Candlelight Dinner

Another quick little thing I jotted down.

There always comes a moment when we're out together and the candle gutters low when you look at me through the flickering light: a look of longing and knowledge and trust, and something else, something I don't think I'll ever know because it's a part of your secret that I can never be privy to and cherish you all the more for. And in that moment, those precious seconds after I've been babbling for long minutes about everything and nothing and my thoughts and words trail off into awkwardness, when I look up at you and our eyes meet, I think that I could spend the rest of my life trying to decipher the mystery in your eyes.

Delerium

It's funny what being feverish does to your mind. Mine's been racing like crazy for the past 3 hours, flitting all over with odd scenes cobbled together from movies and random songs popping in and out. Wrote the below just now.

The match flares in the night and I watch as the fire consumes the stick, beginning its steady march towards my fingers, the yellow-white flame leaving ash and char in its wake. The edges of the flame are blue, as if it's sad to have to destroy the wood, sucking the life out of it to fuel its passion. Is that what we are: matchstick and flame, burning briefly in the night until we're exhausted? I shimmy my fingers down the match, struggling to hold the stick as long as possible while the flame continues its progress. But soon the heat becomes unbearable and I drop the match. It falls down, down, down, lighting the darkness it passes through before winking out far below, burning itself to death in a silent scream.

Pointless Beauty

www.picturesofwalls.com

Really, isn't all art pointless, from a utilitarian perspective? You could make a case for aesthetic pleasure having some sort of utility, but I'm guessing most would not see that as a necessary thing. In any event, there isn't any deep reason for why I like this...it just catches my eye and I think it looks neat. I think one of the problems with art is that people try to make it so much more: into commentaries on ethics, politics, race, gender, whatever you want it to be about, when all it really has to be is genuine expression and individual aesthetic taste. People get all snobby and crazy because they want to show that they "get it," that they're hip and cool and intelligent and all that bullshit. The way I see it, either something appeals to you or it doesn't. And yes, there are many more levels on which art can operate and on which it can affect its viewers, but the core of it should be accessible to anyone, whether 4 or 84.

Is It Windsday?

I've noticed that a fair number of the little snippets of fiction I've written recently involve wind blowing. There isn't a particular metaphorical reason for this, it's just because I tend to become inspired to write by particular events or images, and then it becomes somewhat of an unconscious/carthartic exercise as I just scribble/type out whatever comes to mind next. Similarly (in case anyone was wondering), the "you" frequently referred to in the little snippets does not always refer to the same person; I think at least once or twice the you I was writing to even changed as I wrote (that is, "you" refers to one person in my mind one time, and then when I write it later it's actually someone else). Just a little note for any readers and myself, for when I come back to these and wonder what kind of retarded intellectual snobbery I was trying to achieve with all the damn wind.

Winter Wind

The wind blows through the construction site, turning hanging sheets of plastic into pregnant sails whose booming thunder echoes up and down the empty streets. I stand on the stoop and watch them expand and contract, the hollow cracks keeping time with the beating of my heart. “Were you waiting long?” you say as you step outside. “All my life,” I say. “Oh good, not too long.”

No, not too long at all.

We go to meet the dinosaurs, our grinning pals whose eyes are both empty and wise. Beneath that sightless gaze we walk in silence, our fingers entwined in the only conversation necessary, the conversation about everything and nothing that started the day we met, the greatest conversation of my life. Our footsteps echo in the empty halls, and I swear I can hear the rumblings of distant thunder, or is it just the wind sweeping through the sheets? I don't know, and when you look at me I forget to care because I'm lost in the memory of the first time you looked at me, really looked at me and saw me: a frightened child looking for a friend, the mirror image of yourself.

Happiness is...?

As the New Year is approaching, it's natural for thoughts to turn to evaluation...how your year went, how the upcoming year looks like it will be, and so forth. I've been doing quite a bit of thinking about this recently (though not necessarily due to the coming New Year, just the sort of Thoughtful Thoughts I've been having), and I've come to a somewhat neat realization.

I'm actually quite happy.

It's rather odd...this is probably the first time I've been able to say that, and it hasn't been contingent on external factors (ie, superficially happy because I'm in a decent relationship that masks any insecurities I might have). I'm happy with who I am becoming, I'm happy with most of the work I've done and happy with the fact that I'm THIS close to finishing my Bachelor's Degree (eight years and counting!). Granted, there are things (and people...well, a person) I would like to have, but things will happen in their own time and in the way they are meant to, and so long as I stay true to myself, I'm confident that everything will work out for the best.

Oh my.

Professor guy: ...Then he was sent to Buchenwald. Have any of you visited any of the camps?
Girl: I did.
Professor guy: Yeah? Did you visit Buchenwald?
Girl: No.
Professor guy: Did you visit one in Germany?
Girl: No.
Professor guy: Did you visit one in Europe?
Girl: No, it was in America.
Professor guy: Are you talking about a summer camp?
Girl: Yeah.

--Fordham University, Rose Hill

Overheard by: Maggie B.

Girl #1: So he was like, "We found out you're allergic to yeast." And I asked, "Is that why I keep getting yeast infections?" And he goes, "No, you probably just need to be more hygenic after having intercourse."
Girl #2: Oh my god.
Girl #1: Yeah, I know. So I was like, "WTF, man? I clean my cunt!"
Girl #2: Wait, why'd you say "WTF"?
Girl #1: Because saying "fuck" would be rude.

--6 train

Overheard by: Elisabeth

(above quotes from overheardinnewyork.com)

That last one I just have to comment on, because it touches on something I hatehatehatehatehate...internet acronyms. As a pretty long time net nerd (and onetime slightly obsessive gamer), I've seen most all of them including |337 5|D34|< (and if you don't know what that is...please don't ask me, although here's a hint...what I typed there spells, "leet speak"), and they all tend to irritate the piss out of me. But what's even worse is the tendency that some people have to say the acronyms, as if they're actual, acceptable words. "lol" becomes "lawl" or "ell oh ell," "rofl" becomes "roffle," and so forth. What the hell is happening to society? THOSE AREN'T GODDAMN WORDS.

