Let me tell you a bit about my family and then you will never ever wonder about my behavior ever again. My mom won a drawing for office supplies so for Christmas we all received paper clips or binder clips. We also all got slide whistles which commenced an odd chorus of swoopy tunes and rattles.
Today I receive the following voicemail from my father who was upstairs in the same house as me: "Well, you may never forget me, but I've already forgotten you. Goodbye."
Tonight, as my sister–who was heading up the stairs to bed and was not discussing musical instruments in any way shape or form with me, her sister, who was becoming frustrated with an on-line job application (aren't they supposed to be simpler?)–says, "P.S. Have I ever told you I own an electric guitar?"
Me: (surprised) Whaaat?
My sister: I own an electric guitar. Good night.
30 December 2010
21 December 2010
20 December 2010
year end missive.
I don't ever want to live alone. There we go, a strange thing from frequent recluse that I am, and something that I learned in July and then again, over Thanksgiving vacation. Last Thanksgiving wasn't like this. But I can't take it anymore. Which has led me to the conclusion that my 2010 new years res.–that I haven't told you much about and will continue to tell you nothing about–took on a life of its own. That can join the list of things I'm not sharing. Keeping a stiff upper lip is not a habit I always support, but this year I've got emails I've written to people but never sent. I just can't say things. Are you on that list? I don't know, I can't tell you. What I can tell you is that I'm not sure if I hate this year or if it's been the best year ever. I'm prone to the latter because I like to take charge of my life and enjoy it and some amazing things have happened (I'M AN AUNT!!!!). I am sure that stress will kill you and that God is love and I hate my stomach and I love film. I love film so much that I will take great risks to pursue it when I'm not a very daring child. Graduate school here me roar.
That's my year end report. I'm graduated, I'd rather drink orange juice than eat food, I have the cutest nephew ever, and I love you.
That's my year end report. I'm graduated, I'd rather drink orange juice than eat food, I have the cutest nephew ever, and I love you.
19 December 2010
sans school, I want to...
...make things like this:
(More New York Times. Note: I need to start reading multiple newspapers because I don't understand Republicans at all.)
One Sunday afternoon this holiday season, as the literary professionals were putting finishing touches on their year-end lists of best books, citizen critics were busy just reading. On a No. 6 train between Astor Place and 125th Street full of shopping bags and bundled-up passengers lost in books analog and digital, we asked underground readers for their reviews. (continue reading and viewing pleasurely here.)
(More New York Times. Note: I need to start reading multiple newspapers because I don't understand Republicans at all.)
Literary Underground
from sketchbook by Amy Goldwasser and Peter ArkleOne Sunday afternoon this holiday season, as the literary professionals were putting finishing touches on their year-end lists of best books, citizen critics were busy just reading. On a No. 6 train between Astor Place and 125th Street full of shopping bags and bundled-up passengers lost in books analog and digital, we asked underground readers for their reviews. (continue reading and viewing pleasurely here.)
18 December 2010
don't want to stop looking
After a band reunion at the local joint for the Christmas show, I took the long way home to see a beautiful dead dinosaur. The great old tabernacle burned down. Took them over 20 hours to put the fire out. The brick walls remain, the ceiling doesn't; it looks like it's been bombed. Something so horrific you never want to look away. It was raining all day today like heaven had mercy on the smoldering ruin.
Can we leave the skeleton up forever?
Can we leave the skeleton up forever?
14 December 2010
now I face my cyborg
This is what I study:
"Whose vision is it? It is the vision of a computer, a cyborg, an automatic missile."
Lev Manovitch
"The Synthetic Image and Its Subject"
Film Theory and Criticism 7th edition
ed. by Leo Braudy and Marshall Cohen
p. 793
"Whose vision is it? It is the vision of a computer, a cyborg, an automatic missile."
Lev Manovitch
"The Synthetic Image and Its Subject"
Film Theory and Criticism 7th edition
ed. by Leo Braudy and Marshall Cohen
p. 793
13 December 2010
theory of relativity part II
Read Jessica Francis Kane's Where do you find the time?
Here's a preview:
"It's occasionally been found in speeding taxis and Paris hotel rooms. Alpine meadows and mourning doves are rich in it, though can be hard to find. Forget about fountains and rainbows, they're myths. Rarely it falls from geese flying north."
Now go read it here at McSweeney's. I promise, you'll find time.
I also recommend Adele's Rolling in the Deep music vid. Found it on my lovely friend ke's blog.
Here's a preview:
"It's occasionally been found in speeding taxis and Paris hotel rooms. Alpine meadows and mourning doves are rich in it, though can be hard to find. Forget about fountains and rainbows, they're myths. Rarely it falls from geese flying north."
Now go read it here at McSweeney's. I promise, you'll find time.
I also recommend Adele's Rolling in the Deep music vid. Found it on my lovely friend ke's blog.
12 December 2010
theory of relativity part I
December isn't what I thought it was. That's my conclusion these past few months starting in September. The weather kind of changes, I'm swept up in various different activities, I've grown –> everything has changed.
But it hasn't.
Am I not prepared?
Am I holding onto something?
Is time moving faster? (yes.)
In elementary school you have themed calendars. October becomes associated with black cats and the color orange. November is fallen leaves and little pilgrim couples in their black and white period costumes. This is clear: October is not November.
Perhaps it is this lack of distinction between months. They slip out as the next kind of wanders in without announcing itself. The calendar tells me there's something going on. November 30th. December 1st. What's different? Why has the word changed? We just went from Tuesday to Wednesday.
How do months differ?
And why does this matter?
I'm in an ambiguous soup of time. Yesterday I was laying in my hammock writing a paper about Beyonce's If I were a boy and tomorrow I will be in a cafe in Paraguay eating mbeyu. Does anyone else know this feeling? Albert Einstein studied it. Kind of.
But it hasn't.
Am I not prepared?
Am I holding onto something?
Is time moving faster? (yes.)
In elementary school you have themed calendars. October becomes associated with black cats and the color orange. November is fallen leaves and little pilgrim couples in their black and white period costumes. This is clear: October is not November.
Perhaps it is this lack of distinction between months. They slip out as the next kind of wanders in without announcing itself. The calendar tells me there's something going on. November 30th. December 1st. What's different? Why has the word changed? We just went from Tuesday to Wednesday.
How do months differ?
And why does this matter?
I'm in an ambiguous soup of time. Yesterday I was laying in my hammock writing a paper about Beyonce's If I were a boy and tomorrow I will be in a cafe in Paraguay eating mbeyu. Does anyone else know this feeling? Albert Einstein studied it. Kind of.
11 December 2010
trying to direct bees
a preview of what's to come (it's only 21 seconds people. there was this bee in my glasses.)
trying to direct bees from Marge Bjork on Vimeo.
trying to direct bees from Marge Bjork on Vimeo.
09 December 2010
07 December 2010
some stars don't align but then the academy of motion pictures hits them over the head
and drags them back to the cave.
I don't know either.
Strangely enough, I don't like the way e e cummings reads his own poetry. How do you feel about that? I love his work but would read it entirely differently than the man who's work it is. Art history is alive.
Yes, I have listened to B.o.B's Don't let me fall on repeat since I got home from my last Monty Python class ever. Do you know I now find MP extremely comforting? If I've learned something this year it's how important silliness is. Aich (H), if we don't (a) take ourselves too seriously, (b) see a lot of terrible things, (c) make a lot of mistakes, and (u)mm... I should've stuck with three.
