"News From Home"

Film: "News From Home"

By Chantal Ackerman

a dim alley, cars pass, people pass...
switch scenes: more cars, slightly busier street. i can see the water, just a small peek.
switch scenes: dialogue begins, even more cars and people. someone is reading a letter. it is new york! a mother reads a letter to her child, i think perhaps a daughter. she ends with "your loving mother." it is her birthday.
switch scenes: darker alley, rundown, littered streets.
switch scenes: not a cross section or alley, but a direct view of the front of some building. everything is so dark and gray...
switch scenes: one parked car, a crooked sign.
switch scenes: a street...nothing special here. it's all the same, people walking, cars driving, dirty streets.
switch scenes: it is getting dark. headlights are on; i can see the body of water again, this time at dusk. it looks cold.
switch scenes: another letter, the voice is drowned by traffic. "don't walk" flashes...who are these people? i'm afraid they might be homeless, how terribly sad...
switch scenes: a dark skinned woman on the sidewalk sitting on a stool i think...what is she doing there?
switch scenes: a parking lot. the camera moves! scenes are switching more quickly now, letters are harder to decipher, the traffic is loud. it is now very dark outside, almost pitch-black. the camera spans from one angle to another. a subway appears, no one is there. it is loud. it's dark. there are a lot of people outside on the street; another letter, a man smoking a cigarette sits outside a shop. view into a store, looks like some sort of eatery, maybe a deli. it is so dark outside. an empty diner, a donut shop...another letter. new days, new scenes, less letters from the child to her mother. letters are redundant...they sort of mirror life. nothing new seems to happen. it's the same old routine: money is sent, parents' health is poor, they are worried about their daughter. sounds like my mother, always talking about the same things. it's boring. it makes me crazy. where are the letters being sent to? ughhh...conversations are frustrating when redundant...the mother sounds interrogating. letters are being sent overseas i understand, from new york, but to where exactly is still unclear. the images in the video are repetitive, just like the letters. it is all getting a little dull to me now...this is not exactly the bright and busy new york i had imagined.

"The Last Clean Shirt"

Short Film: "The Last Clean Shirt"
By Alfred Leslie
Subtitles By Frank O'hara

To view the video, click on this link: http://ubu.com/film/leslie.html

Where are they going? Why is the woman passenger doing all the talking? How obnoxious, lol. What is she talking about?! It must not be important, since the conversation isn't reciprocated by her male companion. What is Alfred Leslie trying to imply, that what women have to say is essentially unimportant? I think so, but you know, not all what women communicate is unnecessary, mindless jibber-jabber. What's with the clock? I wish I knew what his intention with the clock was. My God, his driving is horrendous. In fact, everyone behind the wheel of a car is driving horrendously. Yikes! And they're not even wearing any seat belts... Oh, something familiar--I love T.S. Eliot. The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock is my favorite poem of all time. In fact, it might be the best poem ever written. Okay, maybe that's taking it a little far. I forgot a moment about Shakespeare, Poe, Keats, Emerson, Frost, Dickinson, Whitman, Twain, Yeats, and another personal favorite, e.e. cummings; he's probably not as popular as the rest, but I love his work. Well without further adieu, here it is, The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock:

Let us go then, you and I,
When the evening is spread out against the sky
Like a patient etherized upon a table;
Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets,
The muttering retreats
Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels
And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells:
Streets that follow like a tedious argument
Of insidious intent
To lead you to an overwhelming question . . .
Oh, do not ask, "What is it?"
Let us go and make our visit.

In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo.

The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes,
The yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the window-panes
Licked its tongue into the corners of the evening,
Lingered upon the pools that stand in drains,
Let fall upon its back the soot that falls from chimneys,
Slipped by the terrace, made a sudden leap,
And seeing that it was a soft October night,
Curled once about the house, and fell asleep.

And indeed there will be time
For the yellow smoke that slides along the street,
Rubbing its back upon the window-panes;
There will be time, there will be time
To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet;
There will be time to murder and create,
And time for all the works and days of hands
That lift and drop a question on your plate;
Time for you and time for me,
And time yet for a hundred indecisions,
And for a hundred visions and revisions,
Before the taking of a toast and tea.

In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo.

