Pop culture spam!
By the way, all of my posts on books/episodes/movies are one big spoiler.
Pop culture spam!
By the way, all of my posts on books/episodes/movies are one big spoiler.
Pretty neat episode this week.
South Park continues to teach me the privileged lingo of first-world brats, delivering it in a cute parody of religious divisions, the farcical nature of entertainment these days and the power of the mind to cripple itself.
The little discussion over the library table about the role of Poe in founding goths, vamps or emos was quite a cute imitation of the Jews’, Christians and Muslims tussle over Jesus – I wonder if the fanatics think that Trey and Matt make a good point, if they’re violently insulted or if they’re not able to notice it at all?
I disagree with the rather dull non-goth/vamp/emos who think that they’re all the same though: there is a huge difference between someone who hates life and someone who hates themselves. The way they reach their decisions is totally and utterly different, but the decisions that they reach will both be based in hopelessness and hate, so that, overall, in the end, the result is the same. So all we Christians, Jews and Muslims, we goths, vamps and emos should live together peacefully because we share an ends!
But seriously, though, emos suck. If you hate yourself, go fix yourself up, douchebag! Read a few self-help novels, go find yourself a shrink, just do something about it, you fucking vegetable!
I loved how despite all of the goths, vamps, E.A.P and that one gardener taking the whole emo-takeover conspiracy so seriously, Trey and Matt turned the whole thing into a stupid reality stunt. It would probably be too far to consider this as a nod to the massive amount of power that the media has over the way we see the world, but media entertainment is definitely sinking into deeper dependency on the shock-and-awe tactic.
Henrietta’s turnaround from emo to goth again was hilarious.
|Henrietta:||Nnnoooo, there’s an organic spore in my head that made me switch cliques so easily.|
|Michael:||No, you just kind of did it on your own.|
|Henrietta:||Oh my Gawd. [closes her eyes, drops her pen on the table, and pinches her nose at the bridge] This is so… em-barrassing.|
|Pete:||Ahh, hang on. What I meant to say was [flips his hair] we just infiltrated the Emo lair and… we torched the plant leader.|
She picked the healthiest way to deal with that kind of revelation – it’s an intelligent and practise artist of doublethink, who can keep their world from self-destructing for so long.
This still. You can see the summoning is happening right in the middle between the literature and science sections – the meeting of the two human arts is magic, religion and the occult. And, of course, our random chime at every major debate, who has no real investment in the issue and argues to hear his own voice. He’s objective enough to do pretty spot-on analyses though.
And, coming up next: Ike’s balls drop!
The path to the doorway of this bloghouse is not spooky. A far cry from the suggestive decrepitude of popular Halloween, this house is scary.
The gravel path is replaced with a walkway of fractured glass and it glints invitingly at the pioneer before the wrought iron gate. On either side of the path, dark weeds knot together in vaguely noose-like bows, especially thick and tight over the several isolated mounds, rising from the lawn like the remnants of a serpent’s particularly large lunch. An ancient oak dominates the left corner of the front yard, one heavy branch weighing on the eaves of the house while others push back on the wooden, leaning fence. Most of the veranda is hidden in thick shadow underneath the tree, and from time to time parts of the shadow seem to ripple, as if with activity.
With the shape of the iron bar still frozen to his hand, the brave, young adventurer swings wide the heavy gate, skips over the naked glass and jumps onto the first wooden step. It shifts, and almost falling onto the cheerfully sparkling edges behind, he instead lunges forward, knocking his head quite hard on the door, and sinks his finger into the exposed wiring of a long-re-appropriated doorbell.
The door is opened by a lank, forgettable woman dressed in black and brown strokes, who peers through dark, rheumy eyes, “Come in, have a cup of tea. Let me tell you where you’re going wrong…”
You’re not going to like trying to trick me.
The first day I break from a new habit is the day when the clamour of my old habits overcomes my fascination with novelty.
You may have noticed that I experienced this recently, my one follower, so let me explain it like this: there comes a time in the life of every new habit, when the newness of that habit fades and it starts to become a part of the everyday. Once that habit becomes completely everyday, it is truly a habit – much like how one might consider a Buddhist who has reached nirvana a true Buddhist, whereas other Buddhists, who have not reached nirvana, are merely occasionally religious.
