The Kindness of Strangers

I experienced a lot of indoor-type culture today.

First, I watched a film called, "Zombeavers."  It is refreshing to know that there are still kids out there who can put together a good, campy horror flick.  The writing is tight and well-conceived, turning on long-standing convention as much as honoring it.  The girls are leggy, too - my God!

Then, I watched a film called, "Rubber."  Rubber fails where it succeeds and succeeds where it fails.  As a calculated sendup of the Hollywood system, there are still contradictions - the beginning of the film dimly claims 'no reason' as the answer to a variety of banal questions posed by a fourth-wall character, which creates a world in which the off-balance story can play out - ultimately, with reason.  The elements of the film that work, such as the in-camera puppetry and visual effects, and careful editing, only make the production meaningful if you realize how clever the effects are in time to appreciate them (no computer doctors here, thank you very much); while the aloof approach to characters and plot, a well-executed mishmash of genre-style writing and directing built of film noir and Buñuelian sensibilities, struggles to keep the film as interesting as it sounds like it should be.  Rubber wants to be more than it is by being nothing at all, and it feels like one long demo reel.  The writing starts inspired, but isn't as deep as it thinks it is and eventually trails off.  It's just a movie, though.

Finally, I settled in to read A Streetcar Named Desire, and tackled the full thing.  There's a reason for picking it up, tied to a project I am trying to focus on.  But, since moving to Los Angeles I've managed to read three significant plays, and get back into Stand on Zanzibar, which I think is one of the most important books I've ever read.  So, maybe I'm getting a reading habit back, and that is important to me. 

Williams, I think, creates a perfect tragedy out of Miss Blanche DuBois, but I only almost feel sorry for her and I don't know what to make of this.  I'm glad she's a fictive character, certainly, because she suffers a terrible fate for somebody who probably doesn't deserve it.  But, the world isn't a kind place, and Williams and I see eye-to-eye in his 1947 introduction of Signet paperback.

Back In...The Saddle?

I have been away from this place for a very, very long time.

Many things have happened to me in a year-and-a-half.  I've grown, a little.  I've loved, and I've lost.  I've celebrated and I've despaired.

My brain continues to work its inexplicable routines, and the only way I have to interpret the messages I receive is to review them in stable moments.  The backlog of forgotten thoughts and instances, however - including this Blog - have become more valuable to me, as stress, pain, and abuse daily burn away my creative ambitions and warp my facets of memory.  Every day is supposed to be a step in a positive direction, another foothold in the long, vertical climb to a better way.  There are many days when this naive promise is more realistically tempered, however.  Like Jim Gaffigan quips, "Eventually, you die.  Then you don't gotta walk up stairs no more."

I've never told anybody about this blog.  I've never wanted people I know to read it.  I'm afraid to share it with many potential eyes, because I don't want Verano to know about it.  She's still in the picture, here, and I've written things that could threaten to invalidate our relationship.  It's a true shame that I can't be as open or as trusting as I should be.  Verano's not very different, though she wouldn't think so - and thus, I examine the failures which we struggle to resolve as a function both of delusion and disillusionment.  The contradictions, both in her and in me, pervade my life on level after level and it's gotten to be that my focus and consistency are absolutely racked.

I decided, recently, that we've got better chances of success when we're not canceling each other out, which seems to be a natural default.  This puts particular emphasis on Verano, because I'm not sure what kind of shot she has anyway.  I can't help but suspect that all of her triumphs have been related to me as she would have them - Miss DuBois has always depended on the kindness of strangers.

Still...I try not to be a pessimist.  For the record, I have been awake for fourteen hours now and with a seismic hangover that tastes like Jim Beam.

I initially abandoned this blog with reason:  my computer became so unresponsive that using it for anything but a paperweight was an exhaustive mistake.  I dropped that computer out of a window, twice (for good measure) and it was great therapy.  By the time I rediscovered my posts, the good folk at Yahoo and Google had consolidated their powers and accessing the account was deemed impossible.

Tonight, with the aid of a smoked-glass telescoping trout and also a bit of luck, I managed to wheedle out the Yahoo password and switch the Blog's administrative deed to the current landlord.

The bad news, then, is that I may be back for good. 

I want to update the title bar and maybe refinish the page face, but for old time's sake, that's something else I'll change later.

Rough Odds

I decided earlier today, based on recent events, that these are the three most likely ways that I'm going to die:

1. House Fire. At the rate I'm going, I'm going to pass out while something is on the stove and the ensuing fire will actually take. Been lucky so far.
2. Suicide. Who doesn't think of it?
3. Hit by a Car. This has only happened once so far, but it can certainly happen again with more dire consequences.


