Bedbugs XVII
Click here for an explanation of how Bedbugs is created.
Click here for last week's Bedbugs.
Locking myself up won't change what's in my head and
it still leads back to the same place, horns that sound
like no other statement in mind still return to the same state.
Still not caring how many shades of red managed to impress
drunken staff members. The best advice is to tell
them you'll run. Celebration from the three of them which
are rendered as emotions, not people. Joy handed out
in healthy rations still bring a lingering nasty thought:
I didn't earn it, it was given to me.
The pills arrived yesterday. Family dove into them, I
went for a drive instead. Had a new coat of
mental paint applied. I chose the color
and texture and amount. All are desperate
to choose for me; comes up to the waist, their pile
of complaints. Silence between sounds is a
rarity I savor, far more refreshing
to seek those out.
The theater was empty as I suspected, save one
figure on the stage with its back
turned to me. Leaves too much room to let other
things in, and the floor is slick with leaves and metal
shavings and a lack of anything inspiring passion. Outside
is much better but nobody's out there..wait-clouds gathering
into a face's shape..
Next week's seven phrases/groups of words:
-shining through to the skin
-broken patch of interest
-scare me again outside
-sick of the loop
-worse when it's your fault, she says
-surgery you can bring a friend to
-stuck in the same state
-adam
Thursday, January 31, 2008
Bedbugs XVII
Learning How To Practice 3: "Work"
by Brian Hughes
Well, you know what? I have news for myself. The problem is not the job – it’s me.
I first have to ask myself why I am stuck doing what I am doing? I am doing this line of work for a variety of reasons: I have no college education (though I am in college now), I have not been trained in a skill, it was my father’s line of work, I told myself that I could not take any job seriously if it had nothing to do with art, and finally – my old reliable friend – good, old fashioned laziness.
The second question I have to ask myself is do I derive satisfaction from the job? Does it make me happy? No on both counts. There are a lot of questions I can ask now. Why do I stay in a line of work I don’t enjoy? What does “satisfaction” mean? Couldn’t I come home and be satisfied that I put in a solid eight hours of work; and from the cash I earn I can take my girlfriend out, feed and clothe myself, pay my rent, buy my girl and myself some nice things and support my writing habit. Why can’t I look at this line of work as a means to keep myself alive and well RIGHT NOW? After all, I don’t have to take this line of work home with me, which frees my mind for writing, which is the activity I am truly passionate about.
From a Buddhist perspective, I can look at my job as a means for cultivating practice. There are innumerable times in a week where I can work on mindfulness, concentration and relaxation. But instead, I run my unreal thoughts through my head all day long like a film reel out of control – bitching and moaning, bitching and moaning. And as I do this, I cultivate stress, I perhaps snap at others – all the while getting half of my work done because my head is divided between work and the constant complaining.
How can I be brought back to the present moment, instead of getting caught up in all of this delusion? I can leave post-it notes around my desk reminding me to take deep breaths and come back to now. Another good way for practicing in the workplace is using your phone as a sort of bell to snap you back to the here and now. These are little things I can practice throughout the day so that I don’t get caught up in the story of my life – which most of the time has nothing to do with reality.
The cold hard fact about my workday is that I cannot, nor should be, working on or worrying about my novel. So what am I to do? If I am present to my reality of work, then – there is no novel to worry about because there is only the work I am doing at work in the moment. When I am participating in the task at hand with my coworkers, I am free from the constant bickering and complaining that is in my head because I am too in the moment to worry about anything else. This is one of the main reasons why people get “back to work” after a stressful time, or when perhaps a loved one dies, because they know that being in the moment will take them away from the pain for a while. I have to discipline myself that my work is work and my writing is writing and that is just fine. It is when I combine them that all the unnecessary stress comes in.
Then what is the reality of my work situation? If I want to do another line of work – there is the door. No one is stopping me. If I am so unhappy, I should fine another line of work that would be more agreeable to me. This kind of work just might not be my thing. I can also be happy that I am employed and not out of work, and that I enjoy all the niceties that come with a regular paycheck. I can be grateful. I can experience the ups and downs of the work environment and recognize it as a way I can strengthen my Buddhist practice. When I meditate regularly, I notice that I find myself in harmony with everything and the discord I have withers away.
The job can stay as it is. I need to smile and continue to be more mindful and present. I need to end the war and suffering going on in my head and just sit more often. And according to Buddhism, this is the path to freedom.
Monday, January 28, 2008
Journey To Published (4)
This video blog will chart the progress Brian Hughes will be making to get his novel The Boxpress Manifesto published.
Here's Part 4 of the journey...
RAMBO, and The Art of the Boycott by Frank Palmcoast
When he's not watching, with beads of sweat, his fellow, legally blind, senior citizens parallel park, Frank Palmcoast is catching seven dollar movies at the local multiplex from sunny Pompano Beach, Florida. He's retired, he's angry at the world, he can't spell to save his life, and he hates Hollywood almost as much as Hilary Clinton, but that will not stop our irreverent, dementia fightin', AARP card carrying everyman from giving us a fresh take on all things Hollyweird. Besides, how can he pass up that marvelous senior citizen discount?
This week our Senior film critic offers his take on the new Rambo feature and offers up his boycott list of 2008!
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The next time Sly thinks about making a movie he should just go to bed, call his wet nurse and dream he's still important! This flick reminds me of Mohammad Ali's numerous comebacks. It has all the classic one liners, "Hero's never die, they just reload". Rambo the Viagra man. Now he is in Burma, who gives a rats ass what happens there. He's retired
and living in all places---the jungle. I ponder how a retired vet gets his army paycheck in the jungle and he's the only possible human that can get fat in the jungle! Another one liner, "It's not my fight".If your a real man you will go see Rambo, if not, stay home and watch Sex In the City or Oprah! John Rambo is one pissed off vet.A Lot of explosions, lots of decapitations. lots of exploding heads and a few arrows to the face--it's not Mary Poppins!
He kills, he maims, he disembowels all those evil Asians--god bless America.I think he would perform his stunts better if he would use his walker. This is a chick flick for men and having said all the above I must say,"Rambo is a bloody good time"!
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I the expert boycotter, have been negligent in my boycotting duties. Have no fear, I will present my " 10 boycott list". My new found duties, music and film critic has to a degree hampered by efforts in the boycott field. The following items definetly need serious boycotting: 1). Betty White and her petmed commercials, 2) RLS, restless leg syndrome 3)Shrines that are erected for dead actors 4) Volume that's increased on commercials 5) Half the time of any program is devoted to commercials 6)Restricting pets in condos 7) Mentally Old people 8)Andre Rieu Concerts 9)Pony tails on old guys and last but not least, 10)Bob Dylan singing to Burkowski. More to follow!
