Wednesday, November 12, 2008

A few excerpts:

Hunting For Beauty

I hop out of my ’94 Chrysler and climb a fire escape to the side entrance of an apartment. I pick the lock and, as the door opens, I am engulfed by the noise of a rhinoceros or some other horned mammal devouring a transmission tower. No, not an alarm—something else. Tentatively, I enter the apartment. The place is a pigsty: books, vinyls, and half-finished sketches scattered across the floor, but most conspicuous of all is the lone piece of furniture—a coffee table—because it is fused together with jujubes. My ears are still ringing when my shirt becomes damp—the climate is tropical here! Appearing from this wilderness, also known as 66 Madison Street in Toronto, are its residents, Ferdowsi and Paul, with drumsticks in hand banging on everything in sight. They both have giant grins and speak garrulously but I cannot hear their voices over the clamour. I look confused. Ferdowsi turns to me and I hear the tail end of his speech: “Get flash, get flash! It’s time to rock out!”

Biology Lab

Introduction


For this experiment, we are trying to answer the question of how soil type affects the growth of seeds. This is of interest to us because of our deep curiosity of soils and someday we may wish to grow a vegetable garden. We chose to compare pea and bean seeds. We chose these seeds because they were the freshest and least likely to be duds. We have little experience with soil and growing plant matter in general. Our hypothesis is that the richer and more nutritious the soil, the better the seeds will grow. If our hypothesis proves correct, then seeds will germinate faster and in greater quantity in Promix; then vermiculite and perlite; and the least amount of success will be met in the insalubrious sand and paper towel. Further, we believe that both seed type will germinate with similar success or failure. The null hypothesis is that the soil-type or condition will have no bearing on whether a seed germinates—or that the seeds will have greater germination with fewer nutrients. Therefore, the seeds will germinate faster and in greater quantity in the paper towels and sands and less so in the vermiculite, perlite and Promix.

La Nouvelle Vague

An auteur, or author, takes complete creative ownership over the filmmaking process, and makes a series of films with a distinct, recognizable style that is original to the auteur. Jean-Luc Godard claims that “there are no works, there are only auteurs” (Bordwell 487). The auteur develops a string of works that could be called a “body of criticism”—works that are not identical but clearly express the author’s voice coherently and continuously from film to film (Staples 4).
David Lynch is an example of a contemporary North American filmmaker who is considered an auteur. Lynch has created a body of works expressing similar themes and executing a similar and uniquely Lynchian technique. Films that are distinctly Lynchian are noted for their unique and chilling use of ambient sound, the use of symbolism in the mise en scene (everything seen on the screen), the use of parallel universes or extended dream sequences, and the sense of a prevailing dark force that governs an industrial and desolate world.
Lynch took inspiration from Truffaut who further developed and pushed the auteur movement in a 1954 Cahiers du Cinema article “Les Politiques de Auteurs,” which has subsequently been hailed as a call to arms against the cinema of quality (Staples 1). Truffaut demanded filmmakers exercise a distinct creative vision with personalized trademarks that carry over from film to film (Staples 1). Andre Bazin, co-founder of Cahiers du Cinema, expanded on auteur theory claiming that traditonional cinema of quality films have an auteur also—but more importantly traditional films have a subject which defines a piece of work (Staples 3). Truffaut’s auteur theory, Bazin argued, removed the subject entirely by defining the work as the auteur. Eliminating the subject might create a cult of personality of the auteur, and this is a necessary risk because the goal of auteur theory is to create a personalized art piece where the “distinction between author and director loses all meaning. The auteur writes with the camera as a writer writes with a pen” (Marie 32-33) Therefore, everything in a scene, the mise en scene, including the voice of the actor, is essentially the voice of the auteur. Moreover, the auteur’s voice should speak to the audience. Films should connect the audience with the auteur, as if the two were experiencing an intimate conversation (Monaco 8). This is requiring more from the viewer, asking them to participate in the filmmaking process. Auteur theory worked against the norm of the cinema of quality, where the studio would override the authority of the director—and the filmmaking process was not truly unique to the filmmaker. Truffaut did not “believe in the peaceful co-existence of the Tradition [cinema] of Quality and a cinema of auteurs ” (Staples 2). Eventually, the critics had the opportunity to put auteur theory to the test and compete with the cinema of quality.

Wednesday, October 15, 2008

The Conservative Blues

Bursting with mock-solicitude, the re-elected Prime Minister waves his cold-blooded hand from a balcony. Below, the partisans, cold and hard, chant "Harper! Harper!" Blue balloons, shaped as missiles, are waved patriotically.

Meanwhile, an aging Anna Karina dines at The Truffaut Cafe with her latest lover. "Proportional representation is the only thing that could of saved them, Doug."
The haggard gentlemen shifts uncomfortably in a stone chair, taking a thoughtful toke, "It's a beautiful country: the mountains, the ocean, the rivers..."
Anna, scrunching her nose, "I don't want them to get stuffed"
"...The glaciers, the forests, the-"
"Doug."
"Sorry; I've always had a nose for nostalgia."

Around this time a girl paints restively in a prison in Ontario, pulling her hair in despair. The adolescent, 14 years old ,will remain here for 25 years. During this time the Antarctic shelf will drop. The greatest catastrophe second only to nuclear war will begin. Illegal environmental refugees will soon mope in the girl's cell as well. The prisoners sit parched as the Great Lakes are privatized.

Water, 100 bucks a liter. You can't do that. Why not, we need to profit because gasoline is expensive and I need to fuel my Jaguar. The day of the corporation. The government asks for a cut for the people but that goes against the ideology: laissez-faire. Everyone for themselves. Why not conserve us, cry the citizens.

