“Is there anything else I can help you with?”
“No, just the thing I already asked you.”
Communication companies are the worst at communication. Is that an irony, or laissez faire or another benchmark on our continual plummet?
On hold, callbacks, apps, pins, passwords, and the service rep who says, “How can I help?” when they mean “I don’t give a fuck.
Andrew Domink’s Blonde is a mostly dissatisfying film which chronicles most of MM’s iconic moments – the skirt flying up, taking drugs, rendezvous with JFK – all of which can make it tedious. The NC17 hype is silly as well, all because it seems of a brief shot of an erect penis. And while Ana de Armas’ commitment to the role is clear, she is exhausting to watch, pouting and crying at every turn. There are also very strange scenes of a talking fetus which really detracts from the film.
However, given all of this, I was struck by some lovelyshots from Cinematographer Chayse Irvin, especially MM’s final moments, over-exposed, drinking and drugging herself into oblivion. It was a long wait and perhaps even worth it.
Brett Morgen’s Moonage Daydream also suffers from an obsession with the iconic moments – Ziggy Stardust, Thin White Duke, et al – and is further hamstrung by a limited Bowie view of Bowie.
While the visuals are great and many of the song selections, there is nothing on David Bowie being David Bowie except one vague interview that barely touches on anything. It’s not like I was looking for a tabloid tell-all of the drugs and sex mania or even the ego-centrism and abandonment of Ronson and others. It’s just that completely ignoring this aspect of Bowie’s life renders the film, for all of its sound and vision, little more than a Look Video Magazine.
Lanny is a delivery driver and talks incessantly about cleaning the roads of debris to his girlfriend, Vera. He talks about all of the blown-out tires, the plastic and metal of every description, the roadkill in all their decaying stages, all of it dissolving into the pavement, grass and bushes, all of that needing to be cleaned, sorted and dumped.
He then talks about their apartment, how they need to clean the kitchen and cupboards, get everything in order. Vera takes the comments as an attack and tells him she is going away for the weekend. He throws her suitcase down the hallways. She screams at him and he hits her and leaves. He comes home to find her drowned in bath
Gustave Flaubert famously coined the term mot juste. The idea of finding the right word and avoiding synonyms to vary the language was famously seized upon by Ernest Hemingway in his autobiographic tale of boozing and writing in Paris, A Moveable Feast.
I always appreciated the idea and tended in that direction but have come to wonder if it is more so mot paresseux (lazy), just sticking in the word out of habit, rather than some kind of idealization. I still prefer the idea to Mot SAT, but it’s something to consider.
I’m always in a rush to get my characters in place so they can get to having a conversation about what’s on my mind. I don’t paper the walls.
I don’t allow them to find a spot, to gauge the room. In they come and away they go. I’ve got to work on that.
As a writer of science fiction, I have a bit of a problem. I don’t like science fiction. It’s not exactly that simple – well, it is – but it does make me feel a wee bit wonky at times, given my all-in investment into writing The Cx Trilogy.
The problem with the genre is an all-out investment in building worlds, which just boils down to made-up places (planets), odd-looking creatures and weird names.
The thing of it is that it’s just humans in masks, doing the things we do, talking as we do, interacting just the same. In other words, the Orcs, Darth Vadars and Dr. Dooms are identical to the villains of today, just that it’s playtime. This is not my science fiction. I want people being people, fictionalized, yes, but exactly as we are now.
My book, Anori, begins with Hurricane Sandy in New York City and goes from there, all the way to another planet. Some of the names might be odd – Och, Nico and Pax, for example – but they just signify the change that comes, which is not good, and thus the point of the fucking genre.
So, here’s to changing things. (And to blogging twice in one day, a first for me.)
I’ll tell you where the hell I’ve been! In some tech black hole where the server won’t let me log onto my blogsite, like I’m some kind of fucked-up psycho ranting on about crazy stuff. And even if I am, it’s my right to be like that, goddamn it.
And so, yes, I’m back, at a local watering hole (with wifi that doesn’t screen my flawed genius) sending out a sadly and recently scene from my Anori opus:
“I ever tell you about the Hooded Seal?”
“I know all about that one.”
“The Hooded Seal is born off the coast of your island, Newfoundland, and it has five days to suckle. Then it’s on its own.”
“It’s a tough world out there. We all know that.”
“Five days to figure out how to fish, or else it’s dead. Five days or you’re dead. You know how far it swims, Fitz?”
“Everything is a long way out there.”
