Friday, March 19, 2004
Stop and Go, Go and Stop
I've been trying to get here, recently. I even made it once . . . but then I read something so depressing I just couldn't bring myself to write. Time's been well-spread for me, lately, with most of my words going toward new chapters of STFL, new ideas for another little novel, and some over-thought, unfinished poetry. But everything's going to change soon. And not in the way you expect.
• Some time over the past week I re-watched Vertigo. Anyone who knows me, knows I would choose Vertigo as my deserted-island film. And even though I know this, every time I watch it, it still kills me. The film has its faults. It's not worth any critic's time to try and defend against them, though, because what is on screen is so perfectly achieved, arguing over subjectivity just tires. I do think Hitchcock's opinion of Vertigo is odd. He often stated how he was attracted to making a film about necrophilia. And while Scotty was, indeed, in love with who he thought was a woman who died . . . . he was, in reality, in love with a fiction.
• I'm re-reading Niedecker's The Granite Pail. She writes in a style I've kind of abandoned for now, using a lot of space, emphasizing the deep image. I still like the deep image, but unless one is really talented and very dedicated, the use of indention can come off as "hiding" faults in the craftsmanship. When Niedecker's good, she's amazing -- and as "objectivist" as any poet could be. But when she's unclear, the poem seems inconsequential.
• There's this guy I talk to all the time now. And there is no tree tall enough for me to climb for him. Everything I do, he has done better. Who are these people, who constantly need to define themselves before your very eyes? If I say, "It's raining outside," he responds with, "Oh, you have no idea. Once, when I went to South Carolina, it rained five inches. Five!" For everything I say, "(I) have no idea." I've come to say things like, "I have no idea, but it's 4:30 right now."
• The hardest part about being a parent has to be seeing your kid suffer, and not being able to do anything about it. I don't think I'm going to be a very good parent in this respect.
• Have you ever known someone who won't, or can't, change, but they need to? Maybe they don't even realize it. I don't know why, but after some age, some indefinable passage, there's no way to tell them.
• "Gone, going, gone, everything, give a damn."
• I've known several people who have presented the "relative" argument to me: "It's all for the best. It all would have worked out in the end, no matter what." I'm sure I have been one of the proponents of this idiocy at one point in time. The thought is, the plan was for you to take A + B + V + Q = X. (X, being where you are now.) And the "relative" argument goes on, stating, OK, so you took A + B + V + M = Y. And, certainly, Y is different than X, but you're OK, it's all relative. In effect, they argue: X is congruent to Y. These are people who desperately want to believe there are always happy endings, that there are no real lonely people in the world, that good people cannot be irreparably hurt. These are people who could not imagine a world in which sometimes dumb luck was the only thing to change one's life.
• Some time over the past week I re-watched Vertigo. Anyone who knows me, knows I would choose Vertigo as my deserted-island film. And even though I know this, every time I watch it, it still kills me. The film has its faults. It's not worth any critic's time to try and defend against them, though, because what is on screen is so perfectly achieved, arguing over subjectivity just tires. I do think Hitchcock's opinion of Vertigo is odd. He often stated how he was attracted to making a film about necrophilia. And while Scotty was, indeed, in love with who he thought was a woman who died . . . . he was, in reