Saturday, August 22, 2009

of Blooms's admiration for water


I got the bottom quote from Jimmy Chen's HTMLGIANT post re: James Joyce, from Ulysses-- an art piece that's influenced my life heavily.

A few years ago, when I was an unhappy girl living out the tail end of my second decade in Tennessee, I kept a handwritten journal, which eventually turned into a stack of speckled composition books. I've transcribed some entries on another blog: Life's Mischievy Unraveled.

The most interesting thing to me about these journals is the evolution of my writing style, influenced by various college courses, experiences and books I was reading at the time.

At one point I was compelled to pick up Ulysses after a short story called the Dead made me take notice of Joyce's complicated, yet moving prose. The story floored me; it changed me; I bought a hardcover of Ulysses and slowly tried to sink through it latching onto morsels of narrative here and there and mind bursts of images. I took the book with me everywhere, read a paragraph at a time, absorbing, digesting. I was making love to Ulysses, whereas other books I would fuck right through in an hour or two.

In a slow progression, my journal entries became extremely esoteric. I was writing myspace blogs for a while, which attracted about a hundred followers and they started to express confusion as to what the hell I was talking about. A few people in real life even looked at me funny when I spoke, as if I was spouting what sounded like nonsense gibberish. Talk about pretentious.

A few excuses I used to continue my strange new behavior was:

1. Some people actually understood me. Of course I decided these people were geniuses and pitied everyone else as ignorant.

2. I claimed any writing worth teaching in the world of higher education had a strong thresh hold of interpretive leeway. And here I thought everything I was writing was the new Prufrock. My poor ego back then; before I learned the grace of humility.

After a while, something in me decided to try to lean more toward being coherent--to appeal to a larger demographic, since I thought I had important things to say, revolutionary things, which would go to waste going over heads and splatting and drooling down walls. (I know, I know...)

This is when I decided to put Joyce away and take him out only occasionally for small doses. I began alternating between different styles of literature so not to mimic any one to obviously. This was my attempt at pacing the impressionable sponge living in my ever starving mind.

I suppose this was four or five years ago. Since then, the most fun I have when writing's with the great phenomenon of flash fiction--where ironically enough, condensed esoteric prose actually works best.

Once in a while I still crack Joyce, and I admit, the romance is as strong as it ever was.

Below, is a great example of what I'm talking about. A gliding complexity perfected from the chapter Ithaca.


Its universality: its democratic equality and constancy to its nature in seeking its own level: its vastness in the ocean of Mercator’s projection: its unplumbed profundity in the Sundam trench of the Pacific exceeding 8000 fathoms: the restlessness of its waves and surface particles visiting in turn all points of its seaboard: the independence of its units: the variability of states of sea: its hydrostatic quiescence in calm: its hydrokinetic turgidity in neap and spring tides: its subsidence after devastation: its sterility in the circumpolar icecaps, arctic and antarctic: its climatic and commercial significance: its preponderance of 3 to 1 over the dry land of the globe: its indisputable hegemony extending in square leagues over all the region below the subequatorial tropic of Capricorn: the multisecular stability of its primeval basin: its luteofulvous bed: its capacity to dissolve and hold in solution all soluble substances including millions of tons of the most precious metals: its slow erosions of peninsulas and islands, its persistent formation of homothetic islands, peninsulas and downwardtending promontories: its alluvial deposits: its weight and volume and density: its imperturbability in lagoons and highland tarns: its gradation of colours in the torrid and temperate and frigid zones: its vehicular ramifications in continental lakecontained streams and confluent oceanflowing rivers with their tributaries and transoceanic currents, gulfstream, north and south equatorial courses: its violence in seaquakes, waterspouts, Artesian wells, eruptions, torrents, eddies, freshets, spates, groundswells, watersheds, waterpartings, geysers, cataracts, whirlpools, maelstroms, inundations, deluges, cloudbursts: its vast circumterrestrial ahorizontal curve: its secrecy in springs and latent humidity, revealed by rhabdomantic or hygrometric instruments and exemplified by the well by the hole in the wall at Ashtown gate, saturation of air, distillation of dew: the simplicity of its composition, two constituent parts of hydrogen with one constituent part of oxygen: its healing virtues: its buoyancy in the waters of the Dead Sea: its persevering penetrativeness in runnels, gullies, inadequate dams, leaks on shipboard: its properties for cleansing, quenching thirst and fire, nourishing vegetation: its infallibility as paradigm and paragon: its metamorphoses as vapour, mist, cloud, rain, sleet, snow, hail: its strength in rigid hydrants: its variety of forms in loughs and bays and gulfs and bights and guts and lagoons and atolls and archipelagos and sounds and fjords and minches and tidal estuaries and arms of sea: its solidity in glaciers, icebergs, icefloes: its docility in working hydraulic millwheels, turbines, dynamos, electric power stations, bleachworks, tanneries, scutchmills: its utility in canals, rivers, if navigable, floating and graving docks: its potentiality derivable from harnessed tides or watercourses falling from level to level: its submarine fauna and flora (anacoustic, photophobe), numerically, if not literally, the inhabitants of the globe: its ubiquity as constituting 90 percent of the human body: the noxiousness of its effluvia in lacustrine marshes, pestilential fens, faded flowerwater, stagnant pools in the waning moon.