And indeed there will be time
To wonder, "Do I dare?" and, "Do I dare?"
Time to turn back and descend the stair,
With a bald spot in the middle of my hair--
[They will say: "How his hair is growing thin!"]
My morning coat, my collar mounting firmly to the chin,
My necktie rich and modest, but asserted by a simple pin--
[They will say: "But how his arms and legs are thin!"]
Do I dare
Disturb the universe?
In a minute there is time
For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse.

For I have known them all already, known them all:--
Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons,
I have measured out my life with coffee spoons;
I know the voices dying with a dying fall
Beneath the music from a farther room.
So how should I presume?

And I have known the eyes already, known them all--
The eyes that fix you in a formulated phrase,
And when I am formulated, sprawling on a pin,
When I am pinned and wriggling on the wall,
Then how should I begin
To spit out all the butt-ends of my days and ways?
And how should I presume?

And I have known the arms already, known them all--
Arms that are braceleted and white and bare
[But in the lamplight, downed with light brown hair!]
Is it perfume from a dress
That makes me so digress?
Arms that lie along a table, or wrap about a shawl.
And should I then presume?
And how should I begin?

. . . . .
Shall I say, I have gone at dusk through narrow streets
And watched the smoke that rises from the pipes
Of lonely men in shirt-sleeves, leaning out of windows? . . .

I should have been a pair of ragged claws
Scuttling across the floors of silent seas.

. . . . .
And the afternoon, the evening, sleeps so peacefully!
Smoothed by long fingers,
Asleep . . . tired . . . or it malingers,
Stretched on the floor, here beside you and me.
Should I, after tea and cakes and ices,
Have the strength to force the moment to its crisis?
But though I have wept and fasted, wept and prayed,
Though I have seen my head [grown slightly bald] brought in upon a platter,
I am no prophet--and here's no great matter;
I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker,
And I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker,
And in short, I was afraid.

And would it have been worth it, after all,
After the cups, the marmalade, the tea,
Among the porcelain, among some talk of you and me,
Would it have been worth while,
To have bitten off the matter with a smile,
To have squeezed the universe into a ball
To roll it toward some overwhelming question,
To say: "I am Lazarus, come from the dead
Come back to tell you all, I shall tell you all"--
If one, settling a pillow by her head,
Should say: "That is not what I meant at all.
That is not it, at all."

And would it have been worth it, after all,
Would it have been worth while,
After the sunsets and the dooryards and the sprinkled streets,
After the novels, after the teacups, after the skirts that trail along the
floor--
And this, and so much more?--
It is impossible to say just what I mean!
But as if a magic lantern threw the nerves in patterns on a screen:
Would it have been worth while
If one, settling a pillow or throwing off a shawl,
And turning toward the window, should say:
"That is not it at all,
That is not what I meant, at all."

. . . . .
No! I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be;
Am an attendant lord, one that will do
To swell a progress, start a scene or two,
Advise the prince; no doubt, an easy tool,
Deferential, glad to be of use,
Politic, cautious, and meticulous;
Full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse
At times, indeed, almost ridiculous--
Almost, at times, the Fool.

I grow old . . .I grow old . . .
I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.

Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach?
I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach.
I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each.

I do not think that they will sing to me.

I have seen them riding seaward on the waves
Combing the white hair of the waves blown back
When the wind blows the water white and black.

We have lingered in the chambers of the sea
By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown
Till human voices wake us, and we drown.

This woman has absolutely no sense of personal space! Was the "Africans building dams" a racial slur? He doesn't talk, but he smokes...typical. Gosh lady, slow down! Are we women that bad? That we don't even pause to speak as our voices are drowned out by buses, by sirens? What a slap in the face, what an insult. Is the gentleman timing how long she talks, or the distance between point A and point B? Who is the narrator and why is he quoting from the book of Genesis? Is someone going to die? "Ashes to ashes, from dust to dust..." Unconnected? The title has no connection to the plot. I'm not even sure if there IS a plot. The woman has no connection to the driver...he has no connection to his passenger. Is this all just a waste of time? Who is thinking? Because the man thinks and the woman speaks, does that mean he's some sort of an intellectual? He doesn't even hear her...ah-HA! The universal truth is revealed: when women speak, men aren't listening. "A far cry from a hard-on?" Of course they're thinking something sexual; stereotype confirmed. Unconnected...we are all lost, detached. No wonder things hardly get resolved, we're not on the same page. Where the hell are they going? Nowhere. Why won't he hear her? How completely disrespectful, but she doesn't seem to notice...or care. "Making out with the kangaroo..." Sex again! Oh man..."I like you." Then listen to what I am saying...

