riding skytrain shortly after the millennium line opened its new stations i was fascinated by the visual (and sometimes aural) feedback from the users.
the obvious change in the trains was a shift away from the socially uncomfortable bench seating, wherein two rows of people must either face each other down or attempt to stare out the window over other passenger's heads at a strange angle. these new seats, while spacious, are hard and make my legs go numb. points for effort. the other problem with the seating regards the front area of the train where there is a captain's chair. this is an awful area for people to maneouver around if you weigh more than 120 pounds. as well, the aisle area in general is not very generous. i'm a scrawny critter, so it doesn't affect me. however, with increasingly fat citizens being manufactured it doesn't leave much room for future growth.
another major point of contention is the dreadful mapping system with its affiliated nomenclature and logic. having two train lines that merge at two points at the same station (is it commercial/broadway?) confuses the hell out of both locals and tourists. i've been asked many times to explain the warped logic of this one to unsuspecting travelers. they kind of seem to get it after much pointing at the map and mumbling about how the route actually loops back on itself, though you can instead get off at one point, walk to the adjoining station and go the other direction.
a final irritant is how often the recorded messages on the trains ("millennium line to...") was out of synch with the ticker-tape message above the loading bay.
however, given the maps i've seen of foreign transit systems i'd say we have it lucky in many regards. our system is reasonably easy to use, somewhat safe to travel on, and only ripping off those that have to travel three zones (if you have a minimum wage job three zones from your house you will pay 1 hours wage taking transit each day. i think you save slightly with a month pass).
other annoyances with public transit include the lack of bathrooms anywhere near most stations, which makes sense for safety reasons - but try explaining that to my irrational bladder after a forty minute skytrain ride and while waiting the long wait for the bus home to arrive.
a final comment is how creepy it is to sit on a train by yourself at one in the morning as it courses through the burbs. each station stop makes me feel weird, like i'm going to, say, be brutally murdered by a gang of roaming youth.
all told, i'm pleased enough with transit service in vancouver. some of those bus drivers put up with a lot of shit. some of us passengers, as well, put up with a lot from our disgruntled drivers. (i wrote a prose poem called stop.stop.go years ago while commuting between surrey and richmond that illustrates this).
the only truly terrible part about transit is when you're in the middle of delta, a freak vancouver snowstorm hits, and it takes you six hours to get home. or when someone jumps onto the skytrain tracks. or when a blind person falls in - i've been told it is a nasty 600 dc current, so you definitely don't want to hit that outer power-rail if you fall in by accident. other than that it's a pretty decent system.
for the chaucer buffs out there: caxton's chaucer online.
On this site you will find William Caxton’s two editions of Chaucer’s Canterbury Tales, probably printed in 1476 and 1483...In the Background section you can find information on Caxton’s life and about how he became involved with printing...The Texts section allows you to view the digital versions of the two editions, and it also allows you to compare them.
it's hard not to be in awe while reading the original text, as it would have appeared in 1476. the comparison of the two editions is remarkable, and highlights what a shift in perception the appearance of illustrations to the text must have created.
small boxes on the screen flash, move, change colour. shift, optimize. watching the details of the file system on the computer defragmenting is always a pleasant and soothing experience.
the computer's hard disk is reorienting itself, finding a new sense of calm after a period of prolonged anxiety. "where is that block? i thought it was over here! shit! shit! shit! what am i going to do with these other twelve blocks now? huh?"
i admire the structure of that unoptimized data, set in three simple groups in the 'defrag legend':
then, it is revealed to me what different states that the data may inhabit:
finally, i am reminded in straight-forward terms that "each box represents one disk cluster."
at the bottom of the screen i am shown a simple bar informing me how much defragmenting has been completed. it is a fascinating process reduced to a very modern level of abstraction.
while watching the display my mind wanders, sometimes to the past, sometimes to the day ahead, and often in the void of present. observing how effectively the computer shuffles its data acts as a calming device, helping me to do my own defragmenting.
primitive plants teaching garden
while wandering around ubc early in the morning on a saturday i stumbled across the department of botany's small courtyard. there is a square area in the middle with benches, framing a "handkerchief tree," and while the sun rose all i could hear was the hummm of the complex's air intakes and the quietness of dozens of botanical delights.
i planned my day of wandering for once, armed with camera, sketchbook, and notebook. having no idea what my little adventure would provide, the primitive plants teaching garden was a truly beautiful way to begin my day.