Three more classes, my dears.
Three classes
Some papers
Some ambiguous finals
Editing one documentary
I don't know either.
Strangely enough, I don't like the way e e cummings reads his own poetry. How do you feel about that? I love his work but would read it entirely differently than the man who's work it is. Art history is alive.
Yes, I have listened to B.o.B's Don't let me fall on repeat since I got home from my last Monty Python class ever. Do you know I now find MP extremely comforting? If I've learned something this year it's how important silliness is. Aich (H), if we don't (a) take ourselves too seriously, (b) see a lot of terrible things, (c) make a lot of mistakes, and (u)mm... I should've stuck with three.
Three more classes, my dears.
Three classes
Some papers
Some ambiguous finals
Editing one documentary
05 December 2010
January is beginning to take shape
There once was a lady named Marge
Whose indirection weighed on her like a barge.
On the cusp of graduation,
waiting patiently for some intimation (of the future),
She inched her way towards being at large.
Whose indirection weighed on her like a barge.
On the cusp of graduation,
waiting patiently for some intimation (of the future),
She inched her way towards being at large.
02 December 2010
humor in scholastic writing
and this quote:
"(Liberty, Equality, Fraternity–represented by a nude woman, since abstract ideas have feminine gender in European languages)"
-William Moritz
"Animation." The Oxford History of World Cinema
ed. by Geoffrey Knowell-Smith
Oxford University Press c. 1996
p. 273
"(Liberty, Equality, Fraternity–represented by a nude woman, since abstract ideas have feminine gender in European languages)"
-William Moritz
"Animation." The Oxford History of World Cinema
ed. by Geoffrey Knowell-Smith
Oxford University Press c. 1996
p. 273
29 November 2010
you could try
"I want to listen to James Brown with you."
Would you like to know something silly? My career choice involves reading forty year old newspapers, avidly watching music videos, studying movie credits, pretending to look at everything as though there were a camera frame around it, noticing how when i use a remote I'm not just changing a channel I'm editing a show/commercial/movie, and listening to people talk about Freud.
Yes. You read correctly: I would actually like to do scholarly work on music videos. In fact, I'm thinking about including the evolution of the "independent woman" in music videos from Destiny's Child (skipping over gag me kelly clarkson) to Ne-Yo in my class presentation of my personal film theory.
"I want to watch music videos with you."
28 November 2010
tomorrow something silly, I promise.
There's a film professor at my uni who's first wife died of cancer. I've had very little person to person interaction with him but as part of one of my jobs I've seen a lot of his home movies.
He made a documentary about her which seems a mindblowing thing. How to face that horror? What benefit to hope for? Three children without a mother, a husband without a wife. The gaping holes.
The incongruity of existence, or might I say eternity, is that watching her die in this film, I felt nudged to hope. It is not that she was Eisenstein or Mother Theresa or even Michael J. Fox-like championing for a cure. She was alive and then she died.
What blunt words.
That few years ago when I watched that documentary I was in a serious funk. It was that point in life when you are twenty and you're trying to remember why we repeat all of the same actions everyday. I was not spurred to find greater meaning in teeth-brushing because I now knew the opposite: death. (For I posit that I did not and still do not quite know what is this thing called death.) I had felt a strange warmth enter my heart, what I can only call charity.
By charity, I mean that connotation given by LDS theology: the pure love of Christ. Or, if you be not a believer in Christ, perhaps you know what I mean with the simple: pure love.
By charity, I mean I was reminded that I needed people. I above all believe that in life we are meant to love and have relationships. Without this, we fail.
I always wonder why I felt this when I watched the film.
Now go look up some jokes or silly limericks because our faces have become way too long and pious.
He made a documentary about her which seems a mindblowing thing. How to face that horror? What benefit to hope for? Three children without a mother, a husband without a wife. The gaping holes.
The incongruity of existence, or might I say eternity, is that watching her die in this film, I felt nudged to hope. It is not that she was Eisenstein or Mother Theresa or even Michael J. Fox-like championing for a cure. She was alive and then she died.
What blunt words.
That few years ago when I watched that documentary I was in a serious funk. It was that point in life when you are twenty and you're trying to remember why we repeat all of the same actions everyday. I was not spurred to find greater meaning in teeth-brushing because I now knew the opposite: death. (For I posit that I did not and still do not quite know what is this thing called death.) I had felt a strange warmth enter my heart, what I can only call charity.
By charity, I mean that connotation given by LDS theology: the pure love of Christ. Or, if you be not a believer in Christ, perhaps you know what I mean with the simple: pure love.
By charity, I mean I was reminded that I needed people. I above all believe that in life we are meant to love and have relationships. Without this, we fail.
I always wonder why I felt this when I watched the film.
Now go look up some jokes or silly limericks because our faces have become way too long and pious.
27 November 2010
from funk to groove, I think...
I am about to pull myself out of a funk. Yes, I've fallen into a funk this week and while I have petty medical reasons I can blame, mostly, it's been a funk and nobody knows what to do about those.
Here's a story for you. I love having my toenails painted orange. I discovered this when I got a pedi for Megdarling's wedding and yesterday I purchased my very own orange nail polish. Yes, I bought nail polish. I hate accumulating stuff I won't use and nail polish and I have a dubious relationship. Ever seen me with painted fingernails?
Cousin L painted my nails pink once. I lasted a day.
I painted my nails black once. I let that wear off.
So this evening during my millionth episode of some TV show I tried to paint my toe nails orange. And by that I mean my toe nails are orange and maybe a little extra around the sides. Makes my little feeties look pretty.
But that is not what inspired me out of my funk. My eyes are tired from the amount of computer screen/TV screenage I've been having (some of the subjection recreational, but also due to my jobs/profession/school). I took a break and turned to this book, The Elegance of the Hedgehog (which has been taking me a long time because I'm also reading a few text books, magazines, newspapers, and some other books for research). Anyway, the power of the printed word. Viva those pens....typewriters...etc.
Why I felt the need to blog about the pitiful inner workings of my lazy life (I am most lazy when I am most stressed, P.S.) is beyond the comprehension of any one of us. I just hope that my failure can help us all bond more closely together. Also, I hope if I publicly state I'm going to get out of a rut I will privately become productive again.
Love,
Marge.
Here's a story for you. I love having my toenails painted orange. I discovered this when I got a pedi for Megdarling's wedding and yesterday I purchased my very own orange nail polish. Yes, I bought nail polish. I hate accumulating stuff I won't use and nail polish and I have a dubious relationship. Ever seen me with painted fingernails?
Cousin L painted my nails pink once. I lasted a day.
I painted my nails black once. I let that wear off.
So this evening during my millionth episode of some TV show I tried to paint my toe nails orange. And by that I mean my toe nails are orange and maybe a little extra around the sides. Makes my little feeties look pretty.
But that is not what inspired me out of my funk. My eyes are tired from the amount of computer screen/TV screenage I've been having (some of the subjection recreational, but also due to my jobs/profession/school). I took a break and turned to this book, The Elegance of the Hedgehog (which has been taking me a long time because I'm also reading a few text books, magazines, newspapers, and some other books for research). Anyway, the power of the printed word. Viva those pens....typewriters...etc.
Why I felt the need to blog about the pitiful inner workings of my lazy life (I am most lazy when I am most stressed, P.S.) is beyond the comprehension of any one of us. I just hope that my failure can help us all bond more closely together. Also, I hope if I publicly state I'm going to get out of a rut I will privately become productive again.
