h
What defines you?
Is it your clothes? Is it your job? Is it your children?
Maybe what defines you is your sport? Or maybe its your boyfriend? Does your body define you? I've thought about that one too much. It defines me. Some times.
Does your intelligence define you? Or does your bank account define you? Is it your lawn? Is it the size of your lawn? Is it the car? Does the size of your rim define you? Do the size of your tits define you?
When the moment strikes me I feel completely comfortable making conversation with anyone, and I mean any one. But most of the time I have a hard time 'conversing' with myself. Understanding who I am and feeling comfortable approaching what I see. I feel I can approach any one, most of the time. But the rest of the time I can hardly approach my self, and what defines me.
Do the arguments define you? Or does your smile define you? Does his big nose define him? Or how black she is, define her? So many things define us. But what really should?
I've thought about that a lot too. It once was that cigarettes defined her? And now the fragrance of fresh linen and soap defines her? And the lingering scent of Dad's cologne? That defines her for me at least. But they'd feel differently about what they'd say should truly define them.
A definition is, by definition, the meaning. The character of some thing, or something, or someone. I define me. Yet.
I'm defined by myself. And some times it just feels like I have so little control of who I am. And who, some times, I'd rather like to be. Is that future me? Or maybe its the me that will never come to be. The shape of things is always malleable, one hopes.
But this is less about me. And more about you. More about the you that I meet everyday, or don't meet and just knows that you exist somewhere beyond my visual scope doing whatever defines you. Looking like, whatever you 'dream' to be defined as. In their eyes. My eyes. We don't merely dress for ourselves, we think much about what the world will view us as. They are the ones looking after all. From my perspective I'm looking out, not constantly down at my clothes... but you... you're looking at me!
You can some times feel very torn trying to understand what defines you. And what you hope other people see. Some people have the gift of not caring what anyone thinks. Or what even they think about themselves. But one could argue, is that a gift, or a curse. The expectation of what people's response will be to you somehow governs our absolute being. That we live in a world of rules and governments dictates that. But we expect a lot from one another. And one of those expectations is to be accepted.
The accepted.
And what is acceptable. What falls within an expected, or reasonable, definition. The whole thing sounds like shit really.
And WHAT is my greatest addiction? Not reading. Not masturbating. Definitely not smoking pot. I am addicted to being worried about what defines me and feeling unsatisfied with the current definition.
One should always strive for better... and never let one thing define them too long...
Cataloged.
Categorized.
Labeled.
Titled.
Marked.
Tattooed.
Defined.
Tuesday, September 2, 2008
Thursday, August 14, 2008
My Theme Song
Librarian - by My Morning Jacket
I love this song. It's off their new album Evil Urges.
I love this song. It's off their new album Evil Urges.
Wednesday, August 13, 2008
Mother, as Author
You could watch the white linen being shaken out across a summer lawn. That sneeze-inducing-scent of freshly mowed grass that would make you fumble for your inhaler. But you remembered her chocolate hair. When it was long, to the shoulder. Natural and wavy. Unkempt, yet pretty. And when you'd get close enough to her, you could smell freshly soaped skin and soft powder. It tickled your nose. And you could sneeze. But she tugged you close. So you wiped your nose against her navy blue knit.
There were days when you cringed at her footsteps. Marching up and down the creaky wood stairs. You'd here the doors slam in her wake. And you swore to hell the damn carpet outside your door and the sound it swallowed. And then suddenly - The Knock. Those eerie moments followed by the hollering of the Lord's and your own names like thunder. And those lovable enemies that were the snickering siblings at each of your sides. And then, six fingers pointed at you.
And you hated walking into one of her crying sessions. One of those horribly fragile moments when you realize the person that guards and guides your every step isn't the invincible person you thought she was. You started crying by the sight of it, and you did not know why.
I like it when she puts her hard hands on my back, and rubs down my spine. For the brief moments that she allows me to stick my back into her face and plead that she scratch an itch, a horrible itch. Mother, Mom, places her hand on my lower back, her fingers rough with a days labor - sewing, typing, cooking, working, rubbing, scratching, washing, scrubbing, shaking, hugging - the fingers tickle at first but they touch. And that moment of contact completely rubs out the daily struggle and the ache, and the pain, rewinding the emotions, to a point where I am a boy again.
I know my parents miss their parents a whole lot. I miss my grandparents too. That touch. Generation to generation.
Under a chocolate sky of blowing hair caught in a summer's breeze.
The following is a poem I recently wrote. I'm a harsh critic of my own poetry, and of poetry in general. I have written something like seven hundred poems. Fuck, that's a lot. But I can honestly say my view of poetry is that it is a job, not so far off from being a miner, and if that is my best analogy, then this following poem is the only diamond I've ever unearthed in my nineteen years of shoveling coal. Dedicated to my mom of course, but more so, to the art of being a good mother - the closest position, in my opinion, one can achieve towards seeming almighty.
Mother, as God
Pours the milk into the coffee,
his pinkie turned slightly, up and away,
she turns her look into a gaze,
wondering when to stop, say when,
she places the carton back in the fridge,
Dad saw these things about Mom,
saw the beauty in the caring placed
on the simple tasks, making the bed,
her wedding band dull and caked
with last nights dinner preparation.
Knew about the errands and tasks,
was happy to know she cared,
and we moaned, cried and whined,
he sat quiet, asking for ketchup,
she walked again, across the kitchen,
she can think of mother England,
watch her pass by in the Eighties,
sweetly Diana, balanced a kingdom,
for you a household, from a bouquet,
daydreaming in lonely Connecticut
pouring your tea,
after I was fed.
We all tried to see these things
the daily motions of being our mother,
the band-aids, scolding, crying, yelling,
and all the gray, and long lost days
and feeding the mouths, you made.
And the beauty never is apparent
in a wake of countless soap operas,
the television, glowing gross expectations,
daydreaming, as the news flashes by,
and if I saw mother crying, I knew why.
Maybe you wanted someone to say,
something sweet, about what you do,
about the days spent milling and hoping,
that father, and us, would grow to be,
the family, you were meant to create.
There were days when you cringed at her footsteps. Marching up and down the creaky wood stairs. You'd here the doors slam in her wake. And you swore to hell the damn carpet outside your door and the sound it swallowed. And then suddenly - The Knock. Those eerie moments followed by the hollering of the Lord's and your own names like thunder. And those lovable enemies that were the snickering siblings at each of your sides. And then, six fingers pointed at you.
And you hated walking into one of her crying sessions. One of those horribly fragile moments when you realize the person that guards and guides your every step isn't the invincible person you thought she was. You started crying by the sight of it, and you did not know why.
I like it when she puts her hard hands on my back, and rubs down my spine. For the brief moments that she allows me to stick my back into her face and plead that she scratch an itch, a horrible itch. Mother, Mom, places her hand on my lower back, her fingers rough with a days labor - sewing, typing, cooking, working, rubbing, scratching, washing, scrubbing, shaking, hugging - the fingers tickle at first but they touch. And that moment of contact completely rubs out the daily struggle and the ache, and the pain, rewinding the emotions, to a point where I am a boy again.
I know my parents miss their parents a whole lot. I miss my grandparents too. That touch. Generation to generation.
Under a chocolate sky of blowing hair caught in a summer's breeze.
The following is a poem I recently wrote. I'm a harsh critic of my own poetry, and of poetry in general. I have written something like seven hundred poems. Fuck, that's a lot. But I can honestly say my view of poetry is that it is a job, not so far off from being a miner, and if that is my best analogy, then this following poem is the only diamond I've ever unearthed in my nineteen years of shoveling coal. Dedicated to my mom of course, but more so, to the art of being a good mother - the closest position, in my opinion, one can achieve towards seeming almighty.
Mother, as God
Pours the milk into the coffee,
his pinkie turned slightly, up and away,
she turns her look into a gaze,
wondering when to stop, say when,
she places the carton back in the fridge,
Dad saw these things about Mom,
saw the beauty in the caring placed
on the simple tasks, making the bed,
her wedding band dull and caked
with last nights dinner preparation.