I had an interesting allegory of a dream the other night, but I'm a little hard pressed to share right now. Will do soon, though. Speaking of overcooked, I owe Verano a new pan.

Methinks It Sounds Like an Angry Mob

Since it's been three-and-a-half-months since I've updated here I'm going to make this post especially short.

I am alive, so that's a start.

I'm getting closer to finishing my current work. As of two days ago I have a final image in mind, which means I have begun subconsciously to visualize the end. I knew this would happen after I worked my way over III.iii, which to date has been the most difficult scene to complete. I haven't had trouble writing it; I've had trouble sitting down to write it. The draft is done, however, and with it comes the break of light at the end of a long, zombie-and-vampire-infested night. With publishing hopefully the real horror begins!

It is now 3pm and I have to get ready for work. Thanks for reading!

I will try to get back here more regularly. My computer sucks and as such I haven't spent much time on it. My job sucks and as such I have spent too much time there. The plan is to reach a medium here in the next few months, after my brother graduates and my sister gets married.

My favorite stuff right now.

I need to go to bed. From usatoday.com. Same website that runs the newspaper. Salute!

McDonald's thought it would get a little of that social media love it had been hearing about in January when it created the #McDstories hashtag -- asking customers to share their favorite McDonald's memories. Then it found out what happens when you give the Internet open access to your advertising effort. McDonald's yanked the campaign after just two hours and countless food-horror stories about fingernails, insects and bouts of food poisoning.

Spike Lee was, like many Twitter users, angered by the killing of Florida teen Trayvon Martin. Tweeting the home address of shooter George Zimmerman would have been questionable enough. But Lee mistakenly tweeted out the address of a couple who have a son by that name. They had to leave their home after being besieged by reporters and threats. Lee would later apologize and "reach an agreement" with the aggrieved family.

Something else I'll change later...maybe...

Titan Park

I hate riding through parts of South Philly.

The streets are narrow and the drivers are narrow-minded. This isn't true of all of them, of course, but I suspect that as a whole drivers in the South Philly neighborhoods don't care for bikers. It's just as well because bikers in the South Philly neighborhoods don't care for drivers. In fact I don't know if this is true either; however, when I'm down there I get tense. Because the streets are narrow, and the drivers have attitude.

I was hit by a cab, while harboring these very feelings in an attempt to bike mindfully. It was four a.m. in the morning, back in the first weekend of November. This isn't relevant, of course, but I'd like to insert it into my online history while I can. I didn't go to the hospital because I don't trust doctors. I couldn't bend my knee for a few days. I've gotten over it since. The knee does bother me from time to time, mostly when it is cold out, and when I'm feeling sorry for myself I blame myself for not getting professional help. This little digression is again not relevant to the story; In sharing with the manner from which I was dismounted from my bicycle, I'm going to toss this sentiment aside and move forward.

I hate riding through parts of South Philly, so when I'm down there I try to vary my route. Earlier this week I was riding on a narrow side street, just off of second or front or whatever runs slightly west and under the elevated Interstate, and several blocks south of Federal. It was that kind of side street that you can never possibly wander into again, because there are so many of them that to find the one you've taken before is to be struck in a different place by the same bolt of lightning.

Along this side street was, eventually, a small block of concrete space. The concrete space was smaller than a city block and probably even too small to be called a lot. Adults could probably build a house on it if they wanted too. Kids could, in no feasible way, play full-court basketball on it, or even a respectable game of half-court. It was that small.

A sign declared this itty, bitty space, with a few benches and some ugly concrete centerpiece, to be called, "Titan Park." I thought the name overextended the aesthetic boundaries of the park a little.

That same sign was a reminder to, "Keep Titan Park Green."

I'll admit there was not a piece of trash anywhere within the limited perimeter of Titan Park that I could see. But, if the message of this sign intended for recipients to help maintain Titan Park's vegetation, those responsible for the placard were too late: all of the greenery had been concreted over some decades ago.

Titan Park is, in this respect, a monument to bureaucracy.

Perhaps I simply misinterpreted what I was able to absorb in my quick drive by. When I'm riding through South Philly, I try to ride out as soon as possible.

How did...

How did we remember little things before we had a system of writing?

& Implications:

That Guy, for instance, who always got out of situations by, "forgetting"...well, as soon as we developed a system of writing that guy was shit out of luck. No more excuses.

I hope writing didn't simply evolve out of a need to keep That Guy in line...

Been occupied lately and haven't had much to share. Not feeling the overwhelming weight of inspiration. The season's started up again downtown and it's full steam ahead at the Restaurant for a little while. Picking up Verano again tonight, she's spent the weekend in LA. Things to do before she gets here. Need thirty-three fantasy points to win my football match this week.

Regards,

SEICL