"is" i should say, since i'm sitting here as i jot these notes down. it will be many hours, maybe weeks, before i'll find time to decipher my scribble and transfer it here.
the building is locked and empty. the environment is brisk in the shade, but absolutely perfect in the sun. i savour these rare moments of absolute peace.
old main
wandering into the old main library at ubc. absorbed by the dim lighting. i make my way over to the oversized book stacks, browsing until i become curious about a book with a cyrillic title (later i discover this is Ilya Efimovich Repin). these russian paintings knock me over sideways. piercing stares, a menacing air, intensity that captivates me immediately. later, a large bundle of maps of singapore and an enormous book filled with buddhist prints on incredibly thick paper.
the low ceilings of the library give the place a creepy feel, though it is also comforting. one word comes to mind: military.
ephemeral puttering
i'll eat food court kappa rolls made by chinese fellow (someone once suggested to me that it is a rare event to find a japanese person making sushi - they are often korean or chinese . i think this idea suspect).
walking by the 'chan can' i putter around the pretentious rose garden, suck in the view afforded by a cement balcony, and make my way to a bench to read for a while. the book is john metcalfe's forde abroad, and it is good and light and this day has been faultless. i'm feeling what i think to be ephemeral.
[09/13/03]
this restaurant has some of the angriest waiters on the face of the earth. the kind that roll their eyes when you ask them for something for the twenty-third time (because they keep forgetting or ignoring), or when the general cacophony of the place makes you repeat yourself more than once. they are also the kind to audibly mutter "fuuuuck" when wandering around. swell guys who clearly like what they do for a living.
i didn't go for the famous all you can eat special, but had some oshinko rolls and vegetable gyoza. the food was yummy, and gyoza had a pleasant burningness to them. spicy! tasty stuff.
i'd go back for the sheer amusement of trying to make the waiter freak out on me. also for the delicious food.
the only real drawback was the heavy smoke from the charred meat grills at each table. i think the waiters are all so angry because they are dying slowly from the vast cloud of carcinogens in the place. or perhaps it is the nine million overly demanding customers who swarm the restaurant to gorge out on cheap sushi. only their therapists know for sure.
this eating experience was enjoyed at the 2993 granville location.
ps: happy bidet stephen.
i haven't yet made time to sit down and write anything about the remarkable films of vera chytilová. these are impressive films, and very diverse in the offering. the audience reaction to the various films was testimony enough to the impressive range that chytilová held mastery over.
fruit of paradise (ovoce stromu rajskych jíme, 1969)
fruit of paradise was the first film of chytilová's that we saw during the recent retrospective. i had no idea what to expect from this filmmaker except for the blurbs that called her a surrealist and feminist who was very critical of politics.
this film definitely falls firmly in the surrealist camp. it is a play off of the adam and eve narrative, yet has many peculiar twists. many of the images from this film stuck with me regardless of how undecided i was about it. it is completely over the top and a bit heavy handed in its dealing with symbolism. but i still liked it for its visual beauty and pure strangeness. it was jarring to the senses, and the experience was welcome due to the odd characters, setting, and imagery.
ceiling (strop, 1961)
next in order was chytilová's graduation film (she attended czech film school). it draws on her experience as a fashion model, and is a scathing take on the fashion world. the lead character is moving into the world of fashion, and finds herself in the midst of surprising unpleasantness.
daisies (sedmikrásky, 1966)
ok, this is the film i'm really wanting to write about. daisies is easily one of my new favourite films. chytilová manages to capture the spirit of anarchy, as lived by the characters of blonde marie and brunette marie.
the narrative follows the maries on a serious of adventures in which they defy all the logic and authority surrounding them. there is so much fun in this film, and i find myself giddily excited over the ridiculousness of it all.
beyond the surrealism and anarchy there are bold political statements being made about czech society. one of the famed scenes involved our daring duo sloppily gorging on a feast they stumble upon - this takes place at a time when food was a controlled substance by the czech government. needless to say, chytilová caught much flack over this.
