bigtyper

Here is a list of all the cushions and papers that are my rocks and my hard places.  The world is streaming, and I am eroding slowly.

1. Grade papers
2. Send in car insurance papers
3. Double check car payment auto-pay/debit status
4. Pick up plates for my car
5. Figure out if I want to change my insurance
6. Take my last car off my mother's insurance
7. Sell my last car
8. Pay off as much of my total balance for my new car as possible
9. Pay off as much of my total balance for my college loans as possible
10. Lesson plan
11. Finish reading the book I'm teaching my students (kind of)
12. Move my computer files onto my external hard drive
13. Get better virus protection
14. Clean my room
15. Weedwack the lawn
16. Dig up the heleconia in the backyard
17. Wash the windows
18. Buy new shoes
19. Get orthopedics
20. See my foot doctor about my toe
21. Check my blood sugar
22. Install handrails for my grandfather
23. Clear his stuff away so he can get into bed more easily
24. Help my dad clean out his deceased father's apartment (began, at least)
25. Buy a present for my sister's birthday
26. Prepare myself in case my father asks me to give his step-mom's eulogy
27. Look into getting Kourtney to apply to other schools/taking the SSAT
28. Remember to take my students to testing on Thursday next week
29. Finalize grades by...sometime this week
30. Lose weight
31. Tell Blaine I'm not going to help with the accreditation team
32. Help Neal prepare for the December poetry slam
33. Fold clothes
34. Change my deferred comp over so that it won't keep taking out $1,000 next year
35. Worry about taxes

And most of this needs to get done in the next few weeks.  Forget new year's resolutions...

I wish this didn't happen. I wish when I wasn't building up steam, I wasn't so easily derailed. I-messages, right? It's so difficult to banish pride when you feel like it's what you're constantly butting up against. I wish hurt wasn't built into our systems. What is it for? To grow? In other words, to get bigger? Who wants that? I'd rather stay infinitesimal. A small stone with no pain. I wish that didn't have such negative connotations. Why does "I am a rock" have to be ironic and sad? I wish I had more than this petty to shit to write about.

Watchmen, Alan Moore, masterful. Personalities in the sky, personalities on the ground, personalities on the page within the page all converging, all conversant, all informing each other and shaping each other and becoming each other, and I didn't realize though I'd seen the movie that all those personalities on the ground...well, you know.

We need those lives.

I wanted to post this, or actually this, but no springs in the m-bed.

That's fine. This is better crystalline.

For now.

(aka The Meaning of Life aka Something I Found in the Couch)

"Come...dry your eyes, for you are life, rarer than a quark and unpredictable beyond the dreams of heisenberg; the clay in which the forces that shape all things leave their fingerprints most clearly. Dry your eyes...and let's go home." - Alan Moore, Watchmen

"As far as we can discern, the sole purpose of human existence is to kindle a light of meaning in the darkness of mere being." - C.G. Jung, Memories, Dreams, Reflections

"Only in dreams we see what it means." - Weezer, Blue Album

"Maybe the purpose of life is to ponder the purpose of life!" or something to that effect. -Thatcher and Sean, Asia House Conversations

So I guess this is the entree du jour or blah blah blah for the day. Anyway. Alan Moore, writer of The Watchmen, also wrote Lost Girls.


Also


I think it's an interesting point. Sometimes, at night, the fanboy in me blends with the pretentious cynic. But that's beside this point, isn't it? The vestiges of porn should be used for more than simply the simple gratification of sexual thrusts. And benign? I don't know. I guess. What I really wonder is what could be done with the form and its mind-fuck potentialities. And not just the obvious you're a pervert for having spent twenty minutes on this, but how 'bout holy fuck! how is this aspect of life not appreciated much more? How are these characters and these artists taking this amount of time, and I've lost the sense of touch, the sense of taste, the sense of time out of mind, and you look up and think god! how did that take so much time, but why can't all of life be like this?