Knew about the errands and tasks,
was happy to know she cared,
and we moaned, cried and whined,
he sat quiet, asking for ketchup,
she walked again, across the kitchen,
she can think of mother England,
watch her pass by in the Eighties,
sweetly Diana, balanced a kingdom,
for you a household, from a bouquet,
daydreaming in lonely Connecticut
pouring your tea,
after I was fed.
We all tried to see these things
the daily motions of being our mother,
the band-aids, scolding, crying, yelling,
and all the gray, and long lost days
and feeding the mouths, you made.
And the beauty never is apparent
in a wake of countless soap operas,
the television, glowing gross expectations,
daydreaming, as the news flashes by,
and if I saw mother crying, I knew why.
Maybe you wanted someone to say,
something sweet, about what you do,
about the days spent milling and hoping,
that father, and us, would grow to be,
the family, you were meant to create.
Thursday, July 31, 2008
Another day in the world...
Cnn.com headlines for August 1st, Friday, 1:17 Am, 2008....
Bus rider beheads seat mate, witness says
Guilty verdict in videotaped torture death
Police: Preacher killed wife, put her in freezer
Rice upbeat despite uphill battle in Mideast
CNNMoney: Economy grows; warnings sound
Sexual assault in military called 'epidemic'
Street fight turned fatal or ugly ethnic clash?
Navarrette: Immigrant killing senseless, barbaric
Ticker: McCain ad too nasty for Karl Rove?
Obama camp denies charge of using 'race card'
Disputed evidence allowed at Guantanamo trial
SI: Manny Ramirez traded to Dodgers
WGCL: Town buys strip club to close it
Felons serve as mortgage brokers
iReport.com: 'Grim' drought situation for Syria
Time: The war against drinking games
People: Jessica Simpson 'loves to be in love'
No shoestring budget for McCain loafers
5-year-olds kept out of kindergarten
Stranded gold digger gets by on bugs
CNN Wire: Japanese leader to reshuffle...
shit reads like poetry don't it...?
Enjoy your day.
Bus rider beheads seat mate, witness says
Guilty verdict in videotaped torture death
Police: Preacher killed wife, put her in freezer
Rice upbeat despite uphill battle in Mideast
CNNMoney: Economy grows; warnings sound
Sexual assault in military called 'epidemic'
Street fight turned fatal or ugly ethnic clash?
Navarrette: Immigrant killing senseless, barbaric
Ticker: McCain ad too nasty for Karl Rove?
Obama camp denies charge of using 'race card'
Disputed evidence allowed at Guantanamo trial
SI: Manny Ramirez traded to Dodgers
WGCL: Town buys strip club to close it
Felons serve as mortgage brokers
iReport.com: 'Grim' drought situation for Syria
Time: The war against drinking games
People: Jessica Simpson 'loves to be in love'
No shoestring budget for McCain loafers
5-year-olds kept out of kindergarten
Stranded gold digger gets by on bugs
CNN Wire: Japanese leader to reshuffle...
shit reads like poetry don't it...?
Enjoy your day.
The Turning Leaf (Soul Suicide Baby)
In a crush.
You cute lovers.
You magnetic two.
And the earth revolves around your moon.
Around the crescent shaped form,
of the two of you,
leaning into one another.
That gentle curve.
You kissing beneath the Douglas-fir.
If your feet were closer.
You'd look like a heart.
Like love.
But your not.
"You want it, you need it, the words slip away
Your crying your eyes out, your mind wants to break
Your heart is your weakness, your song plays endlessly
Wonder how you sleep, it’s a wonder to me
So how’s it going to feel
When you don’t know what’s real
You tell yourself it’s love, then tear your insides up
So how’s it going to feel
When you don’t know what’s real
You tell yourself it’s love,
then tear yourself apart."
And the song plays on in your head. You know he's played it before. Played on some old jukebox at the back of another pub. Same story, night after night. You've sang this song before, in your dreams. In your heart, it feels like lightning strikes, with no thunder. And the tears stain your face again.
You've played this game too many times. Seen the nicks in the quarter, filled with grime, before you dropped it into the slot. You thought, what song should I play next. Just to try to erase the last. Still ringing in your ears. Still pulling on your tears.
And the words becomes a hum. Becomes the noise in the still night. When you wake in wet shivers. Your pink tanktop clinging to your breasts. You pull on it. It slaps back against you. Sopping.
You've shared this dream with other nights. With other dead spaces of time. When the world seems asleep around you. When you feel like the only soul awake on the block. In the neighborhood. In the world. You rattle your senses. Grab the bottle of water, swig a gulp. Release a long gasp of breath, and text him again. It's 3AM and you're a zombie.
There's something about the strumming of a good guitarist. Something about the coordination that you haven't figured out yet. You can't get your eyes off his hands. Watching the wrist move like that. How those sounds fill the room.
How the Earth does not circle the moon.
With another inhalation.
And the gasp. The choke.
You cough out all the bad smoke.
Spit out the black phelgm,
until you see pink again.
If you move in circles,
fast enough,
and you let the world spin,
you'll get dizzy,
fall,
and see,
the world ain't so tough.
You'll stand again.
You cute lovers.
You magnetic two.
And the earth revolves around your moon.
Around the crescent shaped form,
of the two of you,
leaning into one another.
That gentle curve.
You kissing beneath the Douglas-fir.
If your feet were closer.
You'd look like a heart.
Like love.
But your not.
"You want it, you need it, the words slip away
Your crying your eyes out, your mind wants to break
Your heart is your weakness, your song plays endlessly
Wonder how you sleep, it’s a wonder to me
So how’s it going to feel
When you don’t know what’s real
You tell yourself it’s love, then tear your insides up
So how’s it going to feel
When you don’t know what’s real
You tell yourself it’s love,
then tear yourself apart."
And the song plays on in your head. You know he's played it before. Played on some old jukebox at the back of another pub. Same story, night after night. You've sang this song before, in your dreams. In your heart, it feels like lightning strikes, with no thunder. And the tears stain your face again.
You've played this game too many times. Seen the nicks in the quarter, filled with grime, before you dropped it into the slot. You thought, what song should I play next. Just to try to erase the last. Still ringing in your ears. Still pulling on your tears.
And the words becomes a hum. Becomes the noise in the still night. When you wake in wet shivers. Your pink tanktop clinging to your breasts. You pull on it. It slaps back against you. Sopping.
You've shared this dream with other nights. With other dead spaces of time. When the world seems asleep around you. When you feel like the only soul awake on the block. In the neighborhood. In the world. You rattle your senses. Grab the bottle of water, swig a gulp. Release a long gasp of breath, and text him again. It's 3AM and you're a zombie.
There's something about the strumming of a good guitarist. Something about the coordination that you haven't figured out yet. You can't get your eyes off his hands. Watching the wrist move like that. How those sounds fill the room.
How the Earth does not circle the moon.
With another inhalation.
And the gasp. The choke.
You cough out all the bad smoke.
Spit out the black phelgm,
until you see pink again.
If you move in circles,
fast enough,
and you let the world spin,
you'll get dizzy,
fall,
and see,
the world ain't so tough.
You'll stand again.
Friday, July 25, 2008
The Dark Heath
So I'm not sure how to start this little entry.
I liked the film The Dark Knight very much. I almost loved it. But I think I'll love it more and more over time. I've read all the great reviews. And I've read a couple negative ones. But mostly all great reviews. Deservedly so. For the spectacle of it all. All the emotions going into the film....
Whether you watched Heath's films or not. Or regardless of how much you knew about the actor. His sudden death this year is obviously a sad moment. Who would ever want to lose a gifted artist from the populace? We all know that our most treasured people are those who give their lives to entertaining us, inspiring us, and giving us something that exemplifies the moment, and that given time in history... Art reflects all of that.... To enlighten? (It's hard to imagine a film enlightening ones self, but then again art evolves does it not?)
