Today was marred by pouring rain, but I don't mind, because --
Every day is Hallowe'en,
Hallowe'en, Hallowe'en.
Easter Sunday? Hallowe'en!
So's my birthday.
Monsters, ghosts, and vampiresses,
Werewolves with blonde, flowing tresses,
Octo-ladies, pterodactyls,
Christmas bulbs and fire cractyls,
All of them on Hallowe'en,
Hallowe'en, Hallowe'en.
Every day is Hallowe'en,
Just like New Year's.
Easter bunnies tossing knives,
Carollers that prey on lives,
Choirs howling at the moon,
Creatures from the Black Lagoon,
All of them on Hallowe'en,
Hallowe'en, Hallowe'en.
Boxing days are Hallowe'en,
And bar mitzvahs.
Thursday, October 31, 2019
Friday, October 25, 2019
Could You Do Any Better?
In Youtube comments, I see more and more often that failed response to criticism, "Could you do any better?" -- as if only Vaughan Williams were allowed to complain about the lack of counterpoint in current film scores, as if only Kurosawa could point out the incoherence of current action sequences.
Yet I never see the obvious flip-side to this argument: "Could you do as well?" Unless you, too, are a film director, actor, writer, or composer, then you have no right to praise films, performances, screenplays, or music. So shut up!
Yet I never see the obvious flip-side to this argument: "Could you do as well?" Unless you, too, are a film director, actor, writer, or composer, then you have no right to praise films, performances, screenplays, or music. So shut up!
Tuesday, October 22, 2019
Her Haunting Beauty
In a dream tonight, I found myself in a long, narrow kitchen with olive-coloured walls and a polished wooden counter like a bar. Against the counter stood an equally-extended table, covered with food like a buffet, where people sat and watched a film from the 1970s on a widescreen HD monitor that was hung above the counter. As I walked beside the table, my attention was drawn from the food to the film. The sound was muted, and I had no idea what the film was; I wanted to ask the people there, but they were too engrossed in conversation for me to dare interrupt them.
The film took place in a futuristic, art nouveau train car, elaborately decorated with gleaming wood, brass, and chrome. Every now and then, the scene would shift to camera shots of the passing sunset landscape: a taiga forest where the trees glowed with dazzling neon greens and deep blue shadows. The rocky ground was thick with emerald green moss, and bogs went by with flashes of orange or neon pink. For all of their psychedelic brilliance, the colours never seemed like a photographic trick; instead, they seemed the actual colours of an impossible forest.
The lead actress in the film, dressed like a 1960s hippie in elaborate shawls, wore a black beret and round, wire-rimmed glasses. She had gentle eyes, a gentle face, and every closeup revealed a haunting beauty that seized and held my attention.
Only after I woke up did I realize: the actress had been my last girlfriend.
The film took place in a futuristic, art nouveau train car, elaborately decorated with gleaming wood, brass, and chrome. Every now and then, the scene would shift to camera shots of the passing sunset landscape: a taiga forest where the trees glowed with dazzling neon greens and deep blue shadows. The rocky ground was thick with emerald green moss, and bogs went by with flashes of orange or neon pink. For all of their psychedelic brilliance, the colours never seemed like a photographic trick; instead, they seemed the actual colours of an impossible forest.
The lead actress in the film, dressed like a 1960s hippie in elaborate shawls, wore a black beret and round, wire-rimmed glasses. She had gentle eyes, a gentle face, and every closeup revealed a haunting beauty that seized and held my attention.
Only after I woke up did I realize: the actress had been my last girlfriend.
Thursday, September 26, 2019
The Climate Strike
The climate strike has brought out the worst in many old men. If anything, the pettiness and cowardice of current ruling-class and pundit discourse has grown even more toxic, and all because many young people have decided to fight back instead of to sit back and swallow corporate garbage.
For my part, I believe these young people are too late, but I refuse to mock them; I refuse to block their way, because I would rather see us die standing for a human cause, than die staring at the mindless robot flickers of a cell phone.
For my part, I believe these young people are too late, but I refuse to mock them; I refuse to block their way, because I would rather see us die standing for a human cause, than die staring at the mindless robot flickers of a cell phone.
Thursday, September 19, 2019
I Know
Yes, I know: posting as I do on this website is playing the lyre as Rome burns. I feel the tension of this awareness every moment of the day. It forces me to question why I bother to write, why I bother to get up in the morning, why I bother to do anything.
I have no excuse for acting as if our modern age were somehow normal, but I do have one explanation. In a few years, I'll be dead. When I was younger, I did as much as I could (within legal means) to prevent the sort of world in which we now find ourselves. I protested, I participated in committees, I mailed off books and pamphlets, I was arrested. But I'm not young any more, and nothing that I did back then has made a speck of difference.
Any hope for a different world, any hope for human survival, will have to come from young people with better ideas for protest and activism than I was able to put forward. I failed; they will have to succeed, or die. The task is theirs.
And so, if I talk about symphonies, or films, or poems, or short stories, please understand that these posts are indications of my failure. If I had better things to offer the world, I would share them.
I have no excuse for acting as if our modern age were somehow normal, but I do have one explanation. In a few years, I'll be dead. When I was younger, I did as much as I could (within legal means) to prevent the sort of world in which we now find ourselves. I protested, I participated in committees, I mailed off books and pamphlets, I was arrested. But I'm not young any more, and nothing that I did back then has made a speck of difference.
Any hope for a different world, any hope for human survival, will have to come from young people with better ideas for protest and activism than I was able to put forward. I failed; they will have to succeed, or die. The task is theirs.
And so, if I talk about symphonies, or films, or poems, or short stories, please understand that these posts are indications of my failure. If I had better things to offer the world, I would share them.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)