That is all. Oh, and happy day-before-the-day-before Christmas!

Homonyms are Cool, Pt. 2

So I ended up calling Stef and making a total ass out of myself apologizing. I think her reply was along the lines of, "Wow, I didn't think you had any kind of conscience when it came to sarcastic remarks," so I guess I surprised her with that. Pleasantly, one would hope. We chatted for about a half hour as she walked around down in the Rockefeller Center area. It was nice, as it always is when I talk to her.

Homonyms are Cool

www.picturesofwalls.com

So I spoke to Stef very briefly today; actually I think I kinda upset/pissed her off with a crack about blondes being dumb. It's silly, I suppose. And, especially in light of the Buddhist books I've been reading through recently, I shouldn't have said it. But by the same token, I ask myself...do I really owe her an apology? I happen to be a sarcastic person, it's true. Sometimes (ok, frequently) these things slip out of me. That's the way I am, or have been, and perhaps I should try to change that; when I was reading up on INFJs I noticed that it was one of the character flaws they should look out for. Still, there's a part of me that refuses to apologize for being sarcastic. And then there's another part that says to watch my pride and quit being an ass. But then, maybe I need to be a bit more of an ass at times. I'm really tired of being the sensitive, nice guy, when all it gets you is an empty room and a lot of spare time to read. Of course, if you're too much of an ass you get the empty room because you're an ass, so maybe I should call and just apologize. But then why should I have to apologize, I haven't done anything wrong? And so forth, ad infinitum in my head.

Transit Strike Ending?

Story here, from ny1.com. It's also mentioned in the "Breaking News" ticker on cnn.com. Apparently it might take 12-24 hours to get service going, if the union votes to end the strike. Here's hoping, I guess. Wouldn't it suck if they ended the strike and then went back on strike a few days later because no headway was being made in the negotiations?

Orchid

The flower sits on my desk. It had three blooms when I first brought it into my room, and then the fourth one stretched its petals and greeted the world, smaller but no less beautiful than its neighbors. There is no smell, but what the flowers lack in perfume they make up for in beauty: a pale luminescence which brings you to mind. Three more buds lie ahead, promises for the future that you couldn't, or wouldn't, give me.

I look at the flower and think of you, wondering where you are and what you're doing. Are you thinking of me? Could it be that somewhere, our thoughts are meeting and we're together? Or was I just another face, another smile along your path to self-realization? Will we ever be more? Can we ever be more?

The flower sits on my desk. I meant to give it to you, but never could. I water and feed it, so I'll always have a reminder of you. And when the blooms wilt, I'll shepherd the flower in hopes of another season of beauty.

Santa Pope is Coming to Town!

Santa Pope!

You know, I never knew it was possible to be both amused and terrified by a picture all at once.

Overheard During the Transit Strike

Click. Personal faves:

Man #1: ...Shit! Why did they have to strike during the winter? Right before the holidays, no less.
Man #2: Well, the transit guys need to get paid more and they need other things that I'm not too clear about.
Man #3: Fuck 'em! I don't give a shit what their problems are! Everybody has problems, not just them! They want more money? Well, then they should have thought about that before dropping out of high school! Bunch of lazy fucking losers!
Man #4: Hey, I work for the MTA.
Man #3: Well, then: fuck you, too!

--Brooklyn Bridge

Woman: Is this the line for the LIRR?
Man: No, it's the line for free watermelon.

--Woodside

Going to be another lazy day for me. Tomorrow I do have to head down to the network to shoot some stuff; luckily (thanks to a roomie mentioning it) I realized I don't have to walk the 80 some-odd blocks, as the Metro-North train stops at the Harlem-125th Street stop before Grand Central, which is about 10 blocks from me. I'm sure it's disturbingly crowded, but oh well. So instead of 80 blocks I'm looking at about 20 blocks of walking, which is much more palatable. And then, maybe the strike will end today.

Ha ha ha ha.......yeah, that's enough of that thought.

Other People's Blogs, Pt. 2

Just used a certain someone I know's headshot in the below program. Her results:

Fay Wray (72%)
Madonna (71%)
Shania Twain (71%)
Jennifer Lopez (71%)
Amrita Rao (70%)
Celina Jaitley (70%)
Deborah Kerr (70%)
Julianne Moore (70%)
Lucy Liu (70%)
Cameron Diaz (69%)

Zowie!

Other People's Blogs are Fun

Just did the face recognition program over here, using a headshot of mine. Results (after like 5 minutes of waiting, a reload and having to mark my face on the picture for the program):

Rock Hudson (62%)
Barack Obama (57%)
Michael J. Fox (56%)
Alec Baldwin (56%)
Al Pacino (55%)

Neat!

Jung - Myers-Briggs Test

So, after reading an entry over here about doing such a test, I dug one up off of Google and took a look. According to that I'm an INFJ: Introverted iNtuitive Feeling Judging. I'll buy that. Here's some links that describe the type. Apparently it's quite rare; the first site mentions that little over 2% are INFJs.

Transit Strike Musings

Very slow day today (thank God for not having a real job and no classes today). Spent most of the morning reading this blog/story, which I feel very comfortable recommending to anyone.

One of the things that occurred to me as I read it, and part of the reason why I love Before Sunrise and Before Sunset (movies, if you don't know) is that there are so few people in this world that you run into with whom you share a genuine connection. When you're younger (and this I'm stealing shameless from one of the movies...Before Sunset, I think) you think that you'll always feel some spark with everyone you meet, and finding that special someone will just happen. As you get older, you realize that a real connection is actually the exception that proves the rule, and you come to treasure it all the more in the past relationships you had (assuming there was at least one instance, which might not be the best assumption to make) and in the ones that come along your journey (or, at least, I've realized this).

