/2 Christmas Eve. Which means that it's 1/2 X-mas Eve. Which means that it's V-mas Eve!
Oh man, have I got some crazy Veemas Eve memories, like the one year my mom severely overcooked the peacock and we all had to eat cereal instead. We were all in such down moods, because, you know, we had waited all year for another peacock dinner, and it was ruined. So we're all sitting around the table. I was eating Corn Flakes. My sister snaps at me, "Stop kicking my feet!" So I was like, "Am not! Am not!" My sister takes a spoonful of Captain Crunch, gives me the nastiest glare you've ever seen, and flings it at me. It hits me square on the forhead! I've got milk and soggy little Captain Crunches runnin' down face. I take a spoonful of my Corn Flakes, and I fling it over at my sister. It goes right over her head and splats on a picture of Grandpa on the wall. My sister is cracking up, pointing her finger at me like a little brat. I get so upset that I take my whole bowl of Corn Flakes and dump it on my sister's head! This whole time, our dad is just shouting and shouting, telling us to stop it. Too late, right? Well, right as my sister is about to pick up her own bowl, my dad reaches across the table to try and stop her. He knocks over his hot coffee, spills all over his lap. This makes my dad shout out in pain, so loud and sudden that it freaks my mom out. She drops her glass of water on the floor. It shatters. And now, it's all over. My dad is throwing spoonfuls of cereal at me. My sister is flinging blueberry jam at my mom. Mom goes for dad, I go for my sister and we just start making a mess of the dining room. This goes on for a minute or so. Then my uncle, who we had all forgotten about because he had been sitting on the pot for the last 5 minutes, he sneaks into the kitchen and grabs the burnt peacock. So here are all the rest of us in the middle of a Veemas Eve food fight. My uncle walks up behind my dad. He takes a big swing and just pummels my dad with the peacock to the side of his head. Everybody stops. We're all completely stunned. And then, of course, we just start laughing. I don't think I've ever seen my dad laugh so hard in my life. I thought he was gonna pass out. Anyway, we were all happy once again, and we went bowling. I'll never forget it.
So, now I wish a very mirthful Veemas Eve to all my readers. Kids, you all go on to bed now. You don't want Old Mr. Sneezlebums to pass up your house because you're still awake!
Oh man, have I got some crazy Veemas Eve memories, like the one year my mom severely overcooked the peacock and we all had to eat cereal instead. We were all in such down moods, because, you know, we had waited all year for another peacock dinner, and it was ruined. So we're all sitting around the table. I was eating Corn Flakes. My sister snaps at me, "Stop kicking my feet!" So I was like, "Am not! Am not!" My sister takes a spoonful of Captain Crunch, gives me the nastiest glare you've ever seen, and flings it at me. It hits me square on the forhead! I've got milk and soggy little Captain Crunches runnin' down face. I take a spoonful of my Corn Flakes, and I fling it over at my sister. It goes right over her head and splats on a picture of Grandpa on the wall. My sister is cracking up, pointing her finger at me like a little brat. I get so upset that I take my whole bowl of Corn Flakes and dump it on my sister's head! This whole time, our dad is just shouting and shouting, telling us to stop it. Too late, right? Well, right as my sister is about to pick up her own bowl, my dad reaches across the table to try and stop her. He knocks over his hot coffee, spills all over his lap. This makes my dad shout out in pain, so loud and sudden that it freaks my mom out. She drops her glass of water on the floor. It shatters. And now, it's all over. My dad is throwing spoonfuls of cereal at me. My sister is flinging blueberry jam at my mom. Mom goes for dad, I go for my sister and we just start making a mess of the dining room. This goes on for a minute or so. Then my uncle, who we had all forgotten about because he had been sitting on the pot for the last 5 minutes, he sneaks into the kitchen and grabs the burnt peacock. So here are all the rest of us in the middle of a Veemas Eve food fight. My uncle walks up behind my dad. He takes a big swing and just pummels my dad with the peacock to the side of his head. Everybody stops. We're all completely stunned. And then, of course, we just start laughing. I don't think I've ever seen my dad laugh so hard in my life. I thought he was gonna pass out. Anyway, we were all happy once again, and we went bowling. I'll never forget it.
So, now I wish a very mirthful Veemas Eve to all my readers. Kids, you all go on to bed now. You don't want Old Mr. Sneezlebums to pass up your house because you're still awake!
Wednesday, June 23, 2004
A response to the American Film Institute
Last night, CBS aired another annual installment of the AFI's 100 years series. This year's program was entitled "100 years 100 songs," and the AFI counted down what they decided to be the 100 greatest songs to appear in film, the only criteria being that the song had to have lyrics. I was intrigued by the idea, and I had taken a gander at the AFI website which had listed the 400 nominees. There were a few interesting and creative choices. Sadly, these more interesting nominees were, for the most part, overlooked.
