I was killed by a bright, white light
I was brought down by a chanting chorus
I was dragged through the desert by a blind eyed messenger
To be dumped at the doorstep of false idol worshippers
Thursday, June 25, 2009
A High of 92
I was killed by a bright, white light
I was brought down by a chanting chorus
I was dragged through the desert by a blind eyed messenger
To be dumped at the doorstep of false idol worshippers
Tuesday, June 16, 2009
The Film Revolution
Check it out- I found a photo of my camera on Arvida's blog (arvidabystrom.blogspot.com) (amazing, btw) which makes me very happy. I think she uses it for most of her photos, and they are something to die for.
Monday, June 15, 2009
Thank you for the new album, Yours Truly, Audrey
This is a new Grandaddy album. Just kidding. In case you didn't know, all of their previous albums were actually previous Jason Lytle albums. Just so you know.
I've also never done a music post before, so this is weird. I'd say it hardly counts though.
Friday, June 12, 2009
Reality Bites
The "unemployed waif." I can relate.
Yesterday I went to my brother's high school graduation. The speeches were terrible. The students' ones were cliche pieces of crap about all the fond memories they've made and how now that that they are adults they are prepared for the real world now. It's just funny because that's what they said at my college graduation and it certainly wasn't true then, so how could it be true for my brother who barely barely barely made it to graduation? The teachers' ones were the worst though- one English teacher sounded like he had rehearsed his speech in the typical slam poetry rhythm that usually causes me to wince and gag, and he actually finished it off with "Sweet love to you, my brothers and sisters." That can't be okay to say to your students.
One of the administrators made a speech all about generation y, or generation I, or generation nexters, or generation tech or whatever it's called. She went on and on about all the possible new names for our generation (birth year '83-'03), and the more I listened to her crap, the more I thought about how I felt I belonged in Generation X. The way she described Gen Y just made me sick to really hear it objectively- after I had heard the words myspace, twitter, cell phone, group dynamics, and technology over and over again to describe the kind of people we are, I felt like the words didn't really even belong to us anymore. These are the things that define us, yet we are too young to have had any real role in creating them- they were created for us by another generation, and we're too lazy to do anything besides press buttons, so that's who we are now. She went on about how we have a "different work ethic" where our comfort and happiness matter, but really I think she was calling us lazy.
Our generation supposedly has our shit together- we aren't lost and jaded like generation x, who struggled to find their place amidst the materialism of the 90s. But, wait, I DO feel that way, and so does everyone else I know! Just because we know how to use the internet, and we have created a collective consciousness with twitter and facebook, doesn't mean that we have any better answers than the generation before us had.
So I watched Reality Bites today, and it confirmed my feeling that I belong to Winona Ryder's generation. I also need her floral vests and dresses.
This reminds me of all the times I've used my mom's credit card to buy "unessential items."
(ukonline)
(smvblog)
Tuesday, June 9, 2009
Saturday, June 6, 2009
Maybe if I Complain, It will Write itself...
I'm trying to produce a complete story out of the flash fiction piece "A Frame" (previous post), but I'm stuck and it refuses to finish itself. Here's what I have so far...
Old Liebemarlene stood barefoot and sturdy, without a detectable wobble, on the cool cement of her little porch. The creek that ran behind our houses regularly stirred up imaginary memories, and that’s why we were there. My mother was always nagging me to go next door with her, to bring Liebemarlene dinner (miniature models of the family dinner, neatly prepared on the good china), but I protested every time. I could see right through my mother’s exasperated smile and light hearted “Oh come on, it’ll just take a minute” whinny, the one she used when basic parental yelling commands failed to alarm me into compliance. But her ulterior motives to lure my into the presence of the elderly involved exactly the thing I sought today: wisdom.
Or was it simple information? I was not accustomed to swallowing my pride, and a lack of patience, unlike my mother’s undaunting sense of duty and decency, plagued me. My neighbor and partner in crime, Kinny, nailed a wooden cross above my bed, to ward of the spirits, but it seemed to hold no real importance or function, except to hang my drying bras. I would wake up with broken bits of mug next to my bed, and nearly cut my feet while stumbling with morning blindness to the bathroom. The cross was also once found on the opposite side of the room at dawn, when a screeching bird awoke me at the unusual hour. The information the old woman could provide was vital, and I could already feel the pride easily melting away.
That day, the brutal warmth was a burden, hindering my ability to move much like a winter cold would inhibit the motivation to leave the comforts of home. We took Liebemarlene’s cue and removed our shoes to absorb the coolness of the floor, licking our lips over and over again.