So when you find someone and you feel that with them, hold onto that. Not in a crazy/grasping/selfish sense, because you shouldn't be looking for validation in a relationship with someone else. But enjoy every moment as if it is the last one, and tell and show that person how much they mean to you. In doing so, I believe you can make every moment an eternity, no matter where the two of you end up going.

There's a comment from Memento that just popped into my head too; Carrie-Anne Moss asks Guy Pearce about his memories of his wife, and he says something to the effect of, "Your memories of people aren't really linear; they're more like scattered images," which is precisely what's going on onscreen; it's a montage of images of his wife, one with the sunlight streaming in through the window on her face, one of her hands while she washes the dishes and so forth. The more I live, the more I realize that life is made up of all these little beautiful moments, waiting for us to be open enough to experience and cherish them.

Transit Strike Fun

How You Are In Love

You take a while to fall in love with someone. Trust takes time. In relationships, you tend to be a bit selfish. You tend to get very attached when you're with someone. You want to see your love all the time. You love your partner unconditionally and don't try to make them change. You stay in love for a long time, even if you aren't loved back. When you fall, you fall hard.

How Are You In Love?

On a more serious note, here's an interesting story off of Drudge.

Note to Self

Self: Must go see this before it's gone.

Unfinished...

The wind blows, a cold wind with a secret that stops me in my tracks. It carries a hint of days gone past and days to come, and for a second I'm torn between the two of them, struggling to hang onto this moment. And then it's something else; sweetness and light, the smell of you, all around me and sweeping past me and bringing a smile to my face. I close my eyes and when I open them the wind has stopped and you are there. I take your hand and we walk down avenues and along beaches as the sun smiles on us. You ask me what time it is and I look but my watch is broken. “Look,” I say, as I show it to you. You smile and we walk on in silence, a silence that envelops us and binds us together: our happy secret, the secret the wind was whispering to anyone who would listen.

Which way?

Unknown

It's too bad that I forget where I got that pic from. I was thinking picturesofwalls.com, but it's not a wall so I'm not sure. In any event, it's a neat little bit of graffiti.

One of my roommates and I chatted about something along these lines briefly yesterday; whether or not we believed in the concept of a destiny. I think there's a number of different paths your life can take, but I also strongly believe that the choices we make can impact the way our lives turn out, and that it can be possible to miss positive occurrances and paths if you don't (refuse to) open yourself to the opportunity.

As an interesting aside, the mandarin character for crisis is a combination of the characters for danger and opportunity. Just a neat little tidbit to think about.

I like to think that there is no such thing as a completely negative experience. Even the things that happen that are most heartbreaking and emotionally draining at the time can be turned into a positive experience through meditation and reflection. At the same time, I say this having gone through relatively few such experiences. I like to think that when I'm faced with them (I'm not going to kid myself and type "if I'm faced with them"), I'll be able to hang onto this view, because I think it would be the most conducive to emotional growth and release, as opposed to sinking into one of those horrible depressions when you don't do anything with your life for months or years.

From PostSecret

Translation: I don't love you

Lately PostSecret has been getting a bit on the ehhh side; not to denigrate the secrets that people continue to send in, but from my aesthetic point of view. When I first found the site, it was guaranteed that one or two of the postcards every week would not only express an incredible vulnerability and beauty, but it was also clear that a lot of time and effort went into the execution. I suppose it's somewhat horrible to look at it that way, but I do think part of the point of the project was that aesthetic side to it. There's a book out that I flipped through at Barnes and Noble the other day that's very neat; I might consider getting it as a coffee table book.

You know, if I had a coffee table.

I Love Wrapping Shit

The picture's a little dim but my camera's phone sucks balls. Yay for wrapping shit up! The ribbon is sexeh too. These people better appreciate my talent...that's another reason why I slather the presents I wrap liberally in scotch tape, so they have all the more time to admire my wrapping job while trying to figure out how the hell to open it.

That, and I just like being a pain in the bee-hind.

Downtime

Very odd day today. Felt very reflective after all the crap that was spinning around in my head when I went to sleep last night (see the last 2 posts); went out to grab lunch and it was nice out (yes, I do categorize temperatures in the high 40s as nice out), so I walked over to my Thoughtful Spot: Bethesda Fountain, with a brief stopover in Strawberry Fields. Sat out there for a few hours in the sun and shade, watching the tourists come and go and thinking thoughts in the most thoughtful way possible. When I was done there I walked back to 72nd and Broadway, and I was thinking of stopping by the Barnes & Noble down at Lincoln Center (the one I usually go to), but I felt like walking some more so instead I walked uptown towards the 96th Street station. Stopped into the Barnes & Noble on 80-whatever it is and flipped through some astrology books. And on the end of the shelf directly opposite where I was sitting is this pile of books on Tibetan Buddhism, this one being the one at eye level. It catches my eye; I keep flicking through the astrology books with the intention of grabbing that one and flipping through it when I'm done. I do so, and the first page I turn to, the first paragraph I look at reads:

"For Tibetan Buddhists, because karma affects everything, there are no chance occurences. It is no accident, for example, that you are picking up this book. As you read this sentence, all of your past actions, your present thoughts, as well as your intentions for the future have brought you to this specific intersection of your life where you have opened a book talking about a timeless way of life that was first introduced in Asia some 2,500 years ago."

Sold!

On a more serious note, I do like to believe in the underlying sentiment of the paragraph. It just feels right to me. I like to believe that there are reasons why you meet people when you meet them, why they are a part of your life for periods of time and then not and then sometimes they come back into your life, and why sometimes you don't meet people when you want to meet them - it's because you are or aren't meant to at that time, for whatever reason...because you're not ready, because they're not ready, or maybe just because.

Mantra

My biggest fear.

Looking at it now it seems so fucking retarded and pretentious and melodramatic AND unoriginal, but what the fuck, who cares. I actually posted this late last night/this morning, but thinking about it just now I felt it needed something a little extra.

