Discovery Project, VFS

For my third term "discovery project" at VFS I chose to learn how to create vignette's in photoshop (manually / not pre-sets), I also wanted to learn how to recreate a sort of stylized cross-prossesing look using "curves" in photoshop, again, no pre-sets.

The third component, and by far the most difficult, was to put my theoretical knowledge of Parajanov's stylistic mannerisms and try to apply some of those techniques in my own work. With special thanks to Professor James M. Steffen of Emory University in Atlanta, for answering my questions and being able to so clearly explain Parajanov's tricks, those mannerisms are:
1. Frontally staged tableaux
2. Empty picture frame as compositional device and decorative motif
3. Still life compositions
4.Tripartitie compositions within individual shots
5.Pantomime and other experiments with the actors movements
-- to a lesser degree, the self-contained nature of many shots, the use of central vanishing point and rhyming shots.

I wouldn't for a moment suggest I succeeded in recreating anything more than a mostly thoughtless homage to Parajanov's style but I do appreciate his style very much and would like to further explore his compositional techniques in the future. The pomegranates in the shots are supposed to be a lighthearted nod to one of my favorite directors and also an acknowledgement of the beauty of the vital particulars, (whether pomegranates, apples, shoes, hair, knives, or mountains...), that are necessary components in creating Beauty on the whole.

Out of my many shots I posted here in this set I think 2, or being generous, perhaps delusional, 3 of my compositions succeed. The rest are here mostly for posterity.

while walking home

while walking home: he was engaged in something-- it required that he move backwards. he was holding his arms out in front of him, he was chewing and smiling grinning. his name was glen and in his #1 hand he had a sandwich. he bought it from Mac's convenience store at 1:00am. I am not sure, I cannot be certain, but I am suggesting here it was a tuna salad sandwich. The Girl, whose name shall remain a mystery was drunk. The girl, whose fluctuating capitalization remains the constant was going to piss in an alley that was, in fact, entirely too well lit. She fell a little bit but caught herself before any damage was done. still, she swayed and thought in the brief ambience about honey coating her brain-stem, the sound of throat bubbles and reflections of form. girl, she stayed down upon the orange, the littering light. Girl was grounded and felt her head lower until it touched the pavement. she created crescent waves with the back of her neck and wanted to laugh but nothing was happening. she stood up quickly, uprighted, and became a wobble. she shouted out to Glen, "Glen" she said, she said, she said. "Glen!" she said, she said, He was pointing back at her walking backwards smiling, his cheeks were dirty and wanting kisses, he wanted to laugh at her. he was holding a tuna salad sandwich and the illumination was less immediate on the portion of sidewalk that surrounded him. the cloud i couldn't see separated all of us.

pleased

 In the mirror, I seemed a little pink, a little yellow. My eyebrows were really weedy, yellowish green and growing again. I love them. The thickeees. I love feeling manly, old, aged. In this context anyway. Oh, I imagined trimming my chest hair. It's probably time for a trim. I like my chest hair but it's might be just one of those things that needs to be scheduled/ given into. Norms.

What else. Is this a “Dear Diary” entry? Why now? Why not? Ok. Ok. On. On. On. On.

I've been revisiting my teachers again (that happens often when I'm inspired and discouraged as often as I have been recently), the Dalia Lama my favorite zealot so far. Ha. Honestly, I'm constantly inspired and improved by each lesson. The H.H.D.L. has a gift for expressing incredibly dense ideas. It's not that he makes them easier to understand so much as it becomes apparent when you read his work that his sincere desire to communicate and to not hold back, his motivation to share, if you will, is beautiful and touching. It's the wisdom that needs to be expressed. HHDL is gifting it to us, telling us that it's not easy to absorb, perhaps not even fully absorbable but that we need to dedicate ourselves to wisdom when it whispers in our ear, or face a lifetime of negligence and cowardice. You cannot remove truth from your mind even if the truth bounces between the false borders of contrary views and paradoxes.

I don't make sense as I understand. I am pleased.

