For my first ever movie review I'd like to start with the little-known visual masterpiece (and one of my all-time favorite flicks) BLACK CANVAS from 1976, a movie whose history is nearly as dark as its contents.
The film opens onto a completely black screen. Ambient, echoing sounds give the feeling of vastness and isolation. You hear a man wake with a start and call out into the emptiness. His calls fade away unanswered into the void. There is no color or definition save for the silhouette of a man in a suit and the natural graininess of the film. All is darkness. With every step the man takes, a faint glow appears on the ground and lingers as he walks on, slowly fading as he continues. The only visible things are the objects and surfaces the protagonist touches. They glow in an otherworldly light before eventually being engulfed in blackness.
This trick is intended to mimic the helpless uncertainty of total blindness. We see by touch, and as our memory of the exact positions of things fade, so do the objects onscreen.
Our unnamed silhouette of a man wanders through long corridors seeking escape, finding still more and more corridors. The effect is jarring. A few minutes into the film a distinct sense of helplessness pervades the mind. The longer he travels, the more panic sets in. It gets to be wildly discomforting, and before it can be too much to bear, or lose its effect, a glimmer of hope appears in the form of dim flickering torchlight.
The man searches for a way to it maddeningly as he stumbles in and out of disjointed hallways. He at last reaches it, but is separated from its source by iron bars. The light is coming from a small lantern held by a shadowy cloaked figure who stops before the bars. The man shouts for help, yet the figure is unsympathetic. It mutters a few noncommittal words before slowly pacing away into the distance. Alone again, the man resumes his quest for freedom. Foreboding noises steadily grow from behind him, forcing him to move more quickly. He looks for his pursuer and is greeted only by endless blackness.
This is one of my favorite parts of the movie because although the main character sees nothing, the audience is shown glimpses of terrifying and horrible monsters sliding through the background. This is executed beautifully as the man gets fed up of running and doubts there is anything behind him at all. I confess I cringed and whispered pointlessly to him to keep going as he shouted out for whatever was behind him to show itself.
Ultimately, he does escape from the catacombs via a staircase into a moonlit garden of forking paths. He chooses one and follows it down. At one point. he is able to see across to some of the other paths and notices cloaked figures like the one before. They are carrying lanterns and leading others down the trails. The path ends at the top of a sheer cliff. He is forced forward as monsters emerge form the shadows behind and he decides to jump rather than let them have him. The film ends with our protagonist tumbling into darkness.
This movie clearly draws inspiration from copious mythological sources. Thousands of years ago, people did not believe in heaven and hell. Instead, they believed in a single underworld where all souls went after death. The stone catacombs lined with coffins is showing us that this is a place of death and only the dead dwell here. The setting is cavernous and dark so even before we see the protagonist climb the stairs out, we already get the sense he is deep underground.
In Plato's Phaedo, Socrates states that philosophy is a purification process. Those who cling to worldly pleasures are intrinsically bound to the material world, inexorably attached to their tombs, and dwell in a half-place before true death. Not only that, but he goes on to say that the after-world must be hard to navigate and that guides must be needed to traverse it. He explains that souls who have committed crimes against their fellow man are denied these guides and must wander aimlessly in torment through the after-world until they are at last reborn.
This last sentiment changes the dark, sad finale into a hope-filled one. He is not falling into destruction or torment, but is instead being reborn here on Earth. He has escaped and found life once more!
Other parallels include the after-world guides are seen in such examples as the Boatman, the Valkyries, and Dante's Virgil which lead me to believe with ever more conviction that this is a story of a dead soul navigating the afterlife and being reborn.
Moreover, there are more references both ancient and modern hidden throughout the film suggesting to me that these inferences are not accidental, but planned. The several appearances of twin ravens hearken back to Huginn and Muginn. The function of the pursuant beasts to The Divine Comedie. The garden of forking paths to a lesser-known philosophical story of the same name. And finally the title of the film itself is a reference to the well-known series of painting that was ridiculed at first only to become recognized as great works of art upon closer inspection. I am speaking of Ad Reinhardt's "Black" or "Ultimate" paintings.
Even with all of my repeated viewings, I am sure there is even more woven into this black tale that I have overlooked. It is absolutely overflowing with symbolism and references. Inscriptions carved into the stone walls of the underground library are replications of passages found in the Voynich Manuscript, hinting at otherworldly origins to legendary, unreadable 15th century codex. The faces of the demons that appear in the background briefly are reminiscent of Japanese legends that are steeped in meaning, too. I believe every aspect of this film was planned out and executed perfectly. It is a shame it never received the recognition it so rightly deserves.
And now for a brief look into the dark history of this black film. The original reels were found buried in a warehouse in Los Angeles after a fire destroyed the building. Only the film's title, date, and director (George Marten) were printed on it.