“It swims across the Labrador Sea to Greenland, all of that, a thousand kilometers, following along the continental shelf. It eats tons of shrimp and squid.” Dee put on a kettle for tea. “Oh, and it can dive down to 120 meters and stay underwater for over an hour. That’s something, isn’t it?”
“The seals are better than us now?” He swigged from his pewter flask. “Is that what you’re on about? The dogs of the water? They know better and all that?”
“There are eighteen species of seal in the world, everywhere in the world, and they’ve evolved into what they are.” She stopped, expecting Apollo to be behind her and coil through her legs. “Do we care about any of this? I mean, they’re just seals. We eat them or club them or whatever.”
“You joined her animal group. You told me about that.”
“It’s not about protecting seals, Fitz. It’s not even about appreciating them. It’s just awareness, being aware. And we’re not.”
“Maybe we’re not up to such high demands, Deirdre.”
“Why can’t we be better?”
I have been un-blogged for the past several weeks due to a blockage in my server. I am working with the confines of an academic institution which blocks any suspicious websites, including my very own blog. After several emails and meetings with my well-meaning tech, I was finally advised by my friend Colette to use my phone as a hotspot and take the phone of the school’s server, which I have done. And am released to blogging again.
I just received an email entitled Bill Payment Reminder #43217 the highlights which I wil share now: Hi. How are you? I know, it’s unpleasant to start the conversation with bad news, but I have no choice. You actually love visiting porn sites and browsing through kinky videos while pleasuring yourself. I could montage several videos showing the way you reach orgasm while masturbating with joy.
It only requires several mouse clicks for me to forward your videos to all your relatives, as well as friends and colleagues. Do not try calling police as well as other security forces. In addition, abstain from sharing this story with your friends. After I find out (be sure, I can easily do that, given that I keep complete control of all your devices), your kinky video will end up being available to public right away.
My only hope is that video of me “masturbating with joy” does indeed make me look happy. That I would like to see.
I should be done with my break. I gave myself 15 minutes off, only that, and I’ve already clicked on everything I could click on – all the sports, girls and Fishdom levels – but I scroll through it all again.
My brain, if it was working, is thinking that there has to be another site, something that I haven’t checked, something that will make me move forward perfectly with my day and get back into my writing.
Maybe an inspiring Instagram video? A police chase! How did he survive that crash? A boat flipped upside down. How did they do that? Not the scripted ones. They’re contrived and stupid. What’s wrong with these people? Don’t they have anything better to do? But the animals! Wildebeests fighting back against lions? A pug chasing a bear? Extraordinary! And then, of course, all the pretty girls.
I think I might have an idea for writing. It’s there, in the corner of a thought. I can write now. I have it. Or maybe not. No. I am lost. I know that. I need to go for a walk, anything to get away from my stupidity. Yes, a walk. That’s a good idea. Just give me another five minutes. I’m really almost done.
I had this bizarre idea – which did seem great at the time – of using an extended reference to Friends in my previous draft of Anori. The reasoning for this fails me now. Neither is it compelling nor does it develop character, and I don’t even like the show. Anyway, it’s all out now and here for you.
“I’ve figured you out, Dee.” Dennis, his t-shirt sleeve rolled up over his left bicep, revealing his phylogenetic tattoo. “You think you’re a Monica when you’re actually a Phoebe.”
“What are you talking about?” Dee asked.
“You think you’re a Monica, but you’re not. You’re a Phoebe.”
“Friends!” Saarva explained. “I love that show.”
“Seriously? That is what I’ve been reduced to?” Dee glowered. “A sitcom archetype?”
“You’re a Phoebe,” Dennis reiterated.
“What does that even mean?”
“Phoebe is a dreamer,” Saarva explained. “She sees the world from a different place. Seemingly not all there, but then surprisingly she is.”
“You watch Friends?” Dee demanded. “Why do you watch Friends?”
“Study the white American ways,” he replied.
“What?”
“I’m joking. I’m a Joey, right?”
“The point is,” Dennis continued, “is that you think you’re a Monica, controlling. You think that, but you’re not. You’re a Phoebe, head in the clouds.”
“I’m not a Phoebe!” She snapped back. “If anything, I’m a fucking Rachel.”
“Rachel,” Em laughed. “No.”
“You’re supposed to be Rachel then?”
“I’m nothing like her. I’m a Ross, the science nerd.”
“You can cross gender?” Dee asked.
“Why can’t you cross genders?” Saarva asked.
“I’ll get some wine,” Dee announced.
“That’s such a Phoebe thing to say,” Pax replied.
“They all drink wine,” Em replied. “They all say that.”
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