This film affects me in a different way as well. When I was growing up, my brother, Christopher, introduced comics to me. He had a great collection of Marvel silver-aged comics. I loved looking at his guarded books. Kept immaculate under their plastic sleeves, backed with pristine white boards. Even if some weren't worth much, he'd still sleeve and back most, just because I think he felt all comics were worth something, to him. I admired that. His favorite characters were Spider-man, the X-men, and Fantastic Four, and he had some serious old issues of all of them. And some awesome 1st appearance issues. He had the 1st appearance of Wolverine, Punisher and the Silver Surfer... (for those unaware, that means the first time those characters saw the light of day, and entered our imaginations, ever.)
Before Hollywood got a hold of our beloved heroes they existed on the page only. I remember days at our local comic shop just dreaming that we might someday see them on the big screen. (Now that most have graced the big screen since, looking back, I don't think that dream was so great. I think the characters are best within the pages of comic books...)
When Chris picked up Frank Miller's The Dark Knight Returns we realized, maybe not as much then, that we were in the midst of a revolution, or evolution of sorts, for comics. That they could be darker, that they could haunt our dreams, that comics could encapsulate all of our most boldest imaginations, better then any other media ever could, or ever will. The film The Dark Knight is a mere moving visual homage to the piece of art that that comic is. Chris found something real special. And I loved him when he allowed me to read it after he was finished. Thanks Chris.
My brother and I have always loved comics and the fantastical world within them. The infinite possibilities of wonderment in story-telling. Reading that graphic novel as a ten-year old boy was a great moment in artistic discovery for me. The way someone might feel standing in front of their first Jackson Pollock painting. Or maybe how a kid might feel hearing Miles Davis for the first time in 1970. Any analogy is deserving and fitting. The comic is so much deeper and thoughtful then most would surmise but comics are only recently being recognized for their cultural impact. Ask Michael Chabon and Jonathan Lethem about that, two amazing modern novelists who have written Pulitzer winning novels themed around comics... (Chabon's book The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier and Clay won the Pulitzer Prize in 2001, too bad we were focused on other events to notice...)
When Hollywood decides to reap the whirlwind with a motion picture adaptation of a comic us purveyors of comics become guarded. I was very guarded and expectant before sitting down for Nolan's Dark Knight film...
I have to say I agreed with New York magazine's negative review of the Dark Knight probably the most. But skeptically, and not completely. But I definitely understood the author's review and what they meant by their criticism. Like the action in the film, the fight scenes in particular, they weren't shot very smoothly, or the way a good Hong Kong director might capture a kung-fu sequence. There's a technique that Christopher Nolan was definitely missing. And there were a couple of other comments they made regarding some obvious acting issues, if one wanted to be so picky.
The thing about this movie is that the emotional weight of it, in reality, and that which exists in the film, pulls the viewer away from being picky, and allows us simply to be in awe of this comic epic that is haunted by an amazing acting job by Heath. His death absolutely will challenge you not to emote for the tragedy while watching this mesmerizing role. Heath's Joker makes you forget about the little issues, and the movie has few if hardly any, and sucks you in.
It was like hearing the first Nirvana song that came on after you got word that Kurt shot himself. Well, not nearly like that... but something similar.
The Dark Knight is one of the greatest comic films ever made, if not the best. But I don't like number one's in art. I can say what I like the most, but I can't say in which order they should come, or it's hard to be fair. So many great films. I fucking loved Iron Man. But I'm biased. He was my favorite comic character. And I have Iron Man #1 to prove it. (Dreaming of his 1st appearance issue.)
Jack Nicholson's Joker was better. But it's like comparing 1960s Batman to 1990s Batman, you really can't, and they both earn their due. I think Jack absolutely nailed the Batman of the comics from the Golden era. Do I think Heath nailed Frank Miller's Batman, yes, but I think if there was a follow-up film he would have brought the character to new heights...
You can't but feel completely bummed by the end of the film. (Spoiler) It's impossible to think that Nolan didn't intend on bringing Heath back for more. I just think the Joker would obviously have had another showdown with Batman. Something left me feeling jaded and unsatisfied at the end. But maybe that's just the death of Heath talking.
The film will only grow better and better for me. It will be impossible for me to separate, Heath's tragic death from the character he created with the Joker. And it's just fun to watch such a fantastic characterization of an iconic character.
Heath would have wanted it this way. No one wants to die. But we all do. Heath goes out in legendary fashion. The sadness is ours to bear but the honor is theirs to claim. And us living, make that so. We decide. To remember or forget. How could anyone forget this film, the role, and the life shortened thereafter. Because of it, related to it, maybe even directly correlated to it? Who knows. What does it matter?
Heath did a great service to those who cherish their comic books. To the art form that grew out of our own need to create wonderfully limitless worlds spawned from our imaginations so that a world could exist, at least in our hearts and minds, where a hero could sweep down out of nowhere, in the nick of time, and save you before an untimely accident or death.
But in the real world we have nothing like that. Except common people doing their best. Or worst. With this film, people did their best. And that should be enough.
Chris and I watched the film together on opening night. We were satisfied enough. We'll watch it again. And that's all that matters right? Another possible escape from the harsh reality of our common lives has been added to our heap of comics, books, music, posters and films...
I liked the film The Dark Knight very much. I almost loved it. But I think I'll love it more and more over time. I've read all the great reviews. And I've read a couple negative ones. But mostly all great reviews. Deservedly so. For the spectacle of it all. All the emotions going into the film....Whether you watched Heath's films or not. Or regardless of how much you knew about the actor. His sudden death this year is obviously a sad moment. Who would ever want to lose a gifted artist from the populace? We all know that our most treasured people are those who give their lives to entertaining us, inspiring us, and giving us something that exemplifies the moment, and that given time in history... Art reflects all of that.... To enlighten? (It's hard to imagine a film enlightening ones self, but then again art evolves does it not?)
This film affects me in a different way as well. When I was growing up, my brother, Christopher, introduced comics to me. He had a great collection of Marvel silver-aged comics. I loved looking at his guarded books. Kept immaculate under their plastic sleeves, backed with pristine white boards. Even if some weren't worth much, he'd still sleeve and back most, just because I think he felt all comics were worth something, to him. I admired that. His favorite characters were Spider-man, the X-men, and Fantastic Four, and he had some serious old issues of all of them. And some awesome 1st appearance issues. He had the 1st appearance of Wolverine, Punisher and the Silver Surfer... (for those unaware, that means the first time those characters saw the light of day, and entered our imaginations, ever.)Before Hollywood got a hold of our beloved heroes they existed on the page only. I remember days at our local comic shop just dreaming that we might someday see them on the big screen. (Now that most have graced the big screen since, looking back, I don't think that dream was so great. I think the characters are best within the pages of comic books...)
When Chris picked up Frank Miller's The Dark Knight Returns we realized, maybe not as much then, that we were in the midst of a revolution, or evolution of sorts, for comics. That they could be darker, that they could haunt our dreams, that comics could encapsulate all of our most boldest imaginations, better then any other media ever could, or ever will. The film The Dark Knight is a mere moving visual homage to the piece of art that that comic is. Chris found something real special. And I loved him when he allowed me to read it after he was finished. Thanks Chris.
My brother and I have always loved comics and the fantastical world within them. The infinite possibilities of wonderment in story-telling. Reading that graphic novel as a ten-year old boy was a great moment in artistic discovery for me. The way someone might feel standing in front of their first Jackson Pollock painting. Or maybe how a kid might feel hearing Miles Davis for the first time in 1970. Any analogy is deserving and fitting. The comic is so much deeper and thoughtful then most would surmise but comics are only recently being recognized for their cultural impact. Ask Michael Chabon and Jonathan Lethem about that, two amazing modern novelists who have written Pulitzer winning novels themed around comics... (Chabon's book The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier and Clay won the Pulitzer Prize in 2001, too bad we were focused on other events to notice...)
When Hollywood decides to reap the whirlwind with a motion picture adaptation of a comic us purveyors of comics become guarded. I was very guarded and expectant before sitting down for Nolan's Dark Knight film...
I have to say I agreed with New York magazine's negative review of the Dark Knight probably the most. But skeptically, and not completely. But I definitely understood the author's review and what they meant by their criticism. Like the action in the film, the fight scenes in particular, they weren't shot very smoothly, or the way a good Hong Kong director might capture a kung-fu sequence. There's a technique that Christopher Nolan was definitely missing. And there were a couple of other comments they made regarding some obvious acting issues, if one wanted to be so picky.