Midnight Obsessions

I'm lying in the darkness, cradled by a low pitched hum that sustains and worries me. I keep trying to remember to forget you but the hum keeps bringing you back, tormenting me with whispers of flesh and blood. Laughter from the next room mocks me, a recorded track that ebbs and flows but never stops, like my mind, circling in the dark. You told me not to let me hurt you and I said I wouldn't, but I never promised the same thing to myself, and it's pathetic and I hate it and that only makes it worse. The hum burrows its way into my brain, and I think if I could crush it I would. Or maybe it's myself I would crush, smash into a pulp in order to be reborn, to be remade into all I am and was and would be. And maybe that's what life is, to die and be reborn in every minute of every day, until you're too tired to remake yourself and you begin to fade away, like a stain on the wall. And what color is my stain? All the colors of the rainbow, of course: one for every sin and every good deed, the tapestry of life in which I'm but a single string to be woven in and pulled out at whim. "I'm not," I say, but I don't know who I'm talking to, and I close my eyes while the hum lulls me to sleep.

And then, while I was lying there, something else blew into my mind that I'm going to try to reproduce in Paint...we'll see how that goes.

Haven't Posted One of These in a Bit

Your World View

You are a happy, well-balanced person who likes people and is liked by others. You question whether many conventional views on morality are valid under all circumstances. You are essentially a content person. Sometimes, you consider yourself a little superior. You are moral by your own standards. You believe that morality is what best suits the occasion.

What Is Your World View?

On another note, I just grabbed my jazz songs offa my iPod and have been listening to them for the past while. Diana Krall + John Coltrane + Harry Connick, Jr = 1 chill evening.

Shakespeare + NIN = ???

So I've been lazing around the house all day (probably not the best idea with the transit strike looming). Yesterday I picked up some poetry books; one being Shakespeare's Sonnets, the other a combination of two of Rainer Maria Rilke's books, Duino Elegies and The Sonnets to Orpheus. I'd never really read any of the sonnets before (aside from #19, "Shall I compare thee to a summer's day..." which you'd have to be a total savage not to know), and they're brilliant, like most of his work...I just found that unlike most of the things I read, I can't read them and listen to music at the same time, because Trent screaming something about the perfect drug makes it rather difficult for me to concentrate on heartfelt professions of eternal love and devotion.

Whoda thunk it?

The Whitest Kids U Know

Went to see these guys at UCB (Upright Citizen's Brigade) last night, I know a couple of 'em and they were doing a free show for some judges for the Aspen Comedy Festival. As such, it was a real short set, only about 35 minutes, and all skits I'd seen them do before. Still, funny shit. It's actually quite depressing to see a funny show of sketch comedy like that, and then see what passes for sketch comedy on SNL these days. Anyways, if you're looking for a night of wildly inappropriate comedy, you can't go wrong with them. They have some videos up on their site; some are recordings of sketches and some are little pre-recorded bits they play between sketches, so if you might be interested, you can take a look and get a tasty taste of their humor.

Manhattan

The moonlight shines like a halo around the building, and you point up at it with the wonder of a child. For a moment I'm captivated by the glow on your face, and then we walk on through memories and over dreams. Our breath mists in the air and you stop. “This is where I get off,” you say. “You go on ahead, I'll catch up,” but I can tell from your face that you're lying and we'll never be on this corner again. I want to think of something intelligent to leave you with but nothing comes to mind so I walk on in silence. I walk on past store after store, and every mannequin has your face. But the further I walk the more faded they become, until they're harmless again. The sun's come out and my feet are tired so I sit on a bench for a rest. “It's for the best, you know,” a mannequin tells me through a crack in her window. “You were walking too fast for her anyways.” I start to make an excuse, to apologize, but then I realize I have nothing to apologize for. “Now you're getting it,” says the mannequin. I give the mannequin an apple and she turns into an eagle. I tell her that was a neat trick and she offers to show me how, and I turn myself into one too. “Come away with me,” I say, and we fly off into the skies.

I Like Donuts. Do You Like Donuts?

www.picturesofwalls.com

Candlelight

In the candlelight I see you, an alabaster statue in the bed next to me. I touch you, leaving trails of love where my fingers pass and I wonder what it feels like, if you enjoy my touch as much as I enjoy touching you. “It won't last,” a voice says, but it doesn't have to. “It doesn't have to,” I repeat. You roll over and your hair falls across your face and my fingers are moving before I can stop them to brush it away. In between the flickers I can see your heartbeat, drawing me in and pushing me away. The room is cold and my skin is pebbling and I burrow down into the covers with you, seeking your warmth, wondering what tomorrow will bring. But tomorrow is tomorrow and today is today and I'm screaming on the inside, screaming in joy and surprise at having found you, even if it's just for this minute between the hours.

Muppet Christmas Carol

Your Christmas is Most Like: The Muppet Christmas Carol

You tend to reflect on Christmas past, present, and future... And you also do a little singing.

What Movie Is Your Christmas Most Like?

I fucking love Muppet Christmas Carol. It's the greatest rendition of A Christmas Carol I have ever seen. I have no problem watching it in the middle of June if I feel like it. And if you think otherwise, bollocks to you.

Barbara Cook Masterclass

Noticed this story over at nytimes.com. Couple highlights:

"We have to find the courage to take off our emotional clothes." Ms. Cook elaborated on that danger in speaking of the essential fear that crawls around in most performers' hearts, an anxiety that in a curious way may also be a motivating factor in the desire to become a performer: "We feel that we're not enough, that the world doesn't want us."

"The truth of this insight was illustrated before our eyes, and it was a fascinating process to watch. Erin Morley, a soprano with a bright, silvery tone, sang "With You," a flowery ballad from "Pippin." "I don't hear you letting us in," Ms. Cook said, and tried to strip away all the mannerisms Ms. Morley had been trained to use in recital. When she started in on the song again, Ms. Cook stopped her virtually before she started: "I can still see her gathering herself to sing," Ms. Cook said, to the audience, and once again implored Ms. Morley to let her real self into the song, and invite the audience with her. "You don't need to do that," she said, referring to the performing stance Ms. Morley kept donning like a costume. She reiterated her encouraging mantra: "You are enough.""