It was shown at a few small art galleries but was largely misunderstood and was not well received. It was put back in storage where another fire ultimately destroyed it, but not before (miraculously) it was transferred to videotape. Copies of the tape were made and a few circulated around film schools, cult movie enthusiasts, and collectors. Still, it never quite gained a large following. Most of the tapes were lost or destroyed in the ensuing years, but at least one copy survived and ended up being uploaded to a website of the same name. This is where I first viewed it. I watched it religiously until it was finally taken down. The ownership of the domain expired and it brought you to one of those ads saying it was available and asking if you would like to purchase it.
I did some research and found out the former owner of the domain died unexpectedly at the age of 34, three years prior to the site being taken down. I regretfully have not seen it since. Every once in a while I do a search for it in hopes it will pop up again, yet all I've found thus-far was an old forum in which users talked about its history and rumors of curses for anyone who owns it. I can't quite write them off so easily as this film seems dead-set on destroying itself. Either way, if you get the chance to see it, I highly recommend it, curses be damned!
Saturday, January 31, 2015
Sunday, December 28, 2014
Infinite Recurrence
His world was completely indifferent to him. His pains and joys unnoticed by all but one, his wife. Time and time again he asked himself how he could be so lucky as to find the only person on the face of the Earth who understood him. No one else even recognized his existence. At his job at the post office, he went about the daily motions. He sorted and lifted and filed in silent solitude. In his town he was like a ghost. He would meet someone one day only to have to reintroduce himself to them on another. But his wife, his Arina, was always there for him. It was like she could read his mind. He needn't say a word and she already would be doing or saying just what he needed. She was his entire world, his only reason for living. The sun rose in her eyes, and the Earth trembled at her touch.
Their life together was quiet. They chose not to go to concerts and dining halls and dances, but instead basked in the radiance of their eternal affections. To him, Arina's golden, candle-lit face was infinitely more enthralling than any movie or exhibit. Captivated by her pulchritude, they spent their nights talking intensely of their loves, fears, and dreams. It was honest. It was real. It was one of a kind. They willingly, unashamedly bore their souls to each other and after 8 years of marriage, their captivation never waned. Years of nearly unattainable bliss lie in their wake. The world outside had nothing to offer them. The universe began and ended in the space between them.
Each day, they went their separate ways, to their separate jobs. 8 hours a day, 5 days a week, their minds lingered on thoughts of love whilst their bodies went through the unconscious motions required for a hard day's work. At the end of their shifts, they went straight home, met each other at the front door and looked with the same lovesick eyes as on their wedding night. The couple embraced and kissed as passionately as they did the very first time. Life was so fucking perfect. Nothing, no matter how dreadful, could make a dent in their paragon of happiness. Not even the loud ongoing construction going on in front of their quaint little house or the decline of their once peaceful neighborhood could get them to bat an eye.
Love like this is rare. Love so incredibly endless and raw. Yet, once in a while two people get lucky enough to find it, and all that is beautiful smiles upon them always. You would think their neighbors would find them strange or weird, but they were too concerned with falling property values and increasing unemployment. More and more people were leaving. The surrounding area was slowly degrading. Locked in a life of bliss, the couple could not have cared less. They had each other and that is all that mattered.
As another long shift at the post office ended, he picked up his bag and began his daily stroll home. He did not say a word of farewell on his way out and none bothered saying goodbye to him. To his coworkers he was no more than part of the decor. No different or noticeable than the ficus in the corner. His head raised high, he walked with his usual confident stride, with blinders on his eyes and Arina on his mind. He didn't even notice the three men in dark, baggy jackets following him close behind closing the gap a little more with every step. Nor did he see them also turn right up his walkway when he arrived home. It wasn't until he unlocked the door and turned to wait for his beloved, that he noticed them at all. Unfortunately, he didn't have to do anything about it. As soon as he took his post to wait for Arina, they were already hitting him in the face and forcing him inside.
The neighbors paid no attention to the house which in their minds might not have existed at all. The construction crew nearby focused on their job, making a terrible racket as the home of our lovers was torn apart, it's owner brutalized. His screams for help went unheard, even by his wife, who unwittingly walked directly into her own demise. The shot came so suddenly. Her fragile body crumpled to the ground. A painful stillness took her in it's embrace, the last she would ever receive.
The three men hit him repeatedly on the back his head. They took what was valuable and set to burning the entire place down. He finally came to rest beside his beloved. His vision going dark, all he could focus on was Arina's still immaculate face, glowing golden in the firelight.