The thing about this movie is that the emotional weight of it, in reality, and that which exists in the film, pulls the viewer away from being picky, and allows us simply to be in awe of this comic epic that is haunted by an amazing acting job by Heath. His death absolutely will challenge you not to emote for the tragedy while watching this mesmerizing role. Heath's Joker makes you forget about the little issues, and the movie has few if hardly any, and sucks you in.
It was like hearing the first Nirvana song that came on after you got word that Kurt shot himself. Well, not nearly like that... but something similar.
The Dark Knight is one of the greatest comic films ever made, if not the best. But I don't like number one's in art. I can say what I like the most, but I can't say in which order they should come, or it's hard to be fair. So many great films. I fucking loved Iron Man. But I'm biased. He was my favorite comic character. And I have Iron Man #1 to prove it. (Dreaming of his 1st appearance issue.)
Jack Nicholson's Joker was better. But it's like comparing 1960s Batman to 1990s Batman, you really can't, and they both earn their due. I think Jack absolutely nailed the Batman of the comics from the Golden era. Do I think Heath nailed Frank Miller's Batman, yes, but I think if there was a follow-up film he would have brought the character to new heights...
You can't but feel completely bummed by the end of the film. (Spoiler) It's impossible to think that Nolan didn't intend on bringing Heath back for more. I just think the Joker would obviously have had another showdown with Batman. Something left me feeling jaded and unsatisfied at the end. But maybe that's just the death of Heath talking.
The film will only grow better and better for me. It will be impossible for me to separate, Heath's tragic death from the character he created with the Joker. And it's just fun to watch such a fantastic characterization of an iconic character.
Heath would have wanted it this way. No one wants to die. But we all do. Heath goes out in legendary fashion. The sadness is ours to bear but the honor is theirs to claim. And us living, make that so. We decide. To remember or forget. How could anyone forget this film, the role, and the life shortened thereafter. Because of it, related to it, maybe even directly correlated to it? Who knows. What does it matter?Heath did a great service to those who cherish their comic books. To the art form that grew out of our own need to create wonderfully limitless worlds spawned from our imaginations so that a world could exist, at least in our hearts and minds, where a hero could sweep down out of nowhere, in the nick of time, and save you before an untimely accident or death.
But in the real world we have nothing like that. Except common people doing their best. Or worst. With this film, people did their best. And that should be enough.
Chris and I watched the film together on opening night. We were satisfied enough. We'll watch it again. And that's all that matters right? Another possible escape from the harsh reality of our common lives has been added to our heap of comics, books, music, posters and films...
Monday, July 21, 2008
Christ, Your Lord!
Okay I know I'm gonna piss some people off with this entry. Good stuff! I only aim to please...
On the subject of Jesus Christ. I submit my soul to the task of divulging the truth of how I've come to view Mr. Jesus Christ. The son of God.
This is typically where someone, versed in their religion, tells me all about Jesus, or as far as they've come to hear about the guy. Whether they heard about him from their parents, their church, their friends, and any of the infinite amount of people that come across their lives whom share something of Jesus and their respective religion. Every one's got an opinion on the guy. Jesus. Yes, when I refer to the guy, I mean Jesus. A guy to me.
Not my lord. Not my savior. Just some dude. But the son of God. For sure. I whole-heartily believe that point. But a guy to me none-the-less.
But everyone has their version. That we can all agree upon. He's got like a million darn names, (I typically would have replaced darn, with damn, but Mom would be very upset with my choice, which I would typically respond with, "Jesus Mom! I'm free to say what I want!" And once again reunite my face with the back of her hand.)
So they call the dude all sorts of names. Like Jesus Christ, Christ Almighty, Christ the Lord, Christ the Divine, God, Son of God, Prophet, Lord, King of Jews, King of Kings, Saviour of the World, The Redeemer, and lets not forget my favorite, Jesus Christ Superstar.
I mean that's pretty insane. You'd think we have a complex about this guy or something. Obsessed? Oooh just a tad!
And I was always taught in school that it's never wise to ever focus on the sun for too long. That you'll go blind. So I only look at the sun at brief little glances. And only like a few times a year. Just enough. Quick passing glances. Just to remind myself that it's there. Some times with no choice of my own. (This is my analogy... get it?)
For me, Jesus is an icon. He's also a hero as well. He's a character in a story. He's me.
Or what I should aim to be. He was a positive person. A good person. A teacher. A builder. Someone who loved his mom and step dad. And he was a fighter. Fighting the evil systems that control and spread their enslaving doctrines?!? He stood up against his oppressors. And sacrificed himself for the common man and for the greater good. For his beliefs. For freedom. Okay for all that good shit. Jesus is like the perfect example of a human and shows the possibility of good in us all.
He also seemed like a bit of a nut to me. Son of God talk around these parts will get you three years at Silver Hill. I'm pretty sure if I told a doctor that I was born with out the help of dad's man-goo he'd think I'm pretty fucking loony. And I'm thinking, "Wait till he finds out who my real dad is."
I like thinking of Jesus as the ultimate option. A good goal. I'm pretty sure that's what his teachings, and the bible, tries to communicate. I haven't read the bible, but I know there's a good enough amount of versions that get my point across soundly.
Do I accept him as my savior? Well when a pickup truck smacks into my face I'll be sure to let you know. I know I'll at least accept Ford as my executioner. It just seems like too much pressure. I mean it's enough that I have to live up to the rules of my country. The expectations of my parents. The hopes of my friends and family. (Not to mention someday, the responsibility of a wife and kids.) Now here I am, dead as a doornail Thinking.... "Yo what's up St. Pete! Shit man I didn't really have much time left to devote to Jesus. We still cool? Can I come in or what?"
Fuck that! If they won't let me into heaven because I didn't feel it necessary to accept Jesus as my savior, or their religion as my own, then something is tragically wrong with our belief system. I think the Catholics are figuring that out fast. I repent!
Sins of the father? Well what about God's tragic sin of allowing us all this freedom. Maybe we were better when we were stuck behind our monkey suits. (Yes, we evolved from apes. Crazy ain't it?)
Imagine that. We just...
POOF!
Appeared...
Dude how would that even work. Adam and Eve and an entire fucking world full of hungry-ass dinosaurs, mammoths and what-ever-the-heck was out there!!
JESUS CHRIST!
That's why I love the guy. Because he has the coolest thing ever going for him. We all know who he is, in some form or another. He was good looking. Sported a dope beard. Walked with a pimp-lean. Carried a BIG stick. And we say his name all the time, in so many different emotions, thoughts, and expressions. We all want to be like him. Or we all want to kill for him. Kill in his name. Kill in his other name. Kill in the name that I can hardly pronounce. I mean we all got that same 'prophet' we're tripping over for. That great example. That direct link to God. That something-or-other that helps us sleep better at night.
And is he there? Are you there God? It's me Andrew...
I love what Jesus stands for. But after that I give the rest of my time to communicating with the world around me. Making sure the people around me aren't hurting or are unhappy. Making sure that there is good around me. That the people I cross paths with feel the same hope I have. That there is only hope in us. Hope in us down here. Alone. With no Jesus to save us. With no God to pick up the pieces. With no higher power but the power we create for ourselves. All within the scope of not allowing pain or hurt, in any sense, to fall upon those we live with, and live for, and live without.
But we also all have freedom of thought and belief. And I hope everyone is content in the church they build for themselves. Whichever it is.
Christ, My Hero
May The God of Lower-Gas-Prices descend upon us now!!!
On the subject of Jesus Christ. I submit my soul to the task of divulging the truth of how I've come to view Mr. Jesus Christ. The son of God. This is typically where someone, versed in their religion, tells me all about Jesus, or as far as they've come to hear about the guy. Whether they heard about him from their parents, their church, their friends, and any of the infinite amount of people that come across their lives whom share something of Jesus and their respective religion. Every one's got an opinion on the guy. Jesus. Yes, when I refer to the guy, I mean Jesus. A guy to me.
Not my lord. Not my savior. Just some dude. But the son of God. For sure. I whole-heartily believe that point. But a guy to me none-the-less.