3 Images

Oh to peek at the development of a human being, the wonder, for there is nothing greater than the realization and growth of new life. How complex the system is, the anatomy of a woman. Blood from the mother flows like a heavy, constant stream, supporting another living thing. The baby has patterns of wakefulness and sleep, it breathes and it has a beating heart, like the rapid beating of a drum. It is a hummingbird, buzzing with energy, with color and personality, but cannot yet be seen. An invisible love, only felt and heard. Like true love often is, the feeling is strong, but the fulfillment is fleeting for you experience an overwhelming joy one minute, and the next, an apprehensive, nervous terror…you cannot bear to think it would cease to exist…

The poor walrus, he is so large! And because of his size, I would venture to say his momentous dimensions are intimidating to most. But he is not intimidating in The Walrus and the Carpenter. The story is a tale within a tale. One of my most favorite stories by Lewis Carroll is Alice in Wonderland. It is in one word enchanting. The Walrus and the Carpenter is just one silly account into the absurd world experienced by Alice. The walrus is a robust and hungry creature and the carpenter…well, I don’t remember the carpenter’s role. In fact, I hardly remember the walrus’ role. What I do remember is the character of the clam, or rather, clams. They are not only adorable, but sweet, and sweet to eat if you were to ask the walrus. But the dainty little clams have a trick up their sleeve. No more will they be taken over by the hungry walrus beast! They plan their attack strategically, and when it comes time to unleash their wrath, the walrus is beaten at his own lethal game. The clams are spared being digested, their lives are saved. Hooray for the clams!

There is nothing children love more than dinosaurs. Young boys, actually, for girls have little interest in big, bony, or dead things. Engaging in the habits of dinosaurs is not suitable to the delicate conduct of ladies. T-Rex is the most popular of course, probably because he kills things. And boys, with their destructive nature, like hearing about things that can kill. It’s quite morbid really, and one has to question why boys take such pleasure in wrapping themselves up with things related to viciousness. It’s no wonder that when these boys grow up, they often partake in brutal contact with one another, whether it be through sports or fights on the playground. Are we breeding fighters? I hope, at least, not killers. My boy will at some point probably want to be a killer T-Rex for Halloween, and I feel I will have no grounds to deny him of that particular costume. What is the fascination?! Will I never understand because I am simply not a male? Men understand, they understand why their boys love dinosaurs, and fighting, and dirt, and bones. I wonder what the odds are that I'll have a girl.

how sad...

so in addition to this class, i'm taking creative writing on saturdays (blah!) and u.s. political processes, which is particularly interesting because we're lucky to be in the midst of what may be the most crucial presidential race ever. the other day, my boyfriend showed me this video of a sarah palin rally in ohio where several individuals were asked to give their opinions on obama. i wanted to share it because frankly, the responses terrified me. to think that there are people who live in this country and talk and act this way is shameful and very disturbing to me.



unfortunately, i don't think it's just obama these folks take issue with, but likely black people in general. of course, considering obama is running for president, that's going to get people talking about him specifically, but it does make me wonder what they think of other people of different races and color on a whole...i have a feeling they probably don't think very good things :/

it freaks me out, the whole white-supremacist thing...yikes.

The Lost World*

I'm All In*

Poker is a game, a gambling game, which I was never interested in before I met my boyfriend. He is a poker MANIAC. Loves playing online, loves playing in tournaments, and loves to win. I liked playing the occasional card game every once in a while, but I'm not a very competitive, or rather passionate, card player so playing cards was something I rarely did and mostly only when thoroughly bored.

After months and months of laying next to him watching him play on the laptop, I grew interested in this betting game, particularly No Limit Texas Hold Em. I felt overwhelmed by all the rules and different winning strategies, I felt as though I would never get the hang of it. Well you'd be amazed how much you can learn after just observing someone else play. I finally got it! So began my addiction to poker.

I started watching the tournaments on tv, asking my boyfriend if I could play a few hands for him on the internet poker sites, until finally I just made up my own account on Full Tilt and Poker Stars. I played with free chips at first, then with real money. Illegal? Maybe, I don't really pay attention to those rules. Millions of people play online, and if the government has such a problem with it, well I know they have the access and technology to shut all those Internet sites down. Until they do, I'll continue to play poker.

