I guess I'm done here. That's the way the bee bumbles; the way the cookie crumbles.
Good luck to the rest of you who carry on. It's been a pleasure, and it's always been mine.
Good luck to the rest of you who carry on. It's been a pleasure, and it's always been mine.
Today is proof positive that I can't write properly with a throbbing headache. I need to flush my brain with cyanide, or see a movie, or sleep it off.
On a side note: freedom, I've decided, is an unattainable phantasm that goes unrecognized by those who possess it, only appearing in its corporeal form the further one recedes into bondage. And, no I'm not being political, or smart, or anything. That's just the tired and dying part of me that continues to resist how fucking busy I've become. That inner voice shall surely die soon, as acceptance and adaptation eventually occur, and I'll forget that I ever felt that way: the inner death but an insubstantial victim of a forgotten war.
I'm not sure of anything I just said, but I'll pretend I am so I can stop typing and return to the tubthumping humdrum of today.
On a side note: freedom, I've decided, is an unattainable phantasm that goes unrecognized by those who possess it, only appearing in its corporeal form the further one recedes into bondage. And, no I'm not being political, or smart, or anything. That's just the tired and dying part of me that continues to resist how fucking busy I've become. That inner voice shall surely die soon, as acceptance and adaptation eventually occur, and I'll forget that I ever felt that way: the inner death but an insubstantial victim of a forgotten war.
I'm not sure of anything I just said, but I'll pretend I am so I can stop typing and return to the tubthumping humdrum of today.
Wow, my life offers me a lot less time for thoughtful introspection now that I have a full time film job, a part time writing job, a live-in girlfriend, and an increasingly busy band. Christ, I feel like a "real" person, instead of the false-faced lazy shlub I've been these past few years.
Ahhh, the freedom to just type without meaning or need feels pretty goddamn good right now. I finished reading The Translator last week. Pretty good book, when all was said and done. Not the most satisfying conclusion, but I think that was the point. Not my favorite thing by John Crowley, by any means, but the way he makes everyday events feel just a bit magical made the book awfully pleasant to read.
Next up in the great book list is: Urth of the New Sun by Gene Wolfe. This is the coda to Wolfe's most famous series of books, which are collectively called The Book of the New Sun. The original four books are probably better than almost anything else in the world of sci-fi, and he utilizes a lot of little writing tricks that are pretty fucking cool: unreliable narrator, quite a bit of metafiction with plays and books existing within the world of the characters, and the idea that the author is translating an old text and imparting his own viewpoint onto the material. This, the fifth book in the series, and the last, is not written as well as the initial four. It's still interesting, but the language doesn't have the same 'snap' to it that really made the initial series transcend their genre limitations. Maybe it will get better, I am, after all, only 75 pages in. We shall see.
Ahhh, the freedom to just type without meaning or need feels pretty goddamn good right now. I finished reading The Translator last week. Pretty good book, when all was said and done. Not the most satisfying conclusion, but I think that was the point. Not my favorite thing by John Crowley, by any means, but the way he makes everyday events feel just a bit magical made the book awfully pleasant to read.
Next up in the great book list is: Urth of the New Sun by Gene Wolfe. This is the coda to Wolfe's most famous series of books, which are collectively called The Book of the New Sun. The original four books are probably better than almost anything else in the world of sci-fi, and he utilizes a lot of little writing tricks that are pretty fucking cool: unreliable narrator, quite a bit of metafiction with plays and books existing within the world of the characters, and the idea that the author is translating an old text and imparting his own viewpoint onto the material. This, the fifth book in the series, and the last, is not written as well as the initial four. It's still interesting, but the language doesn't have the same 'snap' to it that really made the initial series transcend their genre limitations. Maybe it will get better, I am, after all, only 75 pages in. We shall see.
Arrgh, tired. I'm trying to decide on a new choice of cover song for my band to learn... My last pick was Bowie's Sound and Vision, but for some reason when we play it comes out painfully boring to my half-trained ear. We've already partially mastered Brian Eno's Needles in the Camel's Eye (very awesome), and we're going to do a talking heads song (i forget which) and something by pavement, which i'd rather not think about, because I hate everything steve malkmus breathes on, never mind writes. bleh, slacker assrock for brain-burnt fizzling, fuckless phonies. eh, they're probably not that bad, i'm just bitter for having to watch their dvd at some girl's house once while i was drunk and not stoned like everyone else there. Can't let go of the the bitterness.
I suppose I should sleep on it, let my higher self -- my thelemic angel --do the cover-choosin' for me.
I suppose I should sleep on it, let my higher self -- my thelemic angel --do the cover-choosin' for me.
Ahoy there, virgin post. The hymen 'tween my typing fingers has officially torn. I'm never been much of one for the personal blogs, although i do like to wax some b.s. introspection from time to time, I think I'd prefer to use this blog to discuss the various media that course in an out of my life: books, movies, tv, music, the usual pretentious blather that all of us technorati-hip fucks like to go on and on about.
I'm currently reading The Translator by John Crowley. 181 pages in and I like it, quite a bit, actually. The story sounds simple: young poet girl goes off to college where she meets an exiled Russian poet currently serving as a poetry professor, sparks fly, she manages to take a class in Russian, and together they translate his body of work while they possibly heat up the sheets. Describing the plot reminds me that this is NOT the type of book I usually read, not even close. However, I'm partial to John Crowley's work, and in this case his beautifully constructed prose and non-linear structure really elevate the material into a class all its own. I've lately been trying to read everything be a select few authors I've decided to be a fan of (Samuel R. Delany, Gene Wolfe, John Crowley, JG Ballard), all of whom have dabbled in the sci-fi & fantasy genre's but manage to shatter the mold of genre restrictions each in his own way. So with Crowley, i've previously read Engine Summer; Little, Big; and Aegypt... this is far and away the newest thing by him I've read seeing as it was published in '02 and all the rest are from the '80s. So far though, I'd definitely recommend it. I still think Little, Big will be the mark by which he'll forever be judged, though my tune might change when I get around to reading the other 3 volumes in the Aegypt series...
I'm currently reading The Translator by John Crowley. 181 pages in and I like it, quite a bit, actually. The story sounds simple: young poet girl goes off to college where she meets an exiled Russian poet currently serving as a poetry professor, sparks fly, she manages to take a class in Russian, and together they translate his body of work while they possibly heat up the sheets. Describing the plot reminds me that this is NOT the type of book I usually read, not even close. However, I'm partial to John Crowley's work, and in this case his beautifully constructed prose and non-linear structure really elevate the material into a class all its own. I've lately been trying to read everything be a select few authors I've decided to be a fan of (Samuel R. Delany, Gene Wolfe, John Crowley, JG Ballard), all of whom have dabbled in the sci-fi & fantasy genre's but manage to shatter the mold of genre restrictions each in his own way. So with Crowley, i've previously read Engine Summer; Little, Big; and Aegypt... this is far and away the newest thing by him I've read seeing as it was published in '02 and all the rest are from the '80s. So far though, I'd definitely recommend it. I still think Little, Big will be the mark by which he'll forever be judged, though my tune might change when I get around to reading the other 3 volumes in the Aegypt series...