But everyone has their version. That we can all agree upon. He's got like a million darn names, (I typically would have replaced darn, with damn, but Mom would be very upset with my choice, which I would typically respond with, "Jesus Mom! I'm free to say what I want!" And once again reunite my face with the back of her hand.)So they call the dude all sorts of names. Like Jesus Christ, Christ Almighty, Christ the Lord, Christ the Divine, God, Son of God, Prophet, Lord, King of Jews, King of Kings, Saviour of the World, The Redeemer, and lets not forget my favorite, Jesus Christ Superstar.
I mean that's pretty insane. You'd think we have a complex about this guy or something. Obsessed? Oooh just a tad!
And I was always taught in school that it's never wise to ever focus on the sun for too long. That you'll go blind. So I only look at the sun at brief little glances. And only like a few times a year. Just enough. Quick passing glances. Just to remind myself that it's there. Some times with no choice of my own. (This is my analogy... get it?)
For me, Jesus is an icon. He's also a hero as well. He's a character in a story. He's me.
Or what I should aim to be. He was a positive person. A good person. A teacher. A builder. Someone who loved his mom and step dad. And he was a fighter. Fighting the evil systems that control and spread their enslaving doctrines?!? He stood up against his oppressors. And sacrificed himself for the common man and for the greater good. For his beliefs. For freedom. Okay for all that good shit. Jesus is like the perfect example of a human and shows the possibility of good in us all.
He also seemed like a bit of a nut to me. Son of God talk around these parts will get you three years at Silver Hill. I'm pretty sure if I told a doctor that I was born with out the help of dad's man-goo he'd think I'm pretty fucking loony. And I'm thinking, "Wait till he finds out who my real dad is."
I like thinking of Jesus as the ultimate option. A good goal. I'm pretty sure that's what his teachings, and the bible, tries to communicate. I haven't read the bible, but I know there's a good enough amount of versions that get my point across soundly.
Do I accept him as my savior? Well when a pickup truck smacks into my face I'll be sure to let you know. I know I'll at least accept Ford as my executioner. It just seems like too much pressure. I mean it's enough that I have to live up to the rules of my country. The expectations of my parents. The hopes of my friends and family. (Not to mention someday, the responsibility of a wife and kids.) Now here I am, dead as a doornail Thinking.... "Yo what's up St. Pete! Shit man I didn't really have much time left to devote to Jesus. We still cool? Can I come in or what?"
Fuck that! If they won't let me into heaven because I didn't feel it necessary to accept Jesus as my savior, or their religion as my own, then something is tragically wrong with our belief system. I think the Catholics are figuring that out fast. I repent!
Sins of the father? Well what about God's tragic sin of allowing us all this freedom. Maybe we were better when we were stuck behind our monkey suits. (Yes, we evolved from apes. Crazy ain't it?)
Imagine that. We just...
POOF!
Appeared...
Dude how would that even work. Adam and Eve and an entire fucking world full of hungry-ass dinosaurs, mammoths and what-ever-the-heck was out there!!
JESUS CHRIST!
That's why I love the guy. Because he has the coolest thing ever going for him. We all know who he is, in some form or another. He was good looking. Sported a dope beard. Walked with a pimp-lean. Carried a BIG stick. And we say his name all the time, in so many different emotions, thoughts, and expressions. We all want to be like him. Or we all want to kill for him. Kill in his name. Kill in his other name. Kill in the name that I can hardly pronounce. I mean we all got that same 'prophet' we're tripping over for. That great example. That direct link to God. That something-or-other that helps us sleep better at night.
And is he there? Are you there God? It's me Andrew...
I love what Jesus stands for. But after that I give the rest of my time to communicating with the world around me. Making sure the people around me aren't hurting or are unhappy. Making sure that there is good around me. That the people I cross paths with feel the same hope I have. That there is only hope in us. Hope in us down here. Alone. With no Jesus to save us. With no God to pick up the pieces. With no higher power but the power we create for ourselves. All within the scope of not allowing pain or hurt, in any sense, to fall upon those we live with, and live for, and live without.But we also all have freedom of thought and belief. And I hope everyone is content in the church they build for themselves. Whichever it is.
Christ, My Hero
May The God of Lower-Gas-Prices descend upon us now!!!
Sunday, July 20, 2008
Wednesday, July 16, 2008
A Paper World
It shot across your bow in a full-bodied blaze.
Splashed into the ocean. With a sizzle.
Cradle the notion that someday this world
will ignite and explode
into something shiny and new.
If we dig deep enough we'll find the fuse.
If we chop fast enough we'll widdle it down to the wick.
Till it all burns away.
And like a phoenix a new Earth will emerge.
In our image. In our memory. In our earnest.
If you get there quick enough you'll get to heaven sooner.
You'll pass down your nasty habits
to the next generation of occupants.
Of purveyers. Of believers.
Of breathers and eaters.
More you and I.
More us and them.
More life and death.
In the moment you paused between the last sentence and this one,
someone died.
It can be an impossible thing to stomach the revolution of us.
The evolution of our existence.
Of the existence of all living and dead things.
But even dead things grow.
They grow into dust.
A dust that grows into dirt.
Grows into nutrients.
Food for the Earth.
For the living.
As we bury one,
atop the other.
If you take a stroll,
with feet off the ground.
And they're spinning.
One atop the other.
Never together. Spinning.
Chasing one another.
Yet never catching up.
And the wheels turn. And you move.
Atop another circle.
That's spinning.
In what direction?
The wind feels nice.
The sun hot against your cheeks.
Your eyes squinting.
Let there be light!
And burning bushes seemed like a good idea.
To light the way.
And Moses tossed his tablets.
And Newton got it right.
And they hit like stone.
Maybe they broke before he could,
broke his whips around his back.
Maybe they hung him for the fun of it,
from that old twisted elm shifting in an autumn breeze.
The side effects will wear off,
and microbes will make way.
As we are made of stars,
ancient dead stars.
No cold black dwarf.
Splashed into the ocean. With a sizzle.
Cradle the notion that someday this world
will ignite and explode
into something shiny and new.
If we dig deep enough we'll find the fuse.
If we chop fast enough we'll widdle it down to the wick.
Till it all burns away.
And like a phoenix a new Earth will emerge.
In our image. In our memory. In our earnest.
If you get there quick enough you'll get to heaven sooner.
You'll pass down your nasty habits
to the next generation of occupants.
Of purveyers. Of believers.
Of breathers and eaters.
More you and I.
More us and them.
More life and death.
In the moment you paused between the last sentence and this one,
someone died.
It can be an impossible thing to stomach the revolution of us.
The evolution of our existence.
Of the existence of all living and dead things.
But even dead things grow.
They grow into dust.
A dust that grows into dirt.
Grows into nutrients.
Food for the Earth.
For the living.
As we bury one,
atop the other.
The sickle that sweeps.
Cycle.
Bi-cycle.
If you take a stroll,
with feet off the ground.
And they're spinning.
One atop the other.
Never together. Spinning.
Chasing one another.
Yet never catching up.
And the wheels turn. And you move.
Atop another circle.
That's spinning.
In what direction?
The wind feels nice.
The sun hot against your cheeks.
Your eyes squinting.
Let there be light!
And burning bushes seemed like a good idea.
To light the way.
And Moses tossed his tablets.
And Newton got it right.
And they hit like stone.
Maybe they broke before he could,
broke his whips around his back.
Maybe they hung him for the fun of it,
from that old twisted elm shifting in an autumn breeze.
The side effects will wear off,
and microbes will make way.
As we are made of stars,
ancient dead stars.
No cold black dwarf.
Tuesday, July 15, 2008
Ni**er
I was kind of disappointed that Nas decided not to entitle his latest album Nigger the way he originally intended it to be released. It reminded me of just how unready we are as a people to confront our most terrible mistakes in judgement and our most cowardly acts of general evil.
Mass evil is kind of how I like to view those historic moments. The moments that haunt, tingle and remind. Of how fucking stupid we all can be. The way we can sway a mass of people against another. For reasons so unjust and simply created by ignorance, and uncomfort from a lack of courage to communicate.
