|
|
|
Musing over
the ontological
status of a boiled egg
|
|
| |
Wednesday, March 24, 2004
SPOTLESS
How happy is the blameless vestal's lot!
The world forgetting, by the world forgot.
Eternal sunshine of the spotless mind!
Each pray'r accepted, and each wish resign'd.
-- Alexander Pope, "Eloisa to Abelard"
Memories can be warm and fuzzy or they can be cold and cruel.
Fortunately or unfortunately, memories are what we all share. They are the good, the bad, the quasi-repressed - slices of experience that establish themselves as permanent features of our cognitive geography.
Now consider the possiblity of erasing all those nasty ones. Imagine if you could rid yourself of the painful memories of your cat's tragic death. Would you? You'd perhaps opt for the erasure of a deceased friend and the numbing pain that accompanies the memory of him or her. Or perhaps the traumatic recollection of walking in on your parents when you were supposed to be at the movies. How about eliminating the ache of a lost love? So, would you accept these painful memories as a vital facet of your identity, despite the pain and discomfort, or would you prefer a less tumultous depository of memories?
Joel and Clementine choose the latter.
Jim Carrey and Kate Winslet play lovers Joel and Clementine, an opposites-attract couple. He's self-conscious and retiring. She's self-dramatizing and as in-your-face as her ever-changing hair color, whether it's firecracker red or a shade called"Blue Ruin." Their styles don't gel. As Joel puts it to the chattery Clem, "Constantly talking isn't necessarily communicating." Neither character is especially "lovable" in the usual Hollywood way; he's recessive, she's prickly, and you want to shake them both out of their extremes.
But whatever.
When their relationship ends badly, Clementine decides to erase all memories of Joel. When Joel finds out, he decides to undergo the procedure as well.
The result is a funhouse tour of Joel's cerebrum as he tries to hide Clementine away in memories that didn't actually involve her. Like being bathed by his mom in the kitchen sink as an infant, or getting picked on by neighborhood kids.
The dream sequences were brilliantly filmed! I had no problem believing that I was watching the logic-twisting realms of my own dreams: objects morph, doors dissapear inexplicalby, time is skewed, faces are distorted and written words don't exist.
In other words, complete and utter disorientation.
But Joel and Clementine serve as the stories emotional centre, and their gravity draws all the loopy elements together perfectly. It's also nice to see Jim Carrey refrain from contorting his face a million different ways so as to garner a few laughs. In this film he proves he has the range and talent of a serious, convincing actor.
It's interesting how the trailer gave the impression that it would be upbeat and full of bounce. In fact, it's a film full of melancholia and dark humour, especially the open-ended finale that thankfully skirts a cliche Hollywood ending.
The Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind affirms the importance of our memories as essential to our identity and personality. The good, the bad and the quas-repressed are all vital. Besides, what are we if not our memories.
2:06 AM [View/Post Comments]
Tuesday, March 23, 2004
While the world goes about its business...
Buzzing with traffic and war and quarter pounders, hold the ketchup...
He puts the finishing touches to his plot...
His devious machination...
Prepared to wreak havoc on the Egg...
The calm before the storm...
Monk is ready.
12:29 PM [View/Post Comments]
Monday, March 22, 2004
I'm sure you've already heard about it, if not click on this.
"Look this is the bottom line: an elderly, paraplegic man was eviscerated this morning, after leaving a local mosque, by three American made missiles shot by an American made helicopter, an operation that undoubtedly recieved the go-head from the current American adminstration, to whom Israel and the Israeli Defense Forces are beholden. This act is simply another attempt by the right-wing in Israel to torpedo any hope of a legitimate Palestinian state."
"No, no! A terrorist Jew-killer was justly annhiliated, that's the bottom line! Israel must do whatever it can do kill the terrorists, no matter what!"
And so they end their "debate" exactly the same way they started it. The same entrenched positions.
Those adjacent to them join in.
Nope, nah-hah, I ain't gettin' involved with this shit again. I got more important things to worry about, like scary sounding journal articles that require a dictionary within arms reach (Can Differential Equations Account for Qualia: Dynamical Approaches to Doman Specific Cognition ...AH!).
I'm just gonna continue to eat my sandwich, drink my overpriced bottle of orange juice and leaf through the article.
Got nothing to say.
Nope.
I'm just gonna sit here and grind my teeth.
5:54 PM [View/Post Comments]
Friday, March 19, 2004
MERRY NOROOZ
During the Persian new year (spring equinox), comical acts of mockery would be performed in the royal Persian courts while musicians played various instruments. In ancient times this was performed by black skinned slaves who, with their rather strange accents and use of rather unfamiliar expressions, caused laughter and merriment. HAJI FIROOZ is the black faced character who is the traditional herald of the Nowrooz season and begins to wander the streets and alleyways in his red costume weeks before the end of the year. The sound of his songs and the sight of his dance is often analogous to hearing Christmas music in a shopping mall, telling all that Nowrooz is in the air.
Well, color my face and call me The Jazz Singer...it IS Nowrooz!
Happy Norooz to one and all, and to all a good night.
12:37 PM [View/Post Comments]
Thursday, March 18, 2004
HOW QUEER
Today my Literary Theory professor was discussing the impact of Gay and Lesbian studies on literary theory.
...
Yeah, yeah, I know. It's crap. *shrug*
It's just one of those courses where you do that sort of stuff. But it wasn't as bad as his cryptic lectures on Structuralism, Post-Structuralism, Post-Modernism, Feminism and Critical Theory. It was bad, but not as bad. Generally, all this literary theory/cultural studies shit is spouted by pink-haired, pierced types who thoroughly enjoy verbal masturbation and the worship of incomprehensible writers like Focault, Derrida, Lacan, Barthes etc.
These "thinkers" take a few good observations (e.g. sociology of knowledge - I won't get into it right now but it basically offers a cogent, persuasive account of how power structures dictate knowledge) and weave them into a conceptually muddled mess of esoteric ivory tower jargon. Discourses, opporobiums, differance, lingual ek-stacy - just to name a few.
Newayz...
So he's discussing the gay literature of the 1970s and how it was a thriving underground cultural phenomenon and stuff. He then pulls out one of the books from the plastic bag on his desk and shows it to the class.
No amount of tongue biting or pinching or Zen self-control techniques could have kept my laughter at bay.
"And here we have one of the more popular books, "The Flaming Heart: A Flamer's Love".
"Hahahahahahahahah...hahahahaha...that's so gay!"
Look, I couldn't help it! It was a completely knee-jerk response. You should have seen the cover on this book! Two shirtless guys making out, surrounded by a big red flame.
Hey!!! Come on now! I don't need you to give me that contemptous self-righteous look, ok? I already had to bear the scathing scorn of my professor and hipster peers. Although this one guy with a Raptor's jacket behind me was trying his damndest to hold in his laughter as well. He was successful though. The bastard!
There was no way I could "discourse" my way out of this one. So I just kept my head down and bit my tongue until the pain subdued my laughter. But my face kept twisting and straining, as if there was a hamster trying to escape from my mouth.
Finally, I just couldn't keep it in anymore so I just got up and left.
I doubt I'll be returning.
5:09 PM [View/Post Comments]
Wednesday, March 17, 2004
SHELL SHOCK
"Hi."
"Hi."
His arms are pulled inside his shirt as he teeters on his heels, seesawing back and forth: a nervous six-year-old amputee.
"So, what ya wanna do?"
"I dunno" he mumbles, looking up at the ceiling, avoiding eye-contact.
"How about television.?" I suggest.
Balancing himself on one foot, he ruffles his face and shrugs off the suggestion, "I dunno".
"Ok...well...how about...umm...you play on...the computer?"
Unbalanced, he gives the idea some thought and then pulls his arms out, grabbing onto the dining table to keep himself from crashing down on his almost fully complete Lego airport.
For the last year-and-a-half, my relationship with Julius, my landlady's son, has been limited to knocks on the bathroom door, usually accompanied by "how much longer?", and a congenial exhange of "Merry Christmas" and "Happy new year". Intermittently, there've been a few short discussions on the merits of the new Ninja Turtles cartoon, but they always end disastrously when his mom comments on the dismal amount of violence in cartoons these days (Lady, you'll let him watch the coyote from Looney Tunes get blowed up two-dozen times in one five-minute episode but you won't let him watch the Turtles throw a few round kicks?) The landlady hardly ever asks me for favors (oh shaddup you dirty minded dorks) but she was really in a bind today ("Oh, no, I'll have to be gone for a few hours, Reza can you watch Julius?" Before I can respond with a hesitant "yes", she's out the door).
"I know!" he announces, "Let's watch the Ninja Turtles movie you have."
"Ummm...Julius, how do you know I have the Ninja Turtles movie?"
He's spooked and jittery; he knows he just made a slip.
"Julius? Did you go into my room?" I ask in a singsong voice.
I'm not too upset because I always suspected that his curiosity would inevitably launch him on a clandestine explorartory expedition into my bedroom. I mean, come on, I'd be curious about some stranger living in the same apartment as me. Thankfully, the "controversial" magazines are hidden, out of sight.
"Sorry," he pouts "I heard you watching it the other day and so..."
"Ok, ok!! Stop hanging your head like that. Just don't go in my room without my permission again, ok?"
His eyes light up, "So we can watch it!"
"Well, I don't know if your mom will be ok with it."
"Fine" he grumbles while stamping his feet.
"Dude, I'm not your mom. You don't have to give me that routine. We'll watch it but, like, don't start acting like a ninja after and stuff, ok? 'Cause she'll know."
He plops himself down on the couch before I'm even finished my sentence.
Inserting one of my favorite movies of all time into the VCR, I recall how excited I used to get when watching my hard-shelled heroes rumble with the kitchen-utensil-named villan - The Shredder, even on the thirty-third viewing. It goes without saying that I'm talking about the first Ninja Turtles movie which was a great piece of filmmaking, as opposed to the barely tolerable sequel and the horrid third installment which was simply fit for the sewers.
As I fast forward through the ineffectual FBI warning, Julius looks at me and asks, with suprisingly good pronounciation, "What's Philosophy? Your books say philosophy a lot."
"Heh" I snicker. But It's a reasonable question since my room is littered with my course texts and readers.
"It's where you learn how to ask annoying questions and piss people off."
"Is that what you do?"
"Yeah. But I have to pay to do it. And then they'll give me a piece of paper that I can wipe my nose with."
I wasn't thinking nose, but people, there's a minor present!
"And what's Maxim?"
Well, I guess it wasn't that well hidden. I can't believe the kid went through my drawers as well. haha. The punk (Maxim is pretty much softcore porn, so it does require concealment, especially when your Persian mom drops by frequently, unannounced).
"It's a philosophy magazine."
"Oh". He's completely oblivious to me now, eyes glued to April O'neil walking home through the dark, crime ridden streets of New York.
Almost two-hours later, the once docile Julius is now a booming ball of ninja energy. Jumping up and down, swinging, kicking, HAH-YAHing, turtle powering, pretending Julia, the household cat, is Splinter and must be saved from the clutches of the warm, comfortable bedsheet she's sleeping on. He grabs a finished paper towel roll and slams it against the dining table - a just punitive measure against the dilapidated table for being an evil foot soldier. From what I can make out of his screams and roars, he's supposed to be the nunchaku wielding Michelangelo.
I sit back and watch, pretending to read the T.V. GUIDE every time he casts an inviting glance my way. I'm in no mood to fly kick the lamp with him.
Shredder - in this case, Julius' stuffed Panda, lying face-first on the floor - has been defeated and evil banished; hence, it's time for him to sprawl on the floor and watch his chubby belly rise and fall as he gasps for air.
*******************************
beep, beep, beep.
The microwave's done warming the frozen fettucine that will be my culinary delight for the evening. As I grab my dinner and some noon baarbaaree, my landlady walks into the kitchen to thank me for babysitting Julius.
"Really appreciate it, Reza. Seems like Julius had a good time watching Arthur with you."
"No problem."
I walk through the dining room and into my room, but not before exchanging a knowing nod with Michelangelo.
11:23 AM [View/Post Comments]
Monday, March 15, 2004
FILLING THE PHARMACEUTICAL COFFERS
"Notify your doctor if you develop symptoms of jaundice such as dark urine, clay-colored stools, yellowing of eyes or skin. Symptoms such as rash, itching, swelling, dizziness and trouble breathing may occur. "
Hmmm...
"Erybid Erythromycine Base" wraps around the transparent bottle. Two red warning labels partially cover the "Main Drug Mart" logo. Large, red caveats command me to take the antibiotics one-hour prior to or two to three-hours after a meal and that I avoid birth control and disopyramide, whatever the hell that is.
Oh, wait, there are more "Possible Side Effects" on the drug information sheet. Stomach upset, diarrhea, loss of appetite, nausea, vomitting, stomach cramps and moodiness. Sounds better than jaundice.
Isn't this a case of the cure being worse than the disease?
I can't believe I'm willing to subject myself to shit like this just so I could get rid of a few red dots on my face.
Well, unleash your bacterial armageddon Erybid and drive acne vulgaris into oblivion .
Buh-bye internal flora...
...and alcohol...
...for two months...
...TWO!!...
11:01 PM [View/Post Comments]
Thursday, March 11, 2004
700 Tomans????!!!!
I was just thinking...
Jus' thinkin' 'bout...
...stuff...
Stuff like...
The tornado of relatives whirling me about at Mehrabad airport...
...Cheeks sore and ruddy for two days...
Fragra-scents, like...
Basmati rice, ripe grilled tomatoes, fresh mints and herbs, steaming kebabs...
...my brother sneaking a sip from my glass, preferring my final drops to his teeming cup (ey-baba, drink your own doogh!)...
...two black buttons for eyes stare back and I'm compelled - no choice about the matter- to do some cheek pinching myself...
You know, jus' thinkin'...
Staring out the window, and thinking...
Park-eh-Mellat:
maple branches all aquiver, lush, a delicious breath of rain in the air, bulbuls serenading the antique man, the crying child, the strolling friends, the jogger...
...the swooning lovers, completely unaware that they're in the ISLAMIC Republic (ooooh, aaaaah), as oblivious and indifferent to the passing pasdar as he is to them.
Tehran Taxis:
nervous and unsure I squeeze in, sandwiched, sardines in a Peykan, flanked by a twelve-year-old boy, subjecting me to a searching though benign gaze (must be the Canadian flag on my backpack and my awful Farsi), and a man muttering profanities under his breath as he attentively fingers his prayer beads - a distinct touch of b.o. in the air. The driver, wrinkled but beaming, narrates the long procession of his years...then tries to rip me off..."Aga, I'm not giving you more than 300 tomans!" (my cousins had warned me), the exit made difficult by the tenacious clutch of the sticky leather seats.
Just pondering...
Nah, not pondering...
Daydreaming...
Yeah, daydreaming...
...about my stroll on the Caspian beach as the sun prepares for bed, recalling days when I would pray that life would not be short, but now, just beyond the reach of the grasping tides, I shudder that life will be long.
Now laughing...
...about my distress at their early morning crys, unintelligbile to me as they blared by our apartment: I explode into my dad's bedroom,"Baba, is it the religious police???" With his face buried in his pillow and his eyes shut, he smirks, "Haha...no, they're just peddlers in trucks, probably selling watermelons. Now let me get some sleep."
Remembering...
...bearded hezbollahi with sweat patches on his armpits, navigating around the long-haired, Gucci-wearing pretty boys who are getting directions to a party on their cell phones, blustering about rims, V8 engines and chest presses, ignoring the migrant worker, probably Afghani, seated against a concrete wall with his hand out, fully aware that they'll remain empty, but stretched out nevertheless.
Repressing...
...her sobs, impossible to muzzle, the grief spending itself in sudden, wild abandonment.
Re-digesting...
..."Reza, I have nothing profound to add. Now pass your dear uncle some tea."
Just thinking...
Jus' thinking, that's all.
5:36 PM [View/Post Comments]
Tuesday, March 09, 2004
Interpolated throughout my week...
"Hey! Guess what? I got into U of T law school!" he shouts.
"Rez? What's up? Did you hear I was admitted to Columbia?" she asks.
"$70 000 starting, Reza! Starting! Let's celebrate" he insists.
"We're soooooo excited. Working in Cuba will be SO much fun." they claim.
"Hold on one sec...let me just open this letter... ... ... I can't look...I...YES!!! I was accepted" she blares.
"London Law school!" she gasps.
...
In unison: "So, Reza, what are you up to?"
I slump my shoulders and droop my head.
"Nothing."
... ... ...
... ... ...
... ... ...
Umphf!!!
What the hell? Screw off! Who the hell are you! Get the hell off me, bastard!
"AAAAAAAAAAH" yells the disheveled mass of B.O. that's lying on top of me. I manage to swing my arms around his waist and flip him onto his side. Gasping for breath, I pin his arms to the floor and dig my knees into his waist.
"Ow ow ow ow...STOP!!!"
Fic...
Fictional Kaveh?(JUS' 'CAUSE HE GOT DA MELANIN, DON'T MEAN HE BE FELONIN')
He starts sobbing. "You left me in that god forsaken post for over three months you ASS!"
His shirt is yellowed and tattered and he's fashioning a Taliban beard. He wriggles and struggles.
"Relax. Stop squirming". I loosen my grip a bit. "But, how the hell are you...in this post...why..."
"Do you know the sort of hell I endured in that room??? Do you know what was in there??? Why didn't you finish the Top Samurai post you monster!" His sobbing turns into the girly weeping of a willow.
"Man, you reek" I remark with a nasal voice as I pinch my nostrils shut.
"Well...what...what... do you expect" he stammers " I was there for...three...THREE months...and I'm SOOOO behind in my law courses"
I lift myself up and nudge him to get up as well, but he resists.
"Don't touch me" he mumbles while lying on the floor with his arms and legs curled up and drawn toward his chest.
"Yeah, I'm sorry, man. I never finish what I start. I'm an irresponsible brute."
Fictional Kaveh doesn't protest and remains in the fetal position.
"Look, dude, from school to writing, I have the work ethic of a sunbathing seal. And I'm paying for it."
I look down on his shivering, traumatized body. "And from the looks of it, so are you."
Fictional Kaveh's stare is vacant and tortured.
"Well," I say in a matter-of-fact manner as I dust myself off "since you're a fictional character it wouldn't be unethical of me to leave you lying here wallowing in your own excrement." I slip my hands into my pockets and walk away casually, whistling.
"Underachieving, mediocre, commonplace cow."
I turn around. "What did you say, punk ass?!" Before I can land a kick on his forehead, Fictional Kaveh jumps up and darts away. I decide not to give chase but to simply walk away and return to my self-loathing.
"Hey, Mr. Unexceptionally Average, what ever happened to that post about the underaged Japanese threesome that I was going to star in?"
"It, like you, doesn't exist" I snort. I continue walking away from him, pretending to be oblivious to his presence.
But wait.
"Hey," I turn around and yell "what was in that room and how the hell did you get out?"
Fictional Kaveh pauses and thinks.
"Hmmm...how 'bout we save that for another post?"
"Sounds good"
We both nod and part ways.
....................................................................................
Monk makes sure they're both out of sight before he comes out of hiding. He repeatedly taps his forehead and smiles a cunningly evil smile.
"Well, well, it seems that there really is an author. Now I can carry out my plans!"
He quickly sneaks away, laughing voraciously.
mWAHhahahahaha.
12:15 PM [View/Post Comments]
Friday, March 05, 2004
ESSAY DEADLINES ARE FOR LOSERS
Nothing like a good comic book to aid in procrastination and soothe the mind...
Transformers: War and Peace Volume Two
and
Two bags of gummy worms
and
A bottle of flat Abali doogh
and
The fresh fragrance of my blooming hyacinth
and
Madonna's Like a Prayer on the radio
and
William Dafoe on The Daily Show
nice!
12:38 AM [View/Post Comments]
Monday, March 01, 2004
THE BASHIN' OF THE CHRIST
My answer to a Sunday school question (yeah, I used to go when I was younger): Who was Jesus? Jesus was a hippie who went around with his fisherman groupies turning water into wine and helping prostitutes. He liked lepers and sandals.
"$11.50?! Man, I better have a conversion experience or something!"
And so I entered The Passion of the Christ with characteristic cynicism and arrogant presumptiousness.
Two-hours...several hundred lashes...and...three crucifixes later...
And so I left The Passion of the Christ moved and disturbed.
The cathedral I'd entered to witness the bloody celluloid sacrament beckoned the faithful with neon steeples and buttery wafts of popcorn. Surrounded by the holy site's imposing features - large glass panels ornamented with images of heroes (The Punisher) and villians (Denzel Washington) - I ascended into megaplex heaven on a slow, contemplative escalator ride, flanked by three friends visibly excited to watch a film starring a personage who evokes such diverse responses as worship, reverence, indifference, disdain and Simpsonian gibes. The high-priests of the house of worship, typically acne covered and uninspired, provided the congregation with consecrated gelatinous treats and carbonated drinks. Unfortunately, they were out of indulgences.
As we settled into our seats, I surveyed the sparsely populated theatre in order to gauge the sort of people that were in attendance: a greying man wiping his glasses on his wife's sleeves, much to her chagrin; a group of young Asians whispering to each other; an unkempt twentysomething sitting by himself; a few others; and, of course, us.
It didn't feel like a typical movie outing with the boys. There was an air of uneasiness. We all tacitly knew our typical asinine commentary would have to be checked. For the first time in several years, the coming attractions didn't run longer than the film. One family-friendly commerical and then...
...a film that can be analyzed on two levels, one being purely cinematic and the other being theological.
The Passion of the Christ was a powerful piece of cinema. It combined Mel Gibson's respectable direction skills with a sweeping score that aided the beautiful cinematography in transporting the audience two-thousand-years into the past. In terms of acting, there really wasn't any. Just a lot of grimacing, writhing and tormented facial contortions. Well done, nevertheless. The dialogue was scant, but faithful to the Gospels. Having the characters speak in Aramaic and Latin added a touch of genuineness, although the subtitles tended to be distracting sometimes. However, the ending, showing Jesus being resurrected from his three day slumber, healed and glowing, has a very "he's back, and this time it's personal" feel to it, as observed by Keith. It looks like he's ready to go mow down Jerusalem.
If you believe that cinema should be fundamentally a visible, visceral medium free of narrative and context then you won't be dissapointed with this film. It's not a conventional film but rather an act of bearing witness. And this is where it really succeeds, as cinematic sacrament.
The film elicited tremendous emotion. I was sickened, moved, and numbed, not because I witnessed the son of god endure unspeakable torture and abuse, ultimately dying to absolve me of my sins, but because I witnessed the graphic infliction of intense pain on an innocent man, torn flesh and all. The movie doesn't persuade me to accept Jesus Christ as my personal lord and savior, he who shall bear my burdens and heal my infirmities, but conversion isn't its main aim; rather, its ultimate objective is to confirm and consolidate the faith of believers. Instead of a cinematic examination of Jesus the man, we have a homage to Jesus the martyr.