Their life together was quiet. They chose not to go to concerts and dining halls and dances, but instead basked in the radiance of their eternal affections. To him, Arina's golden, candle-lit face was infinitely more enthralling than any movie or exhibit. Captivated by her pulchritude, they spent their nights talking intensely of their loves, fears, and dreams. It was honest. It was real. It was one of a kind. They willingly, unashamedly bore their souls to each other and after 8 years of marriage, their captivation never waned. Years of nearly unattainable bliss lie in their wake. The world outside had nothing to offer them. The universe began and ended in the space between them.
Each day, they went their separate ways, to their separate jobs. 8 hours a day, 5 days a week, their minds lingered on thoughts of love whilst their bodies went through the unconscious motions required for a hard day's work. At the end of their shifts, they went straight home, met each other at the front door and looked with the same lovesick eyes as on their wedding night. The couple embraced and kissed as passionately as they did the very first time. Life was so fucking perfect. Nothing, no matter how dreadful, could make a dent in their paragon of happiness. Not even the loud ongoing construction going on in front of their quaint little house or the decline of their once peaceful neighborhood could get them to bat an eye.
Love like this is rare. Love so incredibly endless and raw. Yet, once in a while two people get lucky enough to find it, and all that is beautiful smiles upon them always. You would think their neighbors would find them strange or weird, but they were too concerned with falling property values and increasing unemployment. More and more people were leaving. The surrounding area was slowly degrading. Locked in a life of bliss, the couple could not have cared less. They had each other and that is all that mattered.
As another long shift at the post office ended, he picked up his bag and began his daily stroll home. He did not say a word of farewell on his way out and none bothered saying goodbye to him. To his coworkers he was no more than part of the decor. No different or noticeable than the ficus in the corner. His head raised high, he walked with his usual confident stride, with blinders on his eyes and Arina on his mind. He didn't even notice the three men in dark, baggy jackets following him close behind closing the gap a little more with every step. Nor did he see them also turn right up his walkway when he arrived home. It wasn't until he unlocked the door and turned to wait for his beloved, that he noticed them at all. Unfortunately, he didn't have to do anything about it. As soon as he took his post to wait for Arina, they were already hitting him in the face and forcing him inside.
The neighbors paid no attention to the house which in their minds might not have existed at all. The construction crew nearby focused on their job, making a terrible racket as the home of our lovers was torn apart, it's owner brutalized. His screams for help went unheard, even by his wife, who unwittingly walked directly into her own demise. The shot came so suddenly. Her fragile body crumpled to the ground. A painful stillness took her in it's embrace, the last she would ever receive.
The three men hit him repeatedly on the back his head. They took what was valuable and set to burning the entire place down. He finally came to rest beside his beloved. His vision going dark, all he could focus on was Arina's still immaculate face, glowing golden in the firelight.
Sunday, December 7, 2014
This Totally Happened
One night I went to the bar and I met a pretty girl. We talked lots. Then she said, "Let's go back to your place and have the sex." I said, "Okay."
When we got to my place, I said, "Don't forget to take your shoes off before you go inside." Now it was her turn to say okay.
On the way to the sleeping room, I noticed my dog's food bowl was empty. So I said, "Wait lady. I want to feed my dog first." I poured some food into my dog's bowl. He came over, said thanks, and gave me a hi-five.
In the sleeping room I said, "This is where I sleep, but we're not going to sleep now." I sat next to her and we looked at each others eyes for a while until I said, "I want to eat your head." Then I bit her head.
She got up and unbuttoned her clothes. I saw her boobs. Her boobs were cool. I said, "Your boobs are cool." I touched them. Then I got such boner.
After we humped for a while she said, "Put your wiener in my butt." I said, "Ew, no. There's poopee in there."
When I came, I yelled, "Kawabunga!"
When we got to my place, I said, "Don't forget to take your shoes off before you go inside." Now it was her turn to say okay.
On the way to the sleeping room, I noticed my dog's food bowl was empty. So I said, "Wait lady. I want to feed my dog first." I poured some food into my dog's bowl. He came over, said thanks, and gave me a hi-five.
In the sleeping room I said, "This is where I sleep, but we're not going to sleep now." I sat next to her and we looked at each others eyes for a while until I said, "I want to eat your head." Then I bit her head.
She got up and unbuttoned her clothes. I saw her boobs. Her boobs were cool. I said, "Your boobs are cool." I touched them. Then I got such boner.
After we humped for a while she said, "Put your wiener in my butt." I said, "Ew, no. There's poopee in there."
When I came, I yelled, "Kawabunga!"