I don't know if that was quite clear, but let's hold on to this idea for a day after I feel established. Oh, and don't clique aqui unless...well, you know.

(Also, I would really like to see comics lead the way in this kind of thing, appreciating naked bodies and their sexual potential in natural forms, as in not busting out of the seems super-leather style. Words.)

The subconscious/unconscious can only ever be a mystery. Things I do believe. Last night I had a dream. Out of nowhere. Out of the shit and exhaustion and furor. Malaise, I suppose. So how do I dream of a woman I've never known and her tactile/facile lips, the warmth from her body on a cool night, the nearness and smile I can feel playing across her. So random. So nice. Thank you, dreams.

One of my students began today, "You know who you remind me of?" Smart. Smart kid. "Who," not "what." So many quotations hurt my eyes. Bleed. I was game. "Who?" with a smile. "A parent who's afraid to hit his kids." I was wry and retortful and gentle. Resourceful, the kind you have to be not the kind you are. I ended, "Well, you will probably be a different kind of father than I will." With more consideration, I would've found the tried and true, and truth equals the kind of father who knows hitting only creates other kinds of problems. Duh. But whatever whatever. There are two kinds of students who are dangerous to the teacher sensitive at heart (for no teacher wears sleeves that cry, even if I know most have inside them the memory of wanting to hide under their desks). There is the snake in the grass, grass not included or necessary, and there's the owl or bird of prey or mongoose. I have one of each in my fourth period, and I've known it from the beginning of the year. These are not the students who struggle. No, the snake lies in waiting, dormant until explosion. Deceitful. The bird of prey or mongoose is ever watchful, ever aware, ever asking. Normally, this second kind of dangerous student is a delight, but they catch your fault lines with their questioning feet as their eyes look up towards your peaks and beyond.

That's all I have to say about that.

Both kinds are truly good for the growing teacher, of course. They make me think. 'Goosey made me think today about what kind of father I might be. For so long I've yearned to look down and see, "I'm a father." I've felt the ghost of rushing excitement, and I've wondered at it. The kind of wonder that you lie back in the stars and look at the grass. Sans snakes. But today I was brought to the waters and asked to taste of them, touch them, dive into their depths rather than merely contemplate their many mysteries. What will it mean to be a father? What kind of father will I be? I've always felt I had flashes with my cousin, my young, half brother and sister. I figured that meant I'd be fine. I think I will be. However, I've held for a few years now that I'm already ready to have kids. Kourt told me early this year that I wouldn't be a good father. I, of course, was affronted. But she told me it was because I was so stressed. I had to agree. Lift the stress out of the situation, though. Would I then be a good father? I don't know. Some part of me feels that I'll always feel a bit unfulfilled, a bit unrealized as long as I'm teaching. I could become a good teacher. Hell, I could be a great teacher. And I could go through my life and truthfully feel fulfilled. Except. (and here I could break for effect, but let's not be so cliche and manipulative as all that...the one word, one period thing is already pushing it quite beyond "good" prose realms...I could also go to parenthetical and make you pause thus creating the same effect...the more you know...) I want to have kids. Offspring. Bamboo for the dying, existential pandas out there. Forget I said that please. I want to have kids, but I don't need to have kids. That said, if I do have kids, I think I want a little more gravitas to rely on. Something just to hold inside, for myself. I don't think I can do that teaching.

For now, this works. I work. You know.

(upon writing)

It's, oh, too fucking late.  And I'm up watching Watchmen, which I love saying inside my head.  I made the mistake of starting it late and taking it for granted.  Now I can't put it down.  I just watched, "Men go to jail.  Dogs get put down."  And then there was, "None of you seem to understand.  I'm not locked in here with you.  You're locked in here with me!"

The world's shaking in my eyes, and nothing in the end is turning.  I wonder why we're all ready for super hero movies.  Why, now, so many of us are able to relate to what was once a cult thing.  Of course, it's all a matter of perspective, and turns are not only in the eyes, but damn.  Just because we didn't know it before doesn't mean it doesn't suck that...