beyond the antics of the maries, this film is packed with great visuals and filmwork that leave you thrilled with what you just saw. anarchy has never been so much fun.
wolf chalet (vlcí bouda, 1987)
let's fast-forward twenty years to the mature chytilová. wolf chalet is her attempt at making a horror movie that is a thinly veiled commentary on the oppressiveness and manipulations of czech government. if you read it simply as a genre film it is completely absurd and quite funny. this film carries the cheesiness of a north american b-movie. the political commentary is well made, but entirely overhanded. if you don't get the politics in this one you should stop attending films.
tainted horseplay (kopytem sem, kopytem tam, 1988)
this is the most sombre of chytilová films i took in. it follows a group of actors (who all also have various day jobs) in their hedonist antics and the introduction of the aids virus.
tainted horseplay involved the help of the theatre group sklep who brought a lot of humour and comradery to the film. this makes the inevitable drama all the more painful. however, chytilová's heavy symbolism hinders this film, and makes certain scenes a bit silly when they could have allowed the excellent acting serve the drama.
i'm impressed with the visual style that chytilová and cinematographer (and husband) jaroslav kucera created in these films. while chytilová's irreverence and narrative techniques don't always succeed they are always compelling and sincere.
daisies is one of the only films i'd seriously like to acquire a copy of because it probably isn't the easiest film to rent and it is a rare film that i would rewatch repeatedly.
my mother was a true crime reader, thus the copies of helter skelter and various other related books around the house. what kid can't help but be fascinated by this material? i'm working on a book that involves a self-constructed guru type character, and i gave this a spin as research.
at the start of the family, while it overviews the social history surrounding the manson family's rise to infamy, i found myself fascinated. the book lulls a bit for me as we drudge through the pre-trial and trial. and then it picks up again in the end. it's a lengthy overview of the world that the manson family murders take place in, but also a character assessment of each family member.
while sanders' writing style sometimes wore on me (the constant use of lingo), i ended the book being impressed with the personal transformation that sanders underwent over the course of the case and the years between release of the new edition. he comes to understand the personal struggles of the investigators of the murders, and appreciates their help and effort. his perspective on the role of the police seems to change when he relies on information and clues to further his explorations on the case.
the one comment that always comes out of a conversation about manson is how odd it is that he received a longer prison term than those that actually committed the crimes. as well, it is questionable as to why he is in prison and not a psychiatric institute. if the world thinks charlie manson is so crazy why is he in a maximum security prison and not a more specialized place.
it is always intriguing to see what kind of perceptions (and misperceptions) people have regarding one of the most notorious of american murder cases. start a conversation about manson next time you're at a party to see what kind of extreme views come out of the most unsuspecting of people.
reading this book is very telling about the social changes happening in the mid to late 1960s, and also about the nature of self-appointed gurus. the family is lengthy and drags a bit if you're not into mind numbing detail, but definitely worth a read. to support the book i have to admit that this granular detail is necessary in a book that delves this deeply into the case. it is my fault alone that i wasn't particularly interested in the nuts and bolts of every member of the family.
from the somewhat negative press this book received i was expecting a non-stop racial slur. without having read too much of the commentary around the book, or anything to do with houellebecq's personal politics, i read platform as a reflection of some of the political elements going on in contemporary french society.
it is true that the narrator, michel, has a world view that is opposed by most of the world. he glorifies in human sexuality and sees it as the most touching moment in a life otherwise filled with loneliness, and, in his case, alcoholism. it is his sexual openness that leads him to meeting the woman he falls in love with. it is also the same perspective that makes him a marketing genius in the eyes of a certain tourist company. for a brief time sex tourism become a legitimate venture in this story, though primarily supported in the book by germans (they reckon the north american market will be much harder to crack).
the other theme that platform examines is the concept of the other, in various cultural ideologies. whether it is sex, politics, nationalism or religion, he attempts to show a world in which all of these problems are a natural extension of the human condition.
i found myself sympathizing with michel as he considers a good many issues related to being. regardless of how caustic his thoughts run at times, his cynicism leads him to live what he views as an authentic existence. this honesty to self in the face of bleakness is individualistic yet nothing more than one of many options michel faces. with the apparent collapse in morality around the world, michel's decisions seem justifiable as part of his own system of thought.
