My previous mention of THX-1138, the film by George Lucas, has had me thinking about prisons. Perhaps next year's book tour with focus on incarceration: the effects and forms, the constructs.
hmmm.
Thursday, May 29, 2008
taking a stand
I refuse to make rice. It isn't that I don't like rice, but once you take a stand, you have to stick to it. And I never have nor ever will make rice.
However it is made, I prefer to think than it just appears, out of the steam, like a magic wizard, like a delicious magic wizard.
However it is made, I prefer to think than it just appears, out of the steam, like a magic wizard, like a delicious magic wizard.
Monday, May 26, 2008
half a life, VS Naipaul
next up on the world book tour: Half a Life, by V. S. Naipaul
Willie Chandran is the offspring of a brahmin and an untouchable in India, and is forever plagued by his cross caste birth and the uncertainty. A class criticism across three continents, Willie witnesses the system from the outside, inside and the top (in India, Britain, and Mozambique).
This overt class determinism is something I don't understand, since our class conflicts are mostly invisible--glass ceilings and walls. Or maybe because I've never been on the outside or underside, just in the amorphous middle (think THX-1138), the boundaries seem porous, and something that can be swept away with self determinism. It isn't part of my DNA the way it is with Willie.
On a college scholarship in London, Willie recreates his past, and carves out a new identity, but as the curtain closes on his college career, he discards this fanciful, inchoate persona of ex pat writer, and falls into the arms of someone who, with her own mixed class birth, would understand and coddle the original, conflicted Willie. Maybe he is attracted to her because she knows he is a fraud, or more charitably, can see through the protective shell he's built up. She punctures his panoply, and he steps away from the threshold of freedom, back into the trap of his birth. When he finally decides to chart his own course, he's 41 and starting over. He has been cowed, a coward, blown by the wind whichever direction seems to lead toward security, but it has stunted his growth. So I wouldn't say his chances are good.
The writing is crisp, sharp, spare and able to sketch out three societies and a broad roster of characters in just over 200 pages. I would love to read the other half of his life. Maybe Naipaul has written it.
Willie Chandran is the offspring of a brahmin and an untouchable in India, and is forever plagued by his cross caste birth and the uncertainty. A class criticism across three continents, Willie witnesses the system from the outside, inside and the top (in India, Britain, and Mozambique).
This overt class determinism is something I don't understand, since our class conflicts are mostly invisible--glass ceilings and walls. Or maybe because I've never been on the outside or underside, just in the amorphous middle (think THX-1138), the boundaries seem porous, and something that can be swept away with self determinism. It isn't part of my DNA the way it is with Willie.
On a college scholarship in London, Willie recreates his past, and carves out a new identity, but as the curtain closes on his college career, he discards this fanciful, inchoate persona of ex pat writer, and falls into the arms of someone who, with her own mixed class birth, would understand and coddle the original, conflicted Willie. Maybe he is attracted to her because she knows he is a fraud, or more charitably, can see through the protective shell he's built up. She punctures his panoply, and he steps away from the threshold of freedom, back into the trap of his birth. When he finally decides to chart his own course, he's 41 and starting over. He has been cowed, a coward, blown by the wind whichever direction seems to lead toward security, but it has stunted his growth. So I wouldn't say his chances are good.
The writing is crisp, sharp, spare and able to sketch out three societies and a broad roster of characters in just over 200 pages. I would love to read the other half of his life. Maybe Naipaul has written it.
Sunday, May 25, 2008
so far, a perfect weekend.
yesterday, saturday, we hit the yard hard, like dervishes: mowing, trimming, weeding, seeding, planting. By about 2 pm, I felt like we could enjoy some of the fruits of our labor and sit on the back patio and let the evening come to us.
after BBQing chicken, with the sunlight still glowing, we started a fire. I was further lit up by a couple of gin and tonics, a cigar, and full of appreciation for the quiet, domestic evening. The simple pleasures. Enough to make the pressures and problems I feel seem like a distant storm over the horizon, just a breeze to stir the air.
Today, not much different--a little work on the house, a big nap, and a new book. Now the stars have turned on, we see the halo of light from downtown, but all is impossibly quiet.
yesterday, saturday, we hit the yard hard, like dervishes: mowing, trimming, weeding, seeding, planting. By about 2 pm, I felt like we could enjoy some of the fruits of our labor and sit on the back patio and let the evening come to us.
after BBQing chicken, with the sunlight still glowing, we started a fire. I was further lit up by a couple of gin and tonics, a cigar, and full of appreciation for the quiet, domestic evening. The simple pleasures. Enough to make the pressures and problems I feel seem like a distant storm over the horizon, just a breeze to stir the air.
