Not much activity.
Sporadic sessions of singing, always surreptitiously.
Soothing solvents for stressful situations.
Several sighs soar sometimes.
Settling softly on Superman’s shoulders.
Sea shell structures.
Not much activity.
Sporadic sessions of singing, always surreptitiously.
Soothing solvents for stressful situations.
Several sighs soar sometimes.
Settling softly on Superman’s shoulders.
Sea shell structures.
Where does originality come from. The wise always say it starts with imitation, but doesn’t that sound counter-intuitive? Be yourself by first applying elements of another’s persona. Ah maybe I’m just confusing myself with the terminology.. Originality or greatness. To be truthful: I took this from Kill Your Darlings. The small clip when Professor Steaves writes and says, “Greatness comes from imitation”, or something along those lines. Ginsberg doesn’t look so convinced. I truly believed it though(prior to KYD), but now I’m questioning everything. I mean yes, everyone has to start somewhere if tabula rasa is real. We are shaped by our experiences, but I also think by the people we’re around and draw influence from either willingly or subconsciously. Is it possible to have entirely unique experiences, devoid of mainstream culture and pass paradigms? Well, one would need extremely radical parents. The more I think of it, the more it seems absolutely impossible. I can’t even fathom a family like that, though I can some who come very, very close, but never fulfill the characteristics established above. Like a hyperbola; getting infinitely close but never crossing that asymptote. Ha! I found it: posterity…Um too late now, but yes it means all future generations (of people). To be honest, I don’t think that model is even desirable. Certain aspects of our already established society should be kept, while some should definitely be thrown away. But how can we as the people agree upon what is changed and what is not? When something from the long-standing paradigm is extirpated, their will be a reaction that instigates further changes that will climax in an uncontrollable succession of radical movements, then the original intention of the moderates will be lost among the cloud of crazed revolutionaries.
I’ve been going through the pages of Patti Smith’s life with Robert Mapplethorpe. Roberts have been popping up, Robert Graysmith is another, from Zodiac. I’m not sure if that movie was what I wanted. I wanted something more shocking, more Silence of the Lambs. “Hurdy gurdy gurdy, hurdy gurdy gurdy gurdy man….”
It’s April. The theme for this month is…..solitude. No I think that’s been my theme for long enough. I picture my junior year as a new start, I want to reach out to people more. Join more clubs, talk to people, stay after school for activities. Can an introvert really do all those things? If I can learn anything from Susan, it’s that you need a solid-rock-hard heart for this. But I don’t…right now. Anyway she’s already extroverted, a people person.
I can’t seem to develop my own thoughts, I’m everywhere with repetitive words and meaningless rambles. I type and type, but most of the clicks and clacks are backspaces of furious neglect. See? That didn’t even make sense, can I just <—–JUST! always just, always okay always whatever or whoever this whole thing, my vocabulary, is laughable! You think I use words well? Well think again because well and well right after each other. I’m so dissapointed in myself. Wow a typo, no actually you’re just dumb. JUSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSTL;JKA
Okay so it’s in black and white. Notable notes: three figures labeled pain, grief and despair on table. Baby boy knocks them over when climbing atop the table to the window. Snow outside. Couple copulating in the same room; distracted. Antichrist with a female symbol for “t”. Man knocks bottle of liquid (probably alcohol) over during bed sex. Sex starts in shower. Baby carrying a bear, first seen floating in the nursery, tied to a black balloon. Baby speaker, can probably hear parents having sex in other room. Background music: operatic singing, women’s voice. Boy falls through window, orgasm upon his impact and subsequent death. From shower, moves to laundry room, then to the bed. The dryer is on, and stops at the end of the prologue.
Dryer and sheets inside–couple making a new baby, impregnation. Round window of dryer, reminiscent of pregnant womb. Alcohol knocked over—sexual intoxication leading to negligence. Black balloon tied to bear—balloon as dark, evil parents (or just the mother), “raising” the child (the bear) up, but all balloons soon deflate. The cold air outside would certainly deflate the balloon (chemistry…). Snow-innocence, the baby, falling towards the ground. Sex in shower, shower=cleanliness contrasted with dirty act. Dryer dries clothes, but also the couple, as they move to the bed….?
