Perhaps my flaw is that I was too selfless
And I'll probably gift away my last breaths
Half-dressed under flickering street lights
Half-confessed, half-possessed
they'll say as say they stare into the abscess
"Relax", "Don't stress" I guess I get your good intents
But intense to one, just seems to pale in others lenses
back to the sixth sense myth
emotive over-sensitive it's
"good that you should vent" or it's
"just like everyone else's"
Well this seems a barren plain of platitudes
as it's rude to neglect the help that's readily dispensed
well it's just that- dispensed
25 cents and turn
and your plastic packaged bandage
should cure from itch to burns
remove stitches and spurn glitches
spit genies from urn
in fact, if it floats, it'll cause witches to burn
which is exactly my predicament
I am just a witch in this
Malleus Maleficarum straddled best seller list
which just displaced the exodus
stakes enter rib cage, exit dust
what's next, it's trust
followed by a bottled form of regiment
sediment
sinking to the bottom, ever reticent
Monday, October 19, 2009
and then...
again. It's always the same. IS this what I'm meant to do? Is it even so deep? What else do I have to offer if not this. No other sights in my view seem to appease these thoughts of my inherent futility.
Just push, push, push...
That's all I see. Fractured dreams and a broken scope. No lens to clarify, straighten or demystify; just the same dull answers and a shovel for digging.
The aches on my shoulders and bags under my eyes are now nearly impossible to mask. And I can almost hear the gray hairs poking through, old age at such a young juncture. So much weighing right now that escape is neither an option nor a solution. In fact I'm obligated, my past mired with a litany of unfinished chores, hopes and dreams, abandoned with as little forethought as a crashing waves gives to wayward kelp, to persevere. I owe this to myself; I, who have reflected on these "quittings" from my past and realized that nothing can make up for them, and who have taken on the hero's helm and mantle of responsibility, of the flawed hero who's current modus opperandi serves a self-interested purpose of redemption.
And so where will it leave me if I shrug off this helm, this cape and mask? What then? What hero will I be then? To whom will I owe allegiance if I can't hold it to myself? To what depths do the borders of my country sink if my vision is mired, my stature so frail, my word so thin?
Off again into some unknown obscurity. And yet as hard as I pull on the mask, it will never come off( but that's anothertopicforanothertime).
Just push, push, push...
That's all I see. Fractured dreams and a broken scope. No lens to clarify, straighten or demystify; just the same dull answers and a shovel for digging.
The aches on my shoulders and bags under my eyes are now nearly impossible to mask. And I can almost hear the gray hairs poking through, old age at such a young juncture. So much weighing right now that escape is neither an option nor a solution. In fact I'm obligated, my past mired with a litany of unfinished chores, hopes and dreams, abandoned with as little forethought as a crashing waves gives to wayward kelp, to persevere. I owe this to myself; I, who have reflected on these "quittings" from my past and realized that nothing can make up for them, and who have taken on the hero's helm and mantle of responsibility, of the flawed hero who's current modus opperandi serves a self-interested purpose of redemption.
And so where will it leave me if I shrug off this helm, this cape and mask? What then? What hero will I be then? To whom will I owe allegiance if I can't hold it to myself? To what depths do the borders of my country sink if my vision is mired, my stature so frail, my word so thin?
Off again into some unknown obscurity. And yet as hard as I pull on the mask, it will never come off( but that's anothertopicforanothertime).
Sunday, September 27, 2009
because nobody reads this
because nobody reads this I can say whatever the fuck I want and no one will care. I can say the most devilish things, things that most push out of their brain I can indulge. I can say everything I feel, everything I've done, and everything I desire.
Fuck it. No one reads this anyway.
I can't do this much longer. Not this way. Too much stress. Even the ones I love feel it. I feel it. And I never learn. It's always the same story. And one day she'll leave me and I'll be sorry. I'm self-destructive to such a fault, sometimes even plotting out the worst case scenarios and living them out. When it's over and my tower crashes and I have nothing, and I have nothing to offer, and I have no one to turn to (and rightfully so), what then? Fade into the obscurity of the American landscape... and probably in more ways than one.
Fuck it. No one reads this anyway.
