Random Shit: A Tab-Dump, 12/15/10

I need to get rid of this stockpile of tabs I’ve been accumulating, so here you go:

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Found this website about Lynch a while ago, and thought it was worth sharing. Not the best-written site, but the analysis is still critically-oriented and seems, for the most part, theoretically informed by auteur theory and psychoanalysis. I haven’t read the whole site, but  from what I’ve read, I find the author’s specific interpretations of films a bit narrow. Still, it’s about Lynch, and it’s theoretically based, so I might as well share it.

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Another Lynch-related post. This time, Lynch doing some pop-style music stuff.

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Speaking of psychoanalysis, here’s an entertaining video regarding Kristeva’s theory of abjection, as explicated in her Powers of Horror: An Essay on Abjection (Note: I used an Amazon link to present this text, but don’t but it from Amazon. Fuck Amazon for booting Wikileaks, as well as for its subtle censorship of LGBTQ literature last year). I haven’t read Powers of Horror yet, but I’m really looking forward to eventually getting around to it: the basics of the theory, which I’ve cursorily gathered from her book’s first chapter, “Approaching Abjection,” have played an integral part of my theoretical approach in many of the essay I wrote while working on my B.A., as well as in my recent analysis of Earl Sweatshirt’s “Earl” video. I particularly enjoy the way he drinks the milk at the end: it seems a fitting illustration of that delicate balance that theory-nerds know all too well, the balance between theory and praxis.

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Too much of a Calvin and Hobbes fan not to post this. This illustrator, Tim (user name “ninjaink” on Deviantart.com) ,  definitely draws from Bill Watterson, and I find this and his other works to be wonderful, too much Calvin-and-Hobbes-style to not post. Not only do his works draw from Calvin and Hobbes immensely, but a hodgepodge of other illustrators, mediums, and genres as well. Good postmodern fun. Compare, for example, the above picture to the Watterson original, if you have it/can find it, from which the above is taken nearly frame-for-frame (in the original, Calvin takes off his clothes pretending to be Tarzan, leaving them at Susie’s house, and walks home with Hobbes in the last frame instead). Good stuff indeed.

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"Meanwhile... Eeyore questions his luck after finding a new tail and unexpected consequences."

For more postmodern fun, check out Giant Hamburger‘s two web comics, “Alien vs. Pooh” and “The Poohing.” Definitely loled at quite a few of these frames.

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Some political graffiti/artwork. I’m not a fan of all of these pieces, e.g., the pro-Obama ones (I had high hopes when Obama was elected, and I’m glad he won rather than McCain; but, nonetheless, he has proved himself to be just another centrist and bureaucrat…). Still, some of these are quite intriguing, and my recently developed fascination with political graffiti makes this too intriguing not to post. My faves include (as labeled on the website): “Searching,” “Brian Haw,” “Vote for Nobody” (love this one), “Change Not Coins,” “Society,” and “Laser Guided Democracy.” Features a few from Banksy.

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This is beautiful. I only wish there was more of this here in the States. I find the use of paint-bombs, as opposed to, say, molotovs, particularly interesting. Consider the following:

“Never attack the system in terms of relations of force. That is the (revolutionary) imagination the system itself forces upon you — the system which survives only by constantly drawing those attacking it into fighting on the ground of reality, which is always its own. But shift the struggle into the symbolic sphere, where the rule is that of challenge, reversion and outbidding. So that death can only be met by equal or greater death. Defy the system by a gift to which it cannot respond except by its own death and its own collapse” (Baudrillard, 17).

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This site is in the process of transcribing all of Kafka’s diary entries from 1910-1923 onto a tumblr. Kafka and Tumblr: I’d say it speaks for itself. Via Sara at Cervinae.

Note: Sara hasn’t been posting to her blog too much lately, but you can also check her out at her Tumblr, on which she has been plenty busy posting awesome stuff.

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Works cited:

Baudrillard, Jean. The Sprit of Terrorism. Brooklyn, Verso: 2003, Print.

“House Keys and Hardware” (Draft 4) (2010)

[Okay, folks, here is an updated draft. 45 HITS TOTAL since I posted the last draft (draft 3). Thank you so much for reading! =)]

“House Keys and Hardware” (Draft 4) (2010)

oooooThe man came in sometime in the early afternoon. We noticed him right off. He came in and hesitated, looking around. He was pale and thin and wearing a worn-looking, leather motorcycle jacket, and big, black aviator sunglasses. Which I noticed because it wasn’t sunny out that day, and because he didn’t take them off when he first came in, like he had forgotten he was wearing them. They looked like two bottomless, gaping holes in his face. He kept looking around like eventually he would see something and remember what he was looking for.