For example, at this time of night, when I used to be sleeping, or watching some kind of mindless crap, or otherwise chilling, I choose instead to switch on to WordPress, read the Daily Prompt, and then engage my mind in some kind of creative activity. I am completely unaccustomed to maintaining this level of alertness this far into the night but I manage, at first, enticed by the unfamiliar sensation of achieving by writing.
Day after day passes – and sometimes a few weeks go by – and we continue to work on a piece of writing every night after work, or after a whole day of writing. The mental clamouring for sleep, for brain death by disuse grows louder: Too long has it been since we’ve run straight into bed after a gruelling day of being nice to neurotic office workers! Too long has it been since we’ve diffused our brain power with episode after episode of television events! – and so, one dark day, when work has been a little too rough on the sensibilities, when the day has felt a little too long for even daylight savings to cover, when the daily prompt is a little too boring, or a little too hard, when an overdue book just needs to get read (*cough*Millennium People*cough*), when we really must get to class tomorrow morning, we decide to skip a Daily Prompt for the first time.
It is a tragic act, to break a streak. It’s the disproof of perfection in our lives and it’s the invitation of failure into our new venture. Although failure is the beginning of all solutions, it is always hoped, before our first failure, that we will make no missteps in this new enterprise. That, for once, we will have no need of failure.
After we miss that first Daily Prompt, missing another is hardly as big a defeat as breaking that streak of completed Daily Prompts. That next one seems stupid as well, the one after that – damn, it’s a hard one; I really need to get to bed – and following that – I’m going to make my comeback with this one? Please.
Eventually, we realise that we are giving ourselves a whole bunch of excuses. We remember that that original feeling of achievement did not come from a thoroughly interesting prompt or a perfectly worded response; it came from practising writing and knowing that we had responded to the prompt with as much of our angle as we could fit in. We dither a little, shrinking from the significance of the first post after a hiatus, and if the benefits of having a certain habit outweigh those of not having it, we dither our way back into the routine and, on our first day back, we reaffirm how good it feels to do this.
Chapter 9 “The Upholstered Apocalypse”
Already, Ballard has poked fun at the idea of a middle-class need for revolution, but he is half-serious, intending his narrative to be the beginnings of a 21st Century revamping the outfit of “revolution”. I wonder what Ballard thinks now of the traditional, bloody revolutions happening in the Middle East. The book was first published in 2003; was all of the developed world so self-absorbed at the turn of the century? Could there possibly be a revolution against comfort and mild prestige while there are still developing worlds in abject poverty and terrorists lurking in the Middle East? 9/11 had occurred two years ago, London had had its share of burning wreckage in the streets – it couldn’t have been detached from the fear of ‘envious’ violence from foreigners less fortunate. I suppose though, that that is the crux of the matter – the middle-class are detached: “These people want to change the world, use violence if they need to, but they’ve never had the central heating turned off in their lives.” (p 67, Chapter 9 “The Upholstered Apocalypse”); “with their naive talk of overturning an entire century… they had torn down a travel poster in a shopping mall”. The implication is that they have a general urge to change the world, which they believe looks like a moment in the sun, chanting along with a large group of their fellow victims (p 51-):
Kay Churchill – “She was telling off a luckless hospital receptionist, raising her voice to a fishwife shriek as she described my chest injuries and likely brain damage. All the while, she was watching herself admiringly in the coat-stand mirror.”; “I noticed the deeply bitten nails, and the strong nose she had picked since childhood.” “she openly wore her insecurities like a collection of favourite costume jewellery”;
Dexter, the imposter? – “the very picture of fashionable Chelsea vicar”; “but the scar was a little too fresh, and I suspected that he kept it deliberately inflamed…one of his canines was missing, a gap he made no attempt to hide, as if advertising…”; “he fingered the scar on his forehead, trying to rub it away and at the same time make it more prominent, an oblique caution to himself”; “his affection [for Joan Chang, girlfriend] was clear, but somehow lacked confidence, part of a larger failure of nerve.”; “I should have remembered who I was trying to be.”;
Joan Chang – “smiling slyly. ‘He doesn’t like the Adler Institute. In fact, he said everyone there should be hanged.”; “‘I always tell the truth.’ She beamed winsomely. ‘It’s a new way of lying.'”