I can't do this much longer. Not this way. Too much stress. Even the ones I love feel it. I feel it. And I never learn. It's always the same story. And one day she'll leave me and I'll be sorry. I'm self-destructive to such a fault, sometimes even plotting out the worst case scenarios and living them out. When it's over and my tower crashes and I have nothing, and I have nothing to offer, and I have no one to turn to (and rightfully so), what then? Fade into the obscurity of the American landscape... and probably in more ways than one.
Thursday, July 16, 2009
A review of Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince
Novel vs. Film, Film vs. Novel- an epic battle whose end seems about as approximate as the end of our occupation of the Middle East. A battle which, in this humble politico's view, is just as futile. Maybe I still have college-kid cockiness because I took a few film courses dealing with this precarious relationship and understand that they are different mediums, with different conventions and different aims, and so I believe I'm an authority. Maybe I'm easy to please when it comes to something I'm familiar with. Whatever the case may be, I just can't sit around and defend the film against the argument that that it's not exactly like the book, or that major elements were cast aside.
What I can say is that it was an excellent film. In this, the sixth installment, Potter and his friends must deal with their raging hormones, and the constant threat of Voldemort and his legion. As to the latter aspect, there are various mentions of atrocities and occasional shots of Aurors (Dark Wizard Hunters) pacing the halls of the fortified schools. However, as a whole, that tense atmosphere was not well-communicated, but relegated instead to single shots such as the black whips of Death Eater trails repelling against the dome-like force field protecting Hogwarts. Whereas this could have been a detriment to the film, the director instead chose to focus on Malfoy and his quest, which remains a well clouded mystery until about halfway through the film; and even then specifics are shrouded (unless, of course, you've read the book). Here an ominous threat is cast over the otherwise bubbly landscape of the school's corridors, when Malfoy's usually boastful and angry grimaces are coupled with looks of weariness and uncertainty. Tom Felton, in a few words, finally delivers an authentic performance of substance. We feel his dilemma, we understand the internal conflict between his mission and his character, and that alone makes up for what should have been a much darker film.
Where the film succeeds is in the contrast between the solemn and the jocular. Hormones bubble to the surface, with an intense focus on potions class and the intentionally bubbly personality of its new teacher- Horace Slughorn. As his character unravels, so do the relationships in the novel- from light, humorous and airy to mysterious and wrought with guilt. The teenagers find love and, with a brazen air, wrench it from the mantle of fantasy; and like most young relationships, find it far too heavy to easily bear. Whereas Ron's relationship with Lavender is painted with humor, Hermoine's pain and heart-break is visceral. These emotions are paralleled with Slughorn, whose flighty character soon chips away to the foundations of guilt upon which his hesitance to re-join the faculty is rooted.
The film ultimately serves very utilitarian purposes: one last hurrah for the frivolity of youth; cementing the thematic motif of difficult decision making; and finally, grounding the roots from which will spring key plot points of the seventh and final chapter. As vague as my last point seems, to give more detail would ruin the film for those who've yet to read the book. And in this deliberate, utilitarian treatment of the reference text, the director succeeds in a fine adaptation. The nature of the book is intact with respect to the scope of the novels.
"The Half Blood Prince" aspect plays only lightly into the story. A bigger tale needed to be told, but it's function as part of the title is never fully served. Instead, it's presence is used as a device to find a means to an end. The "big reveal" seems to be a perfunctory revelation, more than an eye-opening point of further contention for Harry. However, this might be addressed in further detail and in subtler ways in the final films.
I won't give creedence to arguments of book vs. film, but I will say this: in an ideal world, I'd love to see a more precise translation. However, director David Yates delivered a film whose purpose and gusto do justice to the source material and, more importantly, to the continuity of the story as delivered through film.
8.0/ 10
(Random tags) Funny, lighter than the previous film, moments of sadness, mature-child friendly, inner turmoil,
What I can say is that it was an excellent film. In this, the sixth installment, Potter and his friends must deal with their raging hormones, and the constant threat of Voldemort and his legion. As to the latter aspect, there are various mentions of atrocities and occasional shots of Aurors (Dark Wizard Hunters) pacing the halls of the fortified schools. However, as a whole, that tense atmosphere was not well-communicated, but relegated instead to single shots such as the black whips of Death Eater trails repelling against the dome-like force field protecting Hogwarts. Whereas this could have been a detriment to the film, the director instead chose to focus on Malfoy and his quest, which remains a well clouded mystery until about halfway through the film; and even then specifics are shrouded (unless, of course, you've read the book). Here an ominous threat is cast over the otherwise bubbly landscape of the school's corridors, when Malfoy's usually boastful and angry grimaces are coupled with looks of weariness and uncertainty. Tom Felton, in a few words, finally delivers an authentic performance of substance. We feel his dilemma, we understand the internal conflict between his mission and his character, and that alone makes up for what should have been a much darker film.
Where the film succeeds is in the contrast between the solemn and the jocular. Hormones bubble to the surface, with an intense focus on potions class and the intentionally bubbly personality of its new teacher- Horace Slughorn. As his character unravels, so do the relationships in the novel- from light, humorous and airy to mysterious and wrought with guilt. The teenagers find love and, with a brazen air, wrench it from the mantle of fantasy; and like most young relationships, find it far too heavy to easily bear. Whereas Ron's relationship with Lavender is painted with humor, Hermoine's pain and heart-break is visceral. These emotions are paralleled with Slughorn, whose flighty character soon chips away to the foundations of guilt upon which his hesitance to re-join the faculty is rooted.
The film ultimately serves very utilitarian purposes: one last hurrah for the frivolity of youth; cementing the thematic motif of difficult decision making; and finally, grounding the roots from which will spring key plot points of the seventh and final chapter. As vague as my last point seems, to give more detail would ruin the film for those who've yet to read the book. And in this deliberate, utilitarian treatment of the reference text, the director succeeds in a fine adaptation. The nature of the book is intact with respect to the scope of the novels.
"The Half Blood Prince" aspect plays only lightly into the story. A bigger tale needed to be told, but it's function as part of the title is never fully served. Instead, it's presence is used as a device to find a means to an end. The "big reveal" seems to be a perfunctory revelation, more than an eye-opening point of further contention for Harry. However, this might be addressed in further detail and in subtler ways in the final films.
I won't give creedence to arguments of book vs. film, but I will say this: in an ideal world, I'd love to see a more precise translation. However, director David Yates delivered a film whose purpose and gusto do justice to the source material and, more importantly, to the continuity of the story as delivered through film.
8.0/ 10
(Random tags) Funny, lighter than the previous film, moments of sadness, mature-child friendly, inner turmoil,
Thursday, June 25, 2009
Underfoot
It was a dry day in hell when I died.
The sun bore down on an autumn sky and the hardening leaves, seemed to fly
on a gust of wind
on a one more time
But time was as brittle as their lives.
And life no longer seemed so contrived
as the day stung clear in my eyes
oh the eastern sky
could never hope to hum a reply
to the red and orange sense of last night.
When we still hung about.
When we swayed in the rain
and cackled as we swelled and we rose again.
But those days are underneath us now
or we are underneath them.
Should we rise to meet them
these feet, them.
We'll see, then.
Ho, hum under the glorious sun
cracking away underfoot
we lost touch
when we got touched.
And everyday before just passed.
Just past.
Oh, now comes the dusk and the breezes
where we incite sneezes
and tell-tale wheezes
leaves out of season
leaves, out of season
The sun bore down on an autumn sky and the hardening leaves, seemed to fly
on a gust of wind
on a one more time
But time was as brittle as their lives.
And life no longer seemed so contrived
as the day stung clear in my eyes
oh the eastern sky
could never hope to hum a reply
to the red and orange sense of last night.
When we still hung about.
When we swayed in the rain
and cackled as we swelled and we rose again.
But those days are underneath us now
or we are underneath them.
Should we rise to meet them
these feet, them.
We'll see, then.
Ho, hum under the glorious sun
cracking away underfoot
we lost touch
when we got touched.
And everyday before just passed.
Just past.
Oh, now comes the dusk and the breezes
where we incite sneezes
and tell-tale wheezes
leaves out of season
leaves, out of season
Wednesday, June 24, 2009
New Morning
Good morning Raleigh.