the most compelling aspect of any houellebecq novel is the attempt at honesty the narrator makes. it is the same element i find appealing in the books of henry miller or charles bukowski. in the hands of houellebecq the struggle to make meaning is compelling, insightful, and provocative.
pamela masik is going to stick herself in a spacious 8 foot by 8 foot room, with toilet, food, art supplies, diary, etc. etc. etc. for a whole five days while she undergoes a personal artistic exploration before the world live on the internet via her website.
this exhibitionist act, which doesn't really qualify as interesting performance art (she argues performance art is only a part of what she does as a contemporary artist), is clearly nothing more than a marketing device for this "descendent of famed british painter john constable."
check out the website. if she's doing this for entirely personal reasons, why the racy publicity shots (the paper printed the same one as on the website) of her naked in a small box? in the photo she stares lustily at the camera, enticing the viewer with her gaze while at the same time covering her body with her hands in an act that suggests that she is protecting herself from our ravenous stares. doesn't this kind of publicity shot contradict the nature of the art event she is hosting?
what's funny is how the article in the vancouver sun on the upcoming show talks to peter suedfeld, a ubc psychology prof, who basically questions the hype of the event. he says she shouldn't call it an act of "sensory deprivation" since it is only really "stimulus reduction." as well, he questions the concept that she will be creating out of a void since she has a bunch of life experiences that she will be drawing from whether she realizes it or not. a little stimulus reduction certainly does not erase the unconscious mind. interesting how the author of the article chose to use some unflattering quotes by a third party, and some examples of really serious performance art by the likes of vito acconci, to present a fairly negative view towards the event.
after all this slagging i must admit i don't mind the work she presents on her website, and can even say that i have to give her credit for doing a fine job at drumming up publicity and trying to propel her career through the murky waters of the canadian art world. however much i admire her intelligent approach to marketing herself, i still think the basis and execution of this show sound rather silly. place the act in whatever context you like and it still smells boring.
as is typical of a quentin tarantino film, kill bill basks in its own excessiveness. the phrase that rang in my head while observing seemingly endless disembowelings, decapitations, and general carnage was the choreography of death.
there is a calm beauty to this film, certainly. i think wo ping's magic is stamped all over the place, accompanied by the often anachronistic (and yet somehow perfect) soundtrack that must include surf, country, funk and as many obscure references as possible. while this strange brew should be nothing more than an irritating, overwrought mess, it is not. tarantino's skill lies in the ability to taking what appear to be disparate elements and blending them to great ends.
the more i think about it, though, these elements should work together. samurai, spaghetti western, blaxploitation, and many other genre films centre on the theme of revenge. considering that this film is entirely about revenge, these different approaches brought together is unique and successful. it will also unfortunately be oft-copied in the years to come.
tarantino knows how to play upon our sensory intake well - unexpected gun-shots, vibrant colours, and long pauses to sustain dramatic tension. and the tarantino soundtrack in perfect step at all the right moments, which must almost be its own industry.
did i enjoy it? yeah. uma thurman is solid, given her cheesy dialogue and over the top character. then again, she didn't have a lot of range to express: anger, trepidation, pure fear. but she did it well.
the whole cast was great. david carradine is perfectly evil. daryl hannah is absurd. lucy liu is strong and terse. vivica fox is freaky. and sonny chiba is one funny guy. a man who wears many different belts, chiba has way too many dan in real life.
overall, this film is sure worth a go. my only warning would be to the squeamish, who can't bear the sight of vast geysers of blood and spurting noises (not that anyone should be accustomed to this). this is a revenge film that works because it is as singular in its focus as its main character is. while volume one is a yakuza/samurai fest, i'm guessing that volume two will focus on western elements. a gunslinger flick? i look forward to finding out.
while doing a quick search on what building 375 water st. was (the landing), i came across a page on gastown structures - water street. very odd seeing the area from these perspectives. i feel like i've lived on water street the past two and a half years. i work at a desk now, but spent the past couple years wandering around the eastside and its laneways doing what i do.