Sunday, November 2, 2014
Sorry
On soft white sheets in a cream-colored room, a boy lay stretched out in the sunlight. His thin, fragile body almost weightless on the fluffy down of his bed. His brilliantly blue eyes glance up at the circular analog clock mounted high on a blank wall. In the silence of the chamber, the second hand of the clock faintly ticked away each fleeting moment. He knew he could not lay there for much longer. Eventually, Justin would need to move on, but for now, he would content himself to stray here just a bit longer. His body seemed distant, his mind alive and lightning fast. The intervals between the clock's muted ticks and tocks seemed to slow and stretch longer like cascading water on an upward grade. He wondered to himself if it might reach its apex and fall back in on itself. Time rolling backward, taking him along with it. He understood things like that never happen in the real world, yet he held on to his fantasy the same way he refused to stop believing in Santa despite catching his parents stuffing the area under the tree with presents. His mind was primed for dreams, even hopeless ones, especially hopeless ones The beauty of the most minute things overwhelmed his imagination. A momentary flash of sunlight on his bedpost. A shadow cutting the air at a particular angle. The texture of his slippers. It all felt so important. So mind-absorbingly crucial.
A deep, all-encompassing calm descended upon him. Justin withdrew further into his mind. He was vaguely aware of a growing chilliness about his toes and fingers, but he was far far away now. As his room faded, his bed sheets became a vast stretch of tundra. Fine snow specked the air. Justin inhaled deeply. As the clear, icy air filled his lungs, Justin felt supremely powerful. There were no limits for him now. He strolled comfortably through chilly uninterrupted space. There was not a single trace of human life to be seen. He drank in the perfect solitude, like a life-restoring elixir. When his thirst was quenched, he found himself tumbling through an immense garden of flowers. Freedom and lighthearted joy filled his heart. So much so, that he began to float off the ground. He rose higher and higher as love and happiness crescendoed within his little body. When he felt he could bear no more, like his tiny heart would burst from it all, he took off shooting through the air like a bullet. Over verdant rolling hills, snow-capped mountains, deep red cliffs, roaring ocean waves. He soared high above the world finally coming to rest atop a gentle rainbow. He reclined leisurely for a moment, then became slightly aware of the pain branching out within his physical body. Embracing his fantasy ever more tightly, he fell backward into a raindrop that tenderly drifted down to land where it finally came to rest on a sunflower.
He knew it would have to end. As all dreams inevitably do. Just not yet, not this moment, please. He could face what was coming if he had but a few seconds more...
Someone was calling his name. It came through muffled and fuzzy. His dreamworld was fading. The voices became clearer. They sounded urgent. He heard mechanical noises, electronic beeps. White blurs of people swerved around his body, but he was too tired to think. Consciousness came and went sporadically. Then Justin opened his eyes. It was night. He found himself on a white bed that wasn't his, surrounded by white walls he didn't recognize. Near the foot of his bed, faint light glowed in the window of a door. He could hear voices whispering on the other side.
"We were able to stop the bleeding just in time. If we got him any later I don't know what would have happened." whispered the first voice.
"Such a shame." replied the second. "What could make a child do that to himself?"
The first voice, a bit quieter now, "The next-door neighbor found him lying on his bed with the knife still in his hand. He was mowing the lawn when he noticed the child through a window. Child protective services are looking into it, along with the police."
"Do you think it was the parents?" asked the second voice.
"I hope not." said the first voice. "God, I don't what the world is coming to."
After a pause, Justin hears the second voice once more, "How old was he again?"
The first voice barely gets the words out, "He was only 9 years old."
A deep, all-encompassing calm descended upon him. Justin withdrew further into his mind. He was vaguely aware of a growing chilliness about his toes and fingers, but he was far far away now. As his room faded, his bed sheets became a vast stretch of tundra. Fine snow specked the air. Justin inhaled deeply. As the clear, icy air filled his lungs, Justin felt supremely powerful. There were no limits for him now. He strolled comfortably through chilly uninterrupted space. There was not a single trace of human life to be seen. He drank in the perfect solitude, like a life-restoring elixir. When his thirst was quenched, he found himself tumbling through an immense garden of flowers. Freedom and lighthearted joy filled his heart. So much so, that he began to float off the ground. He rose higher and higher as love and happiness crescendoed within his little body. When he felt he could bear no more, like his tiny heart would burst from it all, he took off shooting through the air like a bullet. Over verdant rolling hills, snow-capped mountains, deep red cliffs, roaring ocean waves. He soared high above the world finally coming to rest atop a gentle rainbow. He reclined leisurely for a moment, then became slightly aware of the pain branching out within his physical body. Embracing his fantasy ever more tightly, he fell backward into a raindrop that tenderly drifted down to land where it finally came to rest on a sunflower.
He knew it would have to end. As all dreams inevitably do. Just not yet, not this moment, please. He could face what was coming if he had but a few seconds more...