A drive-by shooting happens in an instant but the memory pierces you forever. And in that forever, the instant drags its heavy feet towards infinity. What was once a flash becomes a slow dawn rising, and at this point you're either a vampire or on your last day before a long jail sentence.
Welcome to the morning after. The drive-by becomes a great starting point for some pretentious, born-again blog entry while you smoke your own ashes. There's no more reason for a minor memory, for a flash to (enter mixed metaphor) ruin the entire roll.
Sure, a couple of pictures might have been affected, but I'll be selling them under a pseudonym and the pretense of a new art form. I'll claim they were carefully rendered and exposed just long enough, etc, etc. At that point I'll drop the guise and make millions off of a book claiming to be the sole surviving interview of a man whose true masterpiece was his deception. His art was actually the realization and self-manipulation of his 15 minute fame.
I'll use that as the dock for my writing career and dive. Who cares if the local kids push shopping carts off the edge for kicks? I'll dive in just the same.
Splash.
A drive-by shooting happens in an instant but the memory pierces you forever. And in that forever, the instant drags its heavy feet towards infinity. What was once a flash becomes a slow dawn rising, and at this point you're either a vampire or on your last day before a long jail sentence.
Welcome to the morning after. The drive-by becomes a great starting point for some pretentious, born-again blog entry while you smoke your own ashes. There's no more reason for a minor memory, for a flash to (enter mixed metaphor) ruin the entire roll.
Sure, a couple of pictures might have been affected, but I'll be selling them under a pseudonym and the pretense of a new art form. I'll claim they were carefully rendered and exposed just long enough, etc, etc. At that point I'll drop the guise and make millions off of a book claiming to be the sole surviving interview of a man whose true masterpiece was his deception. His art was actually the realization and self-manipulation of his 15 minute fame.
I'll use that as the dock for my writing career and dive. Who cares if the local kids push shopping carts off the edge for kicks? I'll dive in just the same.
Splash.
Friday, February 13, 2009
mad world pt 1
In these mad times, who are we but the embryos of futility, dragging our carcasses across stone lit dawn? Where haphazard circumstance bleeds viscous phlegm onto a blind god's palms, compassion is irreverent. Liquid is liquid- might be rain, might be blood, your word against mine. How then do we stumble forward, hoping at be to catch a break and not be cast off with the flow of tide? At peak hour for moratorium, the best we can offer is paltry and honest submission to our chemistry, to the science that give us sight, and the sighing that rings our plight. Never letting the effortless stipulations extracted from half-beating hearts bear the torch for the day's grudge yields only the optimal insignificance required to coexist. The dotted red lines speak truth but neglect the frenzied art of the moment, and sometimes cynicism is mistaken for reason in shaving with Occam's razor. If only half the centerfold desires of the moment were manifest in tranquil awe before our wildest imaginings- maybe then could we actually participate. Maybe then. Maybe then becomes the idealist's repertoire and, to the ears of said judge, grandiloquence.
So we spit in the gentle faces and wipe away our broken tears with a grim hope that shiver is reflex and not mode, that the humming is pretense, and not the song. Shy, shy away from the glimmer. Shy, shy away from the tremors. Never again insult or castigate the hand that blends truth in the slip of finger and calls it art.
No, no, we are not the sole surveyors of this anomaly. We instead ratchet up and ratchet down until the bolt's too tight to slip and worn of grip. In my fondest memories somewhere, a hero swarms the battlements and waves no flag. He swings no swords, he sings no chords. Just watches as prophecy unravels and reveals then turns in spite, and burns in flight.
Never give to the thicket what the tree will drop of its own accord.
So we spit in the gentle faces and wipe away our broken tears with a grim hope that shiver is reflex and not mode, that the humming is pretense, and not the song. Shy, shy away from the glimmer. Shy, shy away from the tremors. Never again insult or castigate the hand that blends truth in the slip of finger and calls it art.
No, no, we are not the sole surveyors of this anomaly. We instead ratchet up and ratchet down until the bolt's too tight to slip and worn of grip. In my fondest memories somewhere, a hero swarms the battlements and waves no flag. He swings no swords, he sings no chords. Just watches as prophecy unravels and reveals then turns in spite, and burns in flight.