Chapter One: Grief
Okay so unlike the prologue, this section is much longer, so I will probably miss some things. Um Well the mother experiences profound “atypical” grief. Her therapist husband insists on taking her home, despite the disapproval of Dr. Wayne, the offscreen doctor. where her condition only seems to worsen. She bangs her head on the toilet some times….puts the pills in the toilet too. She is guilty. The husband tries to help. Oh yes in the beginning there walking behind the coffin of the child, the father sobbing with the mom silently staring at the black box behind him. They’re walking, and suddenly she collapses. She was in the hospital for a while, a month. The camera zooms into the bedside flowers, particularly the stems and the murky water. At home there are some strange and eerie foreshadowing visions of twisted grey branches/underbrush. “Anxiety” signs are shown in shadowy b&w scenes with close ups of symptoms like a pulsing neck vein for “fast pulse”. The mom is highly sexual, trying to use sex as a way of dousing her grief. The husband tries to stop her, but he gives in. They copulate once. She says he wasn’t a part of her and the son’s life before he died. He tries to make her confess her greatest fears, or places of fear. She says the woods “Eden”, though before she had always wanted to go there. They make it into the woods, and the scene of the forest is subtly distorted. She wants to rest, and while she sleeps, he wanders off and sees a deer. Turning, he realizes the deer is giving birth and his expression changes. It trots off. A significantly symbolic scene takes place when they’re on the train and she, in psychotherapy, narrates her travel through the woods with guidance from her husband. The scenes are slow-motion. The first shows her crossing a small bridge, everything is “silent”, even the stream underneath. The next she is crossing through some ferns a “lizard is hiding behind the fern, as usual”. It is not difficult to walk here. Next she is seen through a “field fox hole” among the trees and slopes. It is not easy to pass here, the ground feels like “mud”. She next passes by a decaying tree whose “trunk is thick”. It is decaying ever-so-slowly, and it has a “strange kind of personality”. Finally she is seen approaching the cabin, but before she enters, her husband tells her to lie down. A bit hesitant, she does so and her husband tells her to fade into the green, which she does, and it’s over.
There’s not much for me to say, the focus on the murky water of the flower vase might indicate the evil present in the mother, with the flowers being her son. Garden of Eden motif. Fertilization theme, with the deer and the offspring hanging out of its butt. Everything else for later expansion.
Chapter Two: Pain (Chaos reigns)
The wife comes to tell the husband that they should get going. He seems off-put by the encounter with the deer. They head towards the cabin and see all the places described by the wife earlier. First the bridge, which she crosses with great difficulty. The volume of the stream increases while she walks slowly across, before bursting away about half way through. The husband sighs in exasperation, and heads toward the cabin alone where along the way he crosses the field of ferns, the fox hole, and the strange tree. When he arrives, he spots the pile of branches to the right of the cabin a bit off. The wife is sleeping inside and he sees the polaroids of her and the child on the bedside table. During the night, we can hear the clanging of acorns falling down on the tin roof of the cabin. He opens the window to look, and falls asleep with his hand outside the window. When waking, he sees tiny grey pebbles stuck to his hand and peels them off confusedly. Later he is seen outside by his wife setting up stones for an “exercise”. From one stone to the other, she crosses the grass, though with great turmoil. For a second a vision of a bare foot (possibly hers) is seen stepping onto dirty grass. She reaches the stone and sits down, weeping while her husband consoles her on her good job. Suddenly a dead baby bird drops out of a tree, and a close up reveals its infancy and the ants covering its pale body. A grown bird swoops in and takes it into the tree where it promptly rips off the dead baby bird’s wing and eats it. The wife cries harder. Okay many things happened. She, while sobbing in bed, recollects the summer before where she hear a sound. She is working at her desk with a book titled “Gynocide”. The sound was Nick, the child, crying, and this sound permeated throughout the entire forest, but he was found in the barn, positively shining. The crying had no apparent source. She lies in bed, saying something about how nature is Satan’s realm, I can’t recall the exact quote. Oh yes “Satan’s church”. And the window is open, “that was his breath” as the wind blows through. She also deconstructs her prior view of the world, long ago when she found out oak trees live for 100 trees and they only need one acorn to propagate. Then she says now she realizes that Eden’s beauty might actually be hideous because all the lost acorns, and their cries of death, touch her..He has a dream of slowly falling acorns, like the opening scene in Melancholia. The next morning she is seemingly cured, frolicking through the grass and nature, stomping the bridge, waddling through the stream. But the husband, unconvinced, dons a skeptical look which the wife takes as his inability to be “happy for her”. She rushes back to the cabin, and in the field of ferns, while following her, he hears a rustle in the ferns a ways off. Before bending down to see what it is, a wind rushes through, stirring the ferns. It is a fox, who seems to be eating itself. Then, with a ominous voice, it says “Chaos Reigns”.
