Now having watched three episodes of Girls; am convinced to watch each and every proceeding storyline. Lena is first and foremost a writer who uses a camera to focus in on issues that pertain to her life. She is akin to Woody Allen in that she has wit, intelligence and the capacity to contextualize life experiences. While watching her, I get the sense that I am witness to a work in progress, that she is coming into her own in a reassuringly funny way, not funny like in a joke but fun like how stupid life is and can be.
Lena Dunham is a writer’s writer because while watching her perform you become pervy to her process; which in-turn allows you to believe that you too could step back and place yourself or someone else into a framed moment that turns into a gallery of frames hung on a white wall that is seen through a fish eye lens. The possibilities are endless.
In life we meet with so many types of people that can be narrowed down into characters. I feel challenged now to rewrite a new story where first I think about a central character and put thought to whom naturally would cross his/her path and have something be born that would otherwise never had occurred.
Writing to be writing is a path that at times has been cleared of the brambles and one walks into an open field where one sees a need to sit in the sun and one begins to ponder where to begin.
If you can, this life is something to unravel much like following after a piece of yarn back to its source. In that the piece of yarn use to be an article of clothing and one thread of it you start pulling on and soon the whole thing is laying at your feet, unraveled. But here is where it gets simple. You don’t wish for something otherwise than what is laying there. You twine it back into a ball and you lay it on the shelf.
That’s how I feel about who I am, something that has been unraveled. I like it that way, that I can now be where I am without wanting to be somewhere else. Seeing how I am no longer something made by society but something that got loose and overtime became unrecognizable, reduced to its most rudimentary form. A piece of string, yarn: what not, a thing that has multiple purposes. depending on what use I want to make of it.
We can’t change where we stand, we can only stand where we are and dissolve our minds in the comfort of just being a piece of string that use to be a sweater but now we can find more purpose by being available.
If we choose, it will be improved. A step up from what it was. For me, as I drove out in traffic I felt that my face wore a beatific smirk. This was granted because it felt good to ignore stimulant thoughts provoked by being in a vehicle. I am a hot head from Alabama, conditioned by long years of enduring violence. I expect the worst. And when I get into my truck and you get on my tail, well this can put my body into flight or fight. Some days are better but most times, I just try to drive without placing motives on why you are riding so close to me. This is where zazen placates my demons, creating this beatific look that is beguiled by the blue sky overhead. As if I were on my cushion, I sit following my breath, mindful of my posture.
Yesterday, I said to my woman that my goal was not to hurt anyone, to live this life and not kill anyone, not to drop off the edge of sanity. She said why. And I walked with this why and thought she has more balls than me, that in some way she has accepted death as part of life and that if she had to kill someone so be it. But maybe that was just my mind answering for her; maybe she thinks something all together different.
Makes me think of a story where the protagonist has this thought that he will die with his finger on the trigger because the world had changed and lawlessness became the norm. And I was thinking maybe have the story go along where you think one person is the most fiercest, the most brave but by stories end, he is reduced to zero. But that in itself would not be bad. Makes me think that would be the starting point of the story.
I feel a slight burn in my chest, call it anxiety. This feeling of general inquietude I try to soften with cognitive prayers that sound like this all the day through thank you Jesus, thank you Lord forever thankful amen and anon.
Certain people, better yet, people that travel in twos can disconcert me, make me feel judged. No, more to the point would be of a sudden inadequate, ill-formed and misbegotten. I talk to my woman about these insecure feelings and she says its normal. It helps to bring light to this subject. Hence this idea enhancement, where we Photoshop what is not up to our standard, where we gloss over the ruder aspect of who we are towards a more benign stance of who we want to be.
I avoid certain viewing subjects because I feel disinterested. Take for instances, the HBO series Girls. For months now, I have simply wrote it off, that there was no way to gain my interest. That is until I back tracked and watched Tiny Furniture, a film that I had tried years before but saw it as artsy. This time, I managed to watch it up to the point that Jemima Kirke makes her appearance by slapping the Lena Durham character- Aura. At first, I thought this would be one of those films where the added character Charlotte was actually only real in Aura’s mind. More muse than character. And in some way she is just that; she works as a catalyst for change. But the film goes deeper, references are made only to reappear further in the movie and you begin to realize that this is actually a very inviting movie, with a natural dram arch that carries you though till the ending credits.
To say the least, at this point I am a fan of Lena Dunham. The reason being is that she can say the wittiest things all the while being sincere. Irony is hidden, deeply in the folds of the movie. I want to watch it again with pen and paper, to try to pick up on the language play. I have yet to watch Girls and wonder if it will possess the charm of Tiny Furniture.
I just watched the first five minutes of the opening of Girls. The pacing is different than Tiny Furniture; also, the point of view has shifted. TF seemed solely to revolve around Aura. Now suddenly we are being introduced to multiple characters at a rapid fire secession. I am trying to follow the dialog and will, just will need more time. Only so much in a day, hard to justify seating watching TV. I try to reserve my TV watching til the night time.