(we're all crazy)

It's been a little since I typed just to type, posted just to post type, struck out just so that I could swing again. This is the glory, the down times that are not down times. The fingers just moving because within them there is some kind of ancient delight, some kind of glory fostered in the arms of late nights, dark leaves and whispering water. The wind is up and your soul listens as it winds down. Winding down, I remember that. Lately, it's been just up and up and up and down. Bam. And then up again, after only a handful of hours. Can you hold time tightly in your fingers? Can you play in father time's beard and not get glinting, glittering stars bustled or nestled yeah nestled but I like bustle as in snowy streets even if in the end the word that works best is nestled in your eyes. Parentheses? Nah, just holding the origin of love. Not that I don't like parentheses. Not that they might actually feel better. Just not for the moment.

Love joy. Love switch. Love...the glow? Yeah, sometimes.

( Fin. )

I wish I could hold you until everything was all right.

"He felt as if he were sinking helplessly into the cushions and the papers and the bodies of his children like a man in quicksand." -Richard Yates, Revolutionary Road

I read this and I think, how many writers have written sentences like that?  For how many writers has it made a difference?  This writing thing, it's supposed to be transformative.  It's supposed to make things better.  And who am I to ask these questions?  Writing has lifted me up so many times in the past.  It has also been a step and a step and a step on the downward spiral.  But momentous or not comparisons be damned.  The real question is, what does it matter if Yates still had to suck off his physically feeble mentor before he could get anything published, before The New Yorker would run his stuff?  I'm not above or beyond performing sexual favors to get (or give) a head in the world, but that doesn't mean it doesn't depress me.

We don't know anything.  I truly thought for a second that my grandfather was going to die holding my hands, trying to stand up tonight.  Just to get into bed.

I want to take flight.  I want fancies and fantasies and fatuous fatuities and forget forget forget.  I want to type one word a minute and mis letters.  I want to cry space bars and stars and Emily Dickinson graveyard verse.  I want to listen to the Smiths and wear black and be Lou Reed.  And these identities, these references, they're just ways of getting away, of thinking about not being me.  I chose this, right?  I'm choosing this, right?

I wanted to write a nostalgic e-mail tonight, like empty, leaf ridden roads leading away from Oberlin, someday to the ocean, to the sky, to sex and song and something chocolate.  But autopilot and we're never crashing, are we?

Low.  missssssssssssssssssssingingingingthev.

listening to: gnarls barkley, "going on," "who's gonna save my soul," y'know.

(iron)

With answers that don't feel like answers because of how stupid they feel.  I don't know anything, so there's feeling, but I just don't know.





Oh yeah, and I wanted to get a vid of "Plush" in here too, but none of the Youtube ones are the version most to my liking, so.  I get the sense that these malware/spyware/trojan horses (which reminds me, of course, of condoms and prince songs...and wizards of the not harry potter kind, songs about books about irish men who are like greeks) are like big, predatory beasts, sharks.  imagine one circling the other.  do you think if I have a major malware risk, it negates the others, scares them off into the shadowy depths, like frightened small fish in the ocean, like carniverous caterpillars?

why does the hand towel start to smell of face oil, and why do we continually have to wash it?  questions.  common sense featuring most definitely part of black star, which is (talib) quality.  exhibit 7..



four?  shore-ly!  don't call me; i'll be home alone.  "plush-safe" he think.



5.


(I've posted that before, but I keep coming back to it...)

Good, good book.  Perfect, really.  Not much else to say.


flight
Originally uploaded by t_heda_ilyf_rown

It really, actually, kinda pwns the following.