oooooMaybe “man” is misleading. He seemed to finally notice me looking at him and came up to the counter. When he took off his glasses it was like years came off of him. He looked like just a kid. Without the glasses he didn’t look pale and thin, he looked boyish and fair-skinned. His eyes had a glassy look, and he sort of acted like he was on something. But his eyes didn’t look red at all, the white parts looked bright and clean around their deep green centers. They just looked glazed-over and tired.

oooooHe said, “I need to have a key made.” He kept looking around like he was waiting for something to appear, and kept fidgeting with his hands. I noticed he had cut all the fingers off of his gloves and they were frayed and unraveling around the cuts.

oooooOur key machine was broken. “Sorry, sir. Our key machine is broken.” The key machine had broken last week. It was kind of terrifying when it happened. I was making a copy and the machine was running fine. It has two noises that it makes when it cuts a key, it goes back and forth. First, when it’s just running, it makes a humming sound, but really loud. It sort of sounds like it’s breathing in, but really hard, like it’s gasping. Then, when it cuts into a fresh key, it makes this god-awful screaming sound, it screams like a demon, just for a few seconds. Then it goes back to the other sound, like it’s gasping air in again to let out another horrible scream.

oooooSo I was making this copy and it was running fine, making its normal back-and-forth cycle of noises. At the time I didn’t know what happened, but when I remember it, I always remember hearing it happen before I saw what was happening. The machine cut in the second or third time and started to scream. Then there was a loud, metallic snap, and a grinding noise, like teeth being stripped off a gear. Then just a dull electrical buzz, like its metal insides were trying to move but couldn’t, and a faint, smoldering odor. I heard the snap and tried to turn and throw up my hands just as a fragment of key whizzed by my face. I heard it happen, but I didn’t realize what had happened until after I realized I was all right, when it was too late to matter. I remember letting my hands fall and just staring at it, listening to it buzzing like a crushed insect, wondering what had happened. Then I got it and thanked God none of the fragments had caught me in the face.

oooooI didn’t explain any of this to this guy. I just apologized and said it was broken. He acted like he didn’t understand what I was telling him.

ooooo“Please, I need a key, are you sure?” He looked at me and his eyes looked scared. “Please?”

oooooI said, “I’m sorry, sir. There’s nothing I can do. We won’t be able to get it repaired until Friday.” It was Tuesday. He started to get upset and fidgeted with his hands more.

ooooo“Please, mister, please, it’s just a key. I need this, I can’t wait until then. I need a key now, please.” He started getting louder and his voice started to sound high-pitched and strained. He wouldn’t look at me straight, he kept looking around, sort of twisting his head around to look but not moving it, like his head was only moving because it was being pulled around by his eyes as they strained to take everything in. They sort of rolled around in his head, they had that look like an animal’s eyes get sometimes when there’s something wrong with the animal. I saw he was gritting his teeth, grinding them a little, and as his words passed through they kind of ran together into a sort of slurred chant: “Please, please, give me the key. Are you sure you can’t? I really need this. Please.”

oooooHe was getting really loud now, he was starting to freak out. He was starting to freak me out. Jim must have heard me- I mean, the guy, freaking out, because he came up from the back of the shop and stood in the doorway behind me with his arms crossed, just watching the guy. I was starting to get a little angry.

ooooo“Look, man, I told you, ” shrugging my shoulders,” The key machine is broken. I can’t help you, I’m sorry.” I started to say, “Is there something else I can help you with?” but he leaned forward and planted his hands on the counter, cutting me off.

ooooo“No, you look goddammit,” he was yelling and frantic now, “You’ve got to help me, you don’t understand how bad I need this key. Please, I need this. Please. Just give me the goddamn key.” He was leaning forward, starting to get in my face. He reeked of leather and stale cigarette. I started to back away,  then Jim appeared next to me.

ooooo“Excuse me, sir,” Jim said, taking off his glasses. He looked stern. Normally he looks like just some kindly old guy: short, a little overweight, kind of dorky. He has this silvery, flattened pompadour and these coke-bottle glasses. Hell, he even wears a pocket protector. But when Jim wants to look stern, none of that matters, all of it goes away. The guy looked at him like a maniac.

ooooo“Who are you? I need a key goddamn it. You have to help me, please. Can’t you make this guy give me a key?” The guy started leaning in toward Jim, breathing heavy, sort of leaning down at him, since like I said, Jim is kind of short.

oooooJim didn’t move or blink. Jim was Special Forces in Vietnam before he started working for Social Security, back before he retired. He had black belts in karate, kung fu, aikido, and even some Burmese martial art I had never heard of, he had been studying the stuff since he was just a kid. He could have ripped this guy limb from limb.

ooooo“Please, give me the key,” said the guy.