Someone was calling his name. It came through muffled and fuzzy. His dreamworld was fading. The voices became clearer. They sounded urgent. He heard mechanical noises, electronic beeps. White blurs of people swerved around his body, but he was too tired to think. Consciousness came and went sporadically. Then Justin opened his eyes. It was night. He found himself on a white bed that wasn't his, surrounded by white walls he didn't recognize. Near the foot of his bed, faint light glowed in the window of a door. He could hear voices whispering on the other side.
"We were able to stop the bleeding just in time. If we got him any later I don't know what would have happened." whispered the first voice.
"Such a shame." replied the second. "What could make a child do that to himself?"
The first voice, a bit quieter now, "The next-door neighbor found him lying on his bed with the knife still in his hand. He was mowing the lawn when he noticed the child through a window. Child protective services are looking into it, along with the police."
"Do you think it was the parents?" asked the second voice.
"I hope not." said the first voice. "God, I don't what the world is coming to."
After a pause, Justin hears the second voice once more, "How old was he again?"
The first voice barely gets the words out, "He was only 9 years old."
Tuesday, October 21, 2014
Story Maybe. I'll keep writing probably.
Every day I do the same thing, and no matter how much I do, or how well I do it, I must do all of it over again the next day. No progress is ever made, nor can it be made. It's an endless crawl uphill and when I finally reach the top, I inevitably find myself at the bottom again, staring upward with dread and gloom at the hill I just climbed. I'm trapped in an endless loop to nowhere. This must be hell. There can be no other conclusion. I know I'm dead. Why can I not wake from this nightmare?
Monday, September 15, 2014
I Want you, But I Don't Need You
There are three kinds of people in this world: Those who need others, those who need to be needed, and those who need no one.
Mini version for the lazy: There are those who, if left alone, cannot proceed. There are those who, if left alone, proceed albeit aimlessly. And there are those who, if left alone, are unfazed by it. The first 2 kinds, while weaker alone, enjoy the uniquely human experience of love and companionship. The third, understands that it's missing out on this, is saddened by it, but continues on anyway.
Normal sized version: Some people are simply incapable of surviving on their own. They lack the strength, knowledge and skill to make it on their own; but more importantly, they lack the mental constitution to proceed independently. They require the support of others. They need to know someone cares for them, is looking out for them, loves them. A younger me would have called them a bunch of spine-less pussies. Good for nothing. Yet, now I see the subtle techniques mastered by these people, knowingly or unconsciously. They are master manipulators. They keep themselves one step away from danger, work, and responsibility. I still think they are a group of gutless cowards, but I can respect their abilities and can see where they might be useful. The needed and their protectors form a mutually beneficial arrangement. The needed get someone to do their dirty work and make them feel loved. The protectors gain purpose, a reason to go on.
Those who need to be needed are capable, strong, and virtuous. Although, they suffer from a complete lack of direction and are quite empty inside. They find their purpose in others. They help people reach their goals, and in helping them do that, they feel they have fulfilled their own. Alone, the protectors are lost. They feel hollow. All of their strength masks an inner weakness. They harbor self-defeating tendencies that are only lifted when in service to others,
The third type are the rarest. They embody the qualities of both of the previous types, with none of the weaknesses. On paper, these are the best people. But do not envy them so quickly. Human beings are meant to have weaknesses. They are designed to need each other. This last group of freaks is an aberration. A class of weirdos I myself belong to. Our strength is our weakness. We lack the need to connect with others. We judge them harshly. We walk alone. Yet, we understand that we are missing out on a massive part of the human experience. We never experience the joy of having just what we need, because we do not know what it is. It must be found for ourselves.
A lesson can be learned from all of these people. Even with my biased perspective, I can see that each have their own unique rewards and drawbacks. I've always prided myself on not needing anyone or anything, but only recently have I tried opening myself up to others. It's nice. I'm happy I know you. I like you, I may even love you, but I will walk away if I have to.
Momus said it best.
Mini version for the lazy: There are those who, if left alone, cannot proceed. There are those who, if left alone, proceed albeit aimlessly. And there are those who, if left alone, are unfazed by it. The first 2 kinds, while weaker alone, enjoy the uniquely human experience of love and companionship. The third, understands that it's missing out on this, is saddened by it, but continues on anyway.
Normal sized version: Some people are simply incapable of surviving on their own. They lack the strength, knowledge and skill to make it on their own; but more importantly, they lack the mental constitution to proceed independently. They require the support of others. They need to know someone cares for them, is looking out for them, loves them. A younger me would have called them a bunch of spine-less pussies. Good for nothing. Yet, now I see the subtle techniques mastered by these people, knowingly or unconsciously. They are master manipulators. They keep themselves one step away from danger, work, and responsibility. I still think they are a group of gutless cowards, but I can respect their abilities and can see where they might be useful. The needed and their protectors form a mutually beneficial arrangement. The needed get someone to do their dirty work and make them feel loved. The protectors gain purpose, a reason to go on.