Young friends worth charming.

Young friends worth charming.

Beyond the unwild paths,
you haunt away an hour, discovering days and insects,
a jar of earth with no bottom.

The ferns bellowing new fall brown,
the grown crow's sunlit, golden crowns,
past the Buddhists on the banks,
in the triangles of slow water.

It's Saturday shaking the sun,
hiccuping past each jutting rock and glinting rapid,
you
only show the universe.

The roots, avoid,
the branches, dodge,
that leaves a gap of unconscious air
and velocity to fall
from the cliffs
to the flexing rapids of Lynn Canyon
so many seconds below.

Joy in the plundering bubbles born,
my new, uncovered braveness
swims to the cliffs,
still under the sea,
it sits, it squeezes off
and the black tea of the trees
stuck on my neck, discovering me,
weighing more
I casually leave on.

I balance
upon the rocks that act as floors,
harnessing trees,
we are setting scenes
of awareness.

The Field: Is This Power

Latest from The Field: Looping State of Mind. opening track, Is This Power. Wonderful stuff.

Going to the Store

normal guy normal walk. Directed by David Lewandowski

Celebration of Light 2011

yeah, pictures of fireworks are boring but...

ka
boom

kshshshshhhhhh

Bach - Harpsichord Concerto No.5 in F Minor BWV 1056 - 2/3

Listened to this very, very loudly. Enjoyed it very, very muchly. Jast now. Dif version, but... here's to Bach and all things beautiful.

Day-end, Buddhist Inventory

I'm trying to keep an inventory at the end of each day as recommended by Buddhist teachers-- an inventory of both the good and the bad; keeping tabs, I guess you could call it. Doing so, according to this wisdom, makes determination to improve less difficult / more likely. It's all about being mindful. Being mindful requires great effort.

I inadvertently went to the beach today.
At first glance, today's bike ride was promising nothing but cool spring, four days into Summer.
Half-way through my ride around the Seawall the sun skipped past the grey with incredible warmth and nearness. I dismounted. (I didn't lock up my helmet, people don't steal helmets)(I did, however, slide my white M.E.C. L.E.D. A.K.A. 'Turtle Light' forward so that the black elastic band was most visible and the LED/plasticy portion was less conspicuous)("crimes of opportunity", you know)
At Third Beach I took my spot on the sand.
Touching, slowly, drawing circles and curves and alleys and birthmarks.
The top layer was dry and inviting,
any deeper, the sand was much darker and wet,
smelling strongly of the sea,
hinting at decay and the brittleness of sea-shells.
I poured the hot, dry sand on my hands, from one hand to the other.
I briefly thought of each body my fingers have ever known and that the sand's superficial heat means so much.
I imagined doing continuous somersaults along the border of sea and sand, well, along the front of Third beach. Actually, it was forward-somersault twist into backward-somersault to log-roll to forward somersault...(forever and forever)(or until I hit the wall)(they would think I was crazy)(am I?)(somersaults aren't crazy)(34 year old somersaults along the sea to sand lapping broder, maybe. maybe crazyish)(well, you didn't do it, so.)(can I even do a somersault anymore?)(do a somersault anymore)
I drew more circles in the sand. I stood up.
I hooked the sand out of my shoe with crooked finger.
I looked at the ten or so other people on the beach and thought, "we're the fortunate one's today" and  "hey, an empty beach on a Saturday"
I walked back to my bike and put on my helmet.
The padding was still cold and wet with my sweat.