Better Living Through Absurdity
For an explanation of what this column is all about, go HERE to see the first installment and if you'd like to see last week's entry, you can see it HERE
Today's Topic: Why I Don't Mind Having a Cell Phone
(Yes, I'm aware the topic was supposed to be Internet Dating -I've moved that to next week -but it will be better that way...trust me.)
So, cell phones. Wonderful, wee, portable devices that keep us connected wherever we go- except for dead zones, or out of area zones or the weird place in the building that seems to suck all electricity like some voltage vampire, or if you have the crappy service provider (here's a hint -that's all of them) -tiny little phones that become an extension of our bodies, fingertips melded to keypads, bluetooth buds absorbed into ears, cricket chirping homing devices and that one stupid Gwen Stefani song that ripped off Fiddler on the Roof or the countless nerds who put the theme song for the Empire from Star Wars as ringtones and mah celly be blowin' up (don't we all wish that would happen once, literally speaking) and "Wat R U Up 2?" and "Hit me up l8tr yo!" being texted so often you'd think the entire world had abandoned the written language and succumbed to some sort of cryptographic cipher, and then there's the bill, not just the fee for your plan but the fee for the privilege of USING all the beep beeps and boop boops and digital this and unlimited wireless web that that the damn phone is capable of, then the service fees and taxes and the "Ooops did you know calling 4-1-1 costs you $2.00 and you called it 20 times -sorry!" charge at the bottom...
Yes. Wonderful...useful...carpal tunnel-inducing...expensive...movie interrupting...digital apron strings...potential disaster at the gas station...brain cancer causing...IQ lowering...fantastic little soul sucking pieces of technology are cell phones.
But from time to time -something like this call occurs -and it makes having the ruddy piece of shite totally worthwhile. I'm sure you'll agree...
*phone rings*
Me: Hello?
Woman: Now listen you hussy!!! (Yes she really called me a hussy)
Me: Um...
Woman: Don't you interrupt me! Where are you?
Me: Well I...
Woman: Shut up! We gots 100 people waitin' on you and you got the nerve to stand up my boy, my boy who ain't never given me a day's worry in his life until he brought you home and said he was gonna marry you!
Me: Oh, ma'am, I think you have the wro...
Woman: I said SHUT UP! You think you're special, you ain't nobody! My boy wants to give you his name and you throw it back in his face -he's in there cryin' -CRYIN'! All because you think you're too damn good for him!
At this point I'm torn between getting angry at being called a nobody, and actually feeling bad that I'm not in church marrying the as-yet-unnamed son of this harpy. She interrupts my train of thought with some more vitriol...
Woman: I have half a mind to come and beat you senseless and drag your ass over to the church -the food's gonna spoil, we got family in from out of town and lord only knows what we're gonna tell the minister!
Me: Look, I'm really sorry but...
Woman: YOU'RE SORRY?! YOU'RE SORRY?! Oh you're gonna be sorry when I...
At this point she is interrupted in her flow -I can hear another woman and a man talking to her. Now I'm curious -do they ALL want to come and beat me senseless? Am I to be dragged to the alter unwillingly? Who is it I'm supposed to be marrying?! She comes back to the phone...
Woman: Who in the hell is this?
Me: Um...my name is
Woman: Nevermind. I know you ain't the bride. The bride just showed up -she had a flat tire and no cell phone.
I'm almost too flummoxed to say anything -then I come up with this gem...
Me: Oh well that's nice.
Woman: What kind of sick person are you, pretending to be someone else? Can't you tell this is important? I got better things to do than be wastin' time on the phone with someone who thinks this is a game!
Me: Of course you do.
Woman: I hope you're sorry...
Me: Oh I am. I'm glad the bride showed up.
Woman: Oh me too -my son's been a mess and now we gots to get this show on the road. Well, goodbye then.
Me: Goodbye...
Woman: And one more thing -I hope if you ever get married you gots the sense to show up on time!
*hangs up on me*
Now just think dear readers...such a delightful, romping bit of Americana never could have been experienced if I didn't have a cell phone.
Kinda makes you think, doesn't it? I mean who knows what unknown form of harassment is waiting to accidentally dial YOUR number?! The possibilities are endless! And if you think that the odds of it happening to you are slim, just keep in mind -the longer you have a cell phone, the chances of getting interrupted by people that have no thought for your time or well-being and in some cases, your identity, and who only want to yammer at you about inconsequential trivialities that don't even have the incentive of being interesting, when it's 3am and you've got to be up in three hours to go to work -well, they increase exponentially!
Oh yes, your day will come.
As promised, next week we'll tackle the basics of writing a personal ad in order to attract someone on the internet. Til then!
Sunday, January 27, 2008
Prints in Concrete (3)- Francis Bacon: Second Version of Triptych 1944
Prints in Concrete- Francis Bacon- Second Version of Triptych 1944 -(1988) Part man, part beast, these howling creatures first appeared in Three Studies for Figures at the Base of a Crucifixion, which Bacon painted during the Second World War. One critic described that picture as a reflection of ‘the atrocious world into which we have survived’. Bacon identified his distorted figures with the vengeful Greek Furies, while the title places them in the Christian context of the crucifixion. In this version, painted in 1988, Bacon changed the background colour from orange to blood red, and placed more space around the figures, plunging them into a deep void. It’s not often I round a corner in a museum and am literally shocked. I had no idea I’d be walking straight into an original painting I’d always admired but only seen in images the size of a baseball card.
Looking at works of art and the profound effects they had on me. The analysis will not be geared intensely towards the works themselves, but why I feel I had such a deep response to it.
Francis Bacon- Second Version of Triptych 1944 (1988)
Date experienced: November 2006
Location: Tate Modern, UK
Tate Description:
The first immediate impact of these works, were their sheer scale. Having never read of their dimensions before, I was astonished to see they were easily seven or more feet tall- and take up the wall of an entire room in length. One is easily intimidated being in their presence.
The attraction to red in art as stated in my look at Rothko’s Maroon series was immediate (indeed, these works were experienced in the same day). The previous version of this work from the 1940’s depended upon a burnt orange for its background. The reds behind these ‘creatures’ felt like a similar consistency as Rothko’s series: the more you observe it, the more subtlety you saw in the shades.
Strangely enough, I never interpreted the red as indicative of blood or violence, possibly from having experienced similar affecting reds just hours before. As remarked in the above quotes, the feeling of ‘falling into a deep void’ is immediately what I felt walking into the room (closest to the painting on the right). While excited, I found myself backing away at the same time. This feeling was far stronger than the repulsion of the monstrous forms in the paintings. If you’ve ever experienced the feeling of free-falling before sleep you will understand the experience I had. That kind of fall often jolts me awake for a long time, as I’ve had a great fear of that kind of experience. Jumping from a building would probably be the worst way to go in my mind.
While the distortion of flesh and fury is inherent and obvious in nearly all of Bacon’s works, that was never what really affected me. I feel more admiration at the ideas and technique than disgust at the creatures upon seeing his works. There’s always been something ‘else’ there.
