funny ha ha

Dear Film Club Members: It’s true, Ang Lee has made a movie that is not a suicidally depressing meditation on impossible love. His new movie, Taking Woodstock, is, rather, about happiness. Please come see it anyway. Happiness, it turns out, is not a particularly normal subject for American movies, when you think of it. American movies feature protagonists, who experience conflicts, overcome obstacles, and, by the end of the movie, engage in heterosexual sex with women portrayed by actresses who, on average, make about one-third of the salaries of their male counterparts. The other male actor featured in American movies—the antagonist, who is paid between one-fourth and one-half of the male star’s salary—is either dead or humbled by the final act. These laws are buried deep within the Motion Picture Academy of Arts and Sciences bylaws, and can only be broken through special dispensation. And they result in films where what is achieved by the time the final credits roll is, as a rule, relief. I’m all for relief, and even exultation—their mass production is the economic engine that drives our entertainment industry. Happiness, however, is a more elusive cinematic goal: it is not an achievement— it is not the result of a victory, nor is it a prize. But it is a feeling that Ang wants you to share by the end of his film—and sharing is indeed the essence of it, the essence of the small taste of the Woodstock experience he celebrates. And so our protagonist, Elliot Tiber (played by the inimitable Demetri Martin) is an accidental one, at least by Hollywood standards. Stuck in his parents’ dumpy Catskill motel three miles down the road from Max Yasgar’s farm, he has goals, obstacles, dreams, frustrations—just like all of us. But, for one weekend, he and his family also have 500,000 friends show up in their back yard to help them sort out their destinies, to remind them of the power of love, a power that both clarifies and dissolves all goals and dreams. If Elliot never quite makes it all the way over the hill to Max’s that weekend, he takes a trip that takes him—and we hope, you—even farther. Peace, James Schamus, writer/producer

french friday

comme tout le monde sait ce que on n'utilise pas, on perd. pour cette raison j'ai décidé d'écrire en français ici de temps en temps, même si le poste est plein de fautes comme résultat.

alors, une langue différente mais toujours le même problème: de quoi j'écris?  peut-être juste un petit sommaire du semaine? comme d'habitude il me semble qu'il y a beaucoup de coïncidences. je sais que souvent c'est simplement la tête qui reconnais et donc fait cette connections--qu'il y a toujours des événements qu'on peut reconnais, et c'est seulement quand on veut les voir qu'ils deviennent un .  n'importe! 

mardi j'ai déjeuné en dehors avec une amie de boulot. après nous avons fini, elle est allé pour faire un visite à trader joe's pendant que j'ai cherché un bon coin dans le soleil. le petit tache que j'ai trouvé c'était sur les étages de l'église où se trouve une autre amie de boulot que j'ai voulu voir pendant pratiquement le mois d'août entier. nous avons parlé et puis un homme avec qui j'ai eu se croisent. hier soir, c'était même chose sauf qu'un autre homme. mes parents et leurs amis, nous avons en train de manger au resto. en rentrant de la salle de bain, mais voilà-- il était là aussi, avec une fille belle. ça suffit de mon passé pour quelques jours. 

le prochain hasard est beaucoup moins mélodramatique. juste une décision de préparer du quinoa pour le dîner. pendant que je le mangeais un ami me dit que ce jour était la première fois qu'il a entendu de ce grain! un peu bizarre, non?

il y avait un ou deux de plus, mais j'ai les oubliés.

j'ai vu le film cœur en papier ce semaine. au début, j'étais un peu déçu. la vedette, charlyne yi, me semble complètement affecté--comme hyper conscient de son apparence aux yeux des autres même si elle est fameux pour ne penser pas de cette choses. mais, comme le film a déroulé j'ai oublié ce criticisme pour penser sur les idées que le film a nous présenté. à la fin, il n'y a pas des grandes conclusions au sujet d'amour. quelle surprise! mais j'ai trouvé une consolation dans ces personnages familiers--mêmes émotions, mêmes problèmes... et là dans cette confusion était la clarté.  pour maintenant je ne cherche pas; seulement prendre plaisir dans ce que j'ai. et avec ce qui je l'ai.     

a quote

"Yet only the atrocities of the conquered are referred to as criminal acts; those of the conqueror are justified as necessary, heroic, and, even worse, as the fulfillment of God's will. What difference, finally, between the civilized man and the savage?"

-jim fergus, the wild girl

poema sujo

i have never gone to a city and hated it. some cities, like green bay, wisconsin, i have arrived in and not minded when it came time to depart, but i've never travel led to a city and really hated it. it's a bit surprising then that there are cities i love. it seems the cities on this list are there not only because of their aesthetic and culture but also because of the memories and experiences i have connected to them.

paris is one of these cities. i don't "love paris" in the same way that people who have visited the city for three days come back and tell their coworkers, oh my god, i just looooved paris. i love it in the way you love your first blanket--the one that has that peculiar smell to everyone else but you. to you it's one of the best smells, the strongest smells, even if you have no idea how to describe the scent. maybe the best way is as home. home not because i took my first steps there or have family there but home because i grew so much while there and parts are so familiar, comfortable, and welcoming. i will never forget the smell of the florist that hit me every monday - thursday right after exiting gaîté, right before turning left on rue daguerre; the white tiles from the park next to the monoprix where i walked djinn every third night; the bearded, crouched man who sat on the right side of the steps at duroc; the way it felt to unhinge the window and look out over the city and feel the breeze...