Long long long, expand later.
Chapter Three: Despair (Gynocide)
It starts raining without warning, and the man goes inside to find his wife sleeping. He notices an attic door, and curious, climbs up with a ladder to reveal its contents. Inside he sees pictures of gynocide tacked up upon the wooden walls, and the book shown earlier in the flashback “Gynocide”, on a table, extensively highlights and annotated. Besides the volume is something resembling a constellation map. A notable emphasis is placed upon three particular constellations named “The Three Beggars”, and they’re a fox, an unknown bird, and a deer. They’re each labeled pain, despair, and grief respectively, mirroring the three chapters of the book in which each one appears. He finds a journal where his wife must have cataloged her thoughts last summer, but as he flips through it, the handwriting is seen to debilitate, until the writing is nearly unreadable. Trees fall outside. The next day in bed, she talks about the evil nature of woman, but her husband refutes the idea, reminding her of the vary topic of her thesis, which was to debase the idea that she’s now embracing. They have sex and the wife implores him to “hit her hard so it hurts” whilst sobbing. He refuses, and she runs off into the woods. The wife is seen masturbating fervently in the forest to the sound of an eerie music, her husband joins her and they copulate. She asks again, and this time he obliges, hitting her twice before they embrace. The camera pans outwards, and we can see the arms of people, seemingly trapped underneath the roots of the tree. A reference is made to the Sisters of Ratisman who could conjure up a hailstorm. The next day she is seen throwing papers into the stone fireplace. She finds the autopsy report the husband had been keeping from her in the pile of papers. The report shows a slight deformity of the child’s foot, which we later see might have come from the misplacement of his shoes. The husband shows her this and she dismisses it as a weird “slip of the day”. He exits the cabin, through the thick fog, and into the shed where he reviews the photos, all of them with the same misplacement of shoes, left on right and right on left. A flashback reveals the wife’s deliberate intent to put the shoes on wrong, to the protest of the crying child. Suddenly, the wife bursts in with a wooden plank, hitting the husband and questioning if he’s leaving her. The crazy attack devolves (or evolves?) into a feral sex session, where the husband says he loves her, but she says he doesn’t believe him. The sex halts, and the husband falls unconscious, when the wife throws a cinderblock onto his penis. She strokes the shaft, and blood squirts out, staining her white floral blouse. Silently, she detaches a round cement block from its place and uses a drill to push a hole through his left shin. Using the circular block as a weight, she inserts a metal rod through his shin and screws the cement block in, as to incapacitate him. After doing so, she takes a wrench to the cabin where she throws it underneath. Meanwhile, the husband regains consciousness and with great agony, crawls away into the fox hole. Finding him gone, the wife hysterically shouts “Where are you!” and “You bastard!” repetitively. Inside the hole, he lights a match and finds something buried underneath the dirt; a raven, one of the three beggars, despair. It is inexplicably alive, and squawks loudly at the man. Realizing it is giving away his position, he begins pummeling it with a rock, but the bird remains alive. Finding his position, the woman tries to drag him out, but failing that, she grabs a shovel and begins digging from the top downward.