Love,
Marge.
deep breaths into paper bags. or staring lazily out windows for hours.
I look back through summer journaling and feel UVB rays again. Which warms me just enough to wonder if there's a way I can embrace winter more fully.
Winter moment #1:
When the sun is setting, there's an hour where I can look out my parlour window at the black, wild limbs of those tall trees across the way backed by ice blue sky and those mountains. It's like I've stepped into one of my grandpa's photos from 1967.
There's so much to do before I graduate.
{sigh}
Winter moment #1:
When the sun is setting, there's an hour where I can look out my parlour window at the black, wild limbs of those tall trees across the way backed by ice blue sky and those mountains. It's like I've stepped into one of my grandpa's photos from 1967.
There's so much to do before I graduate.
{sigh}
26 November 2010
25 November 2010
assertive, ascertain, a certain ummm...
We are now five inches away from the crossroads of my transition from student to graduate. If you would really like to know I'm looking for work as a researcher. A lot of films, be they fiction or non, require researchers. Just to know things. When you make a film you've got to know things and I like to be the person who's searching for that knowledge. I dress the part, you know it: unwieldy sweaters, vintage and/or chunky shoes, and I push my glasses up by the bridge which will forever drive my mom batty.
So I'm dressed for success, I have a good resume to start with...
The world suddenly seems very large and I am very fish-like in a floundering kind of way. Does anyone else feel like they've been pushed onto a big city street that's full of the hustle and bustle of people taking care of themselves? And you're going to have to be extremely assertive to catch anyone's eye?
Hmmm....
So I'm dressed for success, I have a good resume to start with...
The world suddenly seems very large and I am very fish-like in a floundering kind of way. Does anyone else feel like they've been pushed onto a big city street that's full of the hustle and bustle of people taking care of themselves? And you're going to have to be extremely assertive to catch anyone's eye?
Hmmm....
21 November 2010
mirrors in the winter
The introduction to Hans Christian Andersen's The Snow Queen reads a bit like this:
Once upon a time there was a troll, the most evil troll of them all; he was called the devil. One day he was particularly pleased with himself, for he had invented a mirror which had the strange power of being able to make anything good or beautiful that it reflected appear horrid, and all that was evil and worthless seem attractive and worth while. The most beautiful landscape looked like spinach, and the kindest and most honorable people looked repulsive or ridiculous.
"It is a very amusing mirror," said the devil. But the most amusing part of it all was that if a good or a kind thought passed through anyone's mind the most horrible grin would appear on the face in the mirror. It was so entertaining that the devil himself laughed out loud. All the little trolls who went to troll school, where the devil was headmaster, said that a miracle had taken place. Now for the first time one could see what humanity and the world really looked like--at least, they thought.
They ran all over with the mirror, until there wasn't a country or a person in the whole world that had not been reflected and distorted in it. At last they decided to fly up to heaven to poke fun of the angels and God Himself. All together they carried the mirror, and flew up higher and higher. The nearer they came to heaven, the harder the mirror laughed, so that the trolls could hardly hold onto it; still they flew higher and higher: upward toward God and the angels, then the mirror shook so violently from laughter that they lost their grasp; it fell and broke into hundreds Of millions of billions and some odd pieces.
It was then that it really caused trouble, much more than it ever had before. Some of the splinters were as tiny as grains of sand and just as light, so that they were spread by the winds all over the world. When a sliver like that entered someone's eye it stayed there; and the person, forever after, would see the world distorted, since even the tiniest fragment contained all the evil qualities of the whole mirror.
You can read more of this here. This has been on my mind since we read it in a class on Wednesday.
Once upon a time there was a troll, the most evil troll of them all; he was called the devil. One day he was particularly pleased with himself, for he had invented a mirror which had the strange power of being able to make anything good or beautiful that it reflected appear horrid, and all that was evil and worthless seem attractive and worth while. The most beautiful landscape looked like spinach, and the kindest and most honorable people looked repulsive or ridiculous.
"It is a very amusing mirror," said the devil. But the most amusing part of it all was that if a good or a kind thought passed through anyone's mind the most horrible grin would appear on the face in the mirror. It was so entertaining that the devil himself laughed out loud. All the little trolls who went to troll school, where the devil was headmaster, said that a miracle had taken place. Now for the first time one could see what humanity and the world really looked like--at least, they thought.
They ran all over with the mirror, until there wasn't a country or a person in the whole world that had not been reflected and distorted in it. At last they decided to fly up to heaven to poke fun of the angels and God Himself. All together they carried the mirror, and flew up higher and higher. The nearer they came to heaven, the harder the mirror laughed, so that the trolls could hardly hold onto it; still they flew higher and higher: upward toward God and the angels, then the mirror shook so violently from laughter that they lost their grasp; it fell and broke into hundreds Of millions of billions and some odd pieces.
It was then that it really caused trouble, much more than it ever had before. Some of the splinters were as tiny as grains of sand and just as light, so that they were spread by the winds all over the world. When a sliver like that entered someone's eye it stayed there; and the person, forever after, would see the world distorted, since even the tiniest fragment contained all the evil qualities of the whole mirror.
You can read more of this here. This has been on my mind since we read it in a class on Wednesday.
20 November 2010
from places in scandinavia
Perhaps we can say I've developed Stockholm Syndrome from being a student for so long. What is it Dear Old Wiki says towards the end of the page? You become dependent blah blah blah? This would be why liberation takes me kicking and screaming.
There's a lot about S.S. that can fodder some good pondering.
Note: tis two ante meridiem and I am not falling asleep.
There's a lot about S.S. that can fodder some good pondering.
Note: tis two ante meridiem and I am not falling asleep.
17 November 2010
no more.....school?
I'm scared.
I only have two more weeks of classes and then I am done.
One week of Thanksgiving and no classes.
Two weeks of classes.
Then finals.
And then,
I'm done.
It is good and this is life and I don't really need to be afraid and I don't want you to comfort me. Don't tell me anything.
Just listen:
I'm scared.
I only have two more weeks of classes and then I am done.
One week of Thanksgiving and no classes.
Two weeks of classes.
Then finals.
And then,
I'm done.
It is good and this is life and I don't really need to be afraid and I don't want you to comfort me. Don't tell me anything.
Just listen:
I'm scared.
13 November 2010
meditation
Maybe I should be at the gym instead. If I were at the gym I could read my book on the history of the various theories of ethics that have informed documentary filmmaking while I exercise. Such productivity! Why have I been so tired today? Oh look, this is me not relaxing. I should imagine a scrub brush cleaning out empty shelves in my mind. Everything all washed out, clean, clean, clean....like a puffy white pillow. Mmm pillows. This pillow is pretty comfy. I wonder where I can get knitting needles from. Should I budget them in or just borrow some? My sister says we're not doing Christmas presents this year but she has a baby so of course she doesn't care about presents and I just have good ideas sometimes... This can't be right. Is there a better way of meditating? Should I read about this on the internet some more? My bed is so great. I hope I don't fall asleep. Or maybe I should. Should I take a nap? Or should I take a sleeping pill and go to sleep early tonight? Is that why I've been tired? I'm turning into a bear, I just know it. Ah! Empty shelves! Clean brain! Peaceful. Breathe. My breath is smelly from that guacamole I just ate. I really like spicy food.
hunta juddle
I am extremely frightened of missing children photos. I can't look at them and I feel guilty about this.
