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| Jonathan Safran Foer was 25 when he wrote this book. I'd just like to point that out...(and cry) It doesn't bother me so much when I hear that Beethoven composed his first great work at 24. It was a crazy world. People generally lived to about 50 as opposed to 75, so...depending on the formula you use he was either 36 (8/50=x/75) or 49(x=25+24), which still gives me 11 years to be declared master of the universe. As opposed to mathematical wizard extraordinnaire, to which post, i think we can all agree, i have proven myself worthy.
In 8th grade my history teacher had the remarkable talent of using 18-19th century history as furthur proof that we as a generation were a sign of the apocalypse. Extra credit question on our final exam: What is a common, transportable household object used repeatedly throughout the day in the modern era that did not exist in 18th century America? Answer: a trashcan. Noone knew the answer, noone received extra credit, but we all did receive an impassioned graduation speech on how we were an incredibly wasteful and decadent, ungrateful generation destined for the black abyss.
I mention this not just because my brain happened to ramble over to this story on the matted string of 18th century dealings, but because I wanted to give a great teacher his due. Sure, when he talked about the direction we were headed he would foam at the mouth and his eyes would roll to the back of his head. Sure, he threw a stapler at my head (later telling me he was aiming to miss but I better watch it) when I was doodling in class. Sure he dangled a student off a bridge in D.C. for being a "short legged smart-ass" during our 8th grade trip to Washington (and made him cry). But he wasn't there to coddle us. He really believed that we could change the world and the only reason we were not was the fact that we were lazy. He never believed that we were powerless or destined for banality. He thought we were people of consequence turning away from destiny. And that made him angry.
He was slightly crazy. He had this penchant for hominy. Every month for extra credit you could raise your test score 1-5 points if you baked a hominy dish and brought it to class. From there you were subject to his moans of pleasure (5 points) or a monologue on your lack of skills both in and out of the kitchen (1 point). After listening to my third monologue of the year, I rather hoped that he would choke on the damn hominy and go back to the witch trials from whence he came. But I resisted the impulse to season my hominy with some rare 19th century alchemic project (and say cheerfully, as his body was writhing on the floor, "this particular dosage of rat poison was proven useful by Alice D. Hopkins in 1847 regarding her husband. Afterwards, she used the remainder as a potent antibacterial, the notion of waste being obsolete at the time") because I loved him. We all loved him. No one told their parents about the bridge incident because we didn't want him fired.
There's this story about a king who looked out his window and saw the masses of his people heading somewhere. He ran down to the street thinking, I must find out where they are going, so I can lead them. Mr. Jordan was the one on the street, telling the masses that they better keep moving or they were going to see the unfriendly side of his fist. Froth and all. | | |
| I'm feeling blue.
Yesterday I went out with some friends and it became clear that i still had a lot to do to get to even the most rudimentary levels of success. I felt like I was in an inverse circus ring: surrounded by professional film director, professional photographer, professional chef and a professional performance artist. Meanwhile I scrap together jobs here and there and make little clips of films and write raggedy little snippets of prose.
I don't know whats worse. The envy thats constantly nibbling at me, the fear of obscurity, the frustration of unclogging my brain or the dissapointment with where i am now. I thought by 25 I'd at least be a player (albeit a minor, young one) but i feel like i'm still wandering and stumbling around.
So I write this in the hopes that if i put it out there, and everyone knows where I am (not) it will give me some motivation to work harder. Everything seems incredibly intangible right now. Its actually quite frightening.
And i know that art shouldn't be about me...but sometimes me becomes so heavy that its hard to look away. | | |
| I'm supposed to be writing but apparently, the only thing I can do with words today is play checkers. Fear not, gentle reader, for the day has not been lost. Three hours of serious Nickelodeon study has been followed with a riveting internal debate on the merits of going to the gym (match to Not Going) and an almost religiously meditative hour of cooking food and washing dishes. (Chewing burns calories.)
Am now perusing the internet for inspiration... or rather, obscure articles I can copy. Am failing at that as well, so I am just going to post fragments of some interesting articles I've read.
“Thoreau [said], Most men lead lives of quiet desperation. Well there are millions of poems of quiet desperation and they are all published in The New Yorker.” -Allen Ginsberg
In the Cabinet there were a couple articles highlighting the amazing wealth of ideas and information out there waiting to be brought to life and reveled in. One item proposed a mass housing project for hermit crabs (who are facing a shortage of sustainable homes) using architecturally modern plastic models. Another item is about the scientific study of ectoplasm. There is in fact a sample of ectoplasm in the Cambridge University Library. It was taken from a medium by the name of Helen Duncan who tended to exude clouds of "billowing spirit stuff" whenever she went into a trance. It should be noted that the scientists did not in fact say that the existence of ectoplasm was proof of ghosts, or afterlife. Their appreciation of ectoplasm was as a physical (or for some, metaphysical) substance.
Another factoid I learned through my perusals: Columbus neither proved nor was he the first to postulate that the world was round. In fact, the idea had been around since Ancient Greece. The myth that the Old World believed that the world was flat was propagated by early Darwinists who exaggerated a bit on the ignorance of creationists in order to get their point across. I guess dishonorable battle is really just a human tendency.
With all these ideas swimming around, battling each other, suffocating under the girth of themselves, the idea of knowing what is true seems an impossible premise. Good and Bad, Important and Unimportant, True and False. These are grand, heavy words that we throw around like beachballs.
In these troubled times, it is comforting to know that there are those wiser than ourselves, shining the light and leading the way:
On why a person would insert a set of false teeth between the cheeks of his (or her) ass: “In order to bite the buttons off the back seats of taxicabs. That's the only reason twerps do it. It's all that turns them on.”-Kurt Vonnegut | | |
| Ode to Jack Kerouac...
Madness was the thing for me
when madness meant exploding.
But how are we to fight to dream
the world wails its blood soaked screams
Madness keeps on shouting things
but our hearts, they are imploding.
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