Ah yes, another Halloween, and another year abstaining from dressing up in costume. It's not that I didn't think of anything, nor that I had a dearth of free time to construct something - it came down to apathy again. I think I enjoy conceiving of the concepts more than actually realizing them. It would be easy to blame MTV and a society fixated on instant gratification - once I've thought of the costume, it's already old news, and it's time to move on to the hip new idea - but I think it runs deeper. I just watched a movie about the author Yukio Mishima, whose enchantment with the written word was exceeded only by his frustration at its anemic efficacy to change the physical world around him. He believed real change could only occur through the union of art and action, or as he phrased it "pen and sword". Granted, Mishima accomplished this by taking the general in charge of a Japanese defense garrison hostage, demanding that he be permitted to address the garrisoned troops en masse (which he did), and then committing ritual seppuku on the floor of the general's office. This wouldn't have been the method I would have used, but hey: diff'rent strokes for diff'rent folks.
His frustration, though, is something to which I can relate strongly; my seeming inability to produce an actual costume is a prime example. All of us sometimes feel encapsulated by a maelstrom of unrelenting thoughts, concepts, idea, and desires which have little or no chance of actually coming into being. Likewise, we also often act out of instinct/emotion or without really thinking things through. Admittedly, these situations are frequently mandated by circumstance, but there are instances where we ourselves are the limiting factor. Halloween offers us a unique chance: the opportunity to fuse pen and sword with no ill consequence (other than perhaps some time wasted if things go poorly). We have the opportunity to be as creative as we should ever plausibly hope to be, and are restricted in action only by our willingness to put forth the necessary effort. It's as close to a Mishima-esque "gimme" as we ever get.
Of course, after realizing this, I immediately retreated to the pen and forwent the sword. Perhaps next year...
This article, from the NY Times, serves as a prescient warning for all those eager to fuel speculation in good times and equally as eager to place blame in the bad. It's a longy but a goody.
I had a dream last night where I was riding a bike - first through a park, and then through some sort of carnival. Of course, since it was my dream, I had no trouble performing outlandish acts of cycling skill, such as jumping over large stone pillars or riding up and down various inclines without changing gears, regardless of how hard I peddled.
When I woke up this morning, I found out my roommate had purchase a bike. That's just odd: I don't often have dreams about riding bikes (nor about carnivals, but that's not important at this time). This coincidence disturbs me.
Don't know how many of you have heard of the recent supreme court case regarding the challenge by Eric Eldred that the Copyright Term Extension Act (ostensibly enacted to preserve the IP and copyright rights of hard working Americans everywhere, but in reality pushed through so that Disney could retain exclusive use of anything related to Mickey Mouse) is an unconstitutional overextension of congressional authority, but Lawrence Lessig, the chief litigator for the plaintiffs, has an excellent inside perspective of the case on his blog.
An interesting fact that he points out: copyright legislation was originally instated to encourage creativity by safeguarding the potential profits from an innovative idea via granting proprietary rights to the creator. This turned out to be wildly successful:
"Under the current term of 95 years, under the most conservative assumptions about royalty income and interest rates, the current term gives authors 99.8% of the value of a perpetual term. Put differently, the current "delicate balance" between author and the public is 99.8% to the author, .2% to the public."
With the passage of the CTEA however, the length of exclusive protection has been extended to such a degree that companies are spending the vast majority of their resources perpetuating their existing trademarks and copyrights and very little developing new and innovative creative concepts and ideas. The effect of this is to stifle creativity instead of promote it.
Granted: this is a tangential point, and doesn't have any bearing on the constitutionality of congress' passing of the CTEA. The real crux of the plaintiffs' argument was, and still is, that the constitution not only places express limits on copyright terms, but expressly prohibits the congressional extension of such terms.
Somebody swiped my umbrella. It was raining on Saturday night and I went out to dinner. The restaurant accommodated its patrons by providing communal buckets in which to place the dripping accessories. I had a ubiquitous inexpensive black umbrella and someone, undoubtedly mistaking it for theirs, stole it. Now I have to get a new umbrella, and it's supposed to rain tomorrow.
When I was a lad, we had soil troubles. The earth beneath our house, the one in which I spent the first years of my legendary existence, was expanding. This rather odd phenomenon had the effect of comically distorting the structure of our home until it resembled a Tim Burton set and needed thick wooden beams to reinforce it, so that it might remain standing for a little while longer (imagine how swiftly my nascent bemusement turned to burgeoning terror upon realizing exactly why a log cabin was being constructed inside our abode). Despite the chaos, my house became an exploratory cavalcade of idiosyncratic wonder. I would run about amidst the construction discovering gaps between walls, disjointed window frames, and sloping hallways. I remember a rift between the fireplace (who needs a fireplace in Los Angeles anyway?) and an adjoining wall large enough to let afternoon beams of light through.
My parents didn't share my sense of amazement. They brought in round after round of contractors and structural engineers. Each surveyed the damage and none could formulate a viable solution. It reminded me of an ill patient for whom round after round of doctors could find no cure.
We left that house after miraculously finding a buyer. I scraped a bit of plaster from a wall and placed it in a small cylindrical container which I still have. I try to drive by it whenever I'm back home. It's still there, perched atop that steep hill overlooking the San Fernando Valley. At one point, the owner du jour had painted the front door a bright shade of pink, though the last time I saw it, it had reverted back to a more conservative white.
I didn't spend all that much time there. I know there are houses that stay within families for centuries, and are passed down through generations along with congenital deficiencies like bad eyesight or abdominal cramping. I suppose we just moved on in our vagabond LA way to the next place (which turned out to be only two streets away) without much regret or second thought at the time, but now I miss that house. You never really forget the place where you first slept with the lights off.