Today, not much different--a little work on the house, a big nap, and a new book. Now the stars have turned on, we see the halo of light from downtown, but all is impossibly quiet.
Thursday, May 22, 2008
Sunday, May 18, 2008
the end of film
grand theft auto 4 made more than 500 million dollars in the first week.
hollywood cannot be happy about that. not that I am going to join the perennial cry that 'film is dead,' but with hollywood, bollywood, nollywood (nigeria makes the 3rd most pictures), film is looking at smaller, fragmented, niche audiences, but the real blockbusters will be some other media. More people have probable seen "2 girls, 1 cup" than Star Wars (just a guess--not that I am going to watch it). As we get more indulgent access to the precise, tailored media we want, choice is going to kill the media monolith. I don't think I am going to be too interested in whatever Rom-Com hollywood spit out last week for my demographic, when I can experience the freedom of action built in to GTA4, other games and the panoramic array of entertainment on the horizon.
i've got more questions about gaming--namely, will they ever grow up? Games are politically neutral, do not attempt to advance ideas that challenge society, and any meaning is supplied by the player. They are empty vessels, and that is the current mode of success. When games try to be more than that, more art than entertainment, well, then we're in for a real ride.
hollywood cannot be happy about that. not that I am going to join the perennial cry that 'film is dead,' but with hollywood, bollywood, nollywood (nigeria makes the 3rd most pictures), film is looking at smaller, fragmented, niche audiences, but the real blockbusters will be some other media. More people have probable seen "2 girls, 1 cup" than Star Wars (just a guess--not that I am going to watch it). As we get more indulgent access to the precise, tailored media we want, choice is going to kill the media monolith. I don't think I am going to be too interested in whatever Rom-Com hollywood spit out last week for my demographic, when I can experience the freedom of action built in to GTA4, other games and the panoramic array of entertainment on the horizon.
i've got more questions about gaming--namely, will they ever grow up? Games are politically neutral, do not attempt to advance ideas that challenge society, and any meaning is supplied by the player. They are empty vessels, and that is the current mode of success. When games try to be more than that, more art than entertainment, well, then we're in for a real ride.
out, by natsuo kirino
next up on the world book tour: Out, by Natsuo Kirino
half hard boiled crime novel, half feminist critique. played against the backdrop of the drab lives of a group of lower middle class housewives is cold blooded revenge, murder, and extortion. there is hardly any tenderness in this book--just shattered psyches, airless relationships, empty homes, dissipated dreams, ground up by the machine--what women put up with for security and station, at the price of happiness and freedom. There is empathy though flowing through the book, but its always not where you'd expect it.
The psychological break that kicks the story into gear is one woman's impulsive strangulation of her cheating, spendthrift, gambling, loser husband. It is an emancipating event--suddenly she and the crew of co-workers who help her dispose of the body are outsiders, criminals and the strictures that have bound them in society suddenly are destroyed. The door shuts on their previous lives, and another opens, and each has to chart a path through a newly exposed world of yakusa and fringe criminal elements in order to survive. Not all do.
Since one of my core pre(mis)conceptions of Japanese society is the driving force of conformity, I can't really tell you if this is what the author had in mind when she wrote the book, or if I'm just filing it away into a box I had already made for it in my head.
The writing is razor sharp, visceral, and some of the scenes are disturbing enough that I'll be beating them deep into my subconscious starting right now.
half hard boiled crime novel, half feminist critique. played against the backdrop of the drab lives of a group of lower middle class housewives is cold blooded revenge, murder, and extortion. there is hardly any tenderness in this book--just shattered psyches, airless relationships, empty homes, dissipated dreams, ground up by the machine--what women put up with for security and station, at the price of happiness and freedom. There is empathy though flowing through the book, but its always not where you'd expect it.
The psychological break that kicks the story into gear is one woman's impulsive strangulation of her cheating, spendthrift, gambling, loser husband. It is an emancipating event--suddenly she and the crew of co-workers who help her dispose of the body are outsiders, criminals and the strictures that have bound them in society suddenly are destroyed. The door shuts on their previous lives, and another opens, and each has to chart a path through a newly exposed world of yakusa and fringe criminal elements in order to survive. Not all do.
Since one of my core pre(mis)conceptions of Japanese society is the driving force of conformity, I can't really tell you if this is what the author had in mind when she wrote the book, or if I'm just filing it away into a box I had already made for it in my head.
The writing is razor sharp, visceral, and some of the scenes are disturbing enough that I'll be beating them deep into my subconscious starting right now.