I realized more about what it was while conducting interviews with filmmaker Paul Solet, on the set of his award-winning short film GRACE in 2006. Much of the film’s color scheme, despite being a highly disturbing film, did not match the usual desaturated, decayed, rotten-wood palette of nearly every horror film of the past twenty years. It’s bright and utilizes vibrant purples, reds, pinks, greens to knock the viewer off balance.
In our interview he mentioned the production design’s color scheme was influenced by Francis Bacon. And how “default morbid mode” in modern horror cinema depends upon “dark.” From the time of day to the lighting scheme to the look of every set. But Bacon often does an opposite; using brighter colors, crazy pinks and salmons and vibrant purples and reds to knock the viewer off-kilter even more, as we don’t expect these “pleasing” colors to be utilized in an image that can provoke anxiety, torment and fear.
I’d written previous articles on horror films that have not only been considered modern or past classics, but are considered some of the scariest of their generations; often this was something I saw filmmakers employ in their visual arsenal. Two quotes from a recent documentary of The Shining stand out and clarify my point:
“The Shining is the perfect example of a horror genre movie that does not employ the classical horror genre visual elements.” -Janusz Kaminski, cinematographer“I think the thing about it is that (Kubrick) creates a setting that has a certain kind of peacefulness that belies the story that he’s telling.” –Caleb Deschanel, cinematographer
Bacon’s color schemes, and several great genre filmmakers(often ones who had not helmed horror films before) step outside the box and in doing so, worked on my nerves even more. We all fear similar things, but it takes a true talent to bring you to the same place through such unconventional approaches.
Grace is (c) 2006 Paul Solet/Gracefilm, LLC.
-Adam Barnick
Thursday, January 24, 2008
The Boxpress Music Time Show with Brian Hughes
On this week's show, as with last week, Brian ones again explores what makes a song "perfect" by playing two songs and discussing them.
Trip
I went to Atlantic City today
Well Caesar's has only old people
So I followed a couple-a killers
I wanted to find a perfect shell,
This man I avoided when I
Well he brought me over a perfect sky-
Besides I like it too much.
by: Mary Wyatt Matters
Bedbugs XVI
Bedbugs XVI
Click here for an explanation of how Bedbugs is created.
Click here for last week's Bedbugs.
Watching it rain again from office floor 218; even with weather,
you’re just a spectator. Says one thing, does whatever will harm
seems to be your and my and their MO. Someone
with no face slips me a note and is in the
elevator before I know it. One minute later I forget it’s there.
The color in the kitchen stands out only because
it's fading faster. Upstairs there is nobody but a man
scrawling in lipstick on each wall FOULED WITH
OUR SOULS.. Neglecting the crime scene that is a measure
of everyone’s broken dream which can’t be quantified
but we know when we lost it. Back to the playground
where it all was safe? The rattling I hear when I walk
can’t possibly be an instrument. Thinking about jumping is
as noncommittal as most lives care to be.
Can’t understand who’s next to me unless the manual
came with the box. Soaked through by moisture,
not worth the effort. How many shades of
grey can there be in paint? A lot. Noises
come from the smaller room, inside’s a projector
with oil and blackness spilling from its bulb. The
movie, nobody can understand it better.
The old loop from the reunion. Again.
Either ten seconds or ten years pass. Not sure which,
it’s time wasted either way. Texture is blind
but so is everything hiding under the bed.
Punctuate the moments you need to keep with you
and get back in line, they say. I’m not scared
of waking up, I’m scared to stay asleep
at least nine percent of the time. Numbers don’t matter
here, embracing something warm hearing the sounds
in my sleep.
Next week's seven phrases/groups of words:
-horns that sound like no other
-celebration for the three of them
-joy handed out in healthy rations
-comes up to the waist
-silence between sounds
-leaves too much room
-clouds gathering into a face's shape
-Adam Barnick
Tuesday, January 22, 2008
The Story Slice: Maureen: Part I
by Brian Hughes
The air was muggy at Complex as the who’s who lined up twenty deep at the open bar. Everyone was celebrating the opening of Alberto St. Croix’s new exhibit “Tampon” at The Whitney Museum. Hordes of “beautiful” people ascended through the large wooden freight elevators. Rain, Alberto’s assistant, was seeing to all of them. Rain’s favorite color of the week was fuchsia: everything he had on him was fuchsia color, whether it was his suit to his jeans to his tie to his hair and socks. Rain made eye contact with Cahil and threw wide his arms out to embrace him; Cahil reluctantly gave in.
“There’s my boy scribe! How are you?” Rain screamed over the thumping dance music.
Cahil was an “on-the-town” beat writer for The City Savior – an upscale, expensive, ten-pound magazine that let everyone in on what was cool.
“Terrific, and yourself.”
“I’m at the best party in town, how can I be anything but marvelous? Let me ask you something right off: I’m coming to the tenth anniversary party for The Savior – right?”
“Of course.” Apparently everyone called the magazine “The Savior.”
“What are you up to? You look terrific! I love the blue blazer and the shirt – very Banana. Covering any big stories other than this one?”
Cahil was looking at all the eye candy before him. He always kept a memo pad and a digital tape recorder in his pocket. “I’m leaving for California next week.”
“What are you going to be covering in Hollyweird? Any scoops you want to tell me – any dirt?”
“I’m going to California to find three girls I should have fucked, but didn’t,” Cahil tossed casually off his chest.
“Really? I thought you were engaged.”
“Happily.”
“How deviant! Good luck with that.”
“Some people have bachelor parties, I have this.”
“Fabuloso! I want to dance! Here I go! I’m dancing!” Rain broke from his conversation with Cahil and started getting down.
“When can I expect to get some words with Alberto.”
“I don’t know … he’s with Dominick Dunne right now.”
“And have you seen Maureen Shea?”
“I haven’t, and I invited that bitch! She better be here.”
Maureen was Cahil’s first target.
A mutual friend introduced Maureen to Cahil on a warm November evening at The Hungarian Pastry Shop of the Upper West Side. He was warned of her uproarious laughter: a laugh that would make your contacts tremble. But instead of it confounding him, he was lassoed and saddled by her infectious inner joy. They’d hook up just a few days later and swap stories at the Eggshell in Central Park: Cahil stupidly confessing about his psychotic French girlfriend, talking to Maureen as if she were a confidant and not a possible suitor. Cahil mistakenly thought he was in love, but he wasn’t – and in the process, he lost Maureen – who would then find a young man she’d settle down with for three years.
“Why do I do these things?” he would think over and over. “They sit before me, dipped in gold, on a pedestal, awaiting my courage to take them home. First it was Maureen, then the colossal California trio of Heather, Alex and Colleen! Why? Fuck!” And as with Maureen, they shared common characteristics: college graduates, literary, big breasted, and funny. He lost out on the conquest, but most importantly, he suffered the loss of the experience - of living. And before he set off on that great journey of life, love, progeny and learning, he wanted to stand before them one more time. Tell them that he was sorry and that they will always live in a nice cozy tree house somewhere in his heart. Make peace with it and get the hell out. That’s all he wanted.