Now read this article "IRS sits on data pointing to missing children" from the New York Times and we'll discuss it.
Also, congratulations to Daw Aung San Suu Kyi on getting a little extra legroom.
Do you call it Myanmar or Burma? Quickly now, speak up, souls hang in the balance.
Now, break!
Now read this article "IRS sits on data pointing to missing children" from the New York Times and we'll discuss it.
Also, congratulations to Daw Aung San Suu Kyi on getting a little extra legroom.
Do you call it Myanmar or Burma? Quickly now, speak up, souls hang in the balance.
Now, break!
10 November 2010
1: tom waits's voice
2: "You named me as your lover, well, I thought I could be anything." from The Tallest Man on Earth's song King of Spain. Italics added for emphasis.
 |
| tom waits |
call me pretentious. i am. but if you buy me five quinces I'll make us both happy.
To go back to the Pudderida fiasco:
Tonight in my "Great Films" class we watched a straight-up bit of surrealist film that historically made Salvador Dali jealous. Really. Apparently when it was being screened he kicked over the projector. So imagine watching a film that would make Dali green and then a subsequent discussion over what is art.
What is art?
That time old question. A little voice whispers in your ear to ignore it and enjoy a good honest rustic piece of pie instead. Like this one:
But no. We fall into the trap, back to rice pudding postmodern theory because defining what qualifies as art is my new favorite metaphor to explain structuralism/the silliness of structuralism (I was referencing structuralism and Claude Levi-Strauss here). So the definitions of art used to be pretty rigid (now is not the time to argue about whether rigidity remains, good/bad etc). There were these pompous yet possibly sincere academy/salons in France that set the rules about what was art.
You may have seen this little piece, The Gleaners by Millet, before:
It was rejected by the Louvre.
Yeah, they were rigid.
Anyway, things get crazy with radicals like Courbet, Manet, Monet, and Cezanne. Don't blink there's the Salon des Refusés, Picasso, and people putting urinals on pedestals. All hell is breaking loose. Hide ya kids, hide ya wives, hide ya husbands too because the artists are having their say and then, rewind. The Gleaners. Not art. Art now but not art in 1857. Structuralists say language makes sense of the world for us, it's our mediator. Nobody is literally in contact with reality. So crazy things can happen like the Louvre rejecting aforementioned painting?
But here's an even greater example of where structuralism may get you (specifically the scene at 7min16:
Therefore we can conclude that structuralism leads to Jerry Lewis and Monty Python.
Second and open-ended conclusion: Is this where higher education gets you?
Tonight in my "Great Films" class we watched a straight-up bit of surrealist film that historically made Salvador Dali jealous. Really. Apparently when it was being screened he kicked over the projector. So imagine watching a film that would make Dali green and then a subsequent discussion over what is art.
What is art?
That time old question. A little voice whispers in your ear to ignore it and enjoy a good honest rustic piece of pie instead. Like this one:
 |
| Quince Bisquit pie from Lottie+Doof |
But no. We fall into the trap, back to rice pudding postmodern theory because defining what qualifies as art is my new favorite metaphor to explain structuralism/the silliness of structuralism (I was referencing structuralism and Claude Levi-Strauss here). So the definitions of art used to be pretty rigid (now is not the time to argue about whether rigidity remains, good/bad etc). There were these pompous yet possibly sincere academy/salons in France that set the rules about what was art.
You may have seen this little piece, The Gleaners by Millet, before:
It was rejected by the Louvre.
Yeah, they were rigid.
Anyway, things get crazy with radicals like Courbet, Manet, Monet, and Cezanne. Don't blink there's the Salon des Refusés, Picasso, and people putting urinals on pedestals. All hell is breaking loose. Hide ya kids, hide ya wives, hide ya husbands too because the artists are having their say and then, rewind. The Gleaners. Not art. Art now but not art in 1857. Structuralists say language makes sense of the world for us, it's our mediator. Nobody is literally in contact with reality. So crazy things can happen like the Louvre rejecting aforementioned painting?
But here's an even greater example of where structuralism may get you (specifically the scene at 7min16:
Therefore we can conclude that structuralism leads to Jerry Lewis and Monty Python.
Second and open-ended conclusion: Is this where higher education gets you?
09 November 2010
and let this feeble body fail*
I only recommend Leonard Cohen's Last Year's Man if you're comfortable listening to songs that express disillusionment with Christianity and other societal concerns. It made me want to cry. Like every time I read Hosea and how he is told to marry a whore I want to cry. It's so pretty to me.
(listen on Youtube)
I have a fascination with religious worship and spirituality. It's half sincere belief and half primeval/primitive/primordial...something. The two halves feed off each other. I stick with my church because it seems the best to me, but I can't get enough of other leanings either. After all, I want to know everything about how other people reach for the divine.
Someday we can talk about how I considered atheism once. Which I assume wouldn't have lasted long because this is so intrinsic to me. Or how Sunday evening I couldn't stop staring at the Jesus painted on the cross in the Catholic Cathedral. Or how someday I want to spend a whole Sunday going to various churches. And how my dad reminded me that I need to be seeking out the words of live apostles. But for now, we'll say that tonight I'm skipping out of Monty Python early to go to Sacred Harp Singing at the local Episcopal church. It's just been too many months without singing old school hymns about death and drunkards.
*line from a Sacred Harp song
(listen on Youtube)
I have a fascination with religious worship and spirituality. It's half sincere belief and half primeval/primitive/primordial...something. The two halves feed off each other. I stick with my church because it seems the best to me, but I can't get enough of other leanings either. After all, I want to know everything about how other people reach for the divine.
Someday we can talk about how I considered atheism once. Which I assume wouldn't have lasted long because this is so intrinsic to me. Or how Sunday evening I couldn't stop staring at the Jesus painted on the cross in the Catholic Cathedral. Or how someday I want to spend a whole Sunday going to various churches. And how my dad reminded me that I need to be seeking out the words of live apostles. But for now, we'll say that tonight I'm skipping out of Monty Python early to go to Sacred Harp Singing at the local Episcopal church. It's just been too many months without singing old school hymns about death and drunkards.
*line from a Sacred Harp song
08 November 2010
jacque-ice pudderrida
I frequently want to dunk my head in a barrel of water to drown out all the theorists. Last night I was at a dinner party where Jacques Derrida was brought up over rice pudding. Yeah, I was thinking, "Oh noooooooo," too.
J.D. lead to referencing this obnoxious thing that some people came up with at some point. You get no more specifics than that because I'm so tired of dropping names. It's like if I knew anything about sports I could now draw a terrible metaphor to people who frequently do things like fumble. People fumble in croquet, right? (I'm going to come back to that later.) So this obnoxious thing: we know things, not from experience, but from talking about experience. So it's not so much that this weekend I was at a dinner party, it's that I have this phrase "dinner party" to describe this event. And "dinner party" conjures an image in your mind not so much because you yourself have been a member of a dinner party, but because after thoroughly digesting your Peking duck, the next day you met Ethel for tea where you discussed the various members of the dinner party and how atrocious it was when Bertie had clam juice dribbling down his chin. We're getting nitpicky here and saying that you'd still be an ignorant lump if we didn't have language to explain what happened to us. (That is, if I'm properly understanding the words and ideology people fling around.) Which is kind of genius. And kind of asinine.