Those who need to be needed are capable, strong, and virtuous. Although, they suffer from a complete lack of direction and are quite empty inside. They find their purpose in others. They help people reach their goals, and in helping them do that, they feel they have fulfilled their own. Alone, the protectors are lost. They feel hollow. All of their strength masks an inner weakness. They harbor self-defeating tendencies that are only lifted when in service to others,
The third type are the rarest. They embody the qualities of both of the previous types, with none of the weaknesses. On paper, these are the best people. But do not envy them so quickly. Human beings are meant to have weaknesses. They are designed to need each other. This last group of freaks is an aberration. A class of weirdos I myself belong to. Our strength is our weakness. We lack the need to connect with others. We judge them harshly. We walk alone. Yet, we understand that we are missing out on a massive part of the human experience. We never experience the joy of having just what we need, because we do not know what it is. It must be found for ourselves.
A lesson can be learned from all of these people. Even with my biased perspective, I can see that each have their own unique rewards and drawbacks. I've always prided myself on not needing anyone or anything, but only recently have I tried opening myself up to others. It's nice. I'm happy I know you. I like you, I may even love you, but I will walk away if I have to.
Momus said it best.
Sunday, August 24, 2014
With (more than) A Little Help From My Friends or It's A Funderful Life
Unlike nearly everyone else, my dreams are actually very detailed and captivating tales that aren't just interesting, but captivate entire rooms of people, leaving them in rapt attention throughout their entire telling. I rarely share them, but considering how this one involved so many of you, I felt the need to share.
It takes place in an undetermined amount of years from now. I find myself driving a dirty, beaten-down wreck of a car. I am drunk. Very drunk. I look down at the dashboard to see all kinds of warning lights lit up. I'm swerving all over the road, still taking swigs from a whiskey bottle. It's summer. A bright blue sky lights up the windshield. I can barely see. The sharpness and definition of everything is blindingly painful.
I somehow manage to navigate the thing into a parking lot. I'm cursing it the entire time. I'm older. I'm worn down. I hate myself. I leave my car parked crookedly in a spot, climb out into the harsh daylight and light a smoke. I smell. I'm aware of this, and on some level, I am almost proud of my odor. I can't remember the last time I showered, changed my clothes, or shaved. I'm walking through the parking lot to some rich, deuchey place. I know what lies inside. I know how much it will hurt to be in there, with those people, yet I continue on almost relishing the oncoming punishment. Every step I take increases the sense of impending doom I feel. I yank open the elegant glass doors and shuffle inside.
I stumble into an ornate lobby. I'm acutely aware of the staff's eyes on me. I keep trudging on looking resolutely forward. It's too late to turn back now. Just as I enter the ballroom, a member of the staff stops me. Before I can answer, Christine Feola, who seems to have appeared from thin air, informs him that I'm a guest of hers. She greets me warmly, gives me a hug. I know I'm revolting but she pretends not to notice and beckons me to follow her deeper inside. My attitude is cold and offensive. She again remains unfazed. She's much older, but you can barely tell. The years have been kind to her. She still looks so young and alert. She's wearing a suit and effortlessly carries an air of illustriousness. Everything about her is clean and smart and epitomizes the success she has achieved thus far.
She leads me over to a small group of people. I know all of them: known them for years. Back since before they achieved their fame. They're laughing like they don't have a care in the world. I hate that laugh. I'll never know that laugh the way all of them have. I'll never feel its deep resonance rising up from my belly, galloping out of my mouth. I'll never feel its lightness or its freedom. Everything I have is heavy and full of filth. I slime my way through the garbage of this world. I dwell in darkened corners and seedy alleys. I owe people money, people that will hurt me without a second thought. I am a slimy eel writhing in a puddle of sewage. I don't belong here amongst these soft lights and crystal glasses.
Erik Rudic shakes my hand with an honest, ivory-toothed smile. I shake begrudgingly and grunt a greeting. His suit is probably worth more than my house. Why am I here? Why did I accept? What evil inside me relishes this pain? He asks how I've been getting along. I answer that I've been fine, doing what I've to do get by. I am no one. Why do they care about me? He also overlooks my disturbing appearance and treats me kindly. I hate him. Him and all the rest. I go on, prolonging my self-abasement.
I see the members of Hot Blood. I try to pretend I don't. Matt Kiley runs up behind me, grabs me, and carries me over to the rest of them. They're always so excited to see me. It's a genuine excitement I can't stand to bear. It hurts me to know how far I've fallen whilst others have achieved so much. I watch myself: engaging in silent talk. I wonder how this came to be. Why have I given up? I see myself, and I know I am me, but I am also another. I watch from afar, staring at this strange person I've become, yet that person is myself, while at the same time, another.