Tree of Life: Movie Review

I feel total awe when a filmmaker sets out with the ambition to make a metaphysical movie and succeeds. Malick does this in Tree of Life, all the important stuff is there: being, existence, time, purpose, suffering, love, indifference, etc. But he reaches even further than I've seen before, balancing between material creations and the immaterial conceptions of his characters. In the process his film creates strong emotional reactions/connections with/from his audience. He alternates between idealized scenes of nostalgia and childhood wonder / contrarily showing the blindness and the beauty of the Universe.  The paradox of the ideal and the meaningless and how they both exist and rely upon each other  There is so much wisdom in the movie. The dialogue's often prayer. Literally. I remember reading Ebert's review and he said that the movie was a prayer, and well, initially I thought he meant metaphorically(in it's beauty and desire, hope and desperation),-- and while it certainly is that, I'm fairly convinced that a lot of the dialogue is literally prayer-- the sacred thoughts spoken by the various characters; poignant wishes of love and strength, the courage to choose between good and bad, truth and lies.  Anyway, Malick has proven beyond any doubt in my mind that he's an artist of the highest caliber. 

10/10. Thought it was perfect. Wisdom and poetry from a modern, popular movie-- a rarity worth celebrating and sharing.

See it.

--
http://www.rottentomatoes.com/m/the_tree_of_life_2011/

pareidolia stream

thought bananas skins, thought them interesting-- purposive digression goes: full of brown, clustery freckles in (distraught or smiling) bruisey(eyes, nose, mouth), emotional faces. Distinctly British Face of Banana Bruises. Their suggestive, oxy-aberrations need to sit in my mind's eye a lil' while longer while I think of all the instant-and-created faces I've ever known; found in the repetitive, wood veneers, all indented, hard-gum, topologies-- found in the connect-the-dots, mosquito-pasted, wallpaper of earlier still-light-at-bed-time summers, and the starry gaze of each trampoline-and-I'm-cold-but-TRAMPOLINE!-sleep-overI can live in this yard and see the stars because I'm not in my bedI'm outside and thestars make faces and each face has so many more faces if that's the eye this time and the bright one is the mouth do you see it and my best friend is beside me oh a shooting star where do you see it there and my dogs are so happy I'm outside with them and they think I'm good being out here with them they're under our bed tonight we can jump on them and I'll probably go in if it gets too cold always around dawn and I won't consider how that makes you feel my friend because I'm a little bit afraid of being outside and I'm young and a feeling sortascared that someone will stab us from under the trampoline.remind me again about pareidolia, remind me again, because it thrills me.

preterquilt

preterquilt, a photo by rjbeeswax on Flickr.

"Phenomena are not analytically contained in their conditions; rather, a synthesis is required out of which a phenomenon not antecedently existent comes to be." (after Nagarjuna), Buddhist scholar: Jay L. Garfield

Post 301: something something nondualism

(unknown photo by Cindy Sherman)

The worst depravities are committed when we fully understand that to sin against the other is to sin against the self, yet still we follow through, for the false reward of momentary distinctions; the intoxicating demarcations which speciously hold our pains apart. 

May.7.11 precip

scrambled too quickly get this HDR shot of the precip. not well composed on account of haste. fip-fip-fip

Two truths, sort of.

Culvert, a photo by rjbeeswax on Flickr.

---
poem by Tung-shan:

The blue mountain is the father of the white cloud.
The white cloud is the son of the blue mountain.
All day long they depend on each other, without being dependent on each other.
The white cloud is always the white cloud.
The blue mountain is always the blue mountain.

--
According to the Dalai Lama there are two types of reality, neither of them exist independent of each other and are in fact, at base, one in the same. The first type of reality is Conventional Reality, this is the reality we see all around us everyday, the rock, the branch, the beer can, the friend, the mood, the thought.

In the world of conventional reality we see objects and things as existing independently from one another, we see our self as well as independently existing, not as an aggregate but as a independent entity, emerging from it's own source. To see that this is the way we see conventional reality is important insofar as being able to see this egocentric perspective so clearly means that we can see, at a more fundamental level, how mistaken it actually is. Don't get me wrong, it works fine in the conventional world, but in the bigger sphere, the ability to know everything exists dependently upon innumerable factors is essential if you want to grasp the concept of Ultimate Reality.

Understanding that there are two realities, the Conventional and the Ultimate lends itself quite well to two different aspects to understanding the path. One aspect is the Practice or methodological aspect, and the other is the Wisdom aspect.
--
more on the Two Truths doctrine

quicker than I thought

“Isn't that something? I wonder how he got up there”, he pointed at the ground with his cane, “they come from there-- not the trees.”