It seems to me that the AFI often placed more value merely on the song, rather than on the juxtoposition of moving image and song. For evidence of this, I point to certain songs that were awarded which appeared in their respective films only in either the opening or closing credit sequences. The song "Nobody Does it Better," which corresponds to the James Bond film The Spy Who Loved Me, for example, is a song that appears at the opening credits. And while the opening credits to James Bond films are visually interesting, it is not what the program talked about. "Rock Around the Clock" was another song that was awarded. It too is a song the merely corresponds to the opening credits, in this case to a 1955 film entitled Blackboard Jungle. Representing 8 Mile, a film that I have seen, was the number 93 song by Eminem, "Lose Yourself." This song does not appear until the very end of the film as Rabbit walks away and the credits begin to roll.
I think that "Lose Yourself" is a pretty amazing song. I'm not upset that it was awarded, but it goes to show that the AFI did indeed emphasize the song over the sometimes ingenious way in which a song is used to enhance the viewing experience. The latter I would have found much more interesting. The AFI overlooked what I believe are some of the most incredible uses of song in film. They failed to honor the ways in which the film-school generation filmmakers of the New American Cinema often reinvented the concept of popular music in film.
Take the Doors' song "The End," for example, which was one of the initial 400 nominated songs, as it appears in Coppola's Apocalypse Now. There could not have been a more perfect score to accompany the beginning and ending sequences of that film than this song. The haunting doomsday lyrics of Jim Morrison, coupled with the mystically eerie yet simple guitar work of Robby Krieger, coupled with the organs and every other aspect of the song, create an already unforgettable piece of music. Now couple this to the images of the film itself, Martin Sheen's borderline psychotic character moving around like a drunken martial artist, completely strung out and losing all sanity in a hot and humid Saigon hotel room. Fast forward to the end of the film, in which Sheen's character once again assumes this bizarre and horrifying persona, on his way to brutally assassinate the enigmatic Kurtz. The Doors song plays again over the unforgettable shot of Sheen slowly emerging from the still river like a silent predator. This is art!
There you have it, an example of how the use of song enhanced the cinematic experience in a profound new way. There are other directors besides Coppola who have acheived incredible cinematic moments through song. I am immediately reminded of two very similar, both incredible, montage sequences in two of Martin Scorsese's mob pictures, Goodfellas and Casino, that utilized pop music to help tell the sad and fateful stories of how the mafia was destroyed by the very reckless behavior that made it initially powerful. The former is carried along by the second half (without lyrics, I admit) of the song "Layla," the latter film using, quite fittingly, "House of the Rising Sun." What did Celine Dion's "My Heart Will Go On" really do for film? It sold a bunch of CD's, made some people lots of money and annoyed most of us Americans for a few weeks.
This is my humble opinion. I have no problem with "Over the Rainbow" being the number one song. But there could have been a much more interesting variety selected in the top 100, that would have challenged viewers to think about the many different ways in which the historical combination of song and film has influenced the cinematic experience of the present day.
A room fit for a blogger
I've done it. My bedroom, which was a shamefully messy and cramped disaster just 2 days ago, has been transformed into the perfect blogging environment. The bed has been moved from the south wall to the east wall. In its place is my "desk" and computer. This particular arrangement, which I remember working well back in high school, has allowed the room to be opened up. For those all-too-common moments of writers block, I now have a convenient amount of open space to pace around in and think. My northern window is now unobstructed, and if the neighbors feel so inclined they can now watch me change or walk around without a shirt (and possibly pants). My college books have emerged from the state of suspended animation that is storage and are now being proudly displayed on a proper shelf. I am ready to blog. Who wants to do some jivetalkin'? Who wants some?
Tuesday, June 22, 2004
In a word..."exceptional"
Last night, I was asked to think of one word to describe myself. It did not take me long to come up with that word. And the word was "exceptional." I think that I will stick to that. If ever I am asked to describe myself to another person, perhaps a perspective employer or a blind date, I will boldly declare that I am, in a word, "exceptional."
Upon further consideration, I realized that there was another good word. While I cannot truthfully apply this word to myself, it is something to which I can nevertheless aspire. And that word is "contagious."
Upon further consideration, I realized that there was another good word. While I cannot truthfully apply this word to myself, it is something to which I can nevertheless aspire. And that word is "contagious."
The Official 22 things that I Want to do Before I am 22 Years of Age
Well, a week from today is my birthday, and I will be 22 years of age. Which means that I have a week to accomplish "the official 22 things that I want to do before I am 22 years of age." They are as follows...
1. Watch all 6 Star Wars episodes in one sitting, preferably dressed up in a Stormtrooper costume. (Scratch that one. Curse you Lucas! You were supposed to have finished them ALL by now!)