Sally – “immersed in her own perpetual recovery, an had no wish to share her monopoly of doubt and discomfort… my bruises [from the cat show demo] were self-inflicted, far removed from the meaningless injuries that presided over her life like an insoluble mystery.”; “huddled happily over a pillow. ‘He was fined. A hundred pounds. Yes, I’m married to a criminal.”
And David’s own sob story of a motherless childhood.
–“As always, a perverse calculus refreshed and redefined the world.”
Chapter 10 “Appointment with a Revolution”
Vera Blackburn – “Her apartment was sparsely furnished… A chromium-framed photograph hung above the mantlepiece, a blow-up of herself in full Helmut Newton mode, all emotion eliminated from her face… a shrine to a desperate narcissism.”
I’m starting to recognise a writing style emerge from the way the dust sits and the exhaust hangs in the wake of Ballard’s tour of the middle-class. Borrowing the dialogue of the characters, the novel is showcasing the symptoms of middle-class’ grievances against the current societal order: immortal mortgages, children needing education from the most competitively priced schools, and the threat of the dispersal of the middle-class under the stress of the first two. Written with words thick in meaning for those initiated to the problems of the middle-class, the narrative is relatively hard-going for me but I’m enjoying the insight. A particularly intense boredom, a need to place faith in a time when it’s intellectually disreputable – perhaps I am behind the times, but I identify with these conundrums, and although I may not be drinking pink gin and have Axminster wall-to-wall in central heating, my problems are easily first-world.
It’s an interesting book – you should read it!
– “We have to set people free from all this culture and education. Richard says they’re just ways of trapping the middle class and making them docile.” – “So it’s a war of liberation?” – p 61, Chapter 8 “The Sleepwalkers”.
– “I remembered Kay hinting that he had lost his faith, but this was almost an obligation in the contemporary priesthood.” – p 62, Chapter 8 “The Sleepwalkers”.
– “Look at the world around you, David. What do you see? An endless theme park, with everything turned into entertainment. Science, politics, education – they’re so many fairground rides.” – p 62, Chapter 8 “The Sleepwalkers”.
The target of this middle-class revolution is the 20th Century which persevered on to shape this century’s theme park.
– “It lingers on. It shapes everything we do, the way we think. There’s scarcely a good thing you can say for it. Genocidal wars, half the world destitute, the other half sleepwalking through its own brain-death. We bought its trashy dreams and now we can’t wake up. ALl these hypermarkets and gated communities. Once the doors close you can never get out. You know all this, David. It keeps you in corporate clients.” – p 63-64, Chapter 8 “The Sleepwalkers”.
– “Strong-willed and confident, they shouted down the young manager who tried to address them. Their voices, honed at a hundred school open days and business conferences, drowned the manager’s efforts to make himself heard.
‘What is it?’ I asked Kay, as she edged the car through the throng. ‘It looks serious.’
‘It is serious.’
‘Some paedophile on the prowl?’
‘Parking charges.’ Kay stared sternly at the luckless manager, who had taken refuge behind his glass door. ‘Believe me, the next revolution is going to be about parking.'”
Huh. Still largely confused.
An example of simple story with a distinct concept running through it from head to tail. It will be a good reference text for when I first try to write a short story. Note the 3rd person! Whoa – impressive – it’s been a while.
Tell us about the harshest, most difficult to hear — but accurate — criticism you’ve ever gotten. Does it still apply?
Peggy was absolutely crushed. Written in a red marker on the title page of her short story as if from the blood of her own heart, “Rubbish, dithering screed unfit for human consumption.” It was handed back to her by Professor Carson with all the force that impelled those words.
She stayed after class to confront him. With red eyes she approached his desk.
“Are you purposely trying to fail me?’ she said timidly.
“What you wrote was sentimental drivel,” Carson said. “Meant to somehow impress me. I’m not impressed by dishonesty. Write with passion and not weepy bleeding gobbledygook. This is stuff written by silly fourteen year old girls who lives in a make-believe world of princes, princesses, toads, and evil step-mothers. You’re trying…
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