Status Anxiety

I read de Botton's book Status Anxiety and thought it was a little bit too superficial. This interview however is better, if only because it's less of a time commitment and serves the same purpose with the same level of simplification for the purpose of highlighting his assertions. It's a subject matter I'm greatly interested in--a vested interest you might say--or indoctrinated into, more likely.

On a side-note, anyone who starts each response like de Botoon does with, "Look," loses some major points. Can't say why exactly.

Grace (the neighbourhood cat)

 

Grace is the ever-roaming, neighbourhood cat. Often she stares at me through my bedroom window. Incidentally, I think her name is pretty good-- I once knew a cat named "Honesty". I think I'll name my next cat "Sportsmanship" to keep the virtue theme going.

---

Grace was enjoying the hot ledge on the back deck today. And peeping.

---

 View of Grace as seen from my room-- sometimes nebulous, almost always blindingly bright when the sunshine falls upon her.

I like her.

scale & sound

Don't forget that when you sweep the kitchen

floor and your two mobile fingers on your broken

right hand are grasping the red, plastic broom in

an awkward way that displeases you, you do not

automatically have the right to audibly moan. Be

more tactful, even if you think and feel you are

alone. Honest displeasure is one thing but the sound

of moans, or worse, moans mistaken as groans leads

the listener(s) in a house full of listeners, listeners

you weren't fully aware were fully listening, to feel

your swelling throat and air-in-air vibrations and

translate those into a distinct impatience-- to them it

is insult and hyperbole; it is an affront to their own

peace and quiet; to the love of pure, unchallenged,

hypnotic contentment usually filling their ears. Instead,

go to the land of cotton and buy felty pads for the chairs.

Slide the chairs quietly. Pick up the fallen receipts with

your left index finger and thumb. Slow motion. Don't

chew ice while it's fully formed. Let the ice partially

melt. 48% melted. Then masticate in small molaristic,

cud-circular chews. Cupboard door ajar? Grab the

comforter from your bed, place on head, covered like

a considerate ghost you've known before. Crawl to

the pantry and gently yet gently, gently, gently, gently

push it shut with the top of your head, all the while

holding the bottom and easing it flush with the new-found

agility in your left hand. Politely lubricate everything:

harm and armpits, chaffing crotches, flossy teeth and

loud-tick watches. I'll make peace with you yet.

Einstein on the Beach - Knee 1 - by Philip Glass movement 1

(from the opera: Einstein on the Beach)

The bold and unique musical formula of Philip Glass. I'm pleased to have it in my life. Esp when it's loud, behind my ears.

...---...---

"1234 123456 12345678 ... _2345678 1234 _23456 12345678 1234 _23456 12345678..."

the text/ poetry by Christopher Knowles:

KNEE PLAY CHARACTER 1

( numbers )

KNEE PLAY CHARACTER 2

Would it get some wind for the sailboat. And it could get for it is.

It could get the railroad for these workers. And it could be were it is.

It could Franky it could be Franky it could be very fresh and clean

It could be a balloon.

All these are the days my friends and these these are the days my friends.

It could get some wind for the sailboat. And it could get for it is.

It could get the railroad for these workers. It could get for it is were.

It could be a balloon. It could be Franky. It could be very fresh and clean.

All these are the days my friends and these these are the days my friends.

It could be those days.

Will it get some wind for the sailboat and it could get for it is it.

It could get the railroad for these workers workers. It could get for it is.

All these are the days my friends and these are the days my friends.

But these days of 888 cents in 100 coins of change...

These are the days my friends and these these are my days my friends.

Make a toyota on these these are their days loop

So if you say will it get some wind for the sailboat and it could for

It could be Franky it could he very fresh and clean. So it could be 
those ones. So if

You cash the bank of world traveler from 10 months ago.