But first, he’d have to locate Maureen.
Monday, January 21, 2008
LOOK! KING BACK!
In 2002, Jonathan Roumie and I were asked by an enigmatic filmmaker to help him make two films on one day, Martin Luther King Day. And for three years, on that great holiday, we helped create, produce, edit and screen two films in just one day, by the man who went only by the name KING.
The enigma reappears now with the release, on this Martin Luther King Day 2008, of "Looking Back", a return into the mind of KING.
-Peter Rinaldi
King (1) 2002
King (2) 2002
King (3) 2003
King (4 - pt. 1) 2003
King (4 - pt. 2) 2003
King (5) 2004
King (6) 2004
Better Living Through Absurdity
For an explanation of what this column is all about, go HERE to see the first installment.
Today's Topic: Soundtracks for the Dead
I'm going to give you a very simple piece of advice...start making your funeral soundtrack. No, no, no, I'm not suggesting that I just got a peek at your latest medical records or that I've got some contact in the spirit world who has let me in on a little something. Calm down...you're fine. Breathe. That's it -slow, deep breaths. Feel better? Okay -back to the soundtrack. The reason I say to do it now...no I'm not going to take your temperature! Knock it off. Now pay attention! Do it now or you might subject your family and friends to one of the worst things ever...
A depressing funeral. And who wants a depressing funeral?!
Here's the thing -generally speaking, we don't know how to mourn properly anymore. We either grieve too much or not at all, we become sobbing wrecks or we stuff it all down till it comes out at really inappropriate times (believe me, draping yourself over the lettuce bin at the grocery store to weep and wail over your dear departed, while everyone else just wants you to stop squishing the romaine...hardly dignified.) And yet it happens all the time. People make death such a dismal prospect at some funerals that there's hardly anyone who isn't looking over their shoulder (the amount of paranoia usually in direct proportion to the amount of alcohol consumed.)
So I give you 3 Things to Combat the Depressing Funeral:
1. Realize how ridiculous a funeral really is. Kind of like a wedding. 20 minutes of ceremony and intonations and ritual, 5 hours of erratic behavior, drunkenness, inappropriate remarks and more than a bit of discomfort. Look, most funerals take place what, 4-5 days after the death. Think about it -if the afterlife has an administration even closely resembling the kinds we have on earth (sort of a Death DMV), then there's no way in hell...pardon the pun...that your loved one has even finished paperwork and processing, much less has been assigned to their appropriate floor and given their required duties. So, this idea of a funeral being for the dead -get rid of it. They're still in line, trying to figure out if they're appropriately attired and what the weather's going to be like -I hardly think the notion of watching their body get dumped in a hole or stored in an urn is worth losing their place in line.
2. Don't act like a robot. People seem to come to funerals armed with what they think is a suitably stoic expression combined with a few trite phrases of sympathy and severely stiff upper lips. Now, people are highly responsive to their surroundings. If you walk into a room of people dressed in black, speaking in hushed and somber tones, looking furtively around at other people, snatching at finger sandwiches like it's their last meal and generally doing their best to look un-lively...well you're going to feel like you walked into an episode of the Sopranos probably...but then, you're just going to feel uncomfortable. You don't want to be the bastard that cracks a joke or god forbid, smiles. You don't want to be the one that seems “disrespectful to the memory of so-and-so.” So you hunch your shoulders, grab a finger sandwich, express your condolences and settle in for the duration. In fact, the most interesting thing that will likely happen is that you'll notice that black really DOES come in a lot of shades (pun not intended, but it IS rather a good one, isn't it?!)
Anyways -point being -go ahead and be that bastard. Look, it used to be when someone died, a funeral dirge was sung lamenting their loss and bravery and deeds and what have you -and then the rest of the time was devoted to telling stories about the departed. Good, bad, silly -didn't matter. Given that we had a much stronger oral tradition back then, it made sense that stories would be told and passed around so that future generations could hear them and know something about their ancestors -and not just the good and glowing things, but the things that made them human, that made them likable or deserving of loyalty or respect. It kept the memory alive, while leaving the body firmly interred.
So -tell stories. Remind people of experiences they had with the departed, show the family that's suffered the loss that you're not going to forget the memories you had of the deceased and that they're special to you. Chances are, they'll want to hear that. It's far easier than people realize to turn a funeral into one of the grimmest sort of “duties” - turning it back into a way for people to remember and to enjoy all that came BEFORE a death should be considered essential.
3. Finally -we're at the soundtrack. Now, as I mentioned before -people are highly responsive to their surroundings. Music is an especially significant influence on behavior and mood. Now, I've snuck in to my fair share of funerals (don't ask) and I'll tell you, music generally comes in three categories: The heavy, ominous and depressing classical stuff that when played on loop becomes more suited to sending your loved one down the River Styx to Hades than it does to a better place; the oh-so-saccharine smooth jazz-easy listening-crappy standards set that is like being at a death-inspired junior high school dance; and the “songs of inspiration as sung by some of today's hottest artists,” today's hottest artists being 80's throwbacks like Amy Grant, CeCe Wynans and Michael W. Smith.
Do you really want to go out that way?
Of course not.
So, I recommend that you begin compiling a list of songs that you feel are significant to you as a person (a living person, not a dead one.) Interestingly enough there are a lot of threads on various sites where people discuss what they would want played at their funerals. We all have songs or artists that take us back to very specific points in our lives or remind us of certain people. Some music is capable of inducing a sensory memory, making you feel like you're back in a particular place or time. That's important. It's part of who you are. And the odds are, at your funeral there's going to be a number of people who will hear some of the songs and say, “Oh man, I remember this! We were at a concert/on vacation/in the car/at college/having sex/having an argument etc. etc. etc.,” which will prompt the abovementioned stories that are so important.
Look, you can't be at your funeral. You can't do a whole heck of a lot to stop people from being sad or missing you. You can't be there to remind them of the good stuff. But your music can. Make a list, even burn cds with special songs on them. Just make sure that you let whoever would take care of such matters know that it's important to you that those songs are played. You might even consider telling them why or what's behind some of them -give your loved ones stories they can tell about the music and why you chose this song or that.
Of all of the uncertainties in life, Death is the most profound. We have no way of knowing what happens when we go. But we can rest assured (who knew there were so many good death puns?!) that we probably will have a funeral. Now, me personally, I'd like to go out in the Viking tradition -on a replica boat with my favorite animals and treasures and a big fire to carry my ashes to the sky. However, zoning and neighborhood laws make that a bitch so I'm just going to be happy if I can get away with having “Coconut Woman” playing rather than “How Green is My Valley.”
Next week: Dating on the Internet
Journey To Published (3)
This video blog will chart the progress Brian Hughes will be making to get his novel The Boxpress Manifesto published.