as much of a tourist trap as water street is it still holds a charm. i love it, i hate it. i know some of its buildings very intimately, having helped do fiber installs through some of their nooks and crannies. for instance, below the facade of 353 water street lies a dungeon of a furnace room. i spent a few days down there, and don't look forward to ever going back.
i'm always excited when i get to understand the inner structure of a building i've looked at for several years without ever stepping inside. it's a bit like feeling you're becoming a city, as opposed to just living in it.
in the court of the crimson king
mechanized hisses and low horns. silence. then the unmistakable blaring riff that lets you know you are back in 1969. and what a good place it is to be.
after seven years of putting it off i finally bought king crimson's first three albums. i've been a fan of robert fripp for years, knowing him through his work with brian eno and through his more recent solo efforts, but i didn't know his stuff with crimson at all. one day back yonder i was at a friend of a friends and they had a crimson lp kicking around. i put it on loud and was impressed and was forced by everyone else in the room to turn it off.
one look at the cover of an observation by king crimson and you know you're in for some heavy shit. there's a watercolour of a paranoid face with flared nostrils and mouth agape, giving a freaked out look to the side as though an imaginary someone is crawling up behind him. this looks even cooler on the original lp. that's my big gripe about cds - they don't allow much space for impressive cover art. with lps excellent cover art looks wicked, and really lame album covers are even funnier when they're larger. besides, the size of lps made them the size of a small work of art and allowed you to display them for enjoyment. kind of like that great sesame street album i had as a lad.
an observation by king crimson is a fantastic album, even beyond its cover art. throw this one on with headphones and you'll get a warm trip through what rock music was doing at that time.
the first track, "21st century schizoid man," is a classic in ye olde rock out sense of the word. powerful guitar licks with impressive stop-on-a-dime drum playing. as with all of the crimson lyrics, they aren't overly profound though they try to be. they are, however, sincerely strange, which may be the effect fripp was going for.
while the first song ends in chaos, the second song quickly begins with the low notes of a flute. "said the straight man to the late man, where have you been?" is what "i talk to the wind" asks. it is a peculiar mix of semi-surreal lyrics and lovely flute playing.
the remainder of the album mixes between long drones and fast rhythms. if i had to describe this album in a word it would be "heavy".
although they have been gloriously remastered or some such thing, my only irk about these cds is that you have to listen all the way through some of the epic songs to get to the sub-song that you like. on the record it would have been easy to drop in on your favourite bit, of course. maybe on a fancier cd player one can do this, i'm certainly no expert on these matters.
in the wake of poseidon
the nice thing about these re-releases is that they include reproductions of a bunch of press clippings in the linear notes. through the three albums i picked up i can follow the incredible shifts in band lineup and focus. it impresses me that crimson even survived these initial albums, and that they retain any coherency and consistency at all is a testament to fripp's abilities.
the opening to this album has a rock out beginning that reminds me of their first album, but it quickly takes a funkier turn. then a heavier turn (black sabbathy). then funkier again. the addition of the sax works well here. some jazzy moments. some moments that are almost surf. even though i sometimes think these guys just liked to wank and show off their considerable skills it is still fun to listen to.
on the second track we transition into some so-so acoustic and folksy track.
the title track of the album has a raging opening that is very cinematic, but it kind of dwindles into something not as interesting. notice i'm not very negative here? it's cos the album doesn't exactly suck. there are just some lulls. the fact that they continued so well after mike giles and ian mcdonald quit says a great deal.
my favourite song is "cat food." it has an odd beatles sound to it. like some of the aggressive stuff from the abbey road album.
"the devil's triangle" opens with a long, drawn-out intro that is kind of creepy but kind of cheesy. it's like a demented marching song that winds and turns into something that has a genuine edge to it. the music disappears and we are left standing alone in a wind tunnel.
part two of this song picks up the marching song from hell theme. with strange mellotron sounds, and a general sense of cacophony, the piece keeps building and disintegrating at the same time.
this is a weird album. more experimental and less focussed. enjoyable, but not my favourite.
lizard
when the electronics and the bard singing open the album you know you are in for something different. "cirkus" has a gritty medieval sound, if that makes any sense at all. epic rock, yeah!