Mine is enchantment produced by the gnarled tree set at the end of a graveled rectangle cut across slantwise by rectangle pavers similarly hued accented by roundly dwarfed box-woods .
I have to expel my breath so taken in by this shot; certain arrangements have that affect on me. Beauty can be dialed up by compounding elements. The curving path? was it of necessity? or did something dictate the choice?
Someone could take credit, but if it were merely a straight path, the affect would be dampened. I sit and think of what was the general start to even conceive of such a design. There is a part of me that sees that lone tree in the film adaptation of Tolkin’s The Return of The King with The White Tree of Gondor which stood as a symbol of Gondor in the court of the fountain in Minas Tirith.
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Such images have been with us for ages and some designers are tapping into that vein. Back to the modern garden above, there are six bushes and the tree would total out the verticals at seven. Which adds to curved path by not conforming completely to being symmetrical. And the rectangle rock garden has a burial look to it as it were a memorial. Which lends a haunting quality to the over all design.
I like this design a lot; it brings to mind Dutch gardens. When I travel in the Netherlands, I like biking through the villages with an eye out to spot such beauties. Usually, they are small in design but large in concepts.
Are you tired of even having to condescend to the level where you look see if there is news of the final demise of the Non-Islamic State of Universal Unrest, a bunch of bearded fucks bent on the destruction of the world? Men living out there days inside the confines of a male locker room.
Well, I am feed up.
What now? Screw it, I will just sit back and contemplate that a governing force will rise up of Islamic people willing to quell this pustation, this pimple on the butt of Islam. Don’t wait for Turkey’s rough road president Recep Tayyip Erdoğan. What a pompous ass too willing to shut down the voice of the common man/woman in Turkey. I Traveled overland in Turkey from the coast line all the way across the plateaus to Dogubayzit, most eastern city, bordering Iran.
While In Turkey for some months, hitchhiking, I was never without hospitality. Though most memorable was how sincere and abiding and consistent were the Kurds, not once while traveling towards the east would they allow me to pay for my own meal. I fondly remember that after every meal they would hand me a bottle of perfume that we would splash on our hands and face. What I remember about Turkey too was how secular it seemed compared to other Islamic countries I had passed through, And the cause of this was their former leader Mustafa Kemal Atatürk whose military campaigns led to victory in the Turkish War of Independence. Atatürk then embarked upon a program of political, economic, and cultural reforms, seeking to transform the former Ottoman Empire into a modern and secular nation-state. Almost in every cafe, there would be his mug staring back at you.
When I read about Turkey, I try to separate the people from the politics of their leaders; hopefully, others separate us from our political leaders.
How can a political group believe that beheading people will endorse their message? Their message being simply to terrorize. The sad thing is this Non Islamic State of Universal Unrest, these bearded numb nuts willing to rape, pillage and terrorize Innocent people. This has to stop. I say go to your room and shave your heads and chant I am a bad boy one million times while stomping on your dicks.
I am enjoying listening to interviews with DFW.
Sitting in this sun bright room looking at the screen in front of me thinking in terms of his writing, I have concluded that writing for me seems nearly impossible. At least his kind of writing. My writing is far more simply, not even to the point. Stupidly, I think where to begin and once again I try to lead myself onward by creating a scene that someone moves through. And then the mind sputters out and all is blank. Which has me turning back upon myself, my condition and of a sudden I am writing. Doggedly, I write about not being able to write. This has become my default mode of writing. The description of my failure as a writer, but more importantly my failure as a human being. Hold on, that is a strong accusation. How can someone fail at being human? There would have to be an element of shame, which is internalized guilt.
What am I guilty of? Of original sin? For years I was a drug/booze addled human being looking to get laid. Now in the aftermath of those unconscious years where I was out there looking for tail, those habits still throb throughout my being still whoremongering like a panting dog. Tiits and ass; ass and tiits. In betwixt the two, her brown eyes meet mine.
For days now, I have been slowly reading a new yorker bio of DFW. Here is the link: The Unfinished
He has me biting at the bit to purchase his novel Infinite Jest. Can’t tell you how many times I have stood in book stores weighing it in my hand, just the heft of it alone is intimidating. His work is more of the mind, then actually a work of fiction. His thinking unravels your on thinking, making you think he really has a case of too much thinking, making you think who has time. But I want to read it; want to make it my fuck book, the book that I wont part from, the book that I carry around the house with me. I don’t want to rush it, to read through the more confabulated parts. But to slow to a walk, and even sitting still with only one sentence read.
Suicide is a stranger to me. I cannot see how it would end things. Where would the insight come from to kill oneself? The desperation behooves me. Somehow there has to be a built in devise that some of us carry. That’s the only plausible reason. Some carry their deaths inside them. I do not understand this. In combination with this idea of why suicide, we have soldiers electing to kill themselves. To sit in a room, to exclude others. To hang yourself. Shoot yourself. There has to be a loud voice that will not take no for an answer. Now take the gun and pull the trigger. What about my family? You act as if it could be reasoned away. I am stalled out on this side of humanity, not understanding one iota of why people kill themselves. We can give reasons, so can they. But more has to be brought to bear on this subject.