The film will be most impactful for those who consider themselves committed Christians, or those who have yet to fully commit themselves. Without any real focus on Jesus' message or history, excluding a few flashbacks where he admonishes his followers to love their neighbours, the film sees Jesus' crucifixion as the singular event of his ministry.
Concerning the controversial buzz of anti-semitism...
Well, it'just Bnai'Brith being Bnai'Brith.
They contend that the Jews are portrayed as Machiavellian, arm-twisting monsters with insatiable blood lust. Well, they're not...at least not all of them. Look, it's historical fact that the Pharisees didn't want Jesus around. He was a radical, a revolutionary and most importantly of all he didn't satisfy their criteria for messiahship. Moreover, according to the Gospels, Pontius Pilate does deny the Pharisees' initial request to have Jesus crucified. Does Bnai Brith want a revisionist account? This is as absurd as having Germans protest a film that depicts Nazi generals as racist war mongers. Bnai Brith's objections would be legitimate only if every audience member was completely ignorant of the Gospels, prone to acting on false impressions and completely ignorant of the fact that Jesus, his followers and the first two generations of Christians were Jewish. Besides, the Roman soldiers were portrayed as sadistic monsters. Everyone got a fair shake.
Relax Bnai Brith, the film won't inspire any spontaneous pogroms. After all, Jesus was supposed to be killed as part of God's scheme, so it doesn't really matter who didit.
Charges of anti-semitism aside, the film served to highlight and underscore the complete absurdity of mainstream Christian doctrine.
For those who dismiss any symbolic or metaphorical reading of the Bible, God impregnantes Mary and has his "son" unjustly tortured and tormented so as to absolve humanity of Adam and Eve's transgressions through Jesus' crucifixion. Dead beat dad or what! Then he "overcomes" death despite the fact that he was always destined for heaven. God has his "child" killed as an agent of redemption because of a contractual tiff between him and humanity. This notion of vicarious atonement is so unpalatable that many Christian denominations simply view it as outmoded. Furthermore, salvation presupposes that we are in need of being redeemed, but why! Oh, right, Adam and Eve's apple munching ways.
Jesus' suffering is always portrayed as a great sacrifice. But why? Firstly, I'm sure there are people who have suffered as much if not greater physical ordeals than Jesus (think of the thieves who were crucified along with him, or perhaps the victims of authoritarian regimes that were jailed and tortured for years before being liquidated). Was Jesus not going to die and head to heaven irrespective of what he did?
I used to always ask myself what would qualify as a genuine sacrifice. I concluded it would be something like being willing to suffer in hell for eternity so my mom wouldn't have to. That would be a sacrifice.
Please don't get me wrong, I have great respect for Jesus and his teachings and his willingness to die for his convictions. I even used to pray to him when I was younger. But I would never worship the sado-masochistic god of the Bible. Can someone really justify worshipping a deity that grants salvation to humanity through the torture and death of an innocent man, regardless of whether Jesus consented to it or not?
The most moving and powerful image from the film was when Jesus was on the cross, bludgeoned and near-death, looking towards the sky and supplicating, "Elah-he, Elah-he..." (My Lord, why hast thou forsaken me?)
This Jesus is authentic, a real man, doubting and imploring, alone in his suffering.
Yet...
I shelved any discursive thought after the film...
And just let myself feel the hint of inspiration and reverence that it evoked, despite my cerebral opposition...
Haven't felt that for so long.
12:47 PM [View/Post Comments]
Thursday, February 26, 2004
PEEK AROUND THE CORNER
Windows no longer sealed - SHUT - stubbornly, but cracked open, prompted by complaints, "too hot in this class, man".
A clandestine warble from the naked branches - fleeting - deflecting my attention from the musty air of professor lalalala.
Appallingly big puffer coat unzipped, scarf and toque bulging out of pockets, superfluous.
Pavement and grass, peeking out from shrinking islands of white.
A teasing fragance, harbinger of rebirth.
The sun more cheeky, loitering longer on the horizon, cheating a bit more everyday, ray by ray.
She's coming.
1:12 AM [View/Post Comments]
Tuesday, February 24, 2004
THERE'S MORE TO LIFE THAN GRADES, THERE'S ALSO CHERRY FLAVORED GUMMI BEARS
Fucking fuckidy fuck!
It's already bad enough that I had to leave Cambridge and that great Brewer of Tea a couple of days ago but now I have to return to a cold, shitty campus, which has the charm of an exhaust covered snow mound, as well as disgustingly poor grades on my returned assignments to boot - with a steel toe Timberland up my arse.
"A" and "+" are such a cuter couple than "C" and "-", no?
I'm floored! My grades have been exceptional for the past two years but this semester...all of a sudden... (maybe six courses wasn't such a good idea)
I despise marks, loathe the little buggers. I keep telling myself not to let school cause so much anxiety and tension but I can't escape from or trivialize this maddening fact:
My transcripts will largely determine my future.
brrrrrrrrrrrr.
12:08 PM [View/Post Comments]
Monday, February 23, 2004
DISTANCE IS A SILLY FICTION
"For even as love crowns you so shall he crucify you" - Khalil Gibran
Knotted heart, 35 000 feet, heading back to Toronto.
Constricted chest, lying at home, jet-lagged and pining.
But then...
I recall...
How amazing you are...
And how lucky I am...
And I feel a bit easier...
A bit happier...
Chest, a little less tense...
I don't remember the prayer...
But you've answered it...
Thank you!
10:34 PM [View/Post Comments]
Saturday, February 14, 2004
GIRL, I WANNA SEX YOU UP LIKE A DOSSIER
Leicester Square, the ultimate playground for the alcohol-fueled antics of them British folk. The neon lights of the district's bars and theatres reflect beautifully off the sweaty stagger of drunkards serenating passersby (garbled mix of Hotel California) with the same gusto as the jubiliant Manchester United fans and the lonely soul standing on the corner between Sex Shack and Oxygen Bar (seedier than Jesus' agarian parables) yelling gibberish about something or other through his makeshift megaphone - a discarded pylon.
"Holllaaaaaa"
"What are you doing???"
"I'm hollering back at him!"
"Don't!"
"Why not? Will the guy taking a piss on the stairs over there be offended by my boisterous behavior or might I offend the reserved sensibilities of those two fondling each other in front of us?"
"Ok, Ok!"
Together: "Hollaaaa!!!"
1:48 PM [View/Post Comments]
Thursday, February 12, 2004
Yo, bitch asses.
I'm in London, Kingdom of the United and I'll be heading to Cambridge soon.
bOo Ya.
(I'm scouting scenes for part three of Top Samurai. Fictional Kaveh will be arrested and tortured for plotting the overthrow of the monarchy as well as being cited for public urination. Stay tuned.)
(They brew tea very well here.)
(To celebrate the Islamic Revolution's 25th anniversary, I took a big shit in the airport washroom and chanted a salavat to the steamy chunks.)
4:18 PM [View/Post Comments]
Saturday, December 13, 2003
*GASP, GASP, AHH GOD, GASP, GASP* (continuation of Top Samurai)
Fictional Kaveh has never run so fast in his life. His adrenalin is stimulating some serious autonomic nerve action. Flight was a far more reasonable option than fight. Every stride is more desperate and urgent. He can hear the stampede of samurai behind him, but he does not dare look back. He is focused on what lies ahead of him: a long, grey corridor with large and small and wide and strange doors. Long, grey corridor with...strange...what?... Fictional Kaveh notices that he is no longer in the Osaka castle. Or is he? Regardless of his location, Kaveh knows he must demand even more from his legs; the rumble of the samurai is getting closer.