"indoor games" has more of that funky sax playing. there's not a lot of albums i like the sax on, but here it is sufficiently cool and not filled with solos. the next couple of songs are interesting with overbearing lyrics (though they are worth a read).
things pick up with the title track. you don't expect "lizard" to be that cool when it starts, but the chorus is a mellow bit with a delightfully warm bass line that sticks in your head. it's the one track on this album that keeps me coming back, and probably my favourite moment from all three albums. after several minutes you think this song is going to noodle into the sunset. but no, there are still parts 23-189 yet to go. there are still several nice passages to come, including lovely flute and sax parts, and billion other good snippets. i'll stop describing the song now as i could go on for a week about the multitude of varied transitions and styles.
after this album's release yet another singer/bassist quit. i'll have to see how their later albums turned out one day.
all said, i'm impressed with what i've heard and still enjoy them after a dozen or so listens (though my favourite songs came to the forefront quickly). though both camps would probably spit on me for saying it, there is a lot in common with king crimson and radiohead. they both have great ambition and skill. i think if crimson hadn't suffered so many bloody band member shuffles they could have been even more focussed and successful.
one of these days i'll ramble about fripp's solo albums and works with eno. they are all impressive, and the two with eno (no pussyfooting and evening star) are absolutely essential.
joëlle léandre is an imposing force. it's not that she's particularly tall or robust. she just has this presence that makes her enormous while she's playing. perhaps it's the intensity of her thought and execution. maybe it's the way she confidently handles her acoustic bass, as though it were a tiny thing.
later, outside, she gave a tourist who clearly did not recognize her some help. she had the good humour and modesty you would hardly expect from someone who performs the aggressive and intense music she conjures. this was yet another one of those beautiful moments i come back to often, a special shard of music history that i'm happy to have been allowed to witness.
marilyn crispell brought her piano playing to this event in the same understated way she did with george lewis. she is a performer who really understands how to share a stage and a musical space. she engages free playing with the right attitude.
françois houle is françoise houle is fun fun fun. he, too, knew when to back off the stage and let léandre do her thing. good on him for letting us have a few moments of her solo bass work. he is a vancouver guy, she is from paris. the lady from paris wins more of my ear for the simple fact that it'll probably be ages before i see her again. i'll hopefully have time aplenty to enjoy more of houle's double clarinet antics.
finally, dylan van der schyff provided an appropriate percussive arrangement. with licked fingers sliding across his drums, dishtowels suppressing his thumps, and a little waterbottle playing (bastard, i thought - that's one of the things i use in my own percussive games).
the only chaos at this show was the steady stream of people who made a ruckus leaving early. léandre waved and said 'bye bye', but then covered her mouth and giggled as though she had done something really naughty. i'm surprised she didn't start yelling. people who show up to free or improvised performances, and suddenly question what the hell they're listening to, should really be a lot more polite about their exiting. be quiet and don't ruin it for everyone else. just because you've had your notions of music abused doesn't mean you have the right to stomp out like a pissy kid.
this was a fantastic gig, and worthy of the strong applause. can't wait to see the various members of this unit again. and would gladly schedule any visit to paris around the possibility of getting to see léandre live again.
on a funny side note, i really thought houle would be one of those few local guys i'd really like to someday get to play with in some capacity due to his skill and style (i can have absurd musical dreams, can't i?). i saw in the paper that jesse zubot (a cousin of some kind) just did a show with houle the other week. the mother beat me to it. jesse also did a performance of zorn's cobra last week with van der schyff. i could scream. or i could plot to kidnap him and take over his career. unfortunately i look nothing like the man. i recall that during my grandparents 50th wedding anniversary (this was well over 15 years ago) jesse's mom, i think, brought a recording young jesse had made for the event. his limelighting has gone on far enough damnit! of course i jest. it's not like i've even met him. and i only finally bought one of his albums this past weekend to hear what he was all about.
june 29, 2003, roundhouse
i've been avoiding sitting down and writing here for a while because i simply had too much else to take care of in life. now i see i just banged off six entries in an hour and fifteen minutes. it's dangerous to let me near this computer thing.
i'm a compulsive writer. when i'm not writing here it's in one of a zillion notebooks i keep in strategic locations around the house. or in various clothes pockets. or in the backpack i always carry. i hate writing. but i love it. i hate trying to sit down and work on one of the novels i don't have nearly enough time to give over to. but i love every second that i can spend planning my next book (that i'll probably never get around to actually writing).