"When performers first step onstage, they may be looking for validation, for approbation in the form of nourishing applause. But the lesson Ms. Cook came to teach was that artists achieve their peak when they learn to stop proving themselves and simply, to borrow the Shakespearean phrase, let be. It's their humanity we respond to in the end, their ability to strip away the self-consciousness that locks us inside ourselves, and reveal the stuff that really boils in our souls."

I've noticed that so many of the actors I know and have become close to at one time or another are also among the most insecure people I know. I could go all amateur-psychologist and espouse theories about how people become actors in reaction to some perceived lack of attention or love in childhood, and there might be a point there but it isn't really what I wanted to talk about.

There are few things I've encountered that irritate me more than a person with a beautiful voice who doesn't do anything with it. Josh Groban, for example. Technically, he's incredible. But when he sings he's just making noise; there's nothing actually behind it. Then you look at someone like Elaine Stritch, a woman who's voice left her somewhere in the 1970s, and yet, when she sings you don't care because she brings a whole new element to the song; she brings herself, she opens a part of herself to the audience. That's where real musical theater lies, and that's what every great performer in musical theater brings to a production and to a role, no matter how big or how small.

Little Prince

I'm lying in bed and a cold wind is blowing. I get up to close the window and a draft pulls me outside and I'm falling into the sky. "Follow me," says the fox, and I do, above the clouds and to the moon. "You're early," he says. "Do you know why you're here?" "To get some answers," I say. "But what's the question?" I think of you and the fox smiles. "Now you're talking," he says. And then you're there, and I wonder why every time I see you it's like the first time I ever saw you, and how you can make me feel so young and so old all at once. "I'm only going to disappoint you," you say, and I wonder if it's because you know something I don't, or if you're trying to tell me something but I'm not listening hard enough. I take your hand and we jump while a solo saxophone plays. I want to kiss you but I'm afraid, and then the moment is gone. Maybe it was never even there to begin with, maybe I imagined it just like I imagined that you loved me. "What is it?" you say. I want to tell you everything, want to pour out all my hate and shame and doubt and fear. "Nothing," I say, "I love you."

The Promised Land?

Graffiti'ed oil painting by Banksy

Man...that guy is fucking brilliant.

Big Fish

Just got finished watching it. Sobbed like a baby towards the end. Well, not fully like a baby, I wasn't like...sobbing sobbing, but the tears were pretty steady.

To me, the basic premise of Big Fish is the question of how much like your parents you are or become - in this case, father and son. What's beautiful about the end of it is that throughout the whole movie, Billy Crudup has spent so much time (in reality, the majority of his character's life) wondering who his father is, seeing him as this total stranger. And yet, at the end he finds that he is like his father after all, that his father was inside of him all along, just waiting for him to have the understanding and the need to bring it out. In telling his father his last story, he finally begins to understand his father for the first time in his life.

It's true. You never realize what an impact your parents make on you until the day comes when you do something or say something that they always do or say. But at the same time, I wouldn't say you're destined to literally become your parents, because you will have different experiences than the ones they had. Your parents give you a base of ideas and beliefs. What you go on to do with them is your choice.

Richard Pryor is Dead

Shit man...that's death on three out of the last four days (Pearl Harbor, John Lennon, Richard Pryor). At least he wasn't murdered...well, except by himself, if you count all the drugs he did back in the day. Your body can only take so much before it breaks down, as his did. Still, what a loss. Anyone who hasn't seen any of his stuff and loves crazy, inappropriate standup comedy, you don't know what you're missing.

A Shadow Grows in Brooklyn

Shadow art; Park Slope, Brooklyn

Click for story. Looks hella cool. I think I'll take a trip out there this week, walk around and see what I can see. One quote from the story:

"'I think that public art is important,' said Mr. DeCastro, who once owned a gallery. 'It expresses what people are feeling in society at the time, and it puts it out there. It's not like a museum, where things are hidden away for 20 years.'"

Fun with Prohibition

So, went with my friend Cassie to Prohibition last night. Cool place, a bit bougie for my taste and not really my crowd (Upper West Siders, bleh) but whatever. Had a cuuuuuute waitress. Asked her what she was doing after, she said she already had plans. Might be a line, might not be. So I ask if I can leave her my number, and she says she'd really like that, brings me a pen and paper pretty quickly. I write the number, but (and this is what has been bugging me) I didn't physically give it to her, cause we ended up leaving soon after. So now I'm stuck worrying that maybe she didn't get it, that the busser grabbed it and threw it out or is going to give me a call in a few days.

Hopefully she got it. I guess if I don't hear from her in a week I can stop in again just to double check, something I might just do because...well...she was CUTE.

I Hate the Leafs

Oddly enough, this blog has remained free of any references to my beloved/hated Toronto Maple Leafs.

Yes, I am Canadian, I do love hockey, and Bobby Orr is the greatest player to ever play the game, just so you know.

As I noted above though, I have a real issue with the Leafs. First of all, let me preface this by saying I grew up in Toronto in the 80s, when the Leafs were a big steaming pile of crap. No prospects, few good players (who would get traded away the instant they fucked with management) and year after year of unremitting failure, the kind that grinds down your spirit and makes you into a baseball or football fan, or makes you start cheering for the Habs because they're the antithesis of the Leafs.

Cue the 90s and some good times (interestingly enough, coinciding with the back-to-back World Serieses of the Jays and the Argos winning a couple Grey Cups). Gilmour, Andreychuk, Potvin and Pat Burns all roll into town and the Leafs have some decent seasons and runs in the playoffs, never quite being good enough to get to the Cup Finals. Cut to the mid-late 90s when Pat Quinn comes in. A couple definite and a couple probable Hall of Famers are also on the teams, and the Leafs continue to be decent but just not quite good enough.