It's easier to silence someone then to let them be heard. Because you might be meant to listen to the truth. We can only change if we're willing to accept our past.
When a people is swayed into an irrational frame of thought. And believes they are right. That's when all goes wrong.
I can't even begin to express how inspired I am that Nas even considered entitling his new record as such. It's being bold.
My favorite quote ever, the one I have tattooed on my right shoulder, is "Freedom lies in being bold." Spoken by Robert Frost.
I'm a writer. Words are my home. The infinite good ones, and the 'black sheep' of them. We can't escape racism. Segregation. Separation. Categorization. Cataloging. Labeling. We won't be able to escape these truths if we're not willing to confront them together. We have to be able to start a dialog between all people. The dream?
Who does the word nigger truly make look foolish? Those it was used to label or those who used it to label? Does it say something deeper about the kind of people that invented it? Maybe it better represents the people who created it. Maybe it says something about the fear of the unknown.
So Nas understands the truth. But he is born to understand the truth. White people, and all the 'other' different people that stand on the other side of the fence ignore the truth for the presumed facts. They use the word in secret. And I happen to think secret hatreds breed obvious stupidity. And worst, they build hidden divisions. Some times the divisions aren't that hidden at all, but stare at us, blatantly in our face. Like Katrina.
Because people are unwilling to talk to one another.
I believe all black people have the world in check. All people that have suffered through an atrocity have the right to carry the burden of their fore bearers and should be allowed to play teacher. Not victim. But teacher.
That they themselves hold the keys to the kingdom. That they have infinite power. Just like everyone else.
The word is pointless. The word is a weapon. The word is their cause.
Nas should have used the title he wished to. I'm not sure what was the final stroke that pressured him into a position of rethinking his gut thought. Some times an artist's most brilliant strokes are those that come most naturally. Though he decided not to use the title in the end, I think his point was already made. As the media reinforces the simple fact that Nas even considered the title Nigger. We all know they ran with that story. Regardless. The title will stick.
Just like the real world, even though the album is now nameless, untitled, the hidden label gravitates to a level of accuracy that more closely pinpoints all of our ignorance. Our fear to confront. All of OUR FEARS.
In a way, his new album will permanently be entitled what he originally wished. And we better wisen up to it.
There is strength in the communication that occurs between two people. When two people can discuss anything, no matter the subject, or the opinion, it shows the dream that they simply wish to understand one another, and hopefully what brought both of those people to stand side-by-side. Inevitably we don't want to erase our past. To erase our mistakes would be to teach our children nothing about what evil truths they must attempt to avoid. My child will never understand the hatred of the word nigger unless I can freely speak to him. That ALL of OUR American freedom was founded through the trials of these one people. And the word represents what should be the future of freedom for all people. That our history must guide us towards the dream.
I have no idea who I will vote for in this coming election. Obama on the basis of his plans for the economy, troop withdrawals, and our energy crisis may prove that he's not the best man for candidacy. His lack of experience?
But I have another reason to vote for him. Which is not being spoken so freely or widely, or being casted in any manner that signifies the importance of voting with an historic mindset of change. That maybe Obama being voted in on the simple basis of his cultural heritage is exactly what this twisted country needs. That maybe this country deserves to be steered by a black man right now. That maybe we all need to repent for our sins. That maybe we all need to face the 'truths' and 'history' of our country's greatest moments of ignorance.
But I doubt any rednecked hick, fumbling for another Pabst, with cocaine caked around his nose, while keeping his Confederate flag tucked secretly beneath his pick-up's passenger seat, will ever confront racial inequality. Especially when he's our acting President.
Time heals all wounds? A conversation will get us there quicker.
Who's got the courage to speak?
Mass evil is kind of how I like to view those historic moments. The moments that haunt, tingle and remind. Of how fucking stupid we all can be. The way we can sway a mass of people against another. For reasons so unjust and simply created by ignorance, and uncomfort from a lack of courage to communicate.It's easier to silence someone then to let them be heard. Because you might be meant to listen to the truth. We can only change if we're willing to accept our past.
When a people is swayed into an irrational frame of thought. And believes they are right. That's when all goes wrong.
I can't even begin to express how inspired I am that Nas even considered entitling his new record as such. It's being bold.
My favorite quote ever, the one I have tattooed on my right shoulder, is "Freedom lies in being bold." Spoken by Robert Frost.
I'm a writer. Words are my home. The infinite good ones, and the 'black sheep' of them. We can't escape racism. Segregation. Separation. Categorization. Cataloging. Labeling. We won't be able to escape these truths if we're not willing to confront them together. We have to be able to start a dialog between all people. The dream?
Who does the word nigger truly make look foolish? Those it was used to label or those who used it to label? Does it say something deeper about the kind of people that invented it? Maybe it better represents the people who created it. Maybe it says something about the fear of the unknown.So Nas understands the truth. But he is born to understand the truth. White people, and all the 'other' different people that stand on the other side of the fence ignore the truth for the presumed facts. They use the word in secret. And I happen to think secret hatreds breed obvious stupidity. And worst, they build hidden divisions. Some times the divisions aren't that hidden at all, but stare at us, blatantly in our face. Like Katrina.
Because people are unwilling to talk to one another.
I believe all black people have the world in check. All people that have suffered through an atrocity have the right to carry the burden of their fore bearers and should be allowed to play teacher. Not victim. But teacher.
That they themselves hold the keys to the kingdom. That they have infinite power. Just like everyone else.
The word is pointless. The word is a weapon. The word is their cause.
Nas should have used the title he wished to. I'm not sure what was the final stroke that pressured him into a position of rethinking his gut thought. Some times an artist's most brilliant strokes are those that come most naturally. Though he decided not to use the title in the end, I think his point was already made. As the media reinforces the simple fact that Nas even considered the title Nigger. We all know they ran with that story. Regardless. The title will stick.
Just like the real world, even though the album is now nameless, untitled, the hidden label gravitates to a level of accuracy that more closely pinpoints all of our ignorance. Our fear to confront. All of OUR FEARS.
In a way, his new album will permanently be entitled what he originally wished. And we better wisen up to it.
There is strength in the communication that occurs between two people. When two people can discuss anything, no matter the subject, or the opinion, it shows the dream that they simply wish to understand one another, and hopefully what brought both of those people to stand side-by-side. Inevitably we don't want to erase our past. To erase our mistakes would be to teach our children nothing about what evil truths they must attempt to avoid. My child will never understand the hatred of the word nigger unless I can freely speak to him. That ALL of OUR American freedom was founded through the trials of these one people. And the word represents what should be the future of freedom for all people. That our history must guide us towards the dream.
I have no idea who I will vote for in this coming election. Obama on the basis of his plans for the economy, troop withdrawals, and our energy crisis may prove that he's not the best man for candidacy. His lack of experience?
But I have another reason to vote for him. Which is not being spoken so freely or widely, or being casted in any manner that signifies the importance of voting with an historic mindset of change. That maybe Obama being voted in on the simple basis of his cultural heritage is exactly what this twisted country needs. That maybe this country deserves to be steered by a black man right now. That maybe we all need to repent for our sins. That maybe we all need to face the 'truths' and 'history' of our country's greatest moments of ignorance.
But I doubt any rednecked hick, fumbling for another Pabst, with cocaine caked around his nose, while keeping his Confederate flag tucked secretly beneath his pick-up's passenger seat, will ever confront racial inequality. Especially when he's our acting President.
Time heals all wounds? A conversation will get us there quicker.
Who's got the courage to speak?
Monday, July 14, 2008
The Showdown And The Finale
I toss books at people's heads. I work behind the circulation desk at my local library. And all day long I take pieces of the fiction section and wing them at old people.
Violently too.
Sometimes I throw them with an additional howl or grunt as I'm doing it, just for my own dramatic effect. There was this one time today where I actually got so excited watching those patron suckers drop that I jumped up onto the desk and actually karate kicked the new James Frey novel into this little bratty seven-year-old's tiny little pebbles, by that I mean his undeveloped balls. Oh did the kid wail. And his mother wasn't even around to attend to the whimpering shit. Typical.