Best quote from work today: "I am the concept of momentum for the ping-pong ball as it streaks through the air - not the actual momentum of the ball itself."
The sounds of a workplace are fascinating: after becoming accustomed to the nuances and idiosyncrasies, one barely notices them anymore unless making a conscious effort. There's the underlying foundation of the ventilation systems and slight hum of the computers, peppered with occasional footfalls (which sound quite different on the floor than they do on the carpet) and crinkling of cellophane snack wrappers. Conversations of some sort, be they telephone or in person, are nearly as heterogeneous as they are ubiquitous, ranging from deep frantic baritones to carefully measured high-pitched chatter. A horn or car alarm once in a while reminds me of our proximity to the street, and the scream-exercises of the actors two floors below (not joking) prevents me from forgetting that there are a myriad of other establishments in the building.
And then there's the typing.
I imagine it must have an extraordinarily different experience before computers were commonplace. The rapping of fingers on the keys is now constant and frenzied, simultaneously intrusive and comforting. It is the sound of the riveter driving rivets home, the printer working the press, and the accountant at the adding machine. In our day and age, it's the euphonious approximation of productivity. I sit back sometimes, and just listen to all those keystrokes, coming off the aural assembly line like so many model T's.
When I left my old computer to a glass-blowing artisan and a schoolteacher (I really did) I made sure to keep all the tripe I wrote in college. I rarely go back and review this jumbled repository, but when I do, it never fails to be hilariously bad, strangely poignant, provide keen insight into a former state of mind, or all of the above. So I figured I'd include some here. Each must be taken with the proviso of "I wrote this in college, and I was probably on drugs". And yes, I know it's a cop-out to just reprint something you already wrote in a blog that's supposed to include current thoughts, opinions, anecdotes, and musings, but there's some good alliteration here.
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“It took me one second longer,” he worried. And his thought twisted, circled. And it became a recursive thought loop, thoughts leading unto themselves, ad infinitum. And confusion beget panic. And panic beget sweat. And sweat beget irony. And steps were omitted. The work was not shown. The rampage of a simple cup of coffee mellowed into the foulmouthed treachery of introspection. Not to say that such thoughts fueled despair, for they didn’t. It’s only the nature of the beast. And the perfection which it feeds stands triumphant, unwilling to concede to the Pandora’s box of other possibilities. But never forget the moral. Never ignore the conclusion. Impossible to find one these days, I suppose. Constantly without closure, the present moment is just ahead of sanity’s grasp. The finest hops and barley brew [whatever it is we've been told]. Derivative to the point of originality, consciousness comprises a maze of neurons in a perpetual state of being solved. Solvent is in a perpetual state of neurotic amazement. The solution is to find a fable far from fearsome, free from flaws. Tools require energy, the ability to do work. If nothing’s sacred, no one’s scared. Barred from bass fishing, Ben bowled over the competition with his marvelous sense of humor. “A real go-getter,” one Miss Judy Maplethorpe was overheard whispering to herself against her will. Bound and gagged, she was bound to try that hilarious gag, until her peers became superiors by leaps and bounds. Nonsense foils the ingenious but phlegmatic plan of the lonely wandering knave.
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h yes children, wasn't that pretentious? Comments and mockery welcome.
Far too many blogs are comprised solely of complaints and rants. It's understandable: people get pissed off and they need to vent. The end result though, is that when you skim through people's recorded thoughts, you tend to get the impression that they are one or a combination of the following:
a) extremely bitter
b) remarkably pensive
c) overly politically motivated
d) hopelessly solipsistic
I think my blog falls squarely into the second and fourth groups, with a dash of wistfulness thrown in.
Huh. That's another thing people always do in blogs: talk about their blogs. So let's add:
e) obsessed with blogs
Now considering I've just recognized and delineated my tendency to fall into this group, we can further add:
f) postmodern deconstructionists
And, taking into account the smug self-satisfied grin I now have on my face for thinking I'm so clever:
g) conceited jack-offs
Hmm. Come to think of it, I hate that I read so many blogs that fall into these categories.
Which puts this entry squarely into categories a, b, d, e, f, and g.
Well... at least it's not politically charged. I need to be free of something.
Walking home yesterday, I was distracted and detached. Stars and cylinders siphoned my already scarce attention away from the ever-important act of balanced bipedal motion.
I tripped and fell towards the concrete. Teeth popped, organs crumpled, and the marrow exploded from my bones. My gelatinous form slithered towards the curb and made its way down a drainage pipe. It was dark. Soon the small pink lanterns of the underworld illuminated the path before me. Before I could creep half a mile, the silk-clad caretakers descended upon me and dragged me the rest of the way. I managed to pick up some of their conversation.
"..totally mangled"
"Mind transference could... if he's not too..."
"...the question. Far too much..."
"I read about that, but... glue, nor do we have enough augers."
My knees hurt most of all. I couldn't even feel my head. Soon, I lost consciousness from the hemorrhaging. When I awoke, I felt infinitely better. I looked around to see I was convalescing in a dimly lit room, filled with maps of ancient sailing routes along dependable oceanic wind currents. I soon discovered I could move freely. My body had not only been repaired but enhanced. Several extra appendages had been attached. One consisted of an arm-like structure terminating in an oversized ocarina.
I began to play.
My euphonious sound echoed throughout the chamber. Continuing to play, I ran through the door, into the hallway, and out the clearly labeled exit (one has to mind the fire codes, no matter what one does for a living). I burst forth into the sweet sunlight. I found myself in the middle of a meadow.
And that's the story of how I became the greatest pole-vaulter of all time.