Do you remember Honz the bus driver..., Well I put the red ball

blue ball two black and white balls. And Honz pushed on his brakes and

the four balls went down to that. And Honz said. "get those four balls 

away from the gearshift" All these are the days my friends and these are th

e days my friends. It could get the railroad for these workers.

Would will it get some wind for the sailboat. And it could get for it is.

Ali Farka Touré & Toumani Diabaté: Hawa Dolo

bit old, but one of my fav albums, "In the Heart of the Moon"

Impossibly beautiful songs.

Corner: Ralph Pomeroy

                             (photo from series entitled, "Brooklyn Gang", by Bruce Davidson)

Corner

by Ralph Pomeroy

The cop slumps alertly at his motorcycle,
supported by one leg like a leather stork.
His glance accuses me of loitering.
I can see his eyes moving like a fish
in the green depths of his green goggles.

His ease is fake. I can tell.
My ease is fake. And he can tell.
The fingers armoured by his gloves
Splay and clench, itching to change something.
As if he were my enemy or my death,
I just stand there watching.

I spit out my gum which has gone stale.
I knock out my new cigarette --
Which is my bravery.
It is all imperceptible:
The way I shift my weight,
The way he creaks in the saddle.

The traffic is specific though constant.
The sun surrounds me, divides the street between us.
His crash helmet is whiter in the shade.
It is like a bullring as they say it is just before the fighting.
I cannot back down. I am there.

Everything holds me back.
I am in danger of disappearing into the sunny dust,
My levis bake and my T-shirt sweats.

My cigarette makes my eyes burn.
But I don't dare drop it.

Who made him my enemy?
Prince of coolness. King of fear.
Why do I lean here waiting?
Why does he lounge there watching?

I am becoming sunlight.
My hair is on fire. My boots run like tar.
I am hung-up by the bright air.

Something breaks through all of a sudden.
And he blasts off, quick as a craver,
Snug in his power; watching me watch.

Late-night Ramblings: Apocalypse

Late-night Ramblings: Apocalypse

There is chaos. Internal and external.

I've always felt like the Apocalypse would somehow be recognizable, like I would, being human, and as such nearly divine (not through God, per se, but through our species unique quantity of intelligence), be able to say, “Nope, conditions aren't bad enough yet, we need the sky to turn three shades of grey darker before any real trouble comes our way.” But now I'm not so sure I trust the guys taking the readings anymore or even myself, the the guy listening to their proclamations.

Sure there have been strict moral-codes before in various religions, the Ten Commandments of the Abrahamic religions(I'm not certain if Islam formally recognize the 10 commandments as divine laws like the Jews and Christians do) and five moral precepts of Buddhism being but two of them. But still, they only say what sin is, the particulars of each objective transgression, not how much accumulated sin eventually tips the scales from life as human to life after humans. They don't tell us how to distinguish between 'within the limits' and going 'beyond the limits.' Without the existence of moral exactitudes how can we ever hope to make proper moral decisions in times of crisis, when clear-thinking and informed leadership are needed most?

What expertise do I have? I mean beyond,“well, the sun has risen each and every morning so far-- I think it's fair to assume we're all gonna be ok.” Or, “North America is isolated and insulated from danger-- for the entirety of my lifetime, anyway, so I conclude it'll always be like this, or if not always, I'll be able to read the signs and hear the trumpets that signal otherwise.” Yep, Trumpets. Will there be trumpets? What melodies will they be playing? Not that I'm an expert but isn't the current radio-fodder about as paradoxically gloomy as it gets? Why count on hearing the guttural sounds of seven-headed lions when we have fucking auto-tune pop in the airwaves? Surely degradation of Art must count for something in the scheme of right and wrong, of merely approaching the apocalypse versus fully encountering the apocalypse.

What of the contemptible behaviour of governments everywhere towards the Truth and those who bring us truth? Wikileaks? The psychological torture of not yet convicted whistle-blower, Pfc. Bradley Manning? Why doesn't anybody care? Is it because the mainstream media hasn't told us to? Ditto with the world-wide apathy towards the democratic revolutionaries being massacred in Libya? These are surely signs of darkening skies at least, are they not?