Sunday, January 20, 2008
Prints in Concrete (2)- Rothko: Black on Maroon/Red on Maroon
Prints in Concrete- Rothko: Black on Maroon/Red on Maroon series
Looking at works of art and the profound effects it had on me. The analysis will not be geared intensely towards the works themselves, but why I feel I had such a deep response to it.
Rothko’s Black on Maroon/Red on Maroon series.
Description of series:
Familiar with Rothko’s work on a surface level, what this exhibit taught me is how seeing an image in a book of art, or an online photograph, becomes borderline pointless once one has experienced the works themselves in person. Images are included here just as reference.. but the subtlety is only properly communicated in the presence of the authentic paintings. No photograph or book print can truly capture shades and texture.
The immediate size of the works, is what is still a large room despite the museum deeming it compact, drew me in. The slightly reduced lighting scheme of the room took a few minutes to adjust to, and slowly bring out the color shifts in the paintings.
Slowly letting your eye match the light level, and letting your mind adjust and drift upon the multitude of color shifts, from one to another or from a darker to a lighter shade of red (or the dominant color I was witnessing)…brought a certain kind of focused peace. AFTER a feeling of being subtly trapped, as remarked above. Though it is possible that I walked in expecting to feel that having read the description above, which is printed on the wall as you enter the space.
While most rooms in a museum are naturally silent and reverential, I did note that this may have been the quietest room I had been in all day. It’s also possible that the noise levels were the same as any other room; but the level of contemplation I was at had turned the world’s volume down.
-Adam Barnick
Saturday, January 19, 2008
The Boxpress Music Time Show with Brian Hughes
Show #2: "Perfect" Part 1
Thursday, January 17, 2008
Bedbugs XV
Bedbugs XV
Click here for an explanation of how Bedbugs is created.
Click here for last week's Bedbugs.
I can’t hear at the pitch that you’re thinking
and there’s any number or reasons
that he’s ending up anthropomorphic and
ready to save anyone whether they ask
for help or reverence, wild night all in your head.
Nobody knows where you are as we uncover a journey
far more wonderful and sad; Friday alone
is life's jazz standard you dance to.
Nobody’s fault but that guy in the mirror,
fractured or not.
Tails up, we dance to songs hammered out by blood
rushing through bodies’ tubes as I look around and realize
I forgot all of them blur together and the third
floor, she somehow finds humor in it. Chipped green
faded Statue of Liberty paint, only room for six of them
in the truck, fighting over scraps of words with
no purpose. It’s college all over again. Give up?
I don’t even know me.
Next week's seven phrases/groups of words:
-says one thing, does whatever will harm
-the color in the kitchen stands out
-neglecting the crime scene that is
-thinking about jumping
-nobdy can understand it better
-texture is blind
-hearing the sounds in my sleep
-Adam Barnick
Wednesday, January 16, 2008
The Story Slice: "The Reginald"
by Brian Hughes
Kelly was a Doorman at The Reginald; but what he really wanted was to “own my own building, ya know - a real classy joint.” So he started taking nighttime Architecture classes. When no one was looking, Kelly would steal some time studying from his textbook. It was buildings like The Reginald, or The Enclave, just a few blocks south, which so fanned the flames of his desire of what buildings in the great metropolis should be: a masonry of brick upon brick, steel frame, metal cladding, and Art Deco tapestries all over. The Reginald was built just before The Depression and was the resting places of dignitaries and Hollywood stars. Most notably, Franklin Delano Roosevelt stayed in Penthouse 2004 on his visits to New York, and Fidel Castro was known to have a quick fling with a Rockette in suite 1931. Its spacious halls and red carpeted floors reminded Kelly of his favorite movie The Shining.
For the most part, Kelly enjoyed the tenants and found them a likable bunch. At years’ end Kelly was often doused with extremely generous tips. It wasn’t a bad job, it paid the bills. Kelly felt indebted to his Uncle, who himself was a Doorman for 43 years, using his connections to nab Kelly the position. The tenants Kelly favored the most, were the old timers. Media mogul Jon Hewitt, who restored The Reginald to its original grand beginnings, made headlines when he decided not to try and buy out the older tenants of the building, but to keep them there free of charge. Hewitt was only too happy to eat the profits, responding to what he called “the pillaging of our National treasure – the Senior Citizen.”
Carroll Dickey was an ex World War II vet and Kelly’s favorite. “Mayor Carroll” as he was known, was as big a baseball fan as Kelly was, and would often ride Kelly up and down when his beloved Yankees went on a losing streak. Carroll was an ex Brooklyn “Bum” – and did as most ex Brooklyn Dodgers fan’s have – became a New York Mets fan.
Every afternoon, Carroll would take a walk over to Madison Square Park, read his paper and feed the pigeons.
“The Kansas City Royals are going to mash the Yanks,” he’d say to Kelly.
“You’re crazy!”
“Gomez is going to hurl a two hitter against them tonight.”
“The Royals are in last place! They stink! Come on …!
Carroll had a way of becoming increasingly vitriolic and graphic with his language when he spoke about something he disliked. He’d grab Kelly by the arm, and with a menacing look he’d whisper:
“The Royals are going to grind the Yanks up in a meat grinder, you see: a meat grinder – until their spleen and liver and entrails are pouring over their belts and onto their pinstripe suits.”
“Really?”
“And when the Royals are through grinding those rich cocksuckers, they’ll eat their innards and shit them out right on home plate in front of a television viewing audience. And it’s going to make the news and everything!” And Carroll would have his say and be out the door.
Kelly also had to deal with unwanted visitors. A binder of photos and descriptions were kept behind his desk of such characters. The city was in the midst of the holiday season and it seemed like half the building was away in Aruba. Kelly had been working many graveyard shifts. He sat at his post, his eyes at half mast. He felt a mean piss coming on. The pages from his text book started bleeding together and the words and lines began crisscrossing each other. Maybe he should hit the head, he thought, throw some cold water on his face.
He radioed Louie the porter. Louie was a huge history buff; for three hours before his shift, you could find him on the third floor of The New York Public Library on 40th street, leafing through the latest history release. “I blew it,” he’d say, “I could have been a retired History professor by now.”
Mandrik Carlsson opened the front doors, walked down the steps and was swiftly moving toward the elevators. He did not give so much as a glance to Kelly. He was gruffy and tall with salt and pepper hair and a prominent handlebar moustache.
“Uhhh, Mandrik. Uhhh … excuse me! You are … wait. You are no longer allowed in this building!” Kelly hurried over to the elevators and found Mandrik staring at the second car; it was almost as if he were looking through it. “Come on, Mandrik. Don’t, ya know, make this difficult. It’s cool, come on.” Mandrik rolled his head to the side and gave Kelly a smirk, then a manacing smile. The elevator arrived and Mandrik rode it up.