Now we can rewind a few years to when I was in a class where my mates were trying to ascertain from the T.A. just what kind of papers we were supposed to be writing. At the time I thought the T.A. was not understanding the questions people were asking as he kept waving his arms and saying, "It's all semantics." I laughed then and now I laugh harder. One could say it was all semantics.
So saying things like fumbling and croquet in the same sentence brings up something else that happened at the dinner party. The rice pudding was a bit runnier than what is generally considered pudding (though still good). I facetiously suggested that we could add potato flakes. Five minutes later I realized that some people might have thought I was serious. Which caused me to (a) wonder if I'm becoming my father and (b) reflect upon how I have a growing respect for Monty Python and Bakhtin's interpretation of carnivalesque humor.
I can't believe the mumbo jumbo that comes out of my mouth/typtastic-fingers these days.
(pretty rice pudding picture taken from smitten kitchen, a very yummy blog.)
J.D. lead to referencing this obnoxious thing that some people came up with at some point. You get no more specifics than that because I'm so tired of dropping names. It's like if I knew anything about sports I could now draw a terrible metaphor to people who frequently do things like fumble. People fumble in croquet, right? (I'm going to come back to that later.) So this obnoxious thing: we know things, not from experience, but from talking about experience. So it's not so much that this weekend I was at a dinner party, it's that I have this phrase "dinner party" to describe this event. And "dinner party" conjures an image in your mind not so much because you yourself have been a member of a dinner party, but because after thoroughly digesting your Peking duck, the next day you met Ethel for tea where you discussed the various members of the dinner party and how atrocious it was when Bertie had clam juice dribbling down his chin. We're getting nitpicky here and saying that you'd still be an ignorant lump if we didn't have language to explain what happened to us. (That is, if I'm properly understanding the words and ideology people fling around.) Which is kind of genius. And kind of asinine.
Now we can rewind a few years to when I was in a class where my mates were trying to ascertain from the T.A. just what kind of papers we were supposed to be writing. At the time I thought the T.A. was not understanding the questions people were asking as he kept waving his arms and saying, "It's all semantics." I laughed then and now I laugh harder. One could say it was all semantics.
So saying things like fumbling and croquet in the same sentence brings up something else that happened at the dinner party. The rice pudding was a bit runnier than what is generally considered pudding (though still good). I facetiously suggested that we could add potato flakes. Five minutes later I realized that some people might have thought I was serious. Which caused me to (a) wonder if I'm becoming my father and (b) reflect upon how I have a growing respect for Monty Python and Bakhtin's interpretation of carnivalesque humor.
I can't believe the mumbo jumbo that comes out of my mouth/typtastic-fingers these days.
(pretty rice pudding picture taken from smitten kitchen, a very yummy blog.)
03 November 2010
i am not weary over miniskirt dresses. i am weary over...
1. When I get to heaven I'm going to an Otis Redding concert.
2. A girl in my living room just said she didn't think a woman should ever be president. Now, I don't really agree with that but I do feel like there could possibly be some intelligent arguments against having a Mrs. or Ms. or Miss President. I'm not quite sure what they are. What I am sure is NOT an intelligent argument is, "It's called hormones." And then to continue on about how female hormones keep you from good decision making. A girl said that. Now if that doesn't just make you want to cuss like a sailor.
A girl said that. It's so horrifying. Disgusting. Pardon, I have to go puke.
2. A girl in my living room just said she didn't think a woman should ever be president. Now, I don't really agree with that but I do feel like there could possibly be some intelligent arguments against having a Mrs. or Ms. or Miss President. I'm not quite sure what they are. What I am sure is NOT an intelligent argument is, "It's called hormones." And then to continue on about how female hormones keep you from good decision making. A girl said that. Now if that doesn't just make you want to cuss like a sailor.
A girl said that. It's so horrifying. Disgusting. Pardon, I have to go puke.
01 November 2010
the tastebuds of bees
I am still avoiding writing the horrid non-fiction article for children's mag (pardon, magazine) (that's a newsstand type magazine, otherwise known as a periodical, not the arsenal and pas le magazine français). They say to write what you're an expert in/what you're confident about/interested/what you know/blah blah blah blah blah....so that leaves me with....avant-garde film? Stan Brakhage? Who's my audience? There must be some way I can cleverly serve anti-conventionalism to children. I mean, it's in their nature anyway, they just aren't quite self-aware about it yet. Technically I'm allowed to nack out a niche into the teens, but can we be more blasé? Let teens find Velvet Underground on their own, seven year olds are so much fun. Not that teens aren't great, but it's always rewarding to find youngers who are becoming aware of existentialism before the average sum of their peers. Note how much you will enjoy Julien if you watch Au revoir les enfants (1987). And writing for the youngers is so much more of a challenge. I, Marge Bjork, will combine Brakhage and puns and it will be terrific.
No words are coming out yet, though. So I've been reading food blogs. And Smitten-Kitchen keeps adding flaky salt to her recipes, to which I say, I need flaky salt. Why don't I have any?
Maybe I should be writing about salt instead?
photo courtesy of B.M. and that Spiral Jetty trip
No. I just know that salt tastes good. Not enough. So, my paltry readership (in number only, I'd hardly dare insult you to your eyes), how do I charm and pun youngers into a greater understanding of Brakhage? He believes cinema is a treasure trove of unrealized magic, the magic to see things in new ways. From birth we've been programed to view the world a certain way, not just ideologically, but in what registers as important in our brains, what we focus on. Film has the capability to break through our humdrum visions and find something fresh through it's ability to manipulate time and space and any other number of things. Shackles will be broken, possibility awaits, we can see as a baby or a bee.
Brakhage, himself, often painted directly onto celluloid sometimes including "found" objects (Mothlight 1963) or photo stills (The Dante Quartet 1987).
Well, now I lay me down to sleep to dream about flaky salt. Hopefully.
p.s. is it ethical to write about brakhage who potentially has an easily discoverable not children appropriate portion of his oeuvre?
No words are coming out yet, though. So I've been reading food blogs. And Smitten-Kitchen keeps adding flaky salt to her recipes, to which I say, I need flaky salt. Why don't I have any?
Maybe I should be writing about salt instead?
No. I just know that salt tastes good. Not enough. So, my paltry readership (in number only, I'd hardly dare insult you to your eyes), how do I charm and pun youngers into a greater understanding of Brakhage? He believes cinema is a treasure trove of unrealized magic, the magic to see things in new ways. From birth we've been programed to view the world a certain way, not just ideologically, but in what registers as important in our brains, what we focus on. Film has the capability to break through our humdrum visions and find something fresh through it's ability to manipulate time and space and any other number of things. Shackles will be broken, possibility awaits, we can see as a baby or a bee.
Brakhage, himself, often painted directly onto celluloid sometimes including "found" objects (Mothlight 1963) or photo stills (The Dante Quartet 1987).
Well, now I lay me down to sleep to dream about flaky salt. Hopefully.
p.s. is it ethical to write about brakhage who potentially has an easily discoverable not children appropriate portion of his oeuvre?
there's a dead goose on the landing
my roommates throw big parties. they're rather creative big parties, i have to respect that. through the course of their shenanigans i learn new things about myself. in the spring i learned i love llamas. a lot. i want one. this halloween i've developed a fondness for having taxidermied animals around the house. what this says about me, i don't know.