We are here for a concert. A sold out stadium. A fishbowl of eyes eager to drink the sights of visions from my past. A multimillion dollar event once thriving in my living room. Time's bedraggled effect now working its alchemy on the masses of hungry, empty minds. Is this all there is? I catch up with myself to discover my body 5 glasses of champagne drunker, scowling at a Doug Zambon. He's not participating in the act. He seems genuinely concerned over my state of health. He keeps asking if I'm okay, if I need anything, if I can even hear him. I respond by insulting him. Him, or the wall next to him. What the fuck does it even matter at this point?
The next few hours are lost in a blur. So many faces. So many words. Why all these faces? Why must everyone talk so much? Just leave me alone! Talktalktalk, looklooklook. I can't take it! Why does any of it matter? Why did I drag myself to this god awful place? Where even am I right now? It's dark. There is noise, but it is muffled. The ground is like quicksand. I need to step quickly as not to get sucked down into its dark waves. I move toward the sound. Where are the walls now? Its as if someone is disassembling the world around me. Is this death? Is His icy hand finally pulling away all I've known, all structure and foundation, before dragging me screaming back to hell? I"m so weary now. I can't go on much further. I find a stool and table. I sit and give my life over to figure draped in darkness. The world is spinning. I'm watching it being pulled from me. I've hit my limit. I cannot take anymore of this. I leave myself and float by as a ghostly spectre. I see myself moaning, squirming on a stool in the back stage area of the concert. I feel shame for this person that is me. Clarity restored, I reexamine the figure of death. It is not death embodied. It is Amy Malkoff. She looks worried. She asks some of the stage-hands to help her take me to her room. The habitus of death was in reality my savior all along. My spirit follows her, thanks her, loves her: my benevolent goddess. I view my body, racked with fear, clouded with drugs, dragged upstairs and lain to rest.
Outside of myself, whilst I rested, I find truth. All of my friends had moved on to bigger and better things, ultimately becoming international stars. I, being the selfdefeater I have always been, drove myself mad and squandered the myriad opportunities I was presented. In secret, they paid my debts, hospital bills, and bribed people to keep me out of prison. They all loved me and cared for me. All anonymously and from a distance. The friendships we formed years ago had actually mattered. I was simply too dumb to see it. I was cut off from the world. My heart had grown hard. I was unable to accept happiness, friendship, or love. I viewed everyone as an enemy. In my eyes, they were all out to get me. They took what they wanted and left me hanging out to dry, but I was wrong. I couldn't accept the fact that anyone could actually care for me. I wouldn't accept success unless it was through my merit alone. I was a fool and a coward. I shut everyone out. I was scared. Who could ever care for me? The truth was, they all had.
I've had a very bad life. I pushed others away. I never asked for help. I'm terrified that I might be broken.
I wake up and I see Judith looking down at me. It's morning. The sunlight gives her an angelic glow. She looks so pretty. In that moment of waking, my self-abasing issues haven't yet caught up to me. Everything is perfect in this moment. I sit up to see a room packed with people worried about me. Alex Rosen pats me on the back and asks if I'm okay. I see all of your faces, golden in the morning's light, and I start crying.
It takes place in an undetermined amount of years from now. I find myself driving a dirty, beaten-down wreck of a car. I am drunk. Very drunk. I look down at the dashboard to see all kinds of warning lights lit up. I'm swerving all over the road, still taking swigs from a whiskey bottle. It's summer. A bright blue sky lights up the windshield. I can barely see. The sharpness and definition of everything is blindingly painful.
I somehow manage to navigate the thing into a parking lot. I'm cursing it the entire time. I'm older. I'm worn down. I hate myself. I leave my car parked crookedly in a spot, climb out into the harsh daylight and light a smoke. I smell. I'm aware of this, and on some level, I am almost proud of my odor. I can't remember the last time I showered, changed my clothes, or shaved. I'm walking through the parking lot to some rich, deuchey place. I know what lies inside. I know how much it will hurt to be in there, with those people, yet I continue on almost relishing the oncoming punishment. Every step I take increases the sense of impending doom I feel. I yank open the elegant glass doors and shuffle inside.
I stumble into an ornate lobby. I'm acutely aware of the staff's eyes on me. I keep trudging on looking resolutely forward. It's too late to turn back now. Just as I enter the ballroom, a member of the staff stops me. Before I can answer, Christine Feola, who seems to have appeared from thin air, informs him that I'm a guest of hers. She greets me warmly, gives me a hug. I know I'm revolting but she pretends not to notice and beckons me to follow her deeper inside. My attitude is cold and offensive. She again remains unfazed. She's much older, but you can barely tell. The years have been kind to her. She still looks so young and alert. She's wearing a suit and effortlessly carries an air of illustriousness. Everything about her is clean and smart and epitomizes the success she has achieved thus far.