ooooo“You heard what my employee said?” asked Jim. He said it with force, not raising his voice, not letting his tone waver, but still commanding and full, like it came from the bottom of his guts, you could feel it hit you in your body. The guy was looking all over the place with wild eyes, glancing at Jim quickly and then looking away. Finally he caught Jim’s eyes and stopped. He just stood there, frozen, looking at Jim, not saying anything.

ooooo“You heard what my employee said,” Jim repeated. “We cannot make you a key. We cannot help you. We do not have what you are looking for here. Please leave my shop now.” He looked at the guy with those piercing, unflinching eyes he gets when he wants to be stern. The guy just stared at him. Then he looked at me, and he looked so desperate and sad, like he felt like the last person on earth. It was kind of pathetic.

oooooHe unzipped his jacket a little and took out the aviators, flicked his shaggy hair to one side and put the glasses back on. As soon as he put them on the look of anxiety drained away. He looked totally vacant, and the years seemed to suddenly reappear in the details of his face. His skin looked worn again, like his jacket, and his face looked all skin-and-bones, like when he had first come in. Up close now, I could see myself gazing back, mirrored in the dark glasses, double, familiar but distorted.

ooooo“All right.” He started to turn. “I’ll leave then.”

ooooo“Yes,” said Jim, “Please leave.” The guy started to walk toward the entrance.

ooooo“Please don’t come back,” he added.

oooooThe guy paused and glanced back over his shoulder, half-nodded at Jim, then me. Then he flicked his hair to the side again, walked out the door, and we never saw him again.

“House Keys and Hardware” (Draft 3) (2010)

“House Keys and Hardware” (Draft 3) (2010)

oooooThe man came in sometime in the early afternoon. We noticed him right off. He came in and hesitated, looking around. He was pale and thin and wearing a worn-looking leather motorcycle jacket, and big, black aviator sunglasses. Which I noticed because it wasn’t sunny out that day, and because he didn’t take them off when he first came in, like he had forgotten he was wearing them. They looked like two bottomless, gaping holes in his face. He kept looking around like eventually he would see something and remember what he was looking for.

oooooMaybe “man” is misleading. He seemed to finally notice me looking at him and came up to the counter. When he took off his glasses it was like years came off of him. He looked like just a kid. Without the glasses he didn’t look pale and thin, he looked boyish and fair-skinned. His eyes had a glassy look, and he sort of acted like he was on something. But his eyes didn’t look red at all, the white parts looked bright and clean around their deep green centers. They just looked glazed-over and tired.

oooooHe said, “I need to have a key made.” He kept looking around like he was waiting for something to appear, and kept fidgeting with his hands. I noticed he had cut all the fingers off of his gloves and they were frayed and unraveling around the cuts.

oooooOur key machine was broken. “Sorry, sir. Our key machine is broken.” The key machine had broken last week. It was kind of terrifying when it happened. I was making a copy and the machine was running fine. It has two noises that it makes when it cuts a key, it goes back and forth. First, when it’s just running, it makes a humming sound, but really loud. It sort of sounds like it’s breathing in, but really hard, like it’s gasping. Then, when it cuts into a fresh key, it makes this god-awful screaming sound, it screams like a demon, just for a few seconds. Then it goes back to the other sound, like it’s gasping air in again to let out another horrible scream.

oooooSo I was making this copy and it was running fine, making its normal back-and-forth cycle of noises. At the time I didn’t know what happened, but when I remember it, I always remember hearing it happen before I saw what was happening. The machine cut in the second or third time and started to scream. Then there was a loud, metallic snap, and a grinding noise, like teeth being stripped off a gear. Then just a dull electrical buzz, like its metal insides were trying to move but couldn’t, and a faint, smoldering odor. I heard the snap and tried to turn and bring up my hands just as a fragment of key whizzed by my face. I heard it happen, but I didn’t realize what had happened until after I realized I was all right, when it was too late to matter. I remember bringing my hands down and just staring at it, listening to it buzzing like a crushed insect, wondering what had happened. Then I got it and thanked God none of the fragments had caught me in the face.

oooooI didn’t explain any of this to this guy. I just apologized and said it was broken. He acted like he didn’t understand what I was telling him.

ooooo“Please, I need a key, are you sure?” He looked at me and his eyes looked scared. “Please?”

oooooI said, “I’m sorry, sir. There’s nothing I can do. We won’t be able to get it repaired until Friday.” It was Tuesday. He started to get upset and fidgeted with his hands more.

ooooo“Please, mister, please, it’s just a key. I need a key, I can’t wait until then. I need a key now, please.” He started getting louder and his voice started to sound high-pitched and strained. He wouldn’t look at me straight, he kept looking around, sort of twisting his head around to look but not moving it, like his head was only moving because it was being pulled around by his eyes as they strained to take everything in. They sort of rolled around in his head, they had that look like an animal’s eyes get sometimes when there’s something wrong with the animal. I saw he was gritting his teeth, grinding them a little, and as his words passed through they kind of ran together into a sort of slurred chant: “Please, please give me the key. Are you sure you can’t? I really need this, please.”