This wouldn't be a problem if you qualify success by making the playoffs. The Leafs have done that for quite some time now. But if you measure success by Cups, or at least Cup Finals, then it sure as hell is a problem. The Leafs aren't good enough to go that far, and the sooner they recognize that, the sooner they can get going blowing up the current team and building again.

Of course, the biggest problem with that is that the Leafs have never drafted well. They've done a decent job with a pick here and there (more luck than anything else, if you ask me), but in terms of being able to draft a team...no. Not since the Original Six era, when teams had a virtual lock on players developing in their backyard (though the Leafs STILL managed to miss players). So even if they did start trading vets away and piling up picks, they'd probably end up with a roster full of Drake Berehowskys and Scott Thorntons.

Hence the love/hate. I'm pretty resigned to the fact that I will die long before the Leafs win another Cup. I just wish I didn't have to put up with all the delusional Leaf fans who think they're just one or two pieces away. Yeah, provided that one of those two pieces is, you know, a GOOD TEAM.

Hanging Santa?

Man, that's just fucking horrible. I don't hope anything bad happens to the guy physically (bad karma, boo), but I hope like...a team of reindeer dance the tango on his car or something. Cause that's just not cool.

Straw Fields

I'm sitting on the bench and my breath is misting in the afternoon air. Somewhere in the distance a guitar is playing a paean to a man who left a legacy of love and pain. "You can't stand here," a man tells me. "But I'm sitting down," I say. He moves on. Crowds are milling to say goodbye again to this man they barely knew, that they couldn't know and yet did, because he was magical. Out on the street the brakes of cars squeal, but right now it seems so distant. More people file by, people from countries and worlds I've never seen and never will again. How many of us will be remembered? The people cluster in little groups, trying to hold in their warmth against the invading cold. The wind blows, blows right through me and then picks me up and I'm flying into the sky. A woman floats by offering cookies that read, "Eat me." I take a bite and nothing happens. "What did you expect?" she asks. "More than this," I say. "These are the wrong cookies for that," she says. "She's got the ones you want." I turn and you are there, framed by the sun. Your warmth draws me in, but it melts me before I can reach you and I'm tumbling to land back on the bench in the park, surrounded by knowledge and ignorance. I look up and you're still there, far above me in the afternoon sky. I close my eyes and feel you shining down on me as the page turns. I can't hear the guitar anymore; it's been absorbed by the growing crowd of people who press forward like sheep, each seeking a piece of happiness to take with them, a remembrance of this man who touched them all and left so much undone, and I wonder if that's the way you think of me.

Sketchbookkid

I should have done this a bit ago, but better late than never. A friend met this girl while she was working on a mural in a cafe, and mentioned her site to me. I actually met with her while I was home for US Thanksgiving and bought a couple of her drawings; turns out she's not only quite talented, she's a total sweetie too. I wish her nothing but the best (especially because if she does get successful, those drawings I bought will totally become extra cool and have tons of street cred and be worth lotsa money).

She's got a blog that she doesn't update much and a couple other areas, one for her writing and one for these little comics she draws. I also wanted to reprint one of her poems because I really like it:

Bring your school books outside
i want to tell you about a friend i had.
i want to sit in the damp grass and wring my hands
and say "This is bullshit,
everything anyone ever tells you is going to be bullshit
especially this kind of thing
but
i mean this,
this is true."
and mean it
like i sometimes do.
I want to push the hair from my eyes in a wise way
and have you look upon me in awe
for that gesture
while i pretend not to notice
and maintain a steady level of passionate speech.
I want you to know how honestly i've felt
i want to guide you out back to tell you all the world's Truths;
because i'm too lonely and mean to seduce you with my body
and because maybe this way
you'll never happen to see the truth
about me.

Imagine

Just realized that today (the 7th) is Pearl Harbor Day and tomorrow (the 8th) is the anniversary of John Lennon's death. How sad is that? Hm, might make for an interesting (I had fun typed there and felt like a total jerk) activity though, walking down to Strawberry Fields tomorrow...wish I had a charger for my cam. Oh well, guess I'll make do with my shitty camera phone.

Live-not-so-Strong?

Um, I might be going to hell for thinking this (well, if you can go to hell for stuff like this, I sealed that deal a long time ago), but my friend just messaged me to tell me his LiveStrong bracelet broke. Am I the only one that finds that thought ironic and darkly humorous?

Mel Hussein?

Mel vs Saddam

Anyone else notice these two pics on Drudge Report at the same time? What the hell is THAT? Do they have the same stylist or something?

P.S. Fear my MS Paint skills!

So Tell Me Something I Didn't Know

Click.

A couple highlights:

"We're producing too many people," Mr. Steele said, "many of them poorly trained or moved into the field without the connections or relationships necessary to make their transition to a career possible. It's as if medical school were graduating people without giving them internships at a hospital."

"Twenty years ago, you didn't sense the kind of urgency these kids have now," said Mr. Schlegel, who represents many successful New York theater actors, including Jefferson Mays and Jayne Atkinson. "Now they think if they don't get signed by an agent right away, they've failed. They never think they've got to learn the ropes a bit, get seasoned. They want to know, 'Where's my TV series? Where's my film audition?' It's wrong, of course, but that's what they think, and in a business where we fall all over the young ones, you can't blame them."

Sometimes it's easy to forget that in show business, and in the greater scheme of life, a year is really not a very long amount of time. The other day I was sitting with one of my friends and talking about the fact that it had been 3-4 years since we had graduated, which is both a fair and an insignificant amount of time. Fair in the sense that since then, both of us have done a number of projects, good and bad, and insignificant in the sense that there is still so much potentially ahead of us.

