Flaring fire

Blown out

Out—, soon

Face—, look

Through eyes;

In paper

ON sheet

Taken by day
By day

Like rotten
Fruit buried
In the
Heat of the sun

The best stories are the ones in which you can’t describe what the hell it was about.

Hey, I’ve just created another blog, strictly for photography and the like. Go check it out (though it is still in the works). inmyeye.blog.com

The Paradox of Compassion in Film essay on “Raging Bull” is in the works.

Shit, I’ve been reading too much Dostoevsky.

Results from a Personality Test:

messy, irritable, depressed, fragile, worrying, emotionally sensitive, does not like to lead, phobic, weird, suspicious, low self control, paranoid, frequently second guesses self, unproductive, introverted, weak, strange, unassertive, submissive, familiar with the dark side of life, feels invisible, rash, vain, anti-authority, heart over mind, disorganized, not good at saving money, avoidant, daydreamer

Transformers 2 or L’avventura, you decide.

“It’s easy to go shoot an art movie in a winery in the South of France. But people have no idea how hard it is to create something like Transformers.”

                                                                                                                                                                —Michael Bay

Yes, of course. We understand how frustrated you feel after having made millions of dollars at the box office, and yet those nagging critics are unable to appreciate your. . . . .film. How dare they call it “a horrible experience of unbearable length,”[1] or ““a shot at the title Worst Movie of the Decade.”[2] How dare they accuse the two characters Mudflap and Skids as racist stereotypes; we all know what you were doing, you were just “putting more personality in.”

                You and I both know how pretentious and elitist critics are. Why, they find My Dinner with Andre to be entertaining but not Transformers? It’s just two people talking about life, theatre and reality; at least Transformers has a bunch of explosions to hold our attention. They just don’t know how hard it is! Sure, anybody can make a story like L’Avventura or can direct a film like Mulholland Drive. But who else can make random pointless explosions as well as you? You’re right, anybody can make an art film. Any fool can just make one continuous ninety-minute long shot[3] in a whole movie, anybody can meticulously perfect every shot so that each one looks like a painting[4]. But who else can spend $190 million dollars on a special effects movie? Who else can get a ton of people to create a bunch of animated robots?

 To Catch a Thief was one of Hitchcock’s lesser films, maybe because it was set in the South of France?   

 You know, films have become too artsy. Too much talking, too many concepts; I’m here for a movie, I don’t want to think! Why worry about camera angles when you can just throw random things at the audience? Why worry about plot when you have giant robots walking around? Why worry about acting when you can just get the cattle to scream? Why worry about coherence when there’s no logic to the storyline anyway?

                I don’t know why people are so angry. Transformers is one of the most original movies to come out in years. Who else would’ve had the guts to create a movie based on a popular brand-name toy? Michael Bay has had a history of being an original director working on the cutting-edge. Look at Pearl Harbor; who else would’ve had the nerve to turn a tragic day in our nation’s history into a big Hollywood blockbuster?

Si renderanno conto un giorno

Saprà un giorno

Maybe ignorance will tire fault

And the clouds will overcome the moon

The moon, will be at fault.

Haze of hazelnut coffee

Dreary over eyes

Too much of late;

9:45

Humid, no rain

(It rained last night).

Pressure over my head

Sleep brought over my head

Bulb falling from the ceiling

Bouncing off the table

Smashing upon the ground into a thousand little pieces

Banging fist on the table

The moon, the deer, the forest

Black sky, dark as black space.

Full moon not to return until the end of the month

Or was it a new moon?

For others, full moons do not return

And new moons are begun in the celestial cycle.

I returned to the forest on Saturday

The sky was blank

The spring had dried

The trees were bare

(But there had been no snow).

That doe which had stood in the moonlight,

Gone.

The crickets were dead

The night was still

A silence, an unpeaceful silence

Like an axe cutting through oak.

Immutable silence

Modernism; the fragmented society. Postmodernism; the fragmented self.