30 October 2010
i'm not quite laughing
Researching the history of British comedy before the 1960s is only funny when in the midst of articles on music hall musicians, comedians, and analysis on what T. S. Eliot meant when he used the world "popular" in writing a memorial, you come across articles with abstracts like this:
"The article offers tips on how teachers can maintain the interest of special needs students during school assemblies in Great Britain. It is suggested that introductory music be played as pupils enter the hall to offer them something to listen to. The article also provides advice for how teachers can ensure that students on oxygen and students with epilepsy will be appropriately monitored during the assembly."
Oh the incongruity.
29 October 2010
Can I tell you something? Even if I may be repeating myself?
What scared me about the auto accident in Paraguay was how completely I fell apart. J, who was experiencing the same thing, had to take care of me. I couldn't stop crying until I fell asleep in the crazy van ride back to Asuncion. The next day I couldn't stop crying for hours. Sometimes I still cry now and I'm not sure why.
I wrote a paper for my English class about how I didn't know how to deal with this because it's so dramatic. I live for cinema but I don't want to be living grandiose cinematic moments. Life is absurdist, life is banal and I love every bit of that. It's all I want.
A few years ago a friend ask me to watch Elephant (2003). It's about a school shooting, but the shooting doesn't happen until the last 15 minutes of the film. The first hour just follows average high schoolers through their average day. S asked me to watch with him because I was the only person he knew that could be happy and find meaning if the whole film were nothing but quotidian. It's true. I just wanted to keep watching the kids in photo journalism developing their prints. I didn't ever want to get to the climactic moment.
This isn't to say I'm still a complete wreck. I no longer feel shaky like everything could dissolve at any moment to leave me floating in a lonely fog, I no longer hold my breath when I go over a bump in a car, I no longer stare dumbly at people when they ask me to tell them stories of Paraguay. I can even talk about the accident out loud now if I have to.
I just still don't know what to think. I just still feel vulnerable as h. I feel how much I need people which is a weird thing for a recluse like me.
Can I also tell you how much I love you?
sincerely,
Marge
What scared me about the auto accident in Paraguay was how completely I fell apart. J, who was experiencing the same thing, had to take care of me. I couldn't stop crying until I fell asleep in the crazy van ride back to Asuncion. The next day I couldn't stop crying for hours. Sometimes I still cry now and I'm not sure why.
I wrote a paper for my English class about how I didn't know how to deal with this because it's so dramatic. I live for cinema but I don't want to be living grandiose cinematic moments. Life is absurdist, life is banal and I love every bit of that. It's all I want.
A few years ago a friend ask me to watch Elephant (2003). It's about a school shooting, but the shooting doesn't happen until the last 15 minutes of the film. The first hour just follows average high schoolers through their average day. S asked me to watch with him because I was the only person he knew that could be happy and find meaning if the whole film were nothing but quotidian. It's true. I just wanted to keep watching the kids in photo journalism developing their prints. I didn't ever want to get to the climactic moment.
This isn't to say I'm still a complete wreck. I no longer feel shaky like everything could dissolve at any moment to leave me floating in a lonely fog, I no longer hold my breath when I go over a bump in a car, I no longer stare dumbly at people when they ask me to tell them stories of Paraguay. I can even talk about the accident out loud now if I have to.
I just still don't know what to think. I just still feel vulnerable as h. I feel how much I need people which is a weird thing for a recluse like me.
Can I also tell you how much I love you?
sincerely,
Marge
27 October 2010
one topic chopped into many pieces
I am currently living with taxidermied animals, mutilated mannequins, oh and some people, too.
One quarter of our two toilets work. You figure that one out.
A pet peeve of mine is when people compliment me when I don't wear my glasses. Get over it, I'm going to continue doing the four-eyed thing. When I wear contacts it's a sign that I'm struggling with migraine-land. Should I puke all over your face so you know how pleased I am with my unglassed face? That's rude of me to say but I really hate it.
I really want to own an overhead projector. They are all sorts of aesthetically pleasing and inspiring to me.
I am not a total aesthete. I looked it up today to make sure.
I have had some very delightful news but I can't count my chickens and share them with you yet. But what I can say is that I am about to embark upon writing a paper script for a 75 minute documentary which is also a very delightful prospect.
One quarter of our two toilets work. You figure that one out.
A pet peeve of mine is when people compliment me when I don't wear my glasses. Get over it, I'm going to continue doing the four-eyed thing. When I wear contacts it's a sign that I'm struggling with migraine-land. Should I puke all over your face so you know how pleased I am with my unglassed face? That's rude of me to say but I really hate it.
I really want to own an overhead projector. They are all sorts of aesthetically pleasing and inspiring to me.
I am not a total aesthete. I looked it up today to make sure.
I have had some very delightful news but I can't count my chickens and share them with you yet. But what I can say is that I am about to embark upon writing a paper script for a 75 minute documentary which is also a very delightful prospect.
26 October 2010
grey day shun, or, as the seasons devolve
Once (perhaps it was last night) I kind of tried to dye my hair reddish. You might point out that my hair already leans reddish in the brunette spectrum. Well maybe that's why this morning when I looked at my hair in the mirror I thought, If I hadn't been there, I wouldn't believe I'd dyed my hair at all.
The absurdity of how fairly unchanged my hair looks, tempts me to buy another package of dye and try again to see how many times I can dye my hair with such imperceptible change. Absurdism will be my downfall.
This is all part of my attempt to be La Roux, or more appropriately the androgynous performing Elly Jackson half of La Roux, for Halloween. I'm mesmerized by her. The short red hair, bold style, outskirts attitude, and on top of all this she sings in my vocal range! This has never happened before in all of pop history.
As a side note, my Freddy & the Dreamers radio station has now devolved into The Doors and Aerosmith. Not that I didn't go through an Aerosmith phase in junior high and not that I don't like a little doorsiness now and then....but we were going for goofy, goony Freddy, remember?
What I'm trying to get at is this (note the ironic tone as I now devolve and digress some more)
1. Even though I love La Roux and she will serve as my new style icon, I still can't imagine that I'll actually expand my color palette out of my greys, tans, blues, blacks, creams, and reds. Green? What? Bright colors, what?
2. I also don't foresee the advent of more make-up colors. And even though I've always wanted redder hair and apparently I can get a pretty natural redder look I'm still hesitant because what if I have to keep dying it so none of us get bored with my previously enjoyable but now dulldrum boring brown?
3. La Roux is also amazing because she has escaped being categorized as "adorable" or "cute." Androgyny is so fantastic. I am not sure if I will, at any point, ever escape being "cute" in a (non)pejorative way. Although I generally work this in my favor. Like when I threaten to cut people.
4. I am most definitely boring in the "writing nonfiction for children and adolescent" category. This is my latest english assignment. Write for publication in a children's mag. Well, no children's mag will take me, I'm way too depressing.
5. It will never fail that every year I will become a slugabed and feel rather hibernationish.
6. Google docs believes that internet should be capitalized.
24 October 2010
21 October 2010
my favorite tv show of old
I was always happy to be "sick" on Wednesday mornings when I was in elementary school so I could stay home and watch this:
how much product would I have to put in my hair?
I was planning on being salty for halloween:
But I just can't get enough of herrrrrrrrrrr:
when I saw this ^ music video I knew I was in love. Piet Mondrian colors!