“I see you have a brick there kids,” she said, her jaw sideways, munching on a green apple. I could see its tartness, and the wince she tried to cover up.
At this point she was, say, 87? 88? Later, still on this street, she would be 98, then 99. Still to this day, no one ever held his breath in anticipation of her death.
I suppose when you’re that old, everyone is a kid. But out of habit, I rolled my eyes at Kinny, who looked bored, yet still her nervous self. She rolled her eyes back, also using them to tell me to get to the point.
But it was a sensitive matter, nothing I could just jump right into; the idea of disturbing the seemingly blissful obliviousness of Leibmarlene’s life was another sin I did not have room to commit. It was obvious I had already done something wrong…why else would this be happening to me? I couldn’t just tell her that the dead from the burnt down hotel crawled up the sunken creek walls on hot summer nights (days of which Kinny and I disturbed the ruins with our tennis shoes), through our overgrown backyard where they peered inside at my peaceful rest.
“Do you know anything about it? The brick?” I asked, as nicely as possible, knowing full well that she was aware of our daily explorations in the creek.
“It’s a-“
“Shh!” I snapped at my companion. I had to see her honest reaction, unclouded by our infantile, and unfounded, ideas.
Liebemarlene took a break from her apple, setting it down directly in the dirt over the edge of the porch; the apparent strength of her teeth was incredible, considering her age. She squinted to read the faint indentation on the brick-‘Hotel Moon Bay, Est 1889.’
“Oh yes, oh yes,” she mused, acting surprised. She knew where it came from, why we had it, that much was obvious. “We loved watching the fancy people walk up that grand staircase…”
“Wooow,” I said, playing along and feigning surprise as well. Kinny smiled, as if sharing the memories with the old woman was a wonderfully entertaining way to spend a summer afternoon. But I was tired of wasting time; tonight would pass just as every night had for the past month, ever since we had found the metal box and sketches. Kinny would call me in the morning, ask me how the events had unfolded, and I would repeat the same rapport, that things had happened that could only happen in dreams.
Silence elapsed for an indeterminate period of time, but enough for Kinny to become so bored and uncomfortable to the point where she decided to remember that her mother needed her home at four o’clock to help her water the entire backyard, which would take hours, so she should better get home. Plus she had to be finished in time to watch The Simpsons at 6. That left old the old woman and I alone. As Kinny shuffled away, I watched in awe as old Liebemarlene’s strong, masculine hands picked up her broom and began sweeping the porch.
I seemed to barely register in her peripheral vision, and when I finally gained the courage to speak, to ask her a more bold question than my first, my voice seemed louder than the ocean waves crashing on the shore not far from her house, louder than the two lane highway just blocks away, and louder than the persistent swishing of her brittle home-made broom.
“Well, actually, we know it’s from the hotel. That much we figured out. I think I might know more about it than I really want to, actually. It’s weird, this is going to sound weird, I know, but I think these bricks, and the hotel, it might have to do with what’s been happening to me lately…”
GAH, it really sucks. It's quite upsetting. Also been watching a lot of Woody Allen because I have been holding Mitzi's pirated copy from Japan with about 10 of his movies captive. My favorites so far, other than Annie Hall, which is a given, have been a short, "Life Lessons," and "Don't Drink the Water." The former is artsy and serious and visually stunning and teaches...life lessons about avoiding become the prostitute/muse of a filthy washed up arrogant artist. The latter is hilarious...Woody and his family become holed up in the US Embassy in Italy after mistakenly being labeled American spies of the communists...or something like that. But worthwhile...watch 'em.
Life Lessons
Don't Drink the Water
(http://www.flickr.com/photos/66853325@N00/2772543845/)
(http://seul-le-cinema.blogspot.com)
Old Liebemarlene stood barefoot and sturdy, without a detectable wobble, on the cool cement of her little porch. The creek that ran behind our houses regularly stirred up imaginary memories, and that’s why we were there. My mother was always nagging me to go next door with her, to bring Liebemarlene dinner (miniature models of the family dinner, neatly prepared on the good china), but I protested every time. I could see right through my mother’s exasperated smile and light hearted “Oh come on, it’ll just take a minute” whinny, the one she used when basic parental yelling commands failed to alarm me into compliance. But her ulterior motives to lure my into the presence of the elderly involved exactly the thing I sought today: wisdom.