Fictional Kaveh notices the doors are becoming too numerous to count. Hmm, should I try entering one of them, he thinks to himself as he continues gasping convulsively. He decides to grab onto the doorknobs and turn them as he runs by, but they are all locked.
OW!
He stops dead in his tracks. He grabs his right arm and feels faint when he sees blood pouring down his hand. There is a silver dart embedded in his right palm. Oh, my god, oh, my god! He's reeling; he falls against one of the doors and slams on the floor. Fictional Kaveh is far too exhausted to pick himself up and continue his getaway.
He can see the Samurai rushing towards him. The corridor has become so tight that the samurai are running in files of two. Fictional Kaveh mumbles, still breathing laboriously, this is like one of those bad Star Trek: The Next Generation episodes where they get stuck on the holodeck - damn it, I have so much civil procedure work to get done. He rests his head against the door, ready to offer himself up to his pursuers.
The dozen warriors slow their pace when they see Fictional Kaveh. Their tired, wounded prey has succumbed to his fate.
"Ah hah!" roar the samurai, pointing their menacing swords at Kaveh's right hand. "Good shot, Ashikahki" compliment the samurai. Ashikahki bows and places his blow-darts into the yellow pouch around his waist.
"Look, just get it over with." Fictional Kaveh bends his head forward, still slumped on the cold floor of the corridor with his back against one of the doors. Twelve blood-thirsty steel edges are placed on the nape of his neck. They are simultaneously raised...
Ready to rain down a might blow...
A mouthful of blade...
******************************************************************
The dozen samurai march back into the secret chamber in an orderly and solemn fashion.
The shogun is standing in the exact spot where he commanded the samurai to pursue Fictional Kaveh.
"Well?" barks the shogun.
Ashikahki steps forward and falls to his knees.
"Exalted shogun, we pursued the commoner as you commanded. Not quite sure when the transition took place, but we found ourselves in a strange, poorly-lit corridor, sire. There were many strange doors - all locked. However, we continued our pursuit and when the commoner was in my sight I shot a dart at him and injured his hand. He was incapacitated. When we reached him, he was lying on the floor against an odd-looking door shaped like an egg. We raised our swords in the air, ready to deliver justice when...
"When? I don't want to hear when!" The shogun draws his sword from its sheath and places it on Ashikahki's bowed head.
"Forgive me, sire, but we could not have anticipated this. The door he was leaning against opened up and the commoner was pulled in."
"Pulled in?" The shogun is incredulous; he runs the edge of his sword into Ashikahki's scalp and draws blood.
Ashikahki grimaces in pain."Yes, master. It pulled him in. We tried to break down the door but before we could it...it...the door...disappeared."
"Disappeared! What sort of tale are you weaving for me?"
"Please forgive me" pleads Ashikahki, his forehead pressed against the floor.
"Ok. I forgive you." smiles the shogun.
He then proceeds to decapitate Ashikahki.
"Monk" calls out the shogun while grabbing a piece of cloth from the trembling hands of a samurai "what is this corridor he speaks of? Is he being truthful? What are these fanciful tales?"
The monk does not respond. He seems to be in some sort of trance. Wiping the blood off his sword and re-sheathing it, the shogun walks over to the corner of the room where the monk is standing, fixed and immobile.
The shogun strains to hear the monk's murmurs.
"The corridor...it is...another world...a world in between worlds...it connects - posts..."
"Posts?"
"I do not know what that means, shogun. But the spirits are telling me the doors lead to various...posts...worlds in themselves...some are forming, some are formed...the commoner mentioned something about being in the "wrong" post... strange this is. We are in a post. We!" He looks at his decrepit hands and continues to wonder. "Posts...spirits, what are these posts you speak of...worlds?...stories?...worlds they are...whose post am I in?"
The monk cramps his rumpled, decaying face, exerting great effort to heighten his concentration and solve the riddle of the "post". His eyes widen; his wrinkles form into a grin. Epiphany?
"Ah, hell. I dunno what it means. I'm off to visit my concubine. See ya." He walks out of the secret chamber, only to hastily return. "Ooops, forgot these babies." He grabs the remaining Shashti mushrooms from the floor and, in spite of his worn-out limbs, darts away, skirting Ashikhahki's bodiless head.
"Morons! I'm surrounded by morons!" yells the shogun. "Be gone, all of you, be gone". Massaging his temples with his index finger and thumb, he tries to regain his composure. He waves the samurai away with his other hand and demands some "quiet time".
..........to be continued.........
2:40 PM [View/Post Comments]
Thursday, December 11, 2003
TOP SAMURAI
The shogun enters the secret chamber.
With their intricately designed kabutos (helmets) tucked between their right arms, the dozen samurai prostrate themselves before him. The shogun bows, ceremoniously returning the salutation. Four half-burnt candles, casting wavy silhouettes unto the paper-thin wall coverings and heavyset cedar frames, bathe the small, austere room in a subdued, flickering glow. The room lies a hundred-feet below the Osaka castle. It is a discreet space for political machinations, shadowy meetings and secret councils.
The samurai raise themselves with punctilious precision and circle the emaciated monk seated in the center of the chamber. His protruding spine, scrawny head and folded legs are perfectly aligned in the lotus position.
The samurai remain eerily still as the shogun inspects them meticulously. They are fashioning armor fabricated from iron, steel, hardened hide, paper brass and shark skin, all heavily coated in a thick lacquer, strong enough to provide protection but flexible enough for combat. Colorful tunics flow down from the openings on the sides of their cuirasses - plates joined by woven chains. Their surreal outfits are laced and decorated with crests, gilt tassels and glittering insignia and base colors including black, crimson, gold, green, purple, silver, violet and white. The samurai�s kabutos are as striking as they are diverse: razor-sharp horns, oversized rabbit-fur mustaches and steely grimaces add an air of utterly merciless divinity. The fearless warriors hold their daisho (sword) with their right hand, ready to unsheathe if need be, and allow their koshigatana (short sword) to hang solemnly from their waists. These blades thirst for the necks of the vanquished. They are the singular emblems of the samurai and are wielded with superior attentiveness and respect. Despite their penchant for violence, they are cultured sophisticates, indulging in poetry, theatre and gardening. Warriors aestheticized!
Minamoto, the uncontested military leader of the Japanese island of Hokkaido, is content with his inspection. With his long, dark tresses grazing the floor, he mindfully enters the circle and stands behind the monk as the samurai simultaneously kneel down. The monk�s wrinkled face, bulbous nose, bushy eyebrows and deceptive sneer betray an uncommon bravado. He is beginning to sway violently from side to side. The spirits of the Shashti mushroom, which the monk ingested several hours ago, have been aroused.
Minamoto demands that the monk describe the images the spirits are revealing to him. There is no reply. He repeats his command, this time with more authority yet with the same tinge of uneasy anticipation: Oh, venerable monk, I command you to inform us of the things that you are witness to. We stand at a crucial impasse. The land of Japan is under assault by the forces of the white man. He has imposed his ways on us and threatens to destroy our traditional way of life. Oh, monk, tell us what destiny holds for us, so that through foreknowledge we may avert disaster.
Silence ensues, except for the in chorus inhalation and exhalation of the samurai. They are one, even in breath.
�I�I see�� the monk whispers in an airy voice, eyes glazed over �I see�I��
The samurai simultaneously edge forward, uncharacteristically impatient. Minamoto clenches his teeth, visibly anxious.
��See�see� continues the intoxicated monk ��I�see�Tom�Tom Cruise�
Whaaaaaaa ? ? ?
The samurai and Minamoto reel in confusion.
�Who is this�Tom Cruise�you speak of?� asks the shogun.
�If you keep blabbering I won�t be able to tell you. So shut up and let me talk.�
The shogun and samurai are not surprised by his bluster. They have grown to somewhat appreciate it.