Kelly, under normal circumstances, was a “nervous nelly.” He paced briefly. He was not allowed to leave his post, unless someone was covering for him. “Shit, man. Where the heck is Louie?” he said aloud.
“I’m right here,” Louis said with a smile that lifted his silly putty-like face.
“I have to take a wicked piss Louie – can you cover me for a few?”
“Sure … sure … sure.” Louie noticed that Kelly had hit the button on the elevator. “The bathrooms are downstairs.”
“I know where they are, Louie – give me a break, huh?”
“I don’t know anything,” Louie said as he walked over toward the doorman post.
I’m not allowed to go up like this, I could get canned, Kelly thought, as he rode the elevator up to the fourteenth floor. I should just call the cops, let them handle it. I should turn my back on this. What if Mandrik knows. If he knows, he’ll kill me.
Kelly was walking toward the apartment. “Mandrik? Mandrik?” Soon he was at door 14R. He knocked. “Mandrik?” The door swung open and Mandrik stood there wearing a skin tight flowery dress, eyes bulging from his sockets.
“Come in here you mother fucker!” hissed Mandrik as he grabbed Kelly by the tie and neck and flung him into the living room of the apartment. Kelly collapsed and just missed cracking his head on a big glass coffee table by a few inches. Mandrik grabbed an envelope full of photos and threw them hard into Kelly’s face. “The balls you have to come up here! After fucking my wife!”
“Calm down, Mandrik, calm down," said Kelly, "she still loves you! She doesn’t want me!”
Kelly backed up against the big bay window. Mandrik grabbed a steak knife and lunged at Kelly, who had begun yelping. The site of a bedraggled Mandrik approaching him with a knife and wearing a dress, was almost too much for Kelly. He couldn’t even scream. He was on the verge of passing out. Mandrik had the knife at his throat:
“I’ve been to prison. I’ll go again, it’s no skin off my balls, got it! You don’t know her name, you don’t know what she looks or smells like anymore. You got it prick?”
“Yes, yes, I got it, yes.”
“Not one more word to her – EVER!”
“YES! YES!
Mandrik picked Kelly up and kneed him in the ribs several times. Holding him upright, he punched Kelly twice in the face, then let him drop hard to the floor.
There were knocks on the door. “Is everything okay in there?” a neighbor asked. “Is everything okay? Do you need me to call the police?”
“No! Go the fuck away!” yelled Mandrik as he raised the bottom portion of the dress to his nose and smelled. She would come back to him, he was sure of it. Placing the steak knife back in the kitchen, Mandrik grabbed his Adidas bag and left.
Kelly was bleeding on the carpet and moaning. Tears fell from his eyes. “I don’t want to be a doorman, I don’t want this shit. No. Why? What the fuck? What the fuck?” Kelly started slinking across the floor towards the door. “I just want my own building … my own building … MY OWN FUCKING BUILDING!!!!
And he burst into tears.
Someone was knocking on the door again.
Monday, January 14, 2008
THE BUCKET LIST by Frank Palmcoast
When he's not watching, with beads of sweat, his fellow, legally blind, senior citizens parallel park, Frank Palmcoast is catching seven dollar movies at the local multiplex from sunny Pompano Beach, Florida. He's retired, he's angry at the world, he can't spell to save his life, and he hates Hollywood almost as much as Hilary Clinton, but that will not stop our irreverent, dementia fightin', AARP card carrying everyman from giving us a fresh take on all things Hollyweird. Besides, how can he pass up that marvelous senior citizen discount?
I thank god this movie had an ending because many other movies this year didn't. At times for me this was a globe trotting version of Grumpy Old Men. I believe this flick was to be about the way these two older men spend their final days but the film wastes a third of the time hanging out in the hospital. By the way I almost didn't see this movie because of the poor reviews but I'm sure glad I saw it. The acting of course was outstanding and the story was ok and these bad critics need to "FIND THE JOY" and you'll have to see the movie to understand that! For me The Bucket List is a combination of Shawshank Redemption and As Good As It Gets, Go see this movie and you will laugh and shed a few tears. I for one new all about Kopi Luak before I saw this movie and I think this movie would be very hard for someone facing a serious illness. I just loved Nicholson's joke about 3 things old people learn:1) Never pass up a bathroom,2) Never waste an erection and 3)Never, ever trust a fart!
Don't miss it!
Journey To Published (2)
This video blog will chart the progress Brian Hughes will be making to get his novel The Boxpress Manifesto published.
Go here to visit Part (1) of the series.
Sunday, January 13, 2008
Better Living Through Absurdity
Better Living Through Absurdity
This is to be a weekly series showcasing random incidents, encounters and thought processes that while strange, bizarre, sad or even painful on the outside, contain such elements of the ridiculous as to be made ultimately benign and in some cases, extremely enjoyable. These tales may be my own, or someone else's, they may consist of a lesson learned or something of such randomness as to be almost inconceivable. They may even be my personal ruminations on everything from the platypus to politics. Whatever they may consist of, my hope is that you will laugh, smile, ponder and ultimately, find yourself a little bit more lighthearted for the reading of them.
Today's Topic: Grocery Store Shenanigans
Most people I know hate grocery shopping. It's an inconvenience that they force themselves to go through as little as possible and as quickly as they can, gritting their teeth the entire time. Personally, I love it. Now part of that is due to the fact that I'm a cook and I enjoy picking out ingredients, looking over the large selections of spices, meats and produce and mentally constructing meals in my head. The other part comes from the fact that the grocery store affords many interesting opportunities for crazy behavior, bizarre encounters and fun with food. Here are 2 examples of things you should try at least once at the grocery store:
1) Dancing with your shopping cart.
All of us can pretty much agree that grocery stores don't play the best music. It's usually either easy listening or light pop, occasionally classical if you're in some swank joint, and of course seasonal during the holidays. However, as much as we don't think the music is great, we generally know the songs -standards by Cyndi Lauper, Elton John, Heart, Bonnie Tyler, just to name a few. One way to combat the hideousness of your shopping soundtrack is to treat your cart like Ginger Rogers and pretend you're Fred Astaire (or in my case Gene Kelly since I don't have the forehead for Astaire.) Gliding down the aisle, spinning it around, back and forth in a light waltz or for the more adventurous, a jazzy conga, tossing things in on the beat, over the shoulder, under the leg...you can develop your own style but let me tell you -not only does it combat the boredom most folks have with their treks to the wonderland of food, but it can also improve your agility and form. Let me tell you, it's not easy slinging around a cart like it's a 110lb woman. You've got to be light on your feet or disaster can occur -displays can be crashed into, toes run over, collisions with fellow patrons, or should you attempt a particularly tricky maneuver like a dip or a release and recover, your cart can get away from you. Just be mindful of these dancing pitfalls and you'll be alright. Oh, and yes -you DO look ridiculous.