what would i do without words? i'm already a spastic babbler to anyone who'll listen, so i couldn't possibly get it all out of my system by speaking. now that i think about it that was one of the complaints that all of my early report cards exhibited. my teachers would ask my mother to bring me to school early so i could talk and get it out of my system before the bell rang. fat chance. i don't just talk about things that happened, but i am constantly doing a running commentary on the world around me. my wife stops me sometimes, laughing at how i can cut myself off twenty times in an endless string of digressions while barking and mumbling at everything and anything in eyeshot.
maybe that's why i write. because everyone i know has the common sense to get away from me as soon as possible lest i talk their eardrums raw. am i good writer? who knows. i'll keep doing it anyway simply because i have to.
new issue of cancon up. i'm going to have to change the motto to "published regularly on the 2nd" due to my penchant for publishing a day late.
my contributions this month include book reviews of john metcalf's forde abroad, margaret atwood's rude ramsay and the roaring radishes, and norman levine's the ability to forget.
filled with other wholesome goodness, as usual.
this is a devastatingly beautiful work of fiction. hubert selby jr. is one of the finest american writers i've had the good fortune to read. last exit to brooklyn is a book of interconnected stories that expose the inner worlds of various nefarious characters.
"the queen is dead" is a story about georgette the drag queen who is desperate to be loved and constantly looking for her next mouthful of uppers.
in "strike" we meet harry, a total bastard who is only interested in drinking and power. his ego is enormous, his arrogance unbearable, and his life disgusting. he ends up falling in love with drag queens, which momentarily drowns his anger and violence. the story still manages to end in absolute brutality and self destruction.
the final story, "landsend", is a barrage of narrative that leaves you numb. it features an onslaught of interwoven degradation and despair. indescribably horrible and exhausting.
throughout the book characters walk out of the scene and return later. we see them from different angles, and get to hear their stories eventually.
although the first grove edition was in 1964 (the copyright lists it as 1957), nothing i've read in recent memory comes close to what selby does with language. the only word i can think of to conclude here is this: trauma.
yeah, the reviews were right about james gleick's faster, unfortunately. it's a fun book filled with a zillion peculiar facts, but the book lacks a coherent framework. it also lacks any closure. where does gleick think this obsession with going/being faster in society is leading is? why doesn't gleick look at anyone else's theories on where things are going with this?
it is a light, fluffy read, and not something i'd bother with unless i wanted a really easy nonfiction read while flying on a plane or travelling on a bus. if you want something chewier check out any of gleick's other remarkable books.
harvey pekar is the little guy, and it's hard not to like him. regardless of how cantankerous he is, or how much he complains.
what i liked best were the moments involving the real-life harvey. he is so shy and confident at the same time, creating a bizarre persona that is off-putting and loveable all at once.
although paul giamatti play the part well, i walked away feeling like he played it a little over the top. or he was acting the comic version of harvey, not the living harvey. something like that. there was definitely an element that irked me a bit.
james urbaniak plays an odd robert crumb. he does kind of get the voice, though, and some of the personality. he doesn't hunch nearly enough.
it's a touching movie, all said, and harvey is a touching guy despite of his grouchiness. the way it's played out makes for good cinema.
for a look at the world of underground comics i'd still watch terry zwigoff's crumb any day, just to marvel at crumb's messed up, yet talented, family. ghost world does an ok job of looking at the outsider, too. and it's funnier than american splendor. or one could go and read some comics.
the recent offering of films on the blues on pbs was most welcome. martin scorsese presents a series of features by a variety of directors. i missed scorsese's flick, but enjoyed the rest. i particularly liked wim wenders look at blind willie johnson, skip james, and j.b. lenoir. at first i thought it was kind of cheesy to use a handcrank camera and have someone act like blind willie, but i have to admit i can't get the images out of my head. the attempt really did fit the mournful voice. people say tom waits sounds like he swallowed broken glass or gravel - he's got nothing on blind willie johnson. pick up a copy of dark was the night and shake your head in disbelief at how sincere it is. "soul of a man" is powerful enough to draw tears. his rendition of "john the revelator" will knock you over (and if you like that one don't forget to check out son houses' take on this traditional).