�I see�two young males�one has dark hair and is bitching about his fat Columbia winter jacket and how annoying it is�the other male is obviously suffering from some sort of hyper-pigmentation disorder�they�re seated in a large dark room with many seats�they�re all facing a large screen�wow�there are moving images on the screen�I keep seeing�Coming soon�oh, there it is again�and another one�again�one more�hmm�the dark-haired boy keeps snickering and complaining about the sound quality�he seems like a real ass�the dark boy has offered him some of his white snack�strange, it�s covered in a yellow ooze�oh, look�now the magic screen says main feature�it�s him again�that Tom Cruise demon�he�he keeps smiling�he�s smiling a lot�damn it�stop smiling�I feel overriding compulsion to say Tom you don�t Take My Breath Away...pop culture reference going over my head�ahhh�everything is speeding up�I�m�oh my!�I�m merging with the dark-haired boy�he smells�oh, Buddha�I�ve merged�I�ve merged with his mind�he�s�we�re�sitting in some sort of restaurant�days later�he�s no longer with the dark skinned boy�he�s eating�sushi�but�it looks so hackneyed�so inauthentic�wait�he�s about to talk�oh no�I feel�I feel it may�it may be long-winded�no, no, noooo�I�m having trouble maintaining my separate sense of identity�ahhhh�I�ve FULLY merged with the dark-haired boy!!!�
Minamoto motions for one of the samurai to wipe the coalescing beads of sweat off the monk�s forehead. But before the samurai can gather a wet cloth, the monk springs up, standing erect and motionless. Suddenly, he bends his knees and stoops as if he were sitting on a chair. He pretends to eat with a chopstick. His voice is different too: it�s young and virile.
��I couldn�t really make out any of Paris� body but whatever�so, yeah, Last Samurai? Yeah, it was aiiight�excuse me, more green tea please, thanks�What was it about? Well, Cruise plays an American Civil War captain, an embittered survivor of Custer's cavalry hired by the Japanese government in 1876 to train its ragtag but heavily armed conscripted armies. Their foes are the forces of General Katsumoto, samurai who refuse to lay down their arms and be swept up by the Emperor�s massive modernization program. Tom is haunted by the battlefield�s demons: he took part in a slaughter of Indians at the behest of Custard. For the next few minutes, Tom beats us over the head about the irony of him being �sent to put down another tribal rebellion.� He goes to Japan and is captured in battle by Katsumoto and is taken prisoner. But they don�t kill him. Katsumoto takes him to their beautiful village hidden in the green, lush mountains of Japan and has his sister tend to his wounds. Man, there�s this one scene where he�s begging the chick to give him some Sake, you know the alcoholic Japanese drink, but she recognizes that he�s an alcoholic so she declines. Guy, the next sequence of shots had to be the most over-the-top, melodramatic Tom Cruise bullshit I�ve ever seen. He keeps screaming �Sake, Sake!� But it sounds like he�s saying �Suckeee suckeee� and it looks like the Japanese woman is denying him a blowjob. So yeah, he keeps screaming this and the camera keeps panning out from his room, to the house, to the village, to the hills and you think it�ll end up somewhere with a shot of the globe and him still screaming Sake!"
The monk continues miming the dark-haired restaurant patron whilst the shogun and samurai look on with disbelief.
�So, anyways, Kasumoto, who conveniently speaks English, tells Cruise that�shit, notice how we never remember the names of the characters, we just refer to the actor�but, yeah, he tells Cruise that he doesn�t want to kill him because he wants to learn from his enemy. But Cruise is allowed freedom of movement in the village, as he so aptly describes �I�m viewed with moderate neglect, like a stray dog allowed to wander�. He�s shadowed by this awesome old samurai whom Cruise lovingly dubs �Bob�. Cruise ends up immersing himself in the village culture and samurai ethos. He wins the hearts of the villagers and his hostess with his winning smile�god, I hate his obnoxious smile, why didn�t Goose every make it big�and he learns to fight like a samurai after getting his ass kicked a few times. Oh, and there�s a samurai who looks like Old Dirty Bastard. Man, too much wasabi��
The monk�s face writhes in pain.
��shit�I didn�t know they packed this roll with so much already�*cough*...sorry, where was I? Yeah, I was saying, I�m glad that they stayed away from the white-man-in-an-alien-culture-bequeathing-his civilized-knowledge- onto-the savages convention�you know, like most Westerns�but instead Cruise grows to admire their ways and decides to fight with the remaining Samurai against the Imperial Army he was originally brought over to train. The battle scenes are wonderfully mounted and exciting...excuse me, bill please, thanks...The set-designs, costumes and scenery are truly breathtaking. However, the film doesn�t succeed in adding real substance to the veneer. It skirts the impact it was aspiring for in the first three-quarters of the film. See, at one point, Cruise, who�s haunted by the ghosts of the Indian slaughter, condemns Custard for sending 200 troops against 2000 Indians just to be slaughtered for the �legend he had come to believe about himself�. Now, you think, ok, cool, Kasumoto will probably consider this before sending in his samurai to be slaughtered during the inevitable final stand where the samurai are grossly outnumbered and outgunned. But, no, he sends them in and they�re all slaughtered. There�s no critical examination of the samurai ethical code, Bushido. None whatsoever. It's unreflectively accepted. The overarching theme of the film is the conundrum of a traditional way of life confronting modernity, but they gloss over this and overlook the feudal and backwards structure of the samurai. Unfortunately, it turns dim-witted and succumbs to Hollywood requirements. They just end up further romanticising the samurai. So, yeah, the final suicidal battle reminds me of something Roger Ebert asked so eloquently, �Is a there a line between dying for what you believe in, and dying because of what you believe in?�
The monk is silent. However, all of a sudden, the beaten, craggily folds of skin on his face arrange into sagging despair as he turns over a piece of paper that has been placed on the table in his vision.
�Shit. I hope they take Interac.�
He collapses to the floor. The shogun and samurai rush over.
Minamoto spills some water on his face. After a few tense seconds, the monk bounces back to life. But this time he�s acting as if he were talking on the phone.
�Bad Santa? Yeah, it was pretty good. Billy Bob Thornton plays a con artist who teams up with a midget to hit-up malls during the Christmas season every year. They infiltrate the malls when they�re constantly employed as Santa and his elf. Billy Bob is such a pathetic character that you�re almost drawn to tears seeing him scream profanity at children, women and the disabled. It�s a nice, irreverent comedy that is so vicious that its redemptive ending is nowhere close to being a feel-good Yuletide tingle-fest.�
He collapses again.
�What the hell is he talking about?� yells an irate samurai. He�s so upset that he storms away from the monk�s body. �Why are we wasting time with this knave and his unintelligible gibberish!�
With his body still lying on the floor, the monk raises his baldhead, startling the shogun and samurai, �Unintelligible gibberish. Shut up sword boy! I�ll stuff you with so much raw fish��
�Silence, monk! You must explain your visions to us. Who is this Tom Cruise that will aid us? Did you see the battle between the Imperial Army and the remaining samurai? �
The monk ignores the shogun. He musters enough energy to raise himself up from the floor and, with his ancient joints creaking and crackling, stumbles towards the angry samurai.
�Unintelligible gibberish? Knave? You dick, do you know what it�s like being merged with the mind of a guy who�s racked with so much sexual frustration that the pink, folded ginger in his bento box reminds him of a vagina? Could you endure that warrior boy?�
Before the altercation could develop into fisticuffs, the partition in the room is slid open.
�ah�hi�sorr�sorry to disturb you guys�but I�m sorta lost�I think I�m in the wrong post�would you know how I can��
The young law student begins to realize what a mistake he has made. He starts to quiver like a girly girl.