She leads me over to a small group of people. I know all of them: known them for years. Back since before they achieved their fame. They're laughing like they don't have a care in the world. I hate that laugh. I'll never know that laugh the way all of them have. I'll never feel its deep resonance rising up from my belly, galloping out of my mouth. I'll never feel its lightness or its freedom. Everything I have is heavy and full of filth. I slime my way through the garbage of this world. I dwell in darkened corners and seedy alleys. I owe people money, people that will hurt me without a second thought. I am a slimy eel writhing in a puddle of sewage. I don't belong here amongst these soft lights and crystal glasses.
Erik Rudic shakes my hand with an honest, ivory-toothed smile. I shake begrudgingly and grunt a greeting. His suit is probably worth more than my house. Why am I here? Why did I accept? What evil inside me relishes this pain? He asks how I've been getting along. I answer that I've been fine, doing what I've to do get by. I am no one. Why do they care about me? He also overlooks my disturbing appearance and treats me kindly. I hate him. Him and all the rest. I go on, prolonging my self-abasement.
I see the members of Hot Blood. I try to pretend I don't. Matt Kiley runs up behind me, grabs me, and carries me over to the rest of them. They're always so excited to see me. It's a genuine excitement I can't stand to bear. It hurts me to know how far I've fallen whilst others have achieved so much. I watch myself: engaging in silent talk. I wonder how this came to be. Why have I given up? I see myself, and I know I am me, but I am also another. I watch from afar, staring at this strange person I've become, yet that person is myself, while at the same time, another.
We are here for a concert. A sold out stadium. A fishbowl of eyes eager to drink the sights of visions from my past. A multimillion dollar event once thriving in my living room. Time's bedraggled effect now working its alchemy on the masses of hungry, empty minds. Is this all there is? I catch up with myself to discover my body 5 glasses of champagne drunker, scowling at a Doug Zambon. He's not participating in the act. He seems genuinely concerned over my state of health. He keeps asking if I'm okay, if I need anything, if I can even hear him. I respond by insulting him. Him, or the wall next to him. What the fuck does it even matter at this point?
The next few hours are lost in a blur. So many faces. So many words. Why all these faces? Why must everyone talk so much? Just leave me alone! Talktalktalk, looklooklook. I can't take it! Why does any of it matter? Why did I drag myself to this god awful place? Where even am I right now? It's dark. There is noise, but it is muffled. The ground is like quicksand. I need to step quickly as not to get sucked down into its dark waves. I move toward the sound. Where are the walls now? Its as if someone is disassembling the world around me. Is this death? Is His icy hand finally pulling away all I've known, all structure and foundation, before dragging me screaming back to hell? I"m so weary now. I can't go on much further. I find a stool and table. I sit and give my life over to figure draped in darkness. The world is spinning. I'm watching it being pulled from me. I've hit my limit. I cannot take anymore of this. I leave myself and float by as a ghostly spectre. I see myself moaning, squirming on a stool in the back stage area of the concert. I feel shame for this person that is me. Clarity restored, I reexamine the figure of death. It is not death embodied. It is Amy Malkoff. She looks worried. She asks some of the stage-hands to help her take me to her room. The habitus of death was in reality my savior all along. My spirit follows her, thanks her, loves her: my benevolent goddess. I view my body, racked with fear, clouded with drugs, dragged upstairs and lain to rest.
Outside of myself, whilst I rested, I find truth. All of my friends had moved on to bigger and better things, ultimately becoming international stars. I, being the selfdefeater I have always been, drove myself mad and squandered the myriad opportunities I was presented. In secret, they paid my debts, hospital bills, and bribed people to keep me out of prison. They all loved me and cared for me. All anonymously and from a distance. The friendships we formed years ago had actually mattered. I was simply too dumb to see it. I was cut off from the world. My heart had grown hard. I was unable to accept happiness, friendship, or love. I viewed everyone as an enemy. In my eyes, they were all out to get me. They took what they wanted and left me hanging out to dry, but I was wrong. I couldn't accept the fact that anyone could actually care for me. I wouldn't accept success unless it was through my merit alone. I was a fool and a coward. I shut everyone out. I was scared. Who could ever care for me? The truth was, they all had.
I've had a very bad life. I pushed others away. I never asked for help. I'm terrified that I might be broken.
I wake up and I see Judith looking down at me. It's morning. The sunlight gives her an angelic glow. She looks so pretty. In that moment of waking, my self-abasing issues haven't yet caught up to me. Everything is perfect in this moment. I sit up to see a room packed with people worried about me. Alex Rosen pats me on the back and asks if I'm okay. I see all of your faces, golden in the morning's light, and I start crying.
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