2. Get married and honeymoon at the Neverland Ranch.
3. Get divorced and go hit the singles bar.
4. Produce a children's cartoon show promoting ecologically-sound thinking.
5. Discover what the Batcave is really a metaphor for.
6. Eat a pound of broccoli.
7. Free Tibet.
8. Free my mind.
9. Patent an invention, preferably something that will take care of grease stains.
10. Write a check for $1 million dollars and rip it up in some homeless person's face.
11. Grace the cover of Sports Illustrated, preferably for achieving athletic greatness in a sport.
12. Dive headfirst into a giant mound of leaves.
13. Earn the respect of my colleagues.
14. Escape to Cuba by makeshift raft.
15. Achieve true flight for at least .09 seconds, and possibly grace the cover of Sports Illustrated.
16. Build a robot out of 1,000 other disassembled robots to create a MASTER ROBOT, and possibly patent it.
17. Develop a taste for mariachi music, good or bad.
18. Post bail.
19. Sing the National Anthem underwater.
20. Decline a major award.
21. Sever all ties with South America.
22. Get sunshine on a cloudy day, as the feller once said.
Well, shoot, with the exception of number one, which I most likely WON'T be able to accomplish by next Tuesday, I've got my work cut out for me. What was I thinking? Where am I gonna find a pile of leaves in the summer?!
1. Watch all 6 Star Wars episodes in one sitting, preferably dressed up in a Stormtrooper costume. (Scratch that one. Curse you Lucas! You were supposed to have finished them ALL by now!)
2. Get married and honeymoon at the Neverland Ranch.
3. Get divorced and go hit the singles bar.
4. Produce a children's cartoon show promoting ecologically-sound thinking.
5. Discover what the Batcave is really a metaphor for.
6. Eat a pound of broccoli.
7. Free Tibet.
8. Free my mind.
9. Patent an invention, preferably something that will take care of grease stains.
10. Write a check for $1 million dollars and rip it up in some homeless person's face.
11. Grace the cover of Sports Illustrated, preferably for achieving athletic greatness in a sport.
12. Dive headfirst into a giant mound of leaves.
13. Earn the respect of my colleagues.
14. Escape to Cuba by makeshift raft.
15. Achieve true flight for at least .09 seconds, and possibly grace the cover of Sports Illustrated.
16. Build a robot out of 1,000 other disassembled robots to create a MASTER ROBOT, and possibly patent it.
17. Develop a taste for mariachi music, good or bad.
18. Post bail.
19. Sing the National Anthem underwater.
20. Decline a major award.
21. Sever all ties with South America.
22. Get sunshine on a cloudy day, as the feller once said.
Well, shoot, with the exception of number one, which I most likely WON'T be able to accomplish by next Tuesday, I've got my work cut out for me. What was I thinking? Where am I gonna find a pile of leaves in the summer?!
About my Blog
I started this blog only a few days ago, and I immediately ran into problems with my first entry. And that is never a good thing. Most likely, I was simply lacking direction. Perhaps I should have started out with a goal or a mission statement. Then again, that doesn't really conform to the way I do things. I always felt that having to write down "New Year's Resolutions" and "goals" for the new schoolyear cramped my style. But at the same time, I am extremely critical of the things I create. Well, I still haven't solved my problem. I'm only continuing this blog, because it seems like a cool thing to do. I may be able to express myself in new and exciting ways. I enjoy what I have read from other people's blogs. Here's what happened...
As stated before I did not like my first entry. My next entry was basically an apology for what I had posted. It's just not the way that I wanted to start off. So, I have taken the coward's way out and deleted those first two entries. I copied and pasted what was written to a Wordpad document, and perhaps in the future I may repost what was written. Maybe I will try again to describe what had been on my mind, with better success.
I didn't have to do that. After all, I have entitled this blog "JiVE." In other words, what is written here may be nothing more than meaningless, wasted space. I am more inclined to accept the worldview that we are more or less insignificant as individuals in comparison to the bigger picture. Our own opinions, creations, joys, sorrows, triumphs, nay...our very lives, as profound as they may be to us as individuals, are merely our own opinions, creations, joys, sorrows and triumphs. We all have to figure it out on our own. Our journey towards an understanding of the universe will be travelled upon different roads, even if we accept the same religious truths. My acceptance of Jesus Christ, for example, is merely the beginning for myself. There is yet much to be learned and experienced. But they will be experiences unique to me.
I'd better stop there. Because it was only my first two entries that were deleted and not my third (which now will appear as the first, entitled "Favorite Movie Moments Vol. 1"), it does not mean that the remaining entry is any more or less absurd, more or less worthy of deletion. It is simply a matter of my own personal taste.
This is JiVE. It is what it is. Who knows what lies ahead? And more importantly, who cares?