And you can be sure that they're watching you on the security cameras or from their respective departments. Other shoppers will think you're drunk, drugged or an escapee from a mental institution - and if you brought someone with you, well if they're not joining in then they're probably cringing with embarrassment. Screw 'em. Not only have you made your shopping experience more interesting and enjoyable, but you're giving them something to take their minds off of the fact that they are disgruntled about being there in the first place. Consider it a form of civic duty. (Disclaimer: Do not attempt cart dancing when store is exceptionally crowded or when your cart has a “questionable wheel” as this can lead to possible accident or injury and I'm sure in some rare cases, death.)
2)
This particular example doesn't always work necessarily but if set up properly, you can still get a laugh out of it. I've done this on several occasions and it has worked each time but I've had friends try it with mixed outcomes.
First, find a grocery store that's open 24 hours (or at least until 1 or 2 in the morning.) This is because fewer people frequent the stores late at night and also because it heralds the arrival of the “stockboy” -you know, the young kids who get a late night job because either they're in college and have to work nights, or they're the type that like to sleep all day and then get high and then sleep some more and then drag themselves to a job despite it being “fucking lame.” Yeah, you know the type.
Now, go and find the cracker aisle -usually it's parallel to the chips/popcorn/mixed nuts aisle, sometimes soda too depending on your store. Go and stand in front of the cracker section, and pretend you're looking very hard for something. Put your hands on your hips, look agitated, pace up and down, kneel to look at lower shelf boxes, mutter to yourself if need be. Regardless, make it look like you REALLY need something and can't find it. Eventually, someone will come over to assist you if you've played it right. If you're lucky, and odds are you will be because managers aren't doing to deal with crazies in the cracker aisle if they don't have to, it will be one of the types we mentioned above -and if the gods of absurdity are smiling down on you, you'll get a lackwit stoner kid.
Now, they'll shuffle over and ask if they can help you. At this point, you really have to turn on the acting -dig deep. Pull out a combination of Taxi Driver/Mommie Dearest/Little Caesar/3 Faces of Eve -and go to it. With a quaver of agitation in your voice say “Yes, I'm looking for something, and I don't see it -I don't think you have it!” at which point they'll undoubtedly ask you what you're looking for and with a bit more agitation and a hint of panic just keep repeating, “You don't have it -I don't see it anywhere. You don't have it.” If you can make the whites of your eyes show a bit more that's helpful too. Now they'll be a bit scared of you and they'll try to placate you, offering to look for whatever it is you need, just tell them what you're looking for. Now...and this is very important...when you tell them what I'm about to tell you, you MUST play it straight. You must act as though it is CRUCIAL that you get your hands on this stuff and that you FIRMLY believe it's an actual product. So, cut back a little on the hysteria, even slump your shoulders a bit, affect something of a disappointed/defeated look and say, “I don't see it. I'm looking for Soylent Green. I was told they had it here. I don't see it though.”
Now -this is where it kind of becomes a “choose your own adventure” -door number one leads to ‘guy has no idea that you're making an ass of him so he scrambles to look for it and upon not seeing it asks if you want him to get a manager’ and door number two leads to ‘guy looks at you like you're insane, tries to figure out if you are or if you're just messing with him and then tries to figure out how to diplomatically tell you that no such thing exists without making you think that he's calling you a liar or crazy.’
Now in the case of door number one, there are several things which may occur as he's trying to find your product. He may offer to go look in back -you MUST not smile or laugh or do anything to betray yourself as you can be sure someone's watching -and when he comes back, of course sans the Soylent Green, thank him in a rather pitiful and dejected tone and slump your shoulders a bit more.
He may ask you if it's a specialty product or my favorite, “Is it organic?” DO NOT snort or snicker or make any indication just how funny that really is. Instead say, “Why yes, it is organic -I believe 100%” and start to let a ray of hope shine in your eyes. He may then go to check their organic selections, but of course come back without it. Sensing your disappointment again, he might (if you're super lucky) make a suggestion, “Have you tried Trader Joe's or Whole Foods? They sell lots of organic things -I'm sure they'd have it there!” Again, do not laugh. Merely sigh a bit and thank him and say you'll go try one of those places. Then make a dignified exit.
Door number two relies on your ability to be a convincing stooge. If you can do this, the person will then believe that you have no idea that Soylent Green isn't real and will have to set about telling you in a way that isn't offensive or won't cause you to go mental on him. Don't protest too much or get too angry -he'll know something's up. Instead look kind of confused and pitiful, more sad than angry. Insist that someone (friend, family member, co-worker) told you about it and said you had to get some. If you can play it right, say they had some and you tried it and upon tasting how good it was and finding out how good it was for you, you decided you must have some. Eventually, the person will have another two choices to make -does he burst your bubble thoroughly, letting you know you were duped -or does he perhaps suggest an alternative place to go search for it? (In one case the guy was smart and suggested I look online for it, probably thinking I would soon discover that it was a hoax.)
Should he choose to ruin your faith in your fellow cracker-eating man, again -don't get overly angry, be more bewildered and embarrassed. Be the victim, not the person who gets security called on them. Should he choose to make an alternative suggestion, thank him for his time, affect a slightly dejected but with a ray of hope demeanor and again, leave with dignity.
I would advise that you attempt this at a grocery store that isn't your usual one as you can be sure that your little scenario will get passed around. Also, do not attempt this while drunk or under the influence of any narcotics as it may ruin your believability. Also, don't be too demanding or they'll do what so many of us who've worked retail have done at one point or another and that is to simply state outright that they don't have it or that it doesn't exist and then walk away.
And there you have it -two ways to make grocery shopping more fun or at the very least, more interesting. It should be said that if you can get a contingent of friends to go to the store with you and act out the first scenario, not only is it a sight to behold but it's a shared sort of insanity that will be both bonding experience and an excellent story for the future. You are not required of course to do either one of these things -but I have, and passed them on to others who have tried them as well. There were also incidents involving pre-packaged meat football, day-old roll hockey and one of my personal favorites, “Where'd the Peanut Butter Go?”
The lesson for this week is to keep in mind that even the most mundane of tasks, the things you dread having to do but know must be done -can be made more fun, more interesting and above all -more ridiculous, if you'll just free yourself from the shackles of conventionality and learn to embrace the absurdity of it all .
Next week –“Soundtracks for the Dead”
Thérèse
Prints in Concrete (1)- Dictio Pii
PRINTS IN CONCRETE – Dictio Pii
Looking at works of art and the profound effects it had on me. The analysis will not be geared intensely towards the works themselves, but why I feel I had such a deep response to it.