�Well�it�s�it�s ok�I�ll just go on my way��
Before he can exit the room, two samurai tackle him to the floor. They drive his face into the floor and press their knees into his back.
�ww.that..thehell�plee.ase.let meleogo� His mumbles are barely audible.
�Who are you and how dare you enter the sacred precincts of the samurai?� yells the shogun.
�I�mfpf..I�m..fICK..FicclllKav.kll,..�
The shogun motions for the samurai to release him. The young man sits up, checking his face for blood.
�Fictional Kaveh, sir�ah�I�m so, so, so sorry for interrupting your�umm..meeting�I was supposed to�umm�appear in another post, but I was late and took a wrong turn�.so you understand, no?� He�s dizzy from nearly being asphyxiated. �You, you all look like reasonable people.� He stops stuttering and smiles, exposing the large gap in his front teeth.
The monk points at him and laughs uncontrollably. �Hahahaha! Stupid face!!! �
�Commoner, you have violated the sacred space of the samurai. Bring him to me and place a blade in his hand. You, commoner, can either die a dishonorable death at my hand or you can take your life honorably through seppuku.�
�Through what?� Fictional Kaveh slams forward on his face again as a samurai kicks him in the back.
�Seppuku, commoner! Ritual suicide. You will thrust the blade into your left abdomen, run the blade to the right and jab it up and in. If I feel merciful, I may simply cut off your head and spare you the grueling hours of slow death.�
�So, you�re telling me, my options are death by your hands or death by disembowelment?�
�Yes!�
�Well, you�re not giving me much to work with here. Besides, why would you want me to exercise a ritual that�s part of the credo of a warrior class I�m not even part of? It doesn�t apply to me.�
�Insubordinate fool!� The shogun rushes forward and lashes Fictional Kaveh with his right hand. Fictional Kaveh grabs the shogun�s other hand, preventing another lashing.
�Now you�re just pissing me off you antiquated relic of a feudal military aristocracy! Why don�t you get with the game and realize you�re only going to prevent Japan from advancing and enjoying prosperity with your bloodlust and idiotic code of honor. Don�t you see you�re all just pawns in a militaristic, exploitative system that paints your subjugation and sacrifice as noble. You�re nothing but cannon fodder for the never-ending battle for land on your damn little island. You�ve misappropriated Buddhist teachings to serve as a means to further your killing skills. You just want to maintain your feudal grip on the masses. You morons! Your damn Bushido code has been uncritically adopted and worshipped. It is not a spiritual mine rich in gems of wisdom, but a barren desert. �Be aware of your breath. Live in the moment�. Ok, whatever, that's fine! But the rest is about submission and servility to a superior. This whole seppuku bullshit is an example of guys trying to outdo and best one another taken to its retarded extreme. You practice your �honor�, and I�ll go on my merry way, happy, breathing and ALIVE!�
The samurai collectively unsheathe their swords and surround Fictional Kaveh.
�Filthy cow!� yells the shogun.
Fictional Kaveh realizes what he must do.
�You know what's great about Japanese paper mache walls?�
�What?� snorts the shogun.
�You can do this!�
Fictional Kaveh darts underneath the tallest samurai and dives into the rice-paddy wall, tears through it and lands on the other side.
The shogun is steaming for the funny looking man's head. He faces the destroyed wall and raises his right-arm with his fingers spread out; he quickly clenches the fingers on his right-hand and grumbles a command.
Behind him, the samurai strike deadly poses in unison, displaying frightening expressions, making the etched snarls on their helmets look like cute puppets in comparison. They roar in concert, raise their deadly blades and give chase to the clever law student.
....................to be continued..................
12:37 AM [View/Post Comments]
Tuesday, December 09, 2003
PEDAGOGIC CARNAGE
Well, I've emerged from the trenches of the week-from-hell pretty battered and bruised and with a killer case of insomina to boot. Insomnia, that was a good movie, eh? Love ya, Al.
So, yeah, I DISS-TROY-ED one exam, severely maimed another and ravaged my last one, leaving it trembling and begging for its mommy. On top of that, I managed to write a fourteen-page essay in one night. Stupid good marks reinforcing bad work habits. The other essay I had to write will probably go down as the biggest piece of shit I've ever written. Oh, yeah?!!! Let's see YOU bullshit a paper on quantum indeterminism, red flavored smartie!
Anyways, the Beer Store doesn't open for another couple of hours so here's a dancing head.
10:32 AM [View/Post Comments]
Wednesday, December 03, 2003
ICK-I-DEMIA
"What time is it?" he yawns.
"I dunno, tired-o-clock" I yawn back.
"Fuckin' integrations" he complains, slamming his colossal calculus textbook shut
"Man, you could body build with that book, eh?"
He flexes his biceps. "Guns!"
"Yeah, probably fire blanks"
He's too tired to respond with a snappy comeback. He pushes his textbook, freshly sharpened pencil and notebook away towards the abandoned pile of books on 17th century Portugese architecture tittering in the middle of the large desk.
"This library is such shit." He lays the right side of his face on the table - facing me - with his folded arms as cushioning. "I feel like I'm in the fucking gulags."
I nod.
Robarts Library has the ambience of an abandoned quarry. Thick, grey concrete slabs envelop you, suffocating, airless. It is the most unwelcoming place on campus. You drop your soul off at the reception desk before entering its labyrinthine nooks and crannies.
"Stupid Shakespeare!" Simply airing my frustration as I continue to explicate in 12 to 14 pages the rhetorical tropes Willy employs in his sonnets. Another peek at the assignment sheet: "Don't explain the meaning, but the craft - how it means."
"Stupid school!" echoes the buried face to my right. "I should be getting laid right now. Or maybe eating ice-cream. Yeah, that would be good. Vanilla. Maybe chocolate. But no, I'm sitting in some monolithic peacock (Robarts is supposedly shaped like a peacock) and doing grunt work so I can add a few fucking syllables to my last name! B.Sc, M.A., PhD, M.D., S.O.B.!"
"Don't you know? More letters, more respect, mo' problems. Accreditation is the meaning of life."
"I thought it was 42?"
"It used to be. It changes"
"Do you ever wonder about the meaning of life, what it is?"
"Ew, ew, ew, ewwww! No you don't! We're not having the stereotypical "meaning of life" debate here while you sip on your Starbucks moccha. That's soooooo first-year" I finish with a valley-girl accent and an exagerated flick of my hair.
"How ironic, coming from a Philosophy specialist."
"Oh, come on...."
"Yeah, yeah, you don't do the whole "meaning of life" thing in you classes, you do set theory, philosophy of science, blah blah blah."
"Oh, and I'm Aryan too."
He rolls his eyes and pulls his hood over his head. "Night."
Ok, finish writing fourth-paragraph, check the third-quatrain one more time, look up the meaning for "out alack", ogle that unbelievably hot girl carrying a scarp piece of paper with her book's calling-number on it, pretend I'm lost in thought staring at the book stacks when she notices me eyeing her, describe metrical variation of spondee, sneak one more look at her....shit, lalalalala, lost in thought while staring at the book stacks....dodododooo....
"You know what sucks about this library?" queries the muffled voice to my right.
"What?" She's been swallowed up by PN to PQ.
"It's so quiet that you can't fart."
"Yeah, I hate that" I respond while scribbling down a sudden epiphany. "Those controlled farts where you try to release it in measured quantities so it doesn't make any noise."
"Exactly"
pfffffff....pLOH.
"Guy!" I yell. He laughs.
The humour of releasing gastrointestinal gas transcends race, class, age and intelligence. It binds us.
"Ever read the Bible, Reza?"
"Keep your gas to yourself! Bible? Where the hell did that come from? Bible...yeah, some parts of it."
"I've been meaning to read it for a while."