chicago is another one of these cities, but for completely different reasons. if paris is beautiful for it's overall appearance, the way it seems to have been crafted like one giant, intricate page in a pop-up book, chicago is exactly the opposite to me. it's beauty does not lie in it's whole but in it's parts. there are summer nights when the evening light makes everything appear like a stage movie scene. i want to walk through every door and see into the house with the ornate stained-glass windows, the apartment with the peeling window paint, the basement of the formidable church. compared to other big cities chicago feels small. that's the exact thing that makes it manageable to me, though, and from that desire to explore all its navigable parts, makes it huge once again.


la ville est dans l'homme
presque comme l'arbre
vole dans l'oiseau qui le quitte

see previous posts

all day i wanted to run across the vast blank screen.

olé!

i have become a foster kitty mom. this weekend i welcomed vladimir cat into my home with open arms. it's unfortunate that hit catmate to be has not been quite as accepting. while they have yet to claw or bite at eachother there has been enough hissing and low growling to fill a soundtrack for a movie about, well, two cats who are very unsure about eachother.

at first, vlad was playing the dominant male role. he would stalk tilly and then chase her under the bed or couch when she turned to run away. despite this, tilly would always creep back into the room, interested on seeing what the new cat was up to.

tonight it seems to have reversed. perhaps tilly is pissed that vlad's getting all the attention, or maybe she's just got her nerves up, but all night it's been tilly chasing vlad. just a moment ago vlad was sitting in the window sill and tilly pushed the door so that vlad was basically trapped in the window!

as all this unfolds i sit and watch and say things like "good tilly" or "good boy" or "tilly, you bitch! stop hissing!" sometimes i approach to ensure i'm in the middle to dissolve any potential cat fight, other times i watch as they seem to be incredible uncomfortable only to flop over on their backs like they want to play. really it just feels like i have two bulls in the house and i'm desperately waving my red cape. and as i look down i realize i'm wearing red pj pants...

birds of a feather

why do people hate pigeons? probably the reason my grandma hated all birds: they are dirty.
"they can't be much dirtier than us, plus they fly, grandma! so they don't even have to walk on the ground as much." she wasn't impressed with my logic. and looking back, if i was obsessive compulsive, that reasoning probably wouldn't have driven me to accept the winged creatures lovingly into my home either.

i spent a few hours in the park today watching the pigeons peck their way back and forth across the grass, terrorizing some prissy girls on a towel. the birds were in turn terrorized by two young boys with bikes. although the pigeons were smart enough to disperse as the boys rode their bikes through the middle of their pigeon huddle, they weren't smart enough to actually flee the area. again and again they danced: group of pigeons coo cooing as they waddle around a patch of grass. little boys circle around then dart at the birds. pigeons take flight to evade the youngsters. pigeons return to the same spot several minutes later. through all this back and forth i noticed that pigeons' flapping wings sound just like rustling leaves.

today is day 1 of 2 of the chicago air and water show, and when the pigeons weren't flying, i attempted to locate the fighter jets through the clouds. they can go a lot faster than their sound waves travel, so i was constantly looking in the wrong place. i was also tricked several times when the el rumbled by and i mistook it for a plane's roar.

the pigeons sound like leaves and the el sounds like a fighter jet.
that's practically a bad poem.

happy birthday to us!

in honor of certain important birthdays, a math problem: today mr. president is exactly twice as old as katharine who, 12 years ago, was a quarter of mr. president's current age. how old are they?

nighttime

i had climbed in bed, stretched, yawned, and arranged the blanket. i savor those first seconds. all the day's tension diffuses, displaced by comfort--a comfort that's more valued because it's fleeting and soon gives way to hot sheets and a smashed pillow. if i can keep my mind at bay during this time, it's suddenly 3:00am and i'm waking up to a cat on my head. if, however, a huge explosion goes off outside my house then it makes for a bit more trouble falling asleep. which is what happened. after several more crackles, the boom revealed itself as just one of a series of firecrackers, but it got me thinking all apocalyptic. not quite in the terrifying way the end of the world really would be, but more imagining so much humanity and activity just one day disappearing.

during this time i must've had my eyes closed because i opened them to find a huge object looming right above my face. it was so close, so big, and so nondescript. a shot of adrenaline ran through me before i realized what it was: a pillow.

i've thought about death a lot lately. seems to be the result of actual deaths, watching dead like me, and a few ridiculous conversations with my mom about where she'll live after my dad dies....a friend at work hates when people even mention the word. i understand it's not pleasant to think we'll one day all be six feet under, but that's just the thing--one day we will all be six feet under, or else a million little ashes. it's one thing we can all rely on. like the saying goes, death is the great equalizer. and in a weird way, i find it sort of reassuring. it's not like there's a chance you could be the only one of your friends and family that goes while everyone else is left to live for the rest of eternity. sure, you might kick it a few years or--worse case--decades before everyone else, but what's 20 years on an endless timeline?

this isn't to say i'm not scared of dying. frankly, i'm not quite sure how i feel about it, but i do know that me ignoring death won't result in death ignoring me. plus, contemplating it now as opposed to on my death bed seems likely to make the whole ride a bit smoother.

last night when i was striken with terror as a foreign, black shadow loomed in the room only to be a harmless cloth stuffed with feathers, i wondered if that wasn't what death might be: something we spend our whole lives fearing only to find that not only will it do us no harm, but it makes sleep a lot more comfortable.