Chapter 4: The Three Beggars
It is nighttime, and the wife is standing over a patch of dirt with her shovel. She starts sobbing and saying “I’m sorry”, digging out the man from the dirt below. He says they need to get the weight off of him, but she says she can’t find it, after honestly searching for it in the tool box. She helps him back to the cabin where he asks her if she was going to kill him. She says “not yet” and begins crying before stopping abruptly and says “a woman crying is a woman scheming”. Other portents include “when the three beggars gather, someone must die”. She kisses him and gets up to grab a pair of scissors. She lays next to him and takes his hand, guiding it towards her nether regions. A flashback of the prologue shows that she saw the child climbing onto the desk, and subsequently falling out the window. Crying, she tells him to “hold [her]” and proceeds to cut her clitoris with the scissors. She cries out and a deer in the forest lifts its head. Later, the husband, still on the floor, stares out the window and sees the constellation of The Three Beggars noting that there is no constellation named that. A cut from the prologue shows a deer in the window as the child falls through. A deer appears, and then a fox with a bell necklace. The raven is heard beneath the floorboard. The man breaks it and finds the hidden wrench, but before he can free himself, the woman awakes and they quarrel. She stabs him with the scissors, twice, but he manages to break free (with great pain). Now free, he pushes the woman to the wall and strangles her to death. Before the huge fight, some hail pores down, just a note. Anyways, the deed is done, and he cremates his wife outside on the pile of branches seen earlier. As he limps away with a stick for support, the transparency of the woods are elucidated and hundreds of naked bodies lie underneath.
The initial slow operatic song from the prologue is resumed as well as the black and white color. The man is seen walking up a hill, and stops to consume some berries. He sees a feather in the bush, and sees the Three Beggars staring off to the side. Standing up, he peers down the hill and sees a procession of hundreds of women climbing up the hill. He is smiling. Just as many approach from the back, and the movie ends with a shot of the multitude of women climbing up the hill.
IN the proces of putting together a terrible rough draft about Allen Ginsberg poetry relating to his life. I’ve picked out Howl, A Supermarket in California, and two more obscure works: Vision 1948, and In Death, Cannot Reach What Is Most Near. I have got two body paragraphs down, and now the final theme of death awaits my addressing, but I don’t feel ready to do it. Actually I didn’t feel ready when I started this…I’m actually doing the outline AS I type up the paper..oh no. Yes it’s very botched (to be expected) I cant use effective internal transitions to save my life. There’s just so much structure that I fail to actually have everything make sense. There’s too much citations, or maybe too little. I don’t have enough commentary. I think the problem lies in balancing commentary with the evidence, having them connect. If I do try to add more commentary, it totally spirals into another irrelevancy that does not fit into the paper. So that’s a form of frustration. Also words, using too much of the same ones, and also my bland, repetitive style. It’s very monotonous, who would ever want to read it? I can’t but I have to. That’s my reason. It’s now 5:00 am. Cya
There was nothing more devastating than finding out that the poetry project was, essentially, over. My connection with Allen (I can call him Allen now right?) has become deeper, so deep, like the Mariana Trench, I can’t pull myself out. So much, so much admiration, the portrayal of him in various guises (Radcliffe, Franco), they all make me more devoted. This connection was something fabricated by an official project, with a number attached to it, a grade, something quantitative. But know I find the problem of overcoming this vapid need to excel at a school paper, I mean it’s something that I expended many hours developing, but in the end, the paper (and project) didn’t matter. It doesn’t matter, because whatever happens, this assignment was a starting point. GROUND ZERO, of my own formulation. Of ideas, my philosophy, moral code, just the ability to express all these is my only obstacle now. Indeed, a powerful opponent, self-improvement will either come gradually, or unbelievably fast. Probably the latter, in any case, come it will. To speed it up, I need to divulge my own self—to the world! Just like Ginsberg, I don’t want to be a “grotesque” creature anymore, skulking in the back alleys of my lucid mind. I have to live this lifestyle, my own beliefs-asserted onto reality. The reverberation will be shocking. I can’t find myself now though, without the help of continued reading, researching, studying, exploration. Even this week, the next—a perpetual stream of journeys into the unknown and specious-knowns. GROUND ZERO will always be this project, the things that came with it, all the stuff, will be cataloged. The information; the bios, critiques, love for this poet. The movies. I don’t know if I’ve become anything other than a fanatic, but the labels don’t phase me. Or maybe they do, “don’t hide the madness”. “Howl” is a prophecy, his legacy, YOUR legacy, Allen, has become eternal. Even so long after your death, a year before my conception, you impact the youth today. Me, someone else, the actors of Kill Your Darlings, the actors in Howl, the people associated with these productions. Lovely people, scattered all over the nation, with hidden faces-not hidden. I feel for their blazing hearts, my yearning heart, to relate and make love, to form relations. For in my societal impression, I am lonely. Inward and outward, these things are the same. So I can make myself happy=? But happiness is overrated (Chris Ware) and life is but a passage between those two doors. Eclipsed with a SLAM or gentle -click-….on the linoleum floor, -click-, -clack-, -click-, -clack-, and the ballet slippers slip slop slide down the corridor. Without a sound, no one knows where it goes-to the street, or out of town. I can’t tell, for I don’t know, this special place, I linger towards.