But I just can't get enough of herrrrrrrrrrr:
19 October 2010
ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh
also, it has been seeming like a good decision to....oh gosh, say it out loud, use words, type, type, type...
it kind of still seems like a good idea to move home for the month of january.
it also seems so permanent.
so different.
so much of an end to lovely things.
but my documentary heart is longing, longing, longing to be a lonely girl set loose on the world. and i've never been able to deny my documentary heart.
it kind of still seems like a good idea to move home for the month of january.
it also seems so permanent.
so different.
so much of an end to lovely things.
but my documentary heart is longing, longing, longing to be a lonely girl set loose on the world. and i've never been able to deny my documentary heart.
they say it's possible to be in love with a person but
Nothing quickens my heart like this:
"The exceptional technical facilities of the AFI Silver include film formats from 16 to 70mm, high-definition digital cinema video projection, broadcast quality video recording and distance learning capabilities via satellite, fiber and the Internet. Whether it's silent film at the proper frame rate with live musical accompaniment, 70mm wide screen spectaculars or digital cinema, the AFI Silver offers state-of-the-art technology in each of its three theatres - with seating for 400, 200 and 75, respectively - as well as in its world-class conference room, all available to rent."
Seriously. Whisper that in my ear and I'll fall to pieces.
17 October 2010
it was like a styrophoam hug, did you like it?
Deadlines, deadlines, so many deadlines. So many people in my livingroom and so many of them I really have no interest in ever talking to because I'm being tired and snottyyyyyyyy. So tired. This halloween party we're having at our house and I'm supposed to be showing enthusiasm for sounds like it's going to get even biggerrrrrr and I just want to curl up in my beddddddddd. Sometimes I think I'm on the brink of losing all my intellect. Sometimes I wonder why my life goal was to be an artist and an intellectual: begging for failure. Sometimes we should all wish I was shy again so that I wouldn't open my mouth up so much. Sometimes I want to stick my head in a bucket of cold water and see how long I can hold my breath. So tired. I should shut up. Oh no, oh no, oh no, oh no, oh no, I sometimes just want to pick up, move, and disappear. Off to see the world. Sionara. Ciao. Goodbyes, goodbyes, don't want to be charming so I'm disappearinggggggggggg.
Shutting up now.
No I'm not. Apparently one time I wrote on a hot cocoa mix packet, "I hate stories like this." (I know it was me, my handwriting is unmistakable.) And I might not have exactly thought that sentiment again today during church but I did think that there is probably more complexity to that Vietnam war story that she told and I might have thought of Dayan. Because last night I realized I could totally defend one of the crazier of the film theorists. When you can argue in favor of a crazy film theorist crazy crazy you know you're crazy. But my brother-in-law is still more crazy and he said it so himself. Ah, family bonding. That wasn't a sarcastic remark.
Snotty, snot, snot, snot, snot, snot, snottyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyy
tired.
Shutting up now.
No I'm not. Apparently one time I wrote on a hot cocoa mix packet, "I hate stories like this." (I know it was me, my handwriting is unmistakable.) And I might not have exactly thought that sentiment again today during church but I did think that there is probably more complexity to that Vietnam war story that she told and I might have thought of Dayan. Because last night I realized I could totally defend one of the crazier of the film theorists. When you can argue in favor of a crazy film theorist crazy crazy you know you're crazy. But my brother-in-law is still more crazy and he said it so himself. Ah, family bonding. That wasn't a sarcastic remark.
Snotty, snot, snot, snot, snot, snot, snottyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyy
tired.
14 October 2010
patches.
There is touch of construction going on at the south end of campus which means I now park my bike and have to make a bit of a detour through a little campus park and up a hill and around some buildings until I'm finally going in the direction I want to go.
This afternoon, I decided it's not so bad. I keep running into my uncle, who is a professor, as we now both traverse the hill. It's not often I remember I'm his niece and that's a special thing. We lived so far away when I was a kid, I didn't know what aunt and uncles were like.
But this afternoon he said "Hows my favorite Marge?" and walked me to my bicycle.
This afternoon, I decided it's not so bad. I keep running into my uncle, who is a professor, as we now both traverse the hill. It's not often I remember I'm his niece and that's a special thing. We lived so far away when I was a kid, I didn't know what aunt and uncles were like.
But this afternoon he said "Hows my favorite Marge?" and walked me to my bicycle.
another reason for buffy
A New York Times article on how bullying starts young young young young young these days or maybe always.
I felt vindicated when they cite shows like Hannah Montana, that have extremely self-centered protagonists, as having a negative effect on young girls. However, they compare Montana to Brady Bunch girls which is a little ridiculous. Why not Buffy?
Also, an interesting article about how women are treated in France. In the article they point to the World Economic's 2010 Forum ("world economic's" links to a description of the forum, "2010 forum" to an article about the 2010 forum) that says France has fallen from 18th place to 46th place and now ranks behind Kazakhstan in gender equality. But I've been reading up on the World Economic Forum and it ranks countries by how much they've progressed or digressed in the past year. Alors, it seems the forum compares progress and not the actual standard of equality. And France fell in ranking because "of the departure this year of several high-ranking women from the government of President Nicolas Sarkozy." That being said, it doesn't seem terribly appealing to be a woman in France, even if it is France*.
And don't think I want to make career women out of us all, one woman says she quit her job to be a stay at home mom and she feels pressured to by (French) society to go back to work.
Oh and please don't leave any comments with lame jokes about how French people are stupid (unless you're one of the five Monty Pythoners–Gilliam is from the US and therefore has to abide by the same rules I've set for everyone else. Then I would have to say that I don't really understand why you're reading my blog. Go away). Those jokes are so old, widen your repertoire.
And note, the U.S. only recently broke the top 20 and is now above Canada but behind Latvia. I am currently looking for the actual Forum report because, well, newspaper articles interpret what they want. At this point you might point out how I could be in the wrong about the Hanna Montana genre of tv shows for this same reason but then I would have to touché you back by saying it's what I want to hear so it works for me.
and more from the Buffy side:
*My number one reason for saying no when someone asks me, "don't you wish you were alive back in such and such a day and age," is because I want to stay in a time period where I've got more rights.
I felt vindicated when they cite shows like Hannah Montana, that have extremely self-centered protagonists, as having a negative effect on young girls. However, they compare Montana to Brady Bunch girls which is a little ridiculous. Why not Buffy?
Also, an interesting article about how women are treated in France. In the article they point to the World Economic's 2010 Forum ("world economic's" links to a description of the forum, "2010 forum" to an article about the 2010 forum) that says France has fallen from 18th place to 46th place and now ranks behind Kazakhstan in gender equality. But I've been reading up on the World Economic Forum and it ranks countries by how much they've progressed or digressed in the past year. Alors, it seems the forum compares progress and not the actual standard of equality. And France fell in ranking because "of the departure this year of several high-ranking women from the government of President Nicolas Sarkozy." That being said, it doesn't seem terribly appealing to be a woman in France, even if it is France*.
And don't think I want to make career women out of us all, one woman says she quit her job to be a stay at home mom and she feels pressured to by (French) society to go back to work.
Oh and please don't leave any comments with lame jokes about how French people are stupid (unless you're one of the five Monty Pythoners–Gilliam is from the US and therefore has to abide by the same rules I've set for everyone else. Then I would have to say that I don't really understand why you're reading my blog. Go away). Those jokes are so old, widen your repertoire.
And note, the U.S. only recently broke the top 20 and is now above Canada but behind Latvia. I am currently looking for the actual Forum report because, well, newspaper articles interpret what they want. At this point you might point out how I could be in the wrong about the Hanna Montana genre of tv shows for this same reason but then I would have to touché you back by saying it's what I want to hear so it works for me.
and more from the Buffy side:
*My number one reason for saying no when someone asks me, "don't you wish you were alive back in such and such a day and age," is because I want to stay in a time period where I've got more rights.