Coffee is overhead

and planes fly by

I like mayonnaise. I like lots of mayonnaise. In fact, a lot of mayonnaise seems like not a lot. One wouldn’t think so, but it is quite moderate. Why should one think so? neither did I, before I discovered mayonnaise. I used to put ranch on my toasted turkey and cheese sandwhiches, I would usually put only a little, for its taste was strong and to put a lot would make the stomach nauseas.

     Mayonnaise isn’t like that. It isn’t a spreading, or a flavor; it’s a substance. And the more there is, the more substanstive your sandwhich. But substance comes with style and mayonnaise, something that doesn’t happen with many other things, and certainly not ranch. The flavor is complementary to the turky and soothing to the cheese, and a great contrast for the toasty bread. I like mayonnaise.

       “Johnny, the world is ending.”

“That’s it?”

Akward silence

Followed by akward movement.

Dumb fuck

Sitcoms are heroin. Not only that, but they are the fifty dollars a gram grade of heroin, laced with commercials.

                If ever were there to be some far-fetched, out-of-the-bounds-of-reason conspiracy theory by some far-off remote fringes group, it would have to be somewhat along these lines; accusing the government of creating weekly thirty minute TV shows as a way to brainwash the general population so that they can carry-out their evil plan to slowly infest the country with green faced, baby-eating, saliva-dripping-from-their-mouth UFO’s, so that eventually after being hypnotized by the usual and typical plots and farces on your run-of-the-mill carbon copied sitcom, the general population, now being obliviously injected with little micro-chips, thus creating a fascist state after the government takeover by the aliens, who had cut each and every member of congress into little pieces, throwing their spare bones into the streets, the savage, uncultivated citizens of our state capital, now turned into cannibalistic hungry wolves, go and gleefully mutilate the spare parts. In the mean time, everyone in Hell is partying and getting wasted as the Antichrist, disguised as a really nice guy coming to redeem the world, pampers himself for his national appearance. The tepid Antichrist, who is in fact an introverted Milton-type, goes to Washington, on a horse and with a ten gallon hat and bootstraps, confronts the nefarious alien neo-Nazi politicians and wipes them out. The Christian right celebrate and declare that the Antichrist has come to begin Armageddon and wipe out all non-believers while they ebb and float away into Heaven. In the mean time North Korea, having shit international communications due to their leader’s case of paranoid schizophrenic xenophobia, reverberated every night with visits from the ghost of his past predecessor (who is still Eternal Leader of the Universe), launch their nuclear warheads, aiming for Washington. The warhead hits, twelve minutes before its predicted arrival, people in the streets stop and stare (“it’s a bird!”) before their eyes ooze out of their sockets from the radiation, just as Satan and remaining politicians are about to sign legislation concerning a division of powers between the two, made possible by threatening congress with an open vacancy for the seventh circle of Hell, you know, the one with all of the creepy nude old men. . . . .Which is where we are all headed due to the fact that it turns out that God is an eight-legged tarantula and who’s chosen people were not the Jews, but the long suppressed chelicerata anthropods. In the end, we all die and burn in Hell, which has become a frat house and becomes a homey replacement for earth.

                The pious pout and sit on the outlines. The men of action are drunk and sitting in the tavern. The intellectuals wander about and contemplate. Everything is back to normal.

Political pretension is like the muddy underbelly of a river, it appears at the surface when the waters are shallow. Or maybe, it’s like a tiny tear in the earths surface at the bottom of the sea, ravish waves flaring up to the surface. Some people just can’t seem to handle it, to control the tide that is about to come in, (though a quite unnatural tide). Well isn’t that funny? What seems so unnatural and inimical to nature, is in fact a part of our nature. Those uncontrollable flares that spike out when a self-rightuous social conservative can no longer hold his repungance. Or when some fustrated activist starts screaming out at the top of his lungs, are those screeches not really us?