It always shocks me when I talk to people living back in Toronto about the state of affairs back there; the handful of people I've spoken to make it sound so easy to get a call from an agent, when I've never had so much as a sniff from one here. Not even a, "Quit sending us your shit, we're not interested," note. A part of that is because being on the visa I'm on, I can't really do a whole lot of paying jobs at the moment, so I haven't been able to capitalize on Morty's as much as I might have liked to. Hopefully I'll be able to change that next year, when I FINALLY finish up my BA (9 years after finishing high school, awesome!) and get off a student visa or get deported.

I also find it helpful sometimes to remember a quote I read in this big Julliard book that details the history of the school and is loaded with quotes from alumni. It's a quote from Kevin Kline, and it goes a little something like: "When I graduated from Julliard I knew how much there was that I didn't know, and that's all any school can give you."

In general when it comes to education, the idea that once you're out of school you're "done" learning is the worst thing you can think. You have to always be pushing yourself because if you don't, no-one else will. That's why so many of the people I went to school with have left the city, because they couldn't handle that part of it. It's difficult, because you need to be honest with yourself and evaluate how your career is progressing, but you also need to determine whether or not this is really something you must pursue, if you could not be happy doing anything else in life. Me, I don't really know. Right now, yes, this is what I have to be doing. But a year from now, or 5 years from now that could change. You have to be open to that possibility, just as you have to be open to the opportunities that will come your way.

I have to keep believing that opportunities will come, or I'd probably quit and go home. Hell, I've already had opportunities come my way, and I'm grateful. Now if only I could convince my parents, I'd be set.

Phew

One of the busiest days I've had in a while; up at 9 to be at ImaginAsian for 11, had some time to glance over scripts and sort through some of the stuff Rocawear gave us because a certain someone was late as always. That's so fucking frustrating. I mean, when you work in theater and film/tv you get used to the different schedules; in theater (the good productions I've been involved in, at least) when they give you a call time they actually expect you to be ready to go at that time, meaning you show up 10-15 minutes early. In film/tv you get a call time, you show up, everyone's there but stuff always needs to be done, whether it's setting up lights or talking out the shot or what have you, so you're invariably waiting for an hour or so before anything actually happens. I wonder if, on bigger budget shoots, this trend continues or if, because there's more money and there's more accountability required, they're more stringent. It probably depends on the director.

In any event, the last person arrived at around 12:30; I'm pretty sure we didn't start shooting until 2ish. Knocked out 4 promos in about 4 hours with a short break for lunch. Honestly, wearing all the Roca shit I think I look so ludicrous. First of all, it's not really my style of clothing and second of all it's fucking HUGE on me. Nothing they sent was smaller than a large, and I've got your typical Asian frame, so it's basically like some bastard thought to himself, hey, how can we make him look even smaller onscreen?

Had to run at 6 because I'm doing a reading for a new musical by C. Y. Lee (wrote the original book of Flower Drum Song). First of all, the musical itself is sorta...not the best. Well, I'll be honest, I think it sucks. I mean, the music is ok, the lyrics are decent, there's just no point to the thing. Personally, I don't find there to be much in the way of character development and so many of the songs feel like they're just thrown in so there's a song, instead of developing as a natural extension of the scene. It's nowhere close to Rodgers and Hammerstein, much less Sondheim or Jason Robert Brown, and maybe I'm being overly critical, but there's honestly very little in the world I can think of that's worse than bad musical theater. Maybe bad musical theater starring washed up television or pop stars, but that's a whole other post topic.

The most disappointing thing has been that my voice is shit right now. I never had the strongest voice (got dealt a fair number of Astaire songs while in school, as well as the requisite Asian Rodgers and Hammerstein fare), and the combination of not having worked on any musicals or taking voice lessons in about 3 years and a couple of throat infections/vicious colds I've had in that same period have contributed to make my voice a fucking terror. I needed to beat my ass into some voice lessons, like, YESTERDAY.

Overheard in New York

A couple nuggets before I take off:

Hobo: I need money for food.
Guy: Me too, mind if I borrow some from your cup?

--86th & Lexington

A couple walks by holding hands, a tall man and a short woman.

Chick: What's with the Wookie-Ewok love?
Guy: Dude, that's harsh.

--13th & University

Girl: You know her, she's making stuff up again!
Crazy woman: Hey! Did you just call me Chewbacca?

--1 train

Overheard by: poptart

Girl #1: Look, that policewoman has a seeing-eye dog! Isn't that cool?
Girl #2: Oh yeah, cool, they have them here for that anti-terrorism shit.
Cop lady: ...Is she friggin' kidding me?

--Yankee Stadium

Overheard by: Tara B

That site is possibly the greatest ever.

Wonderland

I wake up and the white rabbit is there, waiting for me with liquid eyes. He beckons me to follow, but when I swing my feet off the bed there's no floor and I'm falling towards a round red door that says, "Please knock." The doorbell rings and the butler opens the door and I'm walking in the garden where I saw you for the first time. I turn and you're standing there in your dress of stars and daisies and smiling your crooked smile. I go blind; my vision blurs and then goes dark. I stumble forward, fumbling towards the ecstasy of your hands, to hold you one last time, but you're gone and in your place is a statue. I hit the statue and it shatters, revealing the white rabbit at its core. "Follow the yellow brick road," he says, so I do. It leads me up into the sky past munchkins and sunflowers. They're singing a song I know but I can't remember the words, and just as I start to remember they stop. "Please," I say, "Don't stop," but they don't respond and I walk on in silence. The castle looms in front of me; I knock and the door opens and I'm in the garden again. I wonder how many times I've done this circle and if I'll ever escape it. "You could," the white rabbit tells me, "But you don't want to."

Random Book Quote

Been working my way through American Gods, by Neil Gaiman, for the past few days:

"It's a tragedy, is it not? The little faces on the milk cartons - although I can't remember the last time I saw a kid on a milk carton - and on the walls of freeway rest areas. 'Have you seen me?' they ask. A deeply existential question at the best of times."

One of the interesting things I've noticed about many of the best kid's books (not that American Gods is a kid's book) is that at the root of it, there's a single question that is asked of the main character over and over. In Alice in Wonderland it's who are you, in Wizard of Oz it's where are you going and in Winnie the Pooh it's what do jagulars do? (They shout halloo and when you look up, they drop on you).