Tuesday, May 13, 2008
Ursa
we have a little black cat, Ursa, who is fascinated by water. Running water, still water, dew--it doesn't matter--if it's liquid, she is right there. Pawing it, licking it, rolling in it.
She has learned how to... open...the...bathroom ...door. She jumps up, and hangs on the lever using the inertia of her leap to ply open the door, whenever one, or both of us, is in there. We have to warn our guests not to be surprised if, while occupied, the bathroom door swings open and there is a tiny black cat sitting there.
She paws at the water in the shower. She sits in the sink while your brushing your teeth. Shaving is impossible.
But its not just water. Really, any liquid--wine in a glass, for example. Olive Oil.
Urine.
While I am taking a leak, she'll stand with her front paws on the toilet, just mesmerized, periodically breaking away to look up at the source, as if to say "YOU. ARE. AMAZING."
It is beginning to get a little uncomfortable. It used to be than I would shift around and block her out. That was enough. A couple of nights ago, I shifted, and she popped out between my legs, like a running back hitting the hole.
Not to mix sports metaphors, but I had to shoot off the backboard.
The last week or so, I've been hard at work on a project, getting home after midnight (I just finished, yeah), and last night, I came back extra late, ready to crawl into bed. Being the considerate husband, I didn't turn on any light when I got home, so as not to wake Mrs. 8. But went to the bathroom. Closed the door. Strangely, no sound of Ursa trying to break in. There was the distinctive change in sound from splash to a dull thumpity thumpity thump, like a automatic car wash. I'd found her. In the toilet.
In my defense, I can only say--it was pitch black. She is pitch black. AND WHAT THE HELL IS THE CAT DOING IN THE TOILET?
I washed her down, which was probably worse for me than her, and then went wearily to bed.
In the middle of the night, I woke up because she was sleeping on my face. Damp fur. Not good.
Sunday, May 11, 2008
it is over
The english premier league season (not the democratic primaries).
It came down to two teams-if Man U won, they would beat Chelsea (in second place, even on points, behind on goal difference), no matter what Chelsea did.
Aldis and I went to the George and Dragon about 7 am to see the action live. One half of the bar was showing the Man U/Wigan game, the other half was showing Bolton/Chelsea, and it was packed. AT 7 AM SUNDAY MORNING. I'll leave the game report to the BBC, but it was a fantastic atmosphere--you could feel the waves of enthusiasm roll from once side to the other as MU scored, then Chelsea, then MU (I think Aldis and I were the only two fans there to see either Wigan or Bolton). As time ran out, the Chelsea fans looked so sad (awesome!) then Bolton scored in stoppage time to get the draw. Being the only Bolton fan (I think in the western United States), I went crazy. Then the Man U fans piled on to twist the knife.
Most excellent morning, but bittersweet because now there won't be anymore til August.
Except the Euro 2008. And Copa Libratatores. And the Champions League Final. Oh, and MLS.
Sunday, May 4, 2008
out, by natsuo kirino
about 1/2 way through it so far: a nervy thriller about a quiet, japanese wife who snaps, strangles her husband, then enlists the help of the other night shift workers at the box lunch factory to dismember and dispose of him. Juicy!
clinton fatique
I am so sick of Hillary Clinton. When the primary season started, I though she was a polarizing figure and would galvanize the right wing. I really didn't anticipate that she would also so unconvincingly pander to every lobby, flat out lie, whine and try and change the rules, suck up to Fox news and O'Reilly, and furthermore go out of her way to insult blacks and other minorities, young voters, independents, progressives, anyone with an education, anyone without an education, democrats in states she didn't win.
Who is her support? I think it is just some Washington players paying Bill back and the right wing, who see her as the only one McCain could beat. So rather than increase her appeal, this scorched earth policy has made her so less sympathetic, the only thing that could help her now would be Bill having another affair. Hillary has probably even suggested it.
As for Bill Clinton, boy, has he lost his touch. I think a lot of people are looking at him with fresh eyes, and not liking what he has become: a desperate man with a transparent ambition--get back into the White House, even if it is as the First Lad. It is just sad, really.
Who is her support? I think it is just some Washington players paying Bill back and the right wing, who see her as the only one McCain could beat. So rather than increase her appeal, this scorched earth policy has made her so less sympathetic, the only thing that could help her now would be Bill having another affair. Hillary has probably even suggested it.
As for Bill Clinton, boy, has he lost his touch. I think a lot of people are looking at him with fresh eyes, and not liking what he has become: a desperate man with a transparent ambition--get back into the White House, even if it is as the First Lad. It is just sad, really.
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