The recent disasters in Japan, first the geophysical kind and then the man-made kind, which promises to be much worse, are only the latest in a long-line of evils that cause or promise to cause vast amount of suffering to humanity-- the latter, of the completely undue and unnecessary variety. There are forty-two million people in and around the Tokyo region, about an 1-hour drive away from the exploding nuclear stations-- and I have very little faith that their government is doing enough to ensure their safety. Or more, I have my doubts that any government has the capacity to rule properly enough, considerately enough, to save the lives of it's citizens in regards to pending nuclear catastrophe. Obviously, the same goes for our own government. Steven Harper's recent reassurance that the Canadian west coast has nothing to fear from radioactive particulate coming our way via the jet-stream, does just the opposite of calming me. I don't believe that Harper would lie and purposely endanger his people, rather I believe that the variables are so overwhelming, and the risks so long-term and ambiguous, they really don't have the capacity or the expertise to properly inform us of what is safe and what isn't, of when a threshold has been crossed or hasn't. And he doesn't want to deal with the problem, doesn't want to carry that load unless he's forced to. Throwing caution to the radioactive wind. Ha. That was bad. But you get my point. Boy, that was bad. Funny. Yeesh. Time for bed. "Nuclear sleep". Ah. ?

I dunno, I guess I am blathering here but it seems to me that without knowing just how much is too much, we're just forced to experiment--lots of trial and error-- only problem there is that with too many trials and too many errors, we're bound to reach a point where there isn't enough room left for another test. We'll call the passing of that threshold: The Apocalypse.

(cue scary music) ... (and blushing)

untitled

I'll meet the flowers where they hold me,

As they love the earth.

We'll be bold together, but relatively, my colours, spare.

Fortunes will remain, but as silent as the wills of old, unopened books.

And Still, I'll sneak into every season.

My memory, your memory.

Then their memory, no memory.

Snowflake,

Raindrop,

Riverock,

Cow's cough.

Into every atom of action, each ruby of sin,

Motivating all kinds of greed, and greeting love.

Like the history of smoke I was before my birth.

Free in everything, without intention,

As calm and gone as our unknown God.

Rash Brian, Maybe from Ponoka (2009)

 

(boy, been away from bloggin for a while... have some snippets. Here's an old one I never got around to uploading from way back-- back when I worked in a parkade for easy-money/ suburban-merit / gross acquaintances / peanut-butter toast / lazy routine/ the inside-out, slow-dying of certain relationships, expectations and delusions. Anyway, ran into a lot of wonderful characters like this at the parkade. loved'em all for their courage to be forthright about their pain, even if their words were venomous, their conceptions and recollections, false and self-serving. I guess it's easier for these many to sour and exaggerate history than it is for them to face the reality of innocuous degradation, or seen from another, just as accurate, perspective: the beauty of perpetual change. pow!) - Feb.25.11

Rash Brian, Maybe from Ponoka: 

Scene takes place in the early hours of a Saturday Morning, 2009. Inside the"Tourist Bureau", Edmonton's Library Parkade.

Brian, a 5’5” man with a “Town of Ponoka” something or other ball-cap and salt-and-pepper coloured hair flowing wide from beneath it, over his ears and half-way down his neck. The corners of each outer brow are swollen with large circular bumps. His nose is flat and pressed to the left-side of his face. Old wounds I suspect because of the lack of discolouration. He has an oddly round back pack on and steel-toed boots. In front of him are recently picked purple flowers, slightly wilted, on top of a free weekly-magazine stand. He’s staring out of the glass, past his reflection.

R: Are those flowers you picked for your wife?

Brian: My wife? The fucking whore!

R (cross between a frown and a smirk): she--

Brian: I can’t even get a fucking coffee in this city, the fucking greyhound doesn’t have coffee!. This city. Fuckn’, do you know, Edmonton, this city isn’t even a fucking city!
Brian: Where was the first oil-well in this province?