Never give to the thicket what the tree will drop of its own accord.
Saturday, January 17, 2009
drowning in the syllables
the lexicon I'll never know
I'm drowning in the syllables.
wading in the conjugations
is the soul of saint I can't defame.
where is the future for the modern man
hyper aware of how the seconds pass?
eyes on the world that swirls about
wristwatch makes a fine, fine bracelet
common faces in common places
rusted sardine cans fished from open seas
on the crest that will build to break foundations
of the pillar that shades where the turtles breach.
cascade, cascade, crescendo
fad fades black to innuendo
a thin grin smeared on a chap-lipped frown
dimple deep puddle where you soaked your gown
and the alphabet soup cutout to ransom dish
glue encrusted fingertips that failed to grip
the ledge from which you shrugged the common tongue
and gave in to the lingo, the lingo, the lingo
the lexicon I'll never know
I'm drowning in the syllables.
wading in the conjugations
is the soul of saint I can't defame.
I'm drowning in the syllables.
wading in the conjugations
is the soul of saint I can't defame.
where is the future for the modern man
hyper aware of how the seconds pass?
eyes on the world that swirls about
wristwatch makes a fine, fine bracelet
common faces in common places
rusted sardine cans fished from open seas
on the crest that will build to break foundations
of the pillar that shades where the turtles breach.
cascade, cascade, crescendo
fad fades black to innuendo
a thin grin smeared on a chap-lipped frown
dimple deep puddle where you soaked your gown
and the alphabet soup cutout to ransom dish
glue encrusted fingertips that failed to grip
the ledge from which you shrugged the common tongue
and gave in to the lingo, the lingo, the lingo
the lexicon I'll never know
I'm drowning in the syllables.
wading in the conjugations
is the soul of saint I can't defame.
Tuesday, January 13, 2009
Interrupt... pt.2
Does your sway coat you in mid-July?
Unwashed since Winter's wane
Still worn. For what?
Lack of hook?
Slack of shrug?
Anticipation?
Fall beckons its pastel gloves,
In humming winds around you.
Your scarf slips slow
as the cruel song plays.
The drone drip of the soaked through pockets
the cold dribble pasting hair to layer.
And all the while it's still July,
and sway should not be folded or hung
or shrugged
but flung from limb.
Tossed in heaps in lost and found bins?
Among the pinks and hues of fade
that fashion's fling saw fit to drop?
Or the fad fling many
felt fit to forget?
Better yet to burn
or turn for those whose felt is art,
or held for those who winter threads.
Disarm, disrobe. All in the same breath, crawl in the same vein. The blood flow ripples through rivers, so don't let your rowboat raise hairs or razed flare will boil to burn. (And knowing the smell of singe...)
Sing instead and stroke.
Fording suits you so much better.
Unwashed since Winter's wane
Still worn. For what?
Lack of hook?
Slack of shrug?
Anticipation?
Fall beckons its pastel gloves,
In humming winds around you.
Your scarf slips slow
as the cruel song plays.
The drone drip of the soaked through pockets
the cold dribble pasting hair to layer.
And all the while it's still July,
and sway should not be folded or hung
or shrugged
but flung from limb.
Tossed in heaps in lost and found bins?
Among the pinks and hues of fade
that fashion's fling saw fit to drop?
Or the fad fling many
felt fit to forget?
Better yet to burn
or turn for those whose felt is art,
or held for those who winter threads.
Disarm, disrobe. All in the same breath, crawl in the same vein. The blood flow ripples through rivers, so don't let your rowboat raise hairs or razed flare will boil to burn. (And knowing the smell of singe...)
Sing instead and stroke.
Fording suits you so much better.
Sunday, January 4, 2009
...as though the world were as it should be
"We live as though the world were as it should be, to show it what it can be"
Angel, Season 4, Episode 1- 'Deep Down"
What a quote, eh? Sure it's taken from a television program many found kitschy or cheesy, but Angel's messages about the world reflected the goodness that can come from recognizing what's worth fighting for. If you know me, you know I can go on for hours about the relevance of Angel and Buffy, and you know that I like to; but this quote resounds with me particularly as an educator and humanitarian.