Or was it simple information? I was not accustomed to swallowing my pride, and a lack of patience, unlike my mother’s undaunting sense of duty and decency, plagued me. My neighbor and partner in crime, Kinny, nailed a wooden cross above my bed, to ward of the spirits, but it seemed to hold no real importance or function, except to hang my drying bras. I would wake up with broken bits of mug next to my bed, and nearly cut my feet while stumbling with morning blindness to the bathroom. The cross was also once found on the opposite side of the room at dawn, when a screeching bird awoke me at the unusual hour. The information the old woman could provide was vital, and I could already feel the pride easily melting away.
That day, the brutal warmth was a burden, hindering my ability to move much like a winter cold would inhibit the motivation to leave the comforts of home. We took Liebemarlene’s cue and removed our shoes to absorb the coolness of the floor, licking our lips over and over again.
“I see you have a brick there kids,” she said, her jaw sideways, munching on a green apple. I could see its tartness, and the wince she tried to cover up.
At this point she was, say, 87? 88? Later, still on this street, she would be 98, then 99. Still to this day, no one ever held his breath in anticipation of her death.
I suppose when you’re that old, everyone is a kid. But out of habit, I rolled my eyes at Kinny, who looked bored, yet still her nervous self. She rolled her eyes back, also using them to tell me to get to the point.
But it was a sensitive matter, nothing I could just jump right into; the idea of disturbing the seemingly blissful obliviousness of Leibmarlene’s life was another sin I did not have room to commit. It was obvious I had already done something wrong…why else would this be happening to me? I couldn’t just tell her that the dead from the burnt down hotel crawled up the sunken creek walls on hot summer nights (days of which Kinny and I disturbed the ruins with our tennis shoes), through our overgrown backyard where they peered inside at my peaceful rest.
“Do you know anything about it? The brick?” I asked, as nicely as possible, knowing full well that she was aware of our daily explorations in the creek.
“It’s a-“
“Shh!” I snapped at my companion. I had to see her honest reaction, unclouded by our infantile, and unfounded, ideas.
Liebemarlene took a break from her apple, setting it down directly in the dirt over the edge of the porch; the apparent strength of her teeth was incredible, considering her age. She squinted to read the faint indentation on the brick-‘Hotel Moon Bay, Est 1889.’
“Oh yes, oh yes,” she mused, acting surprised. She knew where it came from, why we had it, that much was obvious. “We loved watching the fancy people walk up that grand staircase…”
“Wooow,” I said, playing along and feigning surprise as well. Kinny smiled, as if sharing the memories with the old woman was a wonderfully entertaining way to spend a summer afternoon. But I was tired of wasting time; tonight would pass just as every night had for the past month, ever since we had found the metal box and sketches. Kinny would call me in the morning, ask me how the events had unfolded, and I would repeat the same rapport, that things had happened that could only happen in dreams.
Silence elapsed for an indeterminate period of time, but enough for Kinny to become so bored and uncomfortable to the point where she decided to remember that her mother needed her home at four o’clock to help her water the entire backyard, which would take hours, so she should better get home. Plus she had to be finished in time to watch The Simpsons at 6. That left old the old woman and I alone. As Kinny shuffled away, I watched in awe as old Liebemarlene’s strong, masculine hands picked up her broom and began sweeping the porch.
I seemed to barely register in her peripheral vision, and when I finally gained the courage to speak, to ask her a more bold question than my first, my voice seemed louder than the ocean waves crashing on the shore not far from her house, louder than the two lane highway just blocks away, and louder than the persistent swishing of her brittle home-made broom.
“Well, actually, we know it’s from the hotel. That much we figured out. I think I might know more about it than I really want to, actually. It’s weird, this is going to sound weird, I know, but I think these bricks, and the hotel, it might have to do with what’s been happening to me lately…”
GAH, it really sucks. It's quite upsetting. Also been watching a lot of Woody Allen because I have been holding Mitzi's pirated copy from Japan with about 10 of his movies captive. My favorites so far, other than Annie Hall, which is a given, have been a short, "Life Lessons," and "Don't Drink the Water." The former is artsy and serious and visually stunning and teaches...life lessons about avoiding become the prostitute/muse of a filthy washed up arrogant artist. The latter is hilarious...Woody and his family become holed up in the US Embassy in Italy after mistakenly being labeled American spies of the communists...or something like that. But worthwhile...watch 'em.
Life Lessons
Don't Drink the Water
(http://www.flickr.com/photos/66853325@N00/2772543845/)
(http://seul-le-cinema.blogspot.com)
Tuesday, June 2, 2009
Coast to Coast
The scanner at Kinko's in Davis is a pile of shit. I think the computer it's attached to is from 1999. So this is the best I can offer you. I do kinda like the way it makes pictures look oldish...but ideally I wish for better quality.
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