Markus Schinwald’s film exhibit- Dictio Pii
Date experienced: October 2005
Location: Tate Modern, UK
My second visit to the Tate Modern contained this experience: in one of the film rooms I was drawn in by a deeply haunting, repetitive piece of music, laced with a voiceover which kept the same text, but spoken by different people. This is a combination of several descriptions of what I experienced, trying to give a complete summary of a non-narrative:
Dictio pii (2001)
The mysterious and obsessive behavior of seven characters is portrayed in this enigmatic series of films by Austrian artist Markus Schinwald. Schinwald's highly choreographed films follow no logical narrative. Instead the artist weaves together fragmentary stories of disjointed emotions and longings, deliberately invoking narrative stereotypes and cultural clichés. This work, Dictio pii (2001), consists of five films, screened consecutively without any apparent break between them. The action takes place in a vacant hotel where seven characters in various forms of physical constraint move in and out of view with no discernible motivation. Doors open, strangely garbed figures enter through them only to vanish again in the next room. An old lift attendant incessantly brushes dust off his jacket. An aging diva in a white dress with a fetishistic prosthesis around her neck smokes one cigarette after another. A young man perpetuates his artificial smile by gripping a taut silver chain between his teeth. A girl's body inflates pulsatingly, and a man lets a woman bind his arms. The images are accompanied by a male voice, intoning a cryptic philosophical monologue. No individual film contains a cohesive story, although the same characters re-appear throughout the sequence. Schinwald has worked in sculpture, dance, fashion, film, and performance. Much of his work alludes to psychoanalysis, and a fascination with the power of gestures. In Dictio pii, the repeated, and more or less meaningless sequences of actions performed by the various characters, create the chilling and compelling mood of a dream or nightmare.
I know I tried my best to transcribe the repeated voiceover dialogue, seemingly coming from the minds of each inhabitant. Though my details weren’t exact, I have found the speech online:
We are the perfume of corridors
Unfamiliarised with isolated activity
Traitors of privacy.
We are Utopian craftsmen
Scope heeled diplomats, pretty beggars
Not the product of poverty
We don't take from anyone.
We are pillared by mild sadness and polymorphic history
Eternally skeptical,
But We Believe.
We are immortal volunteers
Living in the sensation of being everything
And the certitude of being nothing.
We are just an outline.
We disband prompted paths of movement
Extend our bodies,
Become abysmal dancers.
We are illiterate of perfection, following the curves of belief.
Interested only in the gestures of bending.
Scaffolded postures,obscene geometry.
Frozen irony.
We are deranged.
Run in a continuous loop, purposefully obscuring a beginning/ending, later I found this was its purpose:
If I were to make a movie, then it would probably tell a story. My films, however, especially Dictio Pii, do not have a beginning or an end. They only really consist of a middle part. It’s a kind of pseudo-narration in which certain acts are alluded to, but not carried out; it’s a kind of artificial ruins, as though one had removed the scenes from the script that were moving the plot forward, just taken them away and left the rest. -M.S.
And yet the hotel connects them all, even if emptied of purpose. Apt, considering how a hotel is a temporary resting ground where none call home.
I spent, I believe, a full hour in the exhibit. It could have been longer. I am not sure how many people walked in and out of the exhibit, though many stayed for a period coming close to mine.
Its immediate conscious attraction was absolutely its soundtrack. Two long strings of music that seem to carry off and echo until they are replaced by new variations of the same note… eerie, haunting, longing, melancholy. If the aftereffect of throwing a rock into a pond had its own sonic signature besides its surface sound, it could be this track. Slow, liquid, flowing, slowly dissipating.
The most recent comparison I can give it are the tracks contained in composer Mark Isham’s soundtrack for the 40’s set noir, The Public Eye..which are also full of longing, summarized by the feeling of walking down a long alley alone at night while a city sleeps. (Search itunes for “The Public Eye” and you’ll hear the comparison if comparing it to Pii.)
This was and is a favorite piece of music for me, connected to deeply emotional times in my life. Naturally there has been an unconscious reminder of these times.
This music/soundscape of Dictio Pii also suggested to me the consistent passing of days, watching the sun come up and descend as we rush through our lives(even though it also suggests such slowness and stillness). Often I can feel the world is passing me by, and moving on without me when I feel I'm not making progress in life. In a way, that perfectly ties into what Schinwald states above, that his films seem to inhabit a middle ground where the elements moving the plot forward had been removed. The character(s) in this film certainly feel like they were left there, and there's a shocking sense of emptiness in the broader shots of the hotel. The people, and their purposes, moved on. Only these characters/symbols remain.
Constriction, paralysis, and being trapped in an open space are themes the visuals immediately suggest. “Trapped” is another theme I’ve found myself to be obsessed with, in creative work and in life. Whether trapped financially, emotionally, mentally, I’ve experienced/observed it in various degrees as we all have. Characters/symbols in Dictio Pii are imprisoned in repetition; whether through gestures, phrases, or poses.
I realized it was the body language that really kept me in that room, though. Some time has gone by with me pondering just why.
After some research into the artist recently I stumbled upon a breakthrough of sorts; unfortunately it’s not as to why this particular instance haunts me, but what it is: Schinwald’s work touches on (while I believe it's not intended as a direct expression of) Freud’s theory of The Uncanny, which until this week I had not read a proper articulation of.
The concept of an instance where something can be familiar, yet foreign at the same time, resulting in a feeling of it being uncomfortably strange. Because the uncanny is familiar, yet strange, it often creates cognitive dissonance within the experiencing subject due to the paradoxical nature of being attracted to, yet repulsed by an object at the same time. This cognitive dissonance often leads to an outright rejection of the object, as one would rather reject than rationalize.
For myself, it’s much more of an opposing balance of rationalization and rejection. I was uncomfortable in that room and that’s also a reason I stayed.
Over the years, through articles I have written and films/stories I have kept returning to, is a deep-seated fascination and fear of this subject. A human figure doing anything but learned, ‘human’ behavior or movement patterns is something I have always found compelling and deeply disturbing. Filmmakers like David Lynch have repeatedly tapped into this; his symbolic doppelgangers in the third and final episodes of Twin Peaks could be the best visual depictions of this; though any time something that touches on The Uncanny has crossed my path, I’ve gravitated towards it. I studied books on the paranormal as a teen; often in ‘eyewitness reports’ of strange beings are reports of ‘humans’ moving in ways they shouldn’t, with no context, or communicating in a way that suggests an imitation of English, and not an articulation. The 2002 adaptation of John Keel's The Mothman Prophecies hints at elements the novel depicts; characters that look human but are "wrong." Entities that repeat the same phrase for an hour.
Lynch and Schinwald both depict through their choreography, a world where otherwise banal situations come off as quite alien and disturbing. Both feel expert in their depiction of psychic or emotional states manifested in their physical equivalent. And yet Pii doesn't feel an homage or tribute to Lynch. Though it's the feelings of the Uncanny, combined with the haunting music, and its multilayered depictions of 'trapped' that have made me return to the memories of experiencing Dictio Pii again and again..
Brief interview with Markus Schinwald re: the uncanny and Dictio Pii
Short, small sized clip of Dictio Pii intended to highlight the soundtrack
(click on the middle white stripe, under 'projekte' click on Dictio Pii)
Larger, low resolution version of the same clip- direct access
-Adam
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