As stated before I did not like my first entry. My next entry was basically an apology for what I had posted. It's just not the way that I wanted to start off. So, I have taken the coward's way out and deleted those first two entries. I copied and pasted what was written to a Wordpad document, and perhaps in the future I may repost what was written. Maybe I will try again to describe what had been on my mind, with better success.
I didn't have to do that. After all, I have entitled this blog "JiVE." In other words, what is written here may be nothing more than meaningless, wasted space. I am more inclined to accept the worldview that we are more or less insignificant as individuals in comparison to the bigger picture. Our own opinions, creations, joys, sorrows, triumphs, nay...our very lives, as profound as they may be to us as individuals, are merely our own opinions, creations, joys, sorrows and triumphs. We all have to figure it out on our own. Our journey towards an understanding of the universe will be travelled upon different roads, even if we accept the same religious truths. My acceptance of Jesus Christ, for example, is merely the beginning for myself. There is yet much to be learned and experienced. But they will be experiences unique to me.
I'd better stop there. Because it was only my first two entries that were deleted and not my third (which now will appear as the first, entitled "Favorite Movie Moments Vol. 1"), it does not mean that the remaining entry is any more or less absurd, more or less worthy of deletion. It is simply a matter of my own personal taste.
This is JiVE. It is what it is. Who knows what lies ahead? And more importantly, who cares?
Monday, June 21, 2004
Favorite Movie Moments Vol. 1
Here are a couple of my personal favorite movie moments...
1. Almost Famous: The band is all together in an airplane. The plane enters a storm and begins to experience some serious turbulence. What begins as an attempt by the lead guitarist to express some sentiments of love to his fellow friends and band members, in the face of a danger that might not be survived, soon becomes both a mile-high confession and a frantic, shouting match that reveals some hilariously disturbing secrets and brutal hostilities between the people on board. And the plane suddenly lands to safety.
2. Boogie Nights: Dirk Diggler and two of his friends pull a ridiculously stupid stunt when they visit the home of a notorious (yet simultaneously ridiculous) L.A. cocaine dealer, hoping to score money on a trade of baking soda. Scared out of their wits and tripped out on drugs as they are, the dreadful mood is not relaxed by the menacing bodyguards or inexplicable presence of a young Asian man who walks around the room and randomly lights of firecrackers to the tunes of "Jesse's Girl," which is being blasted to deafening volumes from the stereo. This is one of the most intense scenes of any film I have seen in recent memory.
Interestingly, I have come to realize that both of these scenes serve a very similar function in their respective films. They are perhaps the most important climax moments of both films. The poo hits the fan. Both the bickering rock band Stillwater and the washed out porn star Dirk Diggler are forced to come to terms with the new low that they have found themselves in. What follows for both characters (Stillwater being a character) is a moment of shame and embarrassment, one that will be faced with either despair and resignation or a glorious redemption. These films have many similarities. They both revel in the glory of the 70's, depicting the precarious journey from obscurity to popular fame, and the prices that must be exacted for such a prize. In the end, neither Dirk nor Stillwater can continue on their upward journey until they can admit and "repent" of the cruel and foolish things they have done.
1. Almost Famous: The band is all together in an airplane. The plane enters a storm and begins to experience some serious turbulence. What begins as an attempt by the lead guitarist to express some sentiments of love to his fellow friends and band members, in the face of a danger that might not be survived, soon becomes both a mile-high confession and a frantic, shouting match that reveals some hilariously disturbing secrets and brutal hostilities between the people on board. And the plane suddenly lands to safety.
2. Boogie Nights: Dirk Diggler and two of his friends pull a ridiculously stupid stunt when they visit the home of a notorious (yet simultaneously ridiculous) L.A. cocaine dealer, hoping to score money on a trade of baking soda. Scared out of their wits and tripped out on drugs as they are, the dreadful mood is not relaxed by the menacing bodyguards or inexplicable presence of a young Asian man who walks around the room and randomly lights of firecrackers to the tunes of "Jesse's Girl," which is being blasted to deafening volumes from the stereo. This is one of the most intense scenes of any film I have seen in recent memory.
Interestingly, I have come to realize that both of these scenes serve a very similar function in their respective films. They are perhaps the most important climax moments of both films. The poo hits the fan. Both the bickering rock band Stillwater and the washed out porn star Dirk Diggler are forced to come to terms with the new low that they have found themselves in. What follows for both characters (Stillwater being a character) is a moment of shame and embarrassment, one that will be faced with either despair and resignation or a glorious redemption. These films have many similarities. They both revel in the glory of the 70's, depicting the precarious journey from obscurity to popular fame, and the prices that must be exacted for such a prize. In the end, neither Dirk nor Stillwater can continue on their upward journey until they can admit and "repent" of the cruel and foolish things they have done.
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