Some time before this, a girl in extreme poverty collapses and dies and 30, 000 follow suit each and every day, dying quietly in remote villages far from the Western conscience. The cries are muffled by Christian-sponsored bombs.

Somewhere a broken man philosophizes: it's a strange world. Some people get rich and others eat shit and die.

Tuesday, August 26, 2008

Turn the tape off howler.

The drug man lifts his nose to the drifting haze of marijuana and aggressively pitches Mobsies: his unwritten screenplay revolving around a mob and zombies and debris in a post-apocalyptic setting. Chemicals in his narcotics-friendly mind suddenly shift to:
"Einstein's Theory of Relativity: that's something. That's..."
An impregnated pause--broken with a spasmodic shrill: "Time actually moves slower on different planets in the universe. Literally, clocks--clocks would move more slowly."
"Ginsberg should of been an astronaut."
"Endless spheres."

Friday, August 8, 2008

Unreflected

Dreams burn down. A Winter Semester in a less odious province is highly unlikely. Multiple obstacles have proven immovable. This is a rotten First World deal.

My sister is now an adherent to Oprah-sponsored New Ageism--"The Secret." Its theory is based on the pseudo-science of attraction.

But things are not all rotten.

Ralph Nader is coming to town on August 11th. I will soon be empowered to fight White-Collar crime.

And

Radiohead is soon to arrive in heaven-sponsored glory.

And

I have launched an additional blog.

Thursday, July 31, 2008

Consolation Prizes


It is a fine afternoon for footie in Toronto. Our footie field is a large, pebble-infested driveway with green weeds spurting sporadically across the grayish court. A small red net is leaned against a beat wooden shed. I am appointed keeper. The web designer and the Persian are appointed strikers. Everyone is excited. The Persian, being of a jocose disposition, resolves to frighten me. The animated fellow strikes the ball confidently, intending to bounce the ball off the shed a mere two feet above my venerable head. However, the ball launches far above my head, far above the shed, and over the rickety fence, far into forbidden territory. The Persian, no longer in a festive mood, cusses and grumbles. The designer and I laugh.
"You'll have to hop the fence, man", I advise. The errant striker's countenance changes rapidly, and his face broods, as he's affronted by the eleven foot fence. He's so unnecessarily hesitant. I'm suddenly struck that he might of never scaled a fence before, being a foreigner and all.
"You go", the frightened young foreigner pleads.
Being raised in suburbia, I've been climbing up walls since I've been mobile; thus, I promptly hop the fence with much deftness. I land in firm soot. I beckon for to the Persian to trespass some, thinking it would be good for him to engage in this small, insignificant act of rebellion to retrieve his ever so sentimentally valued football, that is increasing in sappy value every subsequent minute of its lostness. Finally, he comes crashing over the fence in the most maladroit manner imaginable. The designer stays behind.
The Persian and I find ourselves in some unruly, trumpery-filled side yard. The ball--not in view. We sift through the strange, abstract junkyard searching deeper and deeper into its heart of darkness. A crescendo of pressure amounts when a bourgeois appears from the adjoining yard. We pose as fellow residents and bid him "Halloa".
The search is a hapless endeavor (save the discovery of a volleyball, which is promptly booted out of its home territory) and us two raiders retreat back over the fence to consult with the design man and, eventually, with the errant striker's girl.
"You two followers of Galileo," I begin, speaking to the forlorn striker and his girl, "calculate the height of the ball and its velocity to discover the ball's travelling distance."
Contrary to logic and reason, a scientific investigation is deemed unnecessary. Further, I suggest posting images of the ball around the city, and I'm accused of a Hunter. S. Thompson impersonation.
Perhaps the ball has been reunited with Goliath? Unlikely.
Resigning to defeat, the Persian raises his glum eyes towards me, and murmurs, "You better blog about this."
Consider this your consolation prize.

Tuesday, July 8, 2008

It's a strange world. Some people get rich and others eat shit and die

The (provincial) government gave me moneys today. Who's eating this week?
Speaking of which, the frigger heading Canada's government is receiving colloquial beckons from a stupid little rich kid.
The summit for elites and afternoon tea is coming to Huntsville in 2010! I miss the smell of teargas. I miss the fear of getting beaten. Man, I miss the '60s. Nowadays everyone's a bona fide flagsucker.
If I were an American, I'd be a corporation. Great welfare system, legal immunity--seriously what more could a person want? It sucks to be a citizen these days. Typically citizens are only free from the bondage of the constitution when they're chained to the ceilings at Guantanamo. Or registered in the military. Corporate personhood is clearly the way to go.
"This is a full-blown state-sponsored disaster" -- Kowalski, in response to Goliath being stolen from his own room.
Response: "State-sponsored disaster" is now my new catch phrase. But really, I sympathize with your maladie du coeur, a most natural consequence from this act of terrorisms.

L'envoi (the crux lies herein)
The drug man of truth, Hunter S. Thompson, is the object of study in the documentary, Gonzo. I am throwing a hissy fit of delight.

Wednesday, July 2, 2008

Turtle Island

I /finally/ completed reading /The Portrait of a Lady/. It took me some time; but pet grief! Henry painted so very much! Mind you I read a plurality of books at once. The aforementioned title is much more epic and conventional from what I usually acquaint myself with. I /almost/ desire to engage in conversation with another in regards to the novel (only with a fellow daffy dreamer, however) but I'm quite content to keep Isabel Archer to myself for now. I really have no time for conversation as I must pound through another six or seven books and beat out four essays within a month and a half.

To pay homage to web design wonder DH, I have created a Twitter account. I really cannot grasp the full functionality and entire purpose of Twitter, but apparently it's worth looking into. As far as I can see, it's just a manifold of follow-the-leader games. And there always appears to be too many "tweets" about the site. And I don't like the epithet "tweet" either. Anywhoers follow me.