Gambling is not for me, but poker is such a fun game! I love games, including board games. They are a far better pastime sometimes than watching a movie or television program, especially on a Friday or Saturday night; even some Sundays. They structure time by helping pass the time...they also bring family and friends together. And competition. And silliness. And laughter. Poker is a mental game, a thinking game, and for the most part, a game of luck. It takes a combination of luck and brooding strategy to win. Also a little bit of bluffing, and a little bit of truth. It's trickery! It is the perfect reflection of life.

I’m not one to play tricks, but I am very aware of what I need to do in order to get my way, lol. Exploitation sounds harsh...MANipulation is more like it. As with life, you just have to make the best of the hand you're dealt, whether it's folding, calling, raising, or bluffing. The biggest poker lesson of all that translates into everyday life? Don't be a donk, lol.

Everyday Quote

The reading was indeed challenging, however, I was struck by the idea of revolution in everyday life. Lefebvre says on age 28 that vital consequences of history are forcefully brought into the everyday life; men are no longer equipped to live as before. The everyday and the historical come together at this moment, and even overlap, but in the dynamic and fiercely negative review which history makes of the everyday.

A revolution is sort of an inevitable change, I decided similar to evolution. For example, the evolution of technology has resulted in better, more advanced solutions (or unnecessary disillusions depending on who you ask) to our daily routines; evolution REQUIRES revolution! Everyday is not dormant or stationary; we might think of it as simple and fixed, but it is complex and shifting, constantly repositioning and progressing. As much as we like to think everyday doesn't transform, because our lives are the same and boring and routine, it is quietly continually moving in a different direction, changing the fundamentals of our lives, and as a result, recreating history.

The view of the mountain might look the same as you gaze upon it routinely from your balcony, but every second, that scene is changing. The sun will shine brighter and softer, clouds will have swirled, expanded, and diminished, and the water and life existing in the surrounding ocean will have been destroyed and at once reborn. The overall picture will remain the same…the greenery might fade, the rain might start to fall, but the majestic mountain will still be there tomorrow. However, it will never be precisely the same mountain you saw before; the mountain itself will have aged, and thus, changed. Blind to the naked eye, but big or small, nothing ever stays the same.

It is important to note, though, that even if a thing will undoubtedly, absolutely, concretely change, memories are forever. "I see you, as I did yesterday, beautiful, astonishingly beautiful." Honore de Balzac

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A Soft Place To Fall

I LOVE pillows. I have 14 pillows on my bed: six are for sleeping on, and eight are decorative. It might seem excessive, I mean, who really needs six pillows under their head to sleep on, but they’re soft, they’re cozy, and above all, they’re comfortable! I usually sleep with three or four on the bed, one or two actually beneath my head, and throw the rest off. As for the decorative pillows, they’re always on the floor because I hardly ever make my bed; I prefer the tousled look, of course, not in terms of appearance, but for the comfort factor. Certainly a well-made bed is much more attractive than a disheveled one, but looking at my ruffled bed makes me feel soft and warm inside; it’s a matter of stiff versus floppy, and I prefer to flop. I like when my pillows are everywhere and my sheets and comforter are pulled up and kicked around. When I walk into my room at nighttime, I stand in front of my bed and it’s like looking at a big mountain of white cotton fluff…who wouldn’t want to fall and wrap themselves up in something like that? Forget untucking and flop right in!

Then you get to thinking: there are so many different varieties of pillows! Some are feather, some are down, others are foam, and let’s not forget hypoallergenic! The list goes on: there are firm pillows, soft pillows, neck pillows, lumbar pillows, accent pillows, and throw pillows. There are bath pillows and even pillows you can request when flying on the airplane. The pillow market is no doubt a multi-million dollar industry! The truth of the matter is, people like comfort. This nation is one that is overworked, pressed for time, always on the go. It’s no surprise then when it comes time to stop and break, people want to unwind with a soothing device by their side, specifically designed to appeal to their comfort and relaxation.

When I sleep, I often do so while hugging my pillows. Mine are stuffed with down and feathers…a down comforter with down and feather pillows, it’s no wonder I could sleep all night and day. But pillows are so much more than sleeping apparatuses and room ornaments. Although they are most often used for purposes related to sleep, they’re also used as tear sponges; I know I’ve cried into my pillows more times than I’d like to remember. On a silly day, you can use them in a fight, and when you’re young, pillows can be the foundation of great forts. My personal favorite role of the pillow, however, is that it is the ideal instrument for escaping to dreamland. Oh to sleep and dream! There is truly no better pastime*