Joyce. You will never cease to amaze me and the rest of the world as a master. Whatever made you, to me, defines miracle.
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Wednesday, August 19, 2009

the casket rolled inside



A cardiologist died and was given an elaborate funeral.

A huge heart covered in flowers stood behind the casket
during the service. Following the eulogy, the heart opened,
and the casket rolled inside. The heart then closed, sealing
the doctor in the beautiful heart forever.

At that point, one of the mourners burst into laughter.
When all eyes stared at him, he said, “I’m sorry,
I was just thinking of my own funeral…I’m a gynecologist.”
That’s when the proctologist fainted.


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Tuesday, August 18, 2009

District 9 review



With an immense demographic variety responding with positive regard to the now critically acclaimed District 9, I'm surprised, and bewildered, that I thought it was just okay. Though, it was a bit lengthy, the documentary style filming technique with unknown actors (and Peter Jackson's name) worked well. Then there's a lot of talk of whether or not there will be a second movie, with people sounding very intelligent lately, saying things like,

"I like District 9 for being an original sci-fi movie with social commentary on post-colonial theory--regarding appropriation of cultural commodities, authoritative hegemony, technological and semantic disconnect, colonial points of impact, etc; but if the plan is to release a second film, I will quickly take back my positive regard for the film because I'll know then that the film makers are just trying to make money off people with the lack of closure they provided from an open ended conclusion and very ambiguous sense of what happens to all the nasty characters which we grew to adore..."

I've got a question: Who would really gives a damn about a second movie? So the bug people led by a smart bug named Christopher get rescued and chibber-chabber on another planet with a butt load of hoarded cat food and that jerk main character changes into the jerk main character again; then what? The Nigerians who curiously act like feral cannibals eat everybody to get their powers and slice cow heads like butchers in Mad Max and the science research people who love killing things for the sake of figuring things out start a revolutionary square dance contest...

District 9, to me, was way over hyped over kitschy sci-fi bug drama. It reminded me of the movie The Fly with Jeff Goldblum, mixed with a dash of Men in Black and ET, even though the floating ship in the poster just sits there--out of gas, or something.

I admit my favorite part had to be the miniature alien bug baby computer prodigy. Thank goodness for that guy. Without him, the overall cuteness of the film would've relied mostly on a squishy semi-mutated monster hand and back door alien porn in headlines alone. Though, the high tech robot suit with rocket launchers and space lasers was great too; bringing with it the very necessary component of combusting violent military people like human pinatas. And what's a good time without pinatas? Sheeeit.

Tuesday, August 4, 2009

a two minute play written on the back of a receipt

Setting: In a bar; it's raining out; Maggie & Dean are stranded watching a movie sequel on TV. The one where Sandra Bullock is a cop pretending to be a beauty pageant contestant.

Maggie: Will this rain ever end? It's been like this for hours.

Dean: This is why the world invented magazines.

Maggie: Um, what the hell are you talking about, Dean? I thought you hated magazines.

Dean: I do hate magazines, Maggie. That's not the point.

Maggie: *sighs (her hand is cupped under her chin, thoughtfully) I used to love magazines when I was a child.

Dean: Where did the love go?

Maggie: Where does anything go? Where does the rain go when it's over? It evaporates, and this is a reality. It runs its course, it gets everyone wet. And when the day's over we're all masturbating in the dark--just to get a good night's sleep!

Dean: The sad thing is, I can't disagree with you, Maggie. You're so right sometimes; it's ridiculous.

Maggie: Yeah, I know; it's a curse. Just like this shitty weather.


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Monday, August 3, 2009

i adore your schizophrenic expression

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this is a compilation of a week's worth of my favorite text messages:

Hard making list. Happy as clam.
Kisses on your clam.


Shoulder squeezes and neck kisses from behind.
Sexy monster style.


I fixed a career, a marriage, a computer
and a motorcycle today.


Yeah, no kidding. I don’t even know you when you have a new boy. So what you’re saying is that you dumped the artiste after he painted you in the sunshine?

Susanna will LOVE you. We’ve got dinner and red wine plans with her Friday night. Exciting!

What’s your shoe size?

Zombie lovings! Thriller-ing!

Ahh the will to live returneth! Coffee,
my mistress, wraps me in her arms.


Hoarde me like a dragon.
Delicious with fire-licked lips.


Get me something to have at the office?
Nothing Elvis!!


Tuck hardbender, pretender of the dong.

Man. Feeling mighty nice.

It has everything to do with ninja Jedi. It’s the same thing but makes you puke because it’s so sweet and cute. Causes cataracts if not viewed with proper eye wear.

Have u both turned into coconut scented puppies?
With ultra violet eyes and poop fruit candy?


Has the awesomeness of your new relationship caused a vortex that has pulled you both into another dimension yet?

The love I have for you was always something I dreamed of when I was a kid. Have a safe and beautiful trip this summer. Talk to you soon.

Work over.
Scooter flying on carebearjoy clouds.


Tiny finch playing in leaves.
Right hand worn out from clicking.
Heal me, lover.


Yoga yoga go go go!
Just closed bank account. Lost faith.


I know a painter man who's going to pee
a little when he lurks those photos.

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