In context, Angel delivers the quote to his son Conner after having been brought back from the depths of the ocean by Wesley. Wesley had betrayed Angel in the prior season and this act was the beginning of his redemption. Angel told his son this line because Conner was awestruck at the fact that his father survived and was whining about the lack of fairness. This is a simplification of what occurred, but essentially Conner was rebelling against the fact that he was dealt a bad hand. And Angel's words resound from the heart of the show. No, life isn't fair- your background, the cards you were dealt, your job situation, your position in life- but that doesn't make it okay to to take it out on the world. Instead, show the world its potential. Angel then tells Conner that he's not quite ready to become a "Champion"- someone who fights the good fight once made aware what's going on- and proceeds to kick him out of his house.
And sure, the notion of being a "Champion" seems to belong solely to the realm of a fictional world with monsters and alternate dimensions, but we can take a cue from it, can't we? How easy it is to complain about something and then pout. How simple it is, if you think about it, to get wrapped up in simple, reactionary emotions over trivialities. However, to show the world that it can be better and to speak with confidence when faced with a daunting challenge- therein comes the struggle; but therein also emerges our inner champion.
I'm working at a difficult school. Ranked among the 6 worst in North Carolina. It would be really easy to give up, it would be really easy to simply complain. But I can't take that easy route; I won't let these innumerable odds weigh me down. Am I a champion? Hardly. But I'm working my way there.
But it doesn't stop at work. I'd like to pursue the other causes I care about more thoroughly this year. I also have many things I wish to achieve this year- including: learning to play an instrument; writing more; reading at least 2 books a month; etc. And sure, many of my desires are personal, but the achievement of my goals is a mirror for others to look into and find equal greatness within themselves. By living as the world is as it should be I show the world that it too can improve.
I guess that's my operating principle for this year. Live as the world were as it should be.
Join me and do the same.
(Cue Angel theme song)
(Just kidding)
(Or am I?)
(g)
Angel, Season 4, Episode 1- 'Deep Down"
What a quote, eh? Sure it's taken from a television program many found kitschy or cheesy, but Angel's messages about the world reflected the goodness that can come from recognizing what's worth fighting for. If you know me, you know I can go on for hours about the relevance of Angel and Buffy, and you know that I like to; but this quote resounds with me particularly as an educator and humanitarian.
In context, Angel delivers the quote to his son Conner after having been brought back from the depths of the ocean by Wesley. Wesley had betrayed Angel in the prior season and this act was the beginning of his redemption. Angel told his son this line because Conner was awestruck at the fact that his father survived and was whining about the lack of fairness. This is a simplification of what occurred, but essentially Conner was rebelling against the fact that he was dealt a bad hand. And Angel's words resound from the heart of the show. No, life isn't fair- your background, the cards you were dealt, your job situation, your position in life- but that doesn't make it okay to to take it out on the world. Instead, show the world its potential. Angel then tells Conner that he's not quite ready to become a "Champion"- someone who fights the good fight once made aware what's going on- and proceeds to kick him out of his house.
And sure, the notion of being a "Champion" seems to belong solely to the realm of a fictional world with monsters and alternate dimensions, but we can take a cue from it, can't we? How easy it is to complain about something and then pout. How simple it is, if you think about it, to get wrapped up in simple, reactionary emotions over trivialities. However, to show the world that it can be better and to speak with confidence when faced with a daunting challenge- therein comes the struggle; but therein also emerges our inner champion.
I'm working at a difficult school. Ranked among the 6 worst in North Carolina. It would be really easy to give up, it would be really easy to simply complain. But I can't take that easy route; I won't let these innumerable odds weigh me down. Am I a champion? Hardly. But I'm working my way there.
But it doesn't stop at work. I'd like to pursue the other causes I care about more thoroughly this year. I also have many things I wish to achieve this year- including: learning to play an instrument; writing more; reading at least 2 books a month; etc. And sure, many of my desires are personal, but the achievement of my goals is a mirror for others to look into and find equal greatness within themselves. By living as the world is as it should be I show the world that it too can improve.
I guess that's my operating principle for this year. Live as the world were as it should be.
Join me and do the same.
(Cue Angel theme song)
(Just kidding)
(Or am I?)
(g)
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