"I don't want to ruin it for you, but he dies in the end."
Snickers, the aspiring medical student.
"Back to work" he sighs, stretching himself forward in little bursts, trying to pull back his textbook without getting up.
I return to the almost illegible revelation I had written down. Is that a...t?...tr...transcience. Oh, here we go: all of Shake's sonnets are the lettered destruction of transcience, for they are the eternal embodied. Another glance at my assignment sheet: "Don't explain the meaning, but the craft - how it means." Hmmm....yeah, I better not use that.
The hooded calculus whiz to my right is doing something odd. He's tracing the surface of his right hand with his left index finger.
"Freak!" I say, in a benign tone.
He ignores me and thinks out loud, "heh....wrinkles..." He continues to trace them, with reverence.
Ok, onto the second-quatrain of Shakespeare's seventy-third sonnet.
In me thou seest the twilight of such day
As after sunset fadeth in the West,
Which by and by black night doth take away,
Death's second self, that seals up all in rest.
pfffffff....pLOH.
"Guy!!!"
His laughter blends seamlessly into mine.
hahaha
hahahaha haha
hahhah
1:32 AM [View/Post Comments]
Monday, December 01, 2003
tREASON
Faith has been martyred and
All hope has departed
With feet dragging in sullen procession.
I want to escape this
Well-reasoned winter and
Faith, resurrect the
Golden promise of your sun.
But what's done
is
done
.
1:35 AM [View/Post Comments]
Sunday, November 30, 2003
SLIPPIN' ON THE SLOPE
"....contemptous dismissal of the United Nations. Look, I'm not opposed to America's ideals! I champion them! I'm opposed to America's betrayal of their ideals."
I continue eavesdropping on the couple's conversation while blowing on my steaming calzone.
"Look, you have your opinions and I have mine."
"Yeah, like your ignorant views on gays." his girlfriend snaps.
"I'm not getting into this with you again!"
They twirl their pasta in silence, both heads hanging low.
The most common argument I've come across for the prohibition of gay marriages is that it will trigger a detrimental chain of events ultimately culminating in the destruction of heterosexuality and human reproduction . If gay marriages are legally recognized, gays will get married and raise children who will become gay and there will be more gays and homosexuality will become the prevailing sexual norm. Recognizing gay marriages will make homosexual sex a state sanctioned act and that will inevitably flush society down the toilet. Although many of us may not find this argument even worth addressing, it is unfortunately held by many people in one form or another.
I'd like to examine the logical structure of this argument.
A will probably lead to B; B will probably lead to C; C will probably lead to D; D will probably lead to E and E will probably lead to F.
Since this is not a deductive argument but an inductive one, we are to believe that F will be a likely (not necessary) entailment of A. However, we are not entitled to believe F is a likely outcome because when we multiply probabilities the resulting probablity is always reduced. There may be a 50 percent chance that the next thing my landlady says to me is "Yam Yub" and a 50 percent chance that she will be waving a pitchfork at me when she says this, but that means that there is only a 25 percent chance that the next thing my landlady will say to me is "Yam Yub" while waving a pitchfork at me. So if each of the probabilities between A and F is 80 percent, the probablity that A will probably lead to F (homosexuality becoming more pervasive thatn heterosexuality) is only 33 percent.
And since inductive arguments are based on past occurences of a sample event, we can empirically investigate the historical consequences of the establishment and expansion of civil liberties and its franchise. I haven't hitherto come across an example of civil liberties leading to the moral decline of a society.
So, yeah, it's a weak argument. And why the hell won't my freakin' calzone cool down!
3:34 PM [View/Post Comments]
ARE YOU CONSCIOUS OF YOUR GENITALIA?
"Learn to align your seven chakras for optimal multiple-ograsms and channel the deep wellspring of sexual engergy and ecstacy that lies latent within every single human being through studying and applying the ten-step program."
My stomach rumbles. I close the book's left flap. This isn't the typical thing I would read first thing in the morning. I'm usually greeted by black ink: Blasts Hit Istanbul; Martin Set to Take Command; Iran Agrees to IAEA Demands. But I couldn't help pick up the little orange book lying on the table in the living room before stumbling into the kitchen to throw some stale marshmallows, bread and Coke together for breakfast and conquer my morning malaise with glucose.
What had initially caught my attention was the early morning glimmer of Mr. Sun off the book's horrendous orange cover, which had a picture of Hindu deities getting it on. I'm interested in all things Eastern and sexy so I picked it up.
Tantric Techniques: 10 Easy Steps to Great Sex.
I see.
Now why the hell would my landlady leave this book out on the table so I can blunder along in my 8:32 AM state of mind and see it. It's already bad enough that I've walked in on her having her lingus cunned by her boyfriend, but now she has to leave her sex manual on the living room table? (Jesus, landlady, please don't continue fornicating in the living room when you hear me get off the elevator, insert my key into the lock, take it out, insert the correct one, open the door, pause, and then walk in. And please don't get startled like a tween when you see me and then pretend like I didn't know what was happening. Oh, and there really is no need for you to introduce me to your shirtless lover while you're buttoning up your shirt.)
I continued to stand in the living room, fashioning nothing but my tighty whities, my washed-out Greek Pride Festival tee shirt and dried morning drool on the side of my mouth. It's been fifteen-minutes since landlady and her six-year-old son left for school as noisily as possible. (But I don't WANT to go to school!!! Julius, dear, please don't scream in front of Reza's bedroom door, he's still sleeping! - pillow over my head, mumbling, yes Julius DEAR, please don't scream in front of my FUCKING door!)
I was somewhat interested in leafing through the book, but my breakfast of champions beckoned. So I...
umm....
Yeah, I didn't go to the kitchen. I sat down and started looking through it.
Chatper Two, Genital Consciousness: "Being mindful of one's penis or vulva is vital in raising one's energy level before coital collision." Collision? I wouldn't really characterize it as a collision, but ok. "By chanting OM and controlling your breathing, you will gain a far better understanding of your genitalia and learn to communicate with it." ....the hell? Understand and communicate with my genitalia? Man, it's something I pee out of!
Ok, this chapter is weird. Where are the pictures?
Twenty Five Tantric Positions, Illustrated: woah. There are limbs hanging in the air, umoored, and weaving through each other serpentinely. A chaotic mess of human flesh. Lusty pretzels.
Man, it's such a shame to have this venerable Tibetan Buddhist tradition commercialized and misappropriated by Western hacks. Tantra means "treatise" in Sanskirt and refers to a series of 13th century Tibetan manuscripts, supposedly authored by a semi-mythological yogi, that explicate how one can overcome sensual desire through controlled sensual indulgence. But now it's all about trophy-wife soccer moms trying to spice up their bedroom dynamics. (Honey, how 'bout we try the Yam Yub position tonight? Oh goodie!)
Chapter Six, Tantra is Home: "When in physical union with one's partner, we will come to realize that we are home. Home is fundamental, and home is the goal of Tantra."
The smell of bacon and eggs from the landlady's breakfast hangs in the air, tickling my appetite, as I sit in the inoffensive living room, cluttered with tacky trinkets, domesticated with Julius' eight-and-a-half by eleven grin and his colorful finger-paintings hanging on the walls. The back cover of her boyfriend's Time magazine is hanging off the edge of the coffee table, perpendicular to the front cover lying flat on the mahogany surface. Nothing in here is mine.
The steely screech of the streetcar outside reminds me of the long school day ahead. Instead of breaking my fast, I swallow a multi-vitamin pill without any water, throw on my jeans, jacket, backpack and head out of my ho...
...current place of residence.
9:33 AM [View/Post Comments]
|
|
| |
|
|
|
Philosophy, you thief! Knavery is your chief occupation - riddling and questing, a systematic befuddling of one's self! *burp*