SO I didn't really do any of those awful things. But I surely should have. Well, at least in my head some times. But don't we all look at our jobs like that once in-a-frequent-while? I did today.
I didn't want to be at work at all today.
I mean, I like a couple of my co-workers enough, and some of the patrons that wander in daily can be pretty cool as well. But for the most part, what the fuck am I still doing checking out books to these people? It can be such a mindfuck dealing with these Connecticut suburbanites and their complete lack of common fucking library etiquette. When did class forget how to be classy? Shut your FUCKING child up woman!!
We don't want to hear your three-year-old yelping like a hyena while you print out Broadway tickets on a computer that's located on the other side of the facility, completely unaware of where you forgot your child anyway.
These are my most common patrons, in all their stereotypical splendor.
The parking lot is a sea of Saab, a pallet of BMW, a crayon box of magnificent automobiles. Sparkly and large. Forty-five percent in luxury sedans, fifty percent in family-vans and SUVs, and the measly five percent left over, for shitty cars that only a librarian could possibly drive. The dusty ones in the corner with the Harry Potter bumper stickers.
Then he walked up to the desk to check out some old Ken Follet novel, something I suspect I've seen him take out before. He's pretty frail this guy before me. Late eighties. I remember him telling me about the War before. Double-You-Two. About his buddies from the War. And how they all had died. And he pulls out his wallet. A shiny new black leather bi-fold. Only a few cards, and a driver's license, are tucked inside. It looks sparse. He paws at it.
He tells me that his wallet had recently been stolen. "I'm sorry to hear that." I say. "I even lost my med cards too." He mumbles angrily while staring at me, wide-eyed. He's fumbling again, pawing at his wallet. He obviously can't find his library card. "I'll look you up today Mr. Farmer. Don't worry about it." I scan the book. Beep.
I slide the book across the desk.
He says. "Sorry I'm all out of sorts lately." Takes a breath, sniffs. "My wife just passed." He shuffles away. Adjusting his overly large baseball cap. His pants too large, the belt missing a loop. His blue button-up shirt tucked-in, except for one bunched spot that is pinned beneath his visible underwear line. "I'm sorry" As my heartfelt words chase him meekly out the door.
So I grabbed a sticky Curious George and chucked it across the room in the direction of an eight-year-old boy throwing a tantrum because "Mommy" won't take him to Blockbuster to get a DVD we didn't carry.
"I'm not wasting Gas!" She yells.
The book hits him square across the face.
She smiles.
All is well at this local Connecticut library.
Violently too.
Sometimes I throw them with an additional howl or grunt as I'm doing it, just for my own dramatic effect. There was this one time today where I actually got so excited watching those patron suckers drop that I jumped up onto the desk and actually karate kicked the new James Frey novel into this little bratty seven-year-old's tiny little pebbles, by that I mean his undeveloped balls. Oh did the kid wail. And his mother wasn't even around to attend to the whimpering shit. Typical.
SO I didn't really do any of those awful things. But I surely should have. Well, at least in my head some times. But don't we all look at our jobs like that once in-a-frequent-while? I did today.
I didn't want to be at work at all today.
I mean, I like a couple of my co-workers enough, and some of the patrons that wander in daily can be pretty cool as well. But for the most part, what the fuck am I still doing checking out books to these people? It can be such a mindfuck dealing with these Connecticut suburbanites and their complete lack of common fucking library etiquette. When did class forget how to be classy? Shut your FUCKING child up woman!!
We don't want to hear your three-year-old yelping like a hyena while you print out Broadway tickets on a computer that's located on the other side of the facility, completely unaware of where you forgot your child anyway.
These are my most common patrons, in all their stereotypical splendor.
The parking lot is a sea of Saab, a pallet of BMW, a crayon box of magnificent automobiles. Sparkly and large. Forty-five percent in luxury sedans, fifty percent in family-vans and SUVs, and the measly five percent left over, for shitty cars that only a librarian could possibly drive. The dusty ones in the corner with the Harry Potter bumper stickers.
Then he walked up to the desk to check out some old Ken Follet novel, something I suspect I've seen him take out before. He's pretty frail this guy before me. Late eighties. I remember him telling me about the War before. Double-You-Two. About his buddies from the War. And how they all had died. And he pulls out his wallet. A shiny new black leather bi-fold. Only a few cards, and a driver's license, are tucked inside. It looks sparse. He paws at it.
He tells me that his wallet had recently been stolen. "I'm sorry to hear that." I say. "I even lost my med cards too." He mumbles angrily while staring at me, wide-eyed. He's fumbling again, pawing at his wallet. He obviously can't find his library card. "I'll look you up today Mr. Farmer. Don't worry about it." I scan the book. Beep.
I slide the book across the desk.
He says. "Sorry I'm all out of sorts lately." Takes a breath, sniffs. "My wife just passed." He shuffles away. Adjusting his overly large baseball cap. His pants too large, the belt missing a loop. His blue button-up shirt tucked-in, except for one bunched spot that is pinned beneath his visible underwear line. "I'm sorry" As my heartfelt words chase him meekly out the door.
So I grabbed a sticky Curious George and chucked it across the room in the direction of an eight-year-old boy throwing a tantrum because "Mommy" won't take him to Blockbuster to get a DVD we didn't carry.
"I'm not wasting Gas!" She yells.
The book hits him square across the face.
She smiles.
All is well at this local Connecticut library.
Sunday, July 13, 2008
So I Tossed a Pebble...
So I tossed a pebble...
just to see the depth. Though I'd never know. I can only see the growing ringlets left behind. On the surface.
If you throw a pebble into a pool. It disappears.
Until someone is brave enough to dive down deep and look for treasure.
I'm unaware of the first moment I felt it necessary to spend so much of my life devoted to writing. The most truly ignored art, that is blatantly taken advantage of. Yes Dan Brown and J.K. Rowling have made their fair share from the process. But do you know who the current poet laureate is? I don't. I should. But I sadly do not. And I bet you don't either. (Most of us don't and never will, or care)
I feel there is so much about the gift of writing that is buried below the sea of 'accepted' and 'popularized' art forms like film and music. I did my research. I know at one point in our human lifespan that poetry was thought of as a pretty cool thing to work at. To throw one's life into. To give up the expected trades, and labor, of our history, for a meager and risky life creating reflections of the world in words. (In some manner, all art is a reflection of society and our course through time. Sort of like taking a healthy and pretty crap. A good result of our metaphysical and sociological digestive habits. An expression. Output. Shit, to some.)
To give up the necessary labor of fixing the pipes that enable you to drink and clean, a good and constant job, for something like the art of poetry, or creative writing, takes a great deal of pride in ones work, and faith in ones ability to prove to the rest of humanity that your words are somehow going to inspire their work and their lives. Somehow the words you are paid to put down on paper are for the better good of man...
So when I see Joe-schmo walk up to the podium at my Open Mic Poetry event I have high expectations. I'm thinking "Man if you're here to read poetry this shit better be fucking good! This writing better knock my fucking rocks off. These words better make me feel something. Anything. They better open my eyelids to the truth of our existence, a bit wider then they all ready are." I'm thinking... "This poetry better mean something!!"
More times then not. The poetry is shit. It's a bunch of rhyming crap. About their sad moments. About their dead grandmas. About their annoying wives. About what it's like to see pretty flowers. About another cloud. About God again. About the President! Whoa, that's unique. Let's discuss. Or the best is when they pull the racial card. The oppression. Yeah Angelou did it better. Get over it. We're so passed that moment. JFK was shot like fifty years ago. Yes that'll sound great at the next slam competition. Look you rhymed meager with leader. Excellent. Nice with twice. Loser with user. Die with Lie. That's my favorite!!!
But then some little old woman will hobble up. Wrinkled papers in hand. Shaking a little. Not sure if she's nervous, or its her evening Meds kicking in. She smells old too. Like dusty newspapers left on a high shelf in the garage too long. But she still reminds you of home. She grabs the mic, fumbling. Making loud noises that echo through the room. Asks, shouts, if we can obviously hear her. And reads something that's real. Like she knows something about poetry that we do not. That she knows something about life, that we do not. Talks briefly about the warmth of his skin. The translucence of it. How the cancer spread like flame across paper. Like there's something about the soul, something about the relation between it, and us. How experience and wisdom somehow come into play. And I realize there's so much for me to learn. So many years that still need to unwind, for me, for the bad poets, for the poets unaware, for the people just trying. To create something out of nothing. To show the rest of the world that their lives are meaningless beautifully-brief revolutionary infinitely-possible sparks that require just the faintest sign of oxygen, to ignite.