as well, the wenders film had a bunch of contemporary musicians make their own attempt at some of these songs. nick cave and the bad seeds, beck, the jon spencer blues explosion, marc ribot and lucinda williams make memorable appearances.
next came richard pearce's film the road to memphis. this one focuses on bobby rush, rosco gordon, b.b. king and other greats. what hit me most about this one was how hard these old guys still work, touring across the country to make ends meet. bobby rush is a workaholic. there is also an awkward scene with ike turner and sam phillips (sun records). phillips comes across as a bit of a madman.
the rest of the films in the series have their moments. charles burnett's warming by the devil's fire has some really great archival footage. marc levin's godfathers and sons has chuck d and marshall chess (of the chess records family) talk a lot about the blues, and provides some good archival footage, as well (muddy waters, howlin' wolf). chuck d is a funny guy, and i will always give him credit for helping light my political consciousness while i grew up with early public enemy albums (it takes a nation of millions... blew my young mind).
mike figgis gives us an interesting perspective on the blues with his red, white and blues, examining the relationship between british musicians of the 60s and classic blues artists. it proposes that the british blues rock performers helped break the blues through to a mainstream american audience. the irony being that it took foreigners to take a country's great musical culture, reinterpret it, and give it back to the americans.
finally, clint eastwood provides a personal view on the blues through his simply titled piano blues. there are quality performances by the likes of pinetop perkins, dr john, dave brubeck, and ray charles. although eastwood comes across as a schoolboy getting to interview his heroes, it is a highly watchable film. particularly amusing scene in which ray charles refers to someone playing fast as a motherfucker. clint eastwood gets embarrassed and laughs his ass off, shyly asking if they can say motherfucker.
at the end of this though, i still find myself going back to robert johnson, blind willie, and son house. i like blues that are simple and raw. i also like robert belfour (he played briefly and wonderfully in one of the films in the additional footage) for his strumming technique and lyricism. while i enjoy the likes of r.l. burnside, or eric clapton's more soulful moments, nothing kicks me in the head like scratchy recordings of those who told us about their short brutal lives in song.
people get lonely. people think dogs make for fine companions. they listen to your misery and your successes. they console you when you are tired.
they also pounce down the hallway at strangers, like me, when that stranger happens to be wearing a dark backpack ('he doesn't like dark colours').
i like dogs, but i don't much care for them in apartments. not only do i think it cruel to animals to keep them caged up in teeny accommodations, but i think it selfish and annoying to those around you. when the people upstairs had rottweilers that barked nonstop i almost lost it.
here is a quick survey of the dogs on our floor: 1 husky (full size), 1 lab, 1 boxer, 1 chihuahua, and several other mongrels. the building manager has a large golden lab and the assistant manager has mix rotty. there are other german shepherds and mongrels scattered throughout the building.
the curious part is the enormous size of these dogs, except for the chihuahua. these aren't poodles or terriers. these are large dogs. large, unfriendly dogs that leap on you. that sniff you in the elevator. that have turned the greenspace beside our building into dogshit park.
carpets are covered in doghair, that dank smell of coastal dogs fills the air, and my patience runs thin. i liked this building pre-pet.
there is now doggy playtime each evening in the underground parking. a time when the big dogs are taken off their leashes and those of us who attempt to gain access to our vehicles are pounced on and potentially licked or humped by a canine.
what is strange is how the building manager set such a lousy precedent by getting a golden lab. this opened the floodgates, and it is as though a challenge was made to see who could acquire the largest pet. so much for those with allergies.
i'm considering getting a phalanx of cats that i will relentlessly roam the building with. i will hiss and paw at strangers, as well.
katharina annastasia hörner (née zubot)
november 25, 1911 - september 30, 2003
a farm in salmon arm filled with the rusted shells of burnt vehicles, the foundation of a disappeared building, and a mess of sheep. a house filled to bursting with a lifetime of gathering and losing and gathering again.
images remain of an old woman mucking about in the garden, wrestling the accordian or screaming on the fiddle.
selectively hard of hearing with a healthy dose of black humour.