Ok, so I made that last one up, but I just wanted to mention Winnie the Pooh because it's the awesomest ever. (tiddly pom)

I find it interesting that these basic questions, which are obviously the kinds of things kids, going through the developmental stages of their lives, are asking themselves (who am I, where am I going), permeate these stories which have endured all these years, and I would guess that it might be one of the reasons why they do so. Really, they're questions that anyone of any age might find themselves faced with, which is why I found it neat when I read Wizard of Oz and a few of the Alice stories and found the questions repeated over and over.

I remember mentioning this in passing in a conversation to one of my roommates, who responded, "Whoa, deep." Whoa, deep, indeed. I salute you, sir, for your vocabularic prowess.

China Tortures People?

Clicky.

Now, I don't mean to be asinine, but come on...is there anyone out there who's honestly surprised to find out that China continues to torture people? It's like all those Falun Gong/Dafa people who are somehow lining the streets of New York these days (I mean, if China's really THAT bad, how the hell did they get out? You can't exactly innertube across the Pacific), and they're all handing out flyers and stuff about how horrible China is and I just want to say to them, "Really? It sucks living in China? You have no freedom? NO SHIT." But then I don't because karma is a bitch. Um, so instead I type it out in my blog. Well, maybe that's not so bad.

China is not a democracy, and I don't know that it ever will be a democracy; much like the current situation in Iraq, it takes a lot more than "free" elections to create a democracy, whether it's a democratic republic or a parliamentary democracy (which, I believe, are the two more precise definitions of "democracies" currently existing in the world). Certainly in our lifetimes, China isn't going to change all that much, because the people in power have a lot riding on it not changing. From the situations with Tibet and Taiwan to the growing income gap between the new ultra-rich and the continually poor rural masses (sounding like a Marxist here), the powerful in China have never shown even the slightest care for typical liberal democratic niceties, and I don't see any reason to believe one day they'll wake up and suddenly will. It's true that in American politics, some of the biggest reformers (Teddy Roosevelt, FDR) came from monied backgrounds, but here they had a system where they could appeal to the public and couldn't be shoved aside. In China, I'm thinking if you rub the wrong people the wrong way there's still a pretty good chance you can end up in prison, no matter high up you are.

Unsent

I've been debating whether or not to put this up, as I wrote it...last night? Two nights ago? I forget. Oh well. As the title of this post suggests, this is an unsent letter.

Maybe you're wondering why I haven't called you in a bit. You're probably not, but let's pretend you are for the sake of this letter.
I'm really tired of always being the one to call and always feeling ignored. I'm better than that. I deserve better than that. I think you do too. I think you're not happy where you are right now and maybe I could help, but who am I to say that to you and to tell you how to live your life.
It's not all about you, too. (note: this doesn't really make sense to me now, but hey, I wrote this at like 2 am and I'm just leaving it in for full accuracy) I think you're beautiful. I want you. I respect you. I'm a nice fucking guy and I wish you could see that and want that.
Maybe you do and you're afraid. More likely I'm too nice and you're not attracted. That's fine, but I wish you'd tell me instead of leading me on. Maybe you're not. Maybe you don't even realize you are. I don't care.
I could have loved you, I think. Maybe I still could. But I need to say goodbye right now. I hope this helps. It probably won't. Why the hell do I get so hung up on women? Am I just in love with the idea of being in love? What the fuck is wrong with me?

A Warm Place

The fire was slowly dying, so I reached into it and pulled out its heart. I gave it to you, to keep you warm, but you dropped it on the ground. “That's not enough,” you said. I asked you what you wanted and you said it was nothing I could give, and then you started to cry. Your tears washed me away, down the hills and over the streams until I ended up in a playground where horses rode children and wolves danced around the swings like lost boys. They sang an ancient song of love and loss, and I thought I could understand the words but that was just a coincidence. I asked the wolves how to get home and they pointed towards the slide, so I ran up it. At the top of the slide was the moon, full and pregnant. I jumped on top of it and it rose into the sky as raindrops fell; rain fell all around and made me think of you because whenever I picture you you're always crying. I wish I knew how to make you stop but then I realize I'm crying too and always have been. Maybe that's what love is, looking for the person who can stop the tears, tears of rage and anger and cold and soul. And maybe love is realizing that you can stop them yourself, that you're the only one who really can, and then sharing that knowledge with another and helping them to realize it too. I want to find you to tell you this, but then I remember you left me years ago and aren't coming back.

Random Thought

Just watched Manhattan, a Woody Allen flick from '79. Is there another piece of music that sums up New York better than Rhapsody in Blue? And do I only think that because others have used it in New York montage/movies? But then, in order for it to have been selected, those people must have felt the connection too, right?

All I know is that when I hear Rhapsody in Blue, I think New York and I get a little choked up. Every time. I like that.

More News Linkage Fun

Clicky.

The thing that gets me about that story is where the Dutch contingent is mentioned:

"In the spring, the Netherlands had 1,400 troops in Iraq. Today, there are 19, including a lone Dutch soldier in Baghdad."

One guy? What the hell is that? And what does one lone Dutchman do in Baghdad that's oh so important, anyway? Sell tulips? Operate a windmill? Seriously.

Say It Ain't So

Click.

Was anyone else out there under the impression that that pile of crap (which I suppose I shouldn't call that since I never actually watched it, but seeing as how this is my blog, I'll go ahead and say it anyways) had already been cancelled? Seriously. I've never met anyone who would admit to ever watching a single episode, much less coming BACK and watching a second. And I do feel kinda bad for what's his name...Matt LeBlanc, but not really all that bad, since he had a good run and should have known that the spinoff likely would not go anywhere. I'm sure he'll be crying into his $300 glass of wine and resigning himself to the television purgatory of VH1 reality serieses and whatnot. Sucks to be him, doesn't it?