To bring beauty like a flower takes a God-like hand. And to craft that beauty in words takes a poet. And for all my indiscretions and lack of faith in the current states-of-art. I know art is an ever-evolving life form of its own. And though poetry has become a lost art, forgotten, embraced by the humble few who keep it alive, against a modern tide of technologically-enhanced art expressions, we shall always remain pure and unhindered, never tainted by time. Always simple. Always brief. To be read in a breath or two. To be digested for a life time.
So we are swept up by the masses, for as the world grows old, we people spread and multiply like flies, and the numbers seem to grow towards infinite. And the reality is, there are more poets now then there ever were before. Which just means its much harder for the really good ones to stand out. Especially considering there's not much reward towards striving to poetic achievement. What will I gain? No fame. No payday. An impossible publishing nightmarish experience.... Or maybe I publish a poem in the ultimate fashion, hidden on a single page, buried in some pile of New Yorker magazines, on the DISCARD cart at the local library's periodical collection. No thanks. I work at a library. I just chucked that pile in the 'recycling' bin.
It's just much harder now. Much much harder.
I fell in love with poetry when my cousin died. When he was swallowed by the sea. I was twelve. He was thirteen. And thinking then, I couldn't understand why God took children. And poetry taught me everything I needed to understand. Poetry opened my eyes.
Robert Frost taught me that. e.e. Cummings taught me that. Emily Dickinson taught me that. William Wordsworth taught me that. Sylvia Plath taught me that.
They taught me that life is real. Real hard. Real sweet. Real precious. And really poetic. That all of life is a constant struggle. A constant tug-of-war between all the fucking opposites. Love and hate. Life and death. Black and White. Smiles and Tears. Night and Day. And they created little worlds in magnificent simplicity. They took our most basic form of communication. Language. Took their favorite words. Pieced them together delicately. And wrote a poem.
I wish to cast a reflection of my world into the written word. For only one reason. Because I can.
I just work towards a point of hoping that I have put enough energy, thought and work into the craft that those who have created this path for me will be proud of my effort. That they will look down upon my words and feel that I tried. That I really tried.
Maybe my opinion is a bit misguided. Maybe a few of you will feel I'm completely off target.
Who knows. But maybe I don't give a fuck about what you think.
And that's the true sign that someday you might get to call me a poet.
just to see the depth. Though I'd never know. I can only see the growing ringlets left behind. On the surface.
If you throw a pebble into a pool. It disappears.
Until someone is brave enough to dive down deep and look for treasure.
I'm unaware of the first moment I felt it necessary to spend so much of my life devoted to writing. The most truly ignored art, that is blatantly taken advantage of. Yes Dan Brown and J.K. Rowling have made their fair share from the process. But do you know who the current poet laureate is? I don't. I should. But I sadly do not. And I bet you don't either. (Most of us don't and never will, or care)
I feel there is so much about the gift of writing that is buried below the sea of 'accepted' and 'popularized' art forms like film and music. I did my research. I know at one point in our human lifespan that poetry was thought of as a pretty cool thing to work at. To throw one's life into. To give up the expected trades, and labor, of our history, for a meager and risky life creating reflections of the world in words. (In some manner, all art is a reflection of society and our course through time. Sort of like taking a healthy and pretty crap. A good result of our metaphysical and sociological digestive habits. An expression. Output. Shit, to some.)
To give up the necessary labor of fixing the pipes that enable you to drink and clean, a good and constant job, for something like the art of poetry, or creative writing, takes a great deal of pride in ones work, and faith in ones ability to prove to the rest of humanity that your words are somehow going to inspire their work and their lives. Somehow the words you are paid to put down on paper are for the better good of man...
So when I see Joe-schmo walk up to the podium at my Open Mic Poetry event I have high expectations. I'm thinking "Man if you're here to read poetry this shit better be fucking good! This writing better knock my fucking rocks off. These words better make me feel something. Anything. They better open my eyelids to the truth of our existence, a bit wider then they all ready are." I'm thinking... "This poetry better mean something!!"
More times then not. The poetry is shit. It's a bunch of rhyming crap. About their sad moments. About their dead grandmas. About their annoying wives. About what it's like to see pretty flowers. About another cloud. About God again. About the President! Whoa, that's unique. Let's discuss. Or the best is when they pull the racial card. The oppression. Yeah Angelou did it better. Get over it. We're so passed that moment. JFK was shot like fifty years ago. Yes that'll sound great at the next slam competition. Look you rhymed meager with leader. Excellent. Nice with twice. Loser with user. Die with Lie. That's my favorite!!!
But then some little old woman will hobble up. Wrinkled papers in hand. Shaking a little. Not sure if she's nervous, or its her evening Meds kicking in. She smells old too. Like dusty newspapers left on a high shelf in the garage too long. But she still reminds you of home. She grabs the mic, fumbling. Making loud noises that echo through the room. Asks, shouts, if we can obviously hear her. And reads something that's real. Like she knows something about poetry that we do not. That she knows something about life, that we do not. Talks briefly about the warmth of his skin. The translucence of it. How the cancer spread like flame across paper. Like there's something about the soul, something about the relation between it, and us. How experience and wisdom somehow come into play. And I realize there's so much for me to learn. So many years that still need to unwind, for me, for the bad poets, for the poets unaware, for the people just trying. To create something out of nothing. To show the rest of the world that their lives are meaningless beautifully-brief revolutionary infinitely-possible sparks that require just the faintest sign of oxygen, to ignite.
To bring beauty like a flower takes a God-like hand. And to craft that beauty in words takes a poet. And for all my indiscretions and lack of faith in the current states-of-art. I know art is an ever-evolving life form of its own. And though poetry has become a lost art, forgotten, embraced by the humble few who keep it alive, against a modern tide of technologically-enhanced art expressions, we shall always remain pure and unhindered, never tainted by time. Always simple. Always brief. To be read in a breath or two. To be digested for a life time.
So we are swept up by the masses, for as the world grows old, we people spread and multiply like flies, and the numbers seem to grow towards infinite. And the reality is, there are more poets now then there ever were before. Which just means its much harder for the really good ones to stand out. Especially considering there's not much reward towards striving to poetic achievement. What will I gain? No fame. No payday. An impossible publishing nightmarish experience.... Or maybe I publish a poem in the ultimate fashion, hidden on a single page, buried in some pile of New Yorker magazines, on the DISCARD cart at the local library's periodical collection. No thanks. I work at a library. I just chucked that pile in the 'recycling' bin.
It's just much harder now. Much much harder.
I fell in love with poetry when my cousin died. When he was swallowed by the sea. I was twelve. He was thirteen. And thinking then, I couldn't understand why God took children. And poetry taught me everything I needed to understand. Poetry opened my eyes.
Robert Frost taught me that. e.e. Cummings taught me that. Emily Dickinson taught me that. William Wordsworth taught me that. Sylvia Plath taught me that.
They taught me that life is real. Real hard. Real sweet. Real precious. And really poetic. That all of life is a constant struggle. A constant tug-of-war between all the fucking opposites. Love and hate. Life and death. Black and White. Smiles and Tears. Night and Day. And they created little worlds in magnificent simplicity. They took our most basic form of communication. Language. Took their favorite words. Pieced them together delicately. And wrote a poem.
I wish to cast a reflection of my world into the written word. For only one reason. Because I can.
I just work towards a point of hoping that I have put enough energy, thought and work into the craft that those who have created this path for me will be proud of my effort. That they will look down upon my words and feel that I tried. That I really tried.
Maybe my opinion is a bit misguided. Maybe a few of you will feel I'm completely off target.
Who knows. But maybe I don't give a fuck about what you think.
And that's the true sign that someday you might get to call me a poet.
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