Wednesday, September 10, 2008
Wednesday, August 20, 2008
Wednesday, July 9, 2008
Thursday, June 26, 2008
Luna Meets New Friends
I'm constantly meeting strange folk in the Desert. They get in my face, they double cross me double quick, finding their own way through the heat. But this time, I met two classy gents who gave me hope that there's a shady tree waitin' for me to get to it. I cross my chest as I wade through this infernal oven.
Wednesday, June 11, 2008
Monday, June 9, 2008
Heaven
Just saw the film "Heaven". It was euphoric and ego-drowning in a way that was not sick or disturbing-- you know those films I'm talking about-- sick and disturbing for us-- coke candy for looters and moochers. Like "Grizzly Man". Where you end up becoming obsessed with story and characters to the degree that it is disruptive to your life. Bad dreams, constant confusion regarding the dilemma of evil and human nature and their complex, projecting domino effects.
No, "Heaven" was redemption in a non-depressing way, in an aesthetically-pleasing manner, with a particularly beautiful ending of hope and triumph and sheer coolness. Freedom and the human spirit shine, and you can't help but think that helicopters don't fly that high, but who cares? They do in "Heaven". Giovanni and Cate made magic together. Loved it. 10 stars.
No, "Heaven" was redemption in a non-depressing way, in an aesthetically-pleasing manner, with a particularly beautiful ending of hope and triumph and sheer coolness. Freedom and the human spirit shine, and you can't help but think that helicopters don't fly that high, but who cares? They do in "Heaven". Giovanni and Cate made magic together. Loved it. 10 stars.
Wednesday, April 30, 2008
Part I -- Father, Good Godzilla
My father was a good man. At least he was to me. Tried to be, for me. Other people loved him too. (In the clip below, he's the one on the red tractor).
It was my mother who didn't always think so. Which was funny, because he was so charismatic when he was "out there". You know, saving the world with his smile. Maybe that's what it was, for my mom. Maybe what it was, for my mom, was that "smile" and everything behind it. It was like she had x-ray glasses, seeing the sockets of lightbulbs, the inner workings of clocks.
After a few years of marriage, a smile can cease to be a smile anymore. It can be-- well, you know, not fake-- not intentionally anyway. One can feel good and have legitimate problems. But I suppose, it can be a facade-- but only if what is beneath it is always left unexamined. Always swept under the rug, as-it-were.
Perhaps that is how it all began for him. My father, I mean. Most people don't examine what's under the rug for examination's sake. They look so that they can remove what is causing the uncomfortable bump in the floor. Right? Right? I think my father could see that my mother oftentimes got rather addicted to looking. Even when nothing was there. That was the rabbit in the hat for them. She became a hook for him to hang his coat on-- the all-encompassing thick, wool, black coat. The one with the hood. It was so easy for him to hang it on her. You see, he could sense in her this compulsive detective work. I think she seriously resented being his coat rack. But it was so easy for her to stand there, holding his coat for him. Her muffled protests coming up between the seams.
It was my mother who didn't always think so. Which was funny, because he was so charismatic when he was "out there". You know, saving the world with his smile. Maybe that's what it was, for my mom. Maybe what it was, for my mom, was that "smile" and everything behind it. It was like she had x-ray glasses, seeing the sockets of lightbulbs, the inner workings of clocks.
After a few years of marriage, a smile can cease to be a smile anymore. It can be-- well, you know, not fake-- not intentionally anyway. One can feel good and have legitimate problems. But I suppose, it can be a facade-- but only if what is beneath it is always left unexamined. Always swept under the rug, as-it-were.
Perhaps that is how it all began for him. My father, I mean. Most people don't examine what's under the rug for examination's sake. They look so that they can remove what is causing the uncomfortable bump in the floor. Right? Right? I think my father could see that my mother oftentimes got rather addicted to looking. Even when nothing was there. That was the rabbit in the hat for them. She became a hook for him to hang his coat on-- the all-encompassing thick, wool, black coat. The one with the hood. It was so easy for him to hang it on her. You see, he could sense in her this compulsive detective work. I think she seriously resented being his coat rack. But it was so easy for her to stand there, holding his coat for him. Her muffled protests coming up between the seams.
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