(Don't actually watch the clip.  Most of the clips I post here I would endorse.  This one I just put up for a change of pace from the regular trailer shiz)  You can tell a movie's production/direction quirks by its exit music.  What can you say about a movie that closes with The Smiths?  Not bad.  Interestingly interesting.  Too many names to cover.  Jennifer Connelly is, as always, superb.  She makes romantic comedy a genuine showcase for acting.  Ginnifer Goodwin was pretty impressive, carries the story along just fine.  And she hooks up with her long time beau-around-the-bushes Justin Long.  They were friends/more-than-friends? on Ed.  Long was underwhelming in his "I'm an adult now" role, which is about right (not because of him, but because there just are too many films where women are overwhelmed by their opposites' roles).  Bradley Cooper was solid and proved his solidity to me in this, after a few under-the-radar performances.  He's always a similar character, perhaps, but he nicely gives each one different and catchable nuances.  I truly dislike Drew Barrymore.  She's right up there with Jennifer Lopez and Sandra Bullock (I make an exception for Miss Congeniality.  C'mon!).  Well, waddya know?  Only three more actors to go.  Kevin Connolly, honestly kinda bleck.  Sorry.  Jennifer Aniston and Ben Affleck?  I feel like we've seen that before...but I don't exactly know why.  Too much Bennifer, perhaps.  Anyway, that's the cast.  I liked that the message in the end wasn't "there's definitely someone out there for you," but rather hope, never give up hope.  Oh, and you gotta love the Tolstoy touch of unresolved parralellism.  Or something.

( Touch me! )

I had thought, I don't know and I don't know why, that Will Smith had plateaued with Pursuit of Happyness.  I thought that film was strong, a wonderful performance, though spottily written at times.  Why is he fascinated by the declaration of independence?  Why is that a unifying quote?  It's fine to have it as such, but explain how he came across it.  Just a small gripe.  Anyway, he was nominated for an Academy Award for that role but lost out to Forest Whitaker who's always good I guess.  I figured that was that.  He'd go on taking good roles and doing good jobs with them.  I won't talk about the whole who gets what roles thing and the Denzel could've gotten roles that would've extended his career if he was white like Tom Hanks deal, even though I feel like Pursuit was a bit of a step in the career extending role for Big Willy.  The important thing about the role was the way you reacted to it.  When you're supposed to tear up, you tear up.  Solid performance.

Right now I'm in the middle of I Am Legend.  I know it's a remake, and I haven't done the legs to peep the old version, but it's an interesting film.  It's interesting because it's ostensibly a zombie movie, but really it's a character study for Smith.  Here's the line I've been writing all this to deliver.  You're not supposed to well up with emotion in a zombie movie, and I'm not sure if it makes it more or less exceptional that the scene I'm responding to is Smith communicating the difficulty of killing his only companion, a German sheperd, mainly through facial expressions.  It doesn't stop there, though.  When he's talking to the dummies in the video store he frequents, he begs, "please, just say hi to me."  You're not supposed to have a strong emotional reaction to a zombie movie, but here I am, blogging about it.  It must be an emotional reaction.

I haven't watched Smith's stuff that's come after I Am Legend, but I'm certainly going to.  Will Smith takes the leap in my book/blog from actor who makes you cry when it's what the content leads you to do to actor who makes you cry because the emotions feel so real.  See: Sean Penn.  I also liked this scene.  Classic "I'm not your monster!" moment, and Smith pulls it off.

I just watched Kubrick's The Shining.  It's about as perfect as movie reinterpretations go.  Of course it's not completely faithful to the novel.  You lose the whole boiler room background of impending doom, and there are a few layers to the characters that don't come through as strongly, but you also gain the performances by the three main actors in the film.  Young actors are always surprisingly effective in horror movies.  Yay.  And Jack is Jack.  The Halloran character is probably my biggest beef with the film.  He kind of becomes a throw-away, and his easy death makes you wonder why the build up of his character?  Then again, his death could perhaps convince audiences that none of the "good" characters were safe.  The other gripe I have is the cheesy spook house skeletons near the end that Duvall sees.  I don't know.  Maybe it's because it's now morning and the effect is wasted on me, maybe it's because that's the one part of the movie that feels dated.  It just made me laugh in a b-horror way that was not quite in keeping with the rest of it.  Oh!  Oh!  But you do get the awesome layer of imagery created by the slowly cascading blood.  Vintage.