R: Leduc number 1?

Brian (cutting R off, emphatically): Fucking Blackfalls! This shouldn’t even be a fucking city. Blackfalls! Calgary, everything’s open downtown, here there’s fucking nothing.

Brian: I graduated in Lacombe in fucking 1974. 1974! I’m 52 years old and I’m a certified journeyman carpenter. She fucked the fucking asshole behind my back for three fucking years and now she marries him?! He’s a fucking R.C.!

---silence---

Brian: He killed a kid! The fucking cop. More cops sell crack in this province than fucking Hell’s Angels. You know who told me that? The seven friends of mine that are Hell’s Angels.

Brian: Fucking cops! She fucking married him and fucked him for three years behind my back. We were on the same softball team: "Brian, your up, Go Brian!” Fucking cops!

Brian: He gets me-- Eight of his R.C. buddies follow me, following me around, tailing me and in two weeks I get two impaireds and I’m the fucking criminal? Fucking political! If I could pick between cops and Hell’s Angels who do you think I’d pick?

R (quickly) : Hells Ange---

Brian (cutting R off, again, emphatically) : Fucking Hell’s Angels! I’d pick them, the fuckin’--- I’m 52 years old and I’m a certified journeyman carpenter. $56000 dollars a year she’s making part-time and the fucking lawyer is only seven years. She’s making $56000 a year part-time. I lost my fucking house I built with my own hands to that fucking whore.

---silence---

Brian (stepping close and leaning towards R, pointing out with his hand, gesturing to an imaginary dog beyond the glass): The Cops, you piss, you piss and they charge you, you see that, that fucking German Sheppard, fucking that dog can shit right there and you fucking piss and you know what they’ll charge you?

R: $500

Brian (interrupting): $5000 for pissing on the street!

R: I don’t think it’s that m---

Brian: You fucking,--- the government closes this down and I can’t get a coffee and I’m fucking homeless.

---silence---

R: You could probably go to the Mac’s on 105 street

Brian: I’m not walking another 20 fucking miles!

---silence---

Brian: D’ya have a dollar for a co---

R leaves and shuts the door behind him cutting Brian’s request off.

 

The Illusionist (animated movie) 2010

The latest beautiful, and beautifully animated film by Sylvain Chomet, is a bit slower and more gentle than his previous feature film, the playful, The Triplets of Belleville but I'd say it's just as good. Its a thoroughly enchanting film with delicate characters and a simple philosophy: the power of compassion lies in the minutiae of everyday kindnesses, everyday sacrifices. It sweetly highlights the nobility of selflessness and how the quiet efforts to improve the lives of others, are in fact, at the very heart of love. (You don't need to be high to see this movie, or drunk... or in love. :)

9/10

Beechwood Park: The Zombies

I just discovered this album, Odessey and Oracle by The Zombies. It's really incredible. Wanna kill the singer for having such a rich voice.

Beechwood Park
by The Zombies

Do you remember summer days
Just after summer rain
When all the air was damp and warm
In the green of country lanes?
And the breeze would touch your hair
Kiss your face and make you care
About your world
Your summer world
And we would count the evening stars
As the day grew dark
In Beechwood Park...

Do you remember golden days and golden summer sun
The sound of laughter in our ears
In the breeze as we would run?
And the breeze would touch your hair
Kiss your face and make you care
About your world
Your summer world
And we would count the evening stars
As the day grew dark
In Beechwood Park...

Oh roads in my mind
Take me back in my mind
And I can't forget you
Won't forget you
Won't forget those days
And Beechwood Park...

And the breeze would touch your hair
Kiss your face and make you care
About your world
Your summer world
And we would count the evening stars
As the day grew dark
In Beechwood Park...

Oh roads in my mind
Take me back in my mind
And I can't forget you
Won't forget you
Won't forget those days
And Beechwood Park...

Sky Saw: Brian Eno

Sky Saw
by Brian Eno
All the clouds turn to words
All the words float in sequence
No one knows what they mean
Everyone just ignores them