13 October 2010
i don't think i'll be going swimming in the morning as i'm obviously not falling asleep now
I usually pray over my food. This can easily be a perfunctory act but lately it actually makes me feel better. Because without my acts of religiosity I am left with my feminism, my democratic and anarchic leanings, and my existentialist novels. Things can get highly unbalanced or stereotypical (especially when I'm wearing a boxy, corduroy blazer).
Sometimes the part of me that prays is my blue collar worker side. Not always, not exclusively, but frequently it's the assembly line/shipyard/house keeper inside of me. There are times when I'm tired of trying to find every answer and I just want to live life. And so I pray. Maybe you're not following how the one leads to the other. It's for the same reason that one afternoon a few years ago I sat down at my desk thinking, "Wait...I'm actually not convinced that God exists," which would make my philosophy of the purpose of life null and void– at that moment when I was falling into a black hole, I got up and took a shower. Because what else is a person supposed to do?
The one follows the other because I can only take so much of trying to reconcile the world. I can only handle so much of imperialism, Freud, cut-throat insurance companies, cancer, abuse, and oppression. At that point I have to take a break, pull out my lunch and pray over my food.
I use this prayer-time to think of the food in my lap as a gift from the earth, I try to be sufficiently grateful and remember to take only what I need...
Good heavens, I'm in a waxing serious streak. I need to start making fun of myself more. And yes, I have watched quite a few No Doubt music vids on youtube today.
This also maybe be how I'm spending these sleepless hours: http://www.ornettecoleman.com/ (run your mouse over the colored triangles)
Sometimes the part of me that prays is my blue collar worker side. Not always, not exclusively, but frequently it's the assembly line/shipyard/house keeper inside of me. There are times when I'm tired of trying to find every answer and I just want to live life. And so I pray. Maybe you're not following how the one leads to the other. It's for the same reason that one afternoon a few years ago I sat down at my desk thinking, "Wait...I'm actually not convinced that God exists," which would make my philosophy of the purpose of life null and void– at that moment when I was falling into a black hole, I got up and took a shower. Because what else is a person supposed to do?
The one follows the other because I can only take so much of trying to reconcile the world. I can only handle so much of imperialism, Freud, cut-throat insurance companies, cancer, abuse, and oppression. At that point I have to take a break, pull out my lunch and pray over my food.
I use this prayer-time to think of the food in my lap as a gift from the earth, I try to be sufficiently grateful and remember to take only what I need...
Good heavens, I'm in a waxing serious streak. I need to start making fun of myself more. And yes, I have watched quite a few No Doubt music vids on youtube today.
This also maybe be how I'm spending these sleepless hours: http://www.ornettecoleman.com/ (run your mouse over the colored triangles)
11 October 2010
09 October 2010
a million things at once.
There are times when you have to accept that some things in your life were just sweet and beautiful, they're over, and now moving on...
but...
there are other endeds from this summer but I can't photo everything.
but...
there are other endeds from this summer but I can't photo everything.
quizical
Sometimes I can't fall asleep at night because my impending schoollessness and otherwise uncertain future bears down on me. What, dear world, am I going to do?
Tonight I am reminding myself that I will not forget (ha) that I can do anything I set my mind to. I haven't lost the "American"* or anyone else's dream. Particularly not my dreams, I haven't lost those. Unfortunately. What I mean to say is, that since I'm not shaking this feeling of anxiety, I've been dreaming a lot more. Everyone I know and even everyone I don't know regularly parades through my nocturnal conscious. None of these spectrals listen when I tell them this is not what Carl Jung meant by collective unconscious and would they please leave me alone.
My waking dreams are great. And like I've been reminding myself to not forget: I can conquer any one of them. I just can't settle on any one of them.
It all works out, I know. I know, I know, I know.
But right now I am in the dark and as far as I can see (ha) there are two options for what comes next:
a) I will remain in the dark, walking towards this abyss, and I will remain in the dark until I reach the edge. At which point someone will hit the light switch and I'll see the bridge that will lead me over to the other side. "Phew," will be my reaction at that point. And "What a nice bridge," I'll think, as well as, "How provident!"
b) I will remain in the dark, I will arrive at the cliff still in the dark, and I will have to leap into the dark, hoping I will land in a place I like. Exhilarating to fly like that, but hard and scary.
All I need to know right now is if it's A or B.
*Calling something American, while vernacularly means one thing, actually references two continents and something like 23 different countries. It may be more, I don't really know how to count some of those islands. In other words, roughly half the globe. While I may be pretentious to refuse the popular usage of the word, I just can't see it in an un-ironical light (hence the quotation marks). In high school when I would see the "I am an American" commercials I desperately wanted to see one that said, "Soy una Americana."
Tonight I am reminding myself that I will not forget (ha) that I can do anything I set my mind to. I haven't lost the "American"* or anyone else's dream. Particularly not my dreams, I haven't lost those. Unfortunately. What I mean to say is, that since I'm not shaking this feeling of anxiety, I've been dreaming a lot more. Everyone I know and even everyone I don't know regularly parades through my nocturnal conscious. None of these spectrals listen when I tell them this is not what Carl Jung meant by collective unconscious and would they please leave me alone.
My waking dreams are great. And like I've been reminding myself to not forget: I can conquer any one of them. I just can't settle on any one of them.
It all works out, I know. I know, I know, I know.
But right now I am in the dark and as far as I can see (ha) there are two options for what comes next:
a) I will remain in the dark, walking towards this abyss, and I will remain in the dark until I reach the edge. At which point someone will hit the light switch and I'll see the bridge that will lead me over to the other side. "Phew," will be my reaction at that point. And "What a nice bridge," I'll think, as well as, "How provident!"
b) I will remain in the dark, I will arrive at the cliff still in the dark, and I will have to leap into the dark, hoping I will land in a place I like. Exhilarating to fly like that, but hard and scary.
All I need to know right now is if it's A or B.
*Calling something American, while vernacularly means one thing, actually references two continents and something like 23 different countries. It may be more, I don't really know how to count some of those islands. In other words, roughly half the globe. While I may be pretentious to refuse the popular usage of the word, I just can't see it in an un-ironical light (hence the quotation marks). In high school when I would see the "I am an American" commercials I desperately wanted to see one that said, "Soy una Americana."
04 October 2010
i sit outside to balance it out.
I have started pulling that invisibility stunt on gchat more often. Maybe you don't notice because you can still see me there a lot. Of course you can, everything I do requires a computer. For work I research film festivals and text edit some google docs; I grade summaries and grades are stored on my computer (and backed-up on an external hard drive, if you're the worrying type); and now I'm searching databases for scholarly articles on British comedies before the 1960s. I write "papers," have on-line discussions, and watch videos for classes. I edit films. I type up my Grandma's journal. So much computer time.
I need a break.
So I pull out of digital things, one being chat.
Here's another reason.
Last night I went on a walk with Lesshalynn which helped shut-up present stresses about the present and the future. Nothing is solved, I am the same, but I feel better. No digital communication ever does this.
(Except for sometimes emails from my parents.)
I need a break.
So I pull out of digital things, one being chat.
Here's another reason.
Last night I went on a walk with Lesshalynn which helped shut-up present stresses about the present and the future. Nothing is solved, I am the same, but I feel better. No digital communication ever does this.
(Except for sometimes emails from my parents.)
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