I'm about to do my post game rub down with Ebert.  Habbits are habbits, and good writing is good writing.  It helps to just push forward, don't it?  I like apologies, but I'll take appositives.  In any case, what's Johnny got to say on the subject?

Done and done.  I and I.  People read books and just skate across the surface of life.  Or life skates across the surface of people.  Maybe it's just me, and I think dude shares this idea with me and, in fact, actively feels it quite often.  How are people not more affected?  But then, how am I not myself?

Nevermind.  I just finished 2666.  To the end, it holds itself outside the realm of Truth, saying editors handled the author's "weaknesses" and "obsessions," quotes included.  As in, who's to say this is the real text or not, though they did a lot of saying and even said Bolano did a lot of saying himself.  Good.  The afterward says the title date is a vanishing point, an invisible center that the novel's storylines all point to.  It goes on to quote Bolano, "Guerrero, at that time of night, is more like a cemetery than an avenue, not a cemetery in 1974 or in 1968, or 1975, but a cemetery in the year 2666, a forgotten cemetery under the eyelid of a corpse or an unborn child, bathed in the dispassionate fluids of an eye that tried so hard to forget one particular thing that it ended up forgetting everything else."

Some books leave you quiet, and others create rioutous, often conflicting comments in their soulful wake.  Extra words, Sean, yay!  Okay, most books leave me quiet.  This one particularly so.  You could talk about the style or the sweep of it all, you could talk about the violence or the beauty, but it's better to go there than to speak of it, unless you can be somewhere else while doing the talking.  And by somewhere, I mean not here. One's home is never somewhere.  It's always I, the first person center, not the vanishing point but the vantage point.  Yay!  You lost meaning, Sean!  Yay!

Enough.

(Sleep or grade papers.  Same.)

So I had another one with breakfast, and waited a bit reading further fan board stuff about the comic book kind of super heroes not the Joseph Cambpell kind (oh lost, unborn and unknown days), and when I checked my e-mail I had a few good ones, so that's good.  It was good to hear from Molly, and it's kind of weird to write about it here, but yes.  I don't want to over analyze it, and at this point there's not much to over analyze, but it's nice remembering what an infusion of light she was/is for my life.  She's back stateside, which means phone calls are an option and travel could bring me to intersect, but I don't think I need that right now.  No confusion.  Only straght lines to the future.

I'm going to go finish that book on my porch.

Ah, I don't even remember what I was going to post here.  I feel like the world is sagging, cold and swampy in the middle, like a hole is supposed to open up beneath my room.  Or perhaps it's just my eyes.  I feel like I'm running around trying to keep non-existent falling objects suspended in the air.  I feel like I'm running in circles, repeating things, becoming...well, a bore.

Speaking of the great blanket of life, though.  It's great when you feel something and then, years later, you're surfing the net, trolling for gold to mount on your livejournal, and your pre-pubescent reactions are confirmed by legions of others who once were pre-pubescent males too.  Read Kavalier and Clay again, please.  By the way, I should be finishing 2666 today, and I'll probably post on that at some point.  Because there is a point to all this.  Sarcasm intended.  Anyway, here's the Spidey scan (it's actually Amazing Spider-Man #33, for those of you trying to keep up at home).  Eventually, of course, he overcomes.  But I just remember loving the imagery of him trapped underground and under metal and the ground water is rising.  Or something.  You can get resolution here, which is where I found that this scene that resonated so profoundly for me was one of the most heralded Spideys ever.  Run on sentences not fuel, people.

Losing myself in the wires.  The bounty of the endless, the eternity of the numb.  Some things, you just have to forget, right?  I tried to e-mail you once, but you didn't like it.   Too close to home.  Comfort.  I'm not even going to video because, y'know, that'd be too much.