oooooHe was getting loud now, he was starting to freak out. He was starting to freak me out. Jim must have heard me- I mean, the guy, freaking out, because he came up from the back of the shop and stood in the doorway behind me with his arms crossed, just watching the guy. I was starting to get a little angry.

ooooo“Look, man, I told you. The key machine is broken. I can’t help you, I’m sorry” I said, shrugging my shoulders. I started to say, “Is there something else I can help you with?” but he leaned forward and planted his hands on the counter, cutting me off.

ooooo“No, you look goddammit,” he was yelling and frantic now, “You’ve got to help me, you don’t understand how bad I need this key. Please, I need this. Please. Just give me the goddamn key.” He was leaning forward, starting to get in my face. I could smell leather and stale cigarette. I started to back away and then Jim appeared next to me.

ooooo“Excuse me, sir,” Jim said, taking off his glasses. He looked stern. Normally he looks like just some kindly old guy: short, a little overweight, kind of dorky with his silvery, flattened pompadour and his coke-bottle glasses. Hell, he even wears a pocket protector. But when Jim wants to look stern, none of that matters, all of it goes away. The guy looked at him like a maniac.

ooooo“Who are you? I need a key goddamn it. You have to help me, please. Can’t you make this guy give me a key?” The guy started leaning in toward Jim, breathing heavy, sort of leaning down at him, since like I said, Jim is kind of short.

oooooJim didn’t move or blink. Jim was Special Forces in Vietnam before he started working for Social Security, back before he retired. He had black belts in karate, kung fu, aikido, and even some Burmese martial art I had never heard of, he had been studying the stuff since he was just a kid. He could have ripped this guy limb from limb if he had wanted to.

ooooo“Please, give me a key,” said the guy.

ooooo“You heard what my employee said?” asked Jim. He said it with force, not raising his voice, not letting his tone waver, but still commanding and full, like it came from the bottom of his big belly, you could feel it hit you in your body. The guy was looking all over the place with wild eyes, glancing at Jim and then looking away quickly. Finally he caught Jim’s eyes and stopped. He just stood there for a moment, frozen looking at Jim, not saying anything.

ooooo“You heard what my employee said,” Jim repeated. “We cannot make you a key. We cannot help you. We do not have what you are looking for here. Please leave my shop now.” He looked at the guy with those piercing, unflinching eyes he gets when he wants to be stern. The guy just stared at him. Then he looked at me, and he looked so desperate and sad, like he felt like the last person on earth. It was kind of pathetic.

oooooHe unzipped his jacket a little and took out the aviators, flicked his shaggy hair to one side and put the glasses back on. As soon as he put them on the look of anxiety drained away. He looked totally vacant, and the years seemed to suddenly reappear in the details of his face. His skin looked worn, like his jacket, and his face looked all skin-and-bones, like when he had first come in. Up close now, I could see myself gazing back in the dark glasses, double, familiar but distorted.

ooooo“All right.” He started to turn. “I’ll leave then.”

ooooo“Yes,” said Jim, “Please leave.” The guy started to walk toward the entrance.

ooooo“Please don’t come back,” he added.

oooooThe guy paused and glanced back over his shoulder, half-nodded at Jim, then me. Then he flicked his hair to the side again, walked out the door, and we never saw him again.

“Theia” (2009)

“Theia” (2009)

I. Strophe

Let me tell you how it felt…

It felt like
a sublime glimpse
before I staggered
and my own dogs tore me apart.

It felt like
a neurotic glance
over the shoulder
that damned me back to hell.

It felt like
an entrancing gaze
cast into the river
that kept me drinking until I starved.

It felt like
a resentful glare
at the inevitable, tragic future
and my words that couldn’t speak it.

II. Antistrophe

O Theia!
That the light of your eyes
should once more fall upon me,
and my leaden heart be transmuted
with your returning of the dawn.
That the light of my eyes
should once more swell your body,
and with our collision deliver up
a silver moon, or a golden sun.

III. Epode/Epistrophe

I shall inter a sacrifice in words
Or silent song of marble story-gilt,
Whose melody will ever be deferred
From reaching she so fair that never wilts;
But ever will fair youth’s soft pipes play on,
In bliss that never fades but always aches,
Of mad pursuit, of struggle, and of time,
Which, static, lies like ash in urn ensconced,
A testament thereby in art enshrined
To beauty’s lie and truth’s abhorrent face.

And I know how Elissa felt, how Oenone felt, how Echo felt, how Sisyphus…
I have heard Cassandra dreaming in the temple…

(From Fall semester. I’d like to hear feedback on this. It’s more formally experimental for me than usual, in that it’s more formally intentional.)