Intelligent and grounded, these two words stuck out of the five used to describe Dan by Dane. And I could see that. They laughed as the halcyon atmosphere took me in. They talked about Keats, Keats and Vonnegut (Dane’s) and I thought of Shelley. Only because of the elegy-read in KYD.
and you just breath, it comes easily
it rhymes, or not
with spaces, so like the pie
cherry i feel disconnected, nowhere to go-
Finishing was the title of a draft that was never saved because I had no words in it. It was a title of something that was going to be amazing, a whole list of things that I wasn’t finishing, everything that I was either postponing indefinitely or for such a long time it seemed indefinite. I was going to address my problem with procrastination, putting things off for “later”, and this later being a time undetermined, so I effectively place the conclusion in limbo, a place of perpetual illusion. I continue to trick myself into the clutches of my own hypocrisy, every time, every time I convince myself sooo well. And it turns out terrible, I am a self-saboteur, to cite: ROOKIE Yearbook 2, “Giving Up on Giving Up” by Danielle. Simply…Danielle. This article also brought to my attention my tendency to not do things that I want to do. Sabotaging my thoughts before they can turn into reality. Ideas left to fly away in the dust of a endless desert of forgotten pseudo-creations. It’s so sad, so damning. Where do these things go when I forget about them? Purgatory, paradise? These offerings aren’t just for humans, I bet many things wind up in the places of afterlife. But only humans go to Hell. Dante’s Inferno is making it’s way into the mailbox at the corner of my street. The communal mailbox that’s situated in the middle of the block. There I picked up so many things, my Rookie Yearbook, socks, books, other things I don’t remember. Globelamp packages. These things coming out of that plain metal box…
My imagination is tearing me away from relevancy. I can’t sustain coherence anymore, but my mind is making things from the past resurface. Resurfacing into a montage of different voices and sounds, histories remade into possibilities. Shifting, everything shifting like a giant wooden puzzle, cylindrical, and the camera wooshes—-over, down under, over, left, up, down, right, and then turn up and out into the space around the structure. The view is incredible as we stare down at the structure of time. So much like the body of an ancient tree, but married to modern geometric design. I see so many other things, birds, blackening the sky. And nothing more, for the words can not fix into to the puzzle, this puzzle is best left unsolved.
I’ve finally got my hands on this essential work by Nietzsche, and I feel like I should have started off with this. It’s a novel which is great, it will be entertaining, with a story line and everything! Unlike Twilight of the Idols which is composed of chapters centered on ideas that are expounded on in various sub-postulations. This structure made him much harder to grasp because of the rapid jump from one subject to another. TSZ is succinct and promising if the prologue and introductions hold any merit. The introduction by his sister cites many journal entries, and I lost him in one, so there’s still that complexity and intellectual gap between writer and reader which will make this reading either highly frustrating or revelatory. The prologue, if it is to be of any portent, tells a chronological tale of thematic principles with allegorical situations. Not only that, but the story is told in beautiful and generally pleasant verse. There’s ripe imagery and sensory provocations. Thoroughly enjoying the story and pretense so far, excited for the use of ideas referenced in the introduction by Dennis Sweet; Will of Power, Eternal Recurrence, amor fati, and of course the Superman (already mentioned). The protagonist’s characterization will be interesting to observe, his meditation in the mountains, as an archetypal OUTCAST and/or HERO on a quest, and especially his love for mankind, or more accurately his pity for mankind. I wonder who will accept his wisdom?
I was just 14 last year, no one told me when you become old it comes up behind you surreptitiously like a clandestine backstabber and kills you with its rustic blade of tormented time. I wasn’t aware of the state the body takes when given over to the eternal flow of the beast of time. just last year, just last year, just last year, I was so many things, I feel like this time that has past…..encapsulated too little, maybe this comes from my self-isolation from the drama of daily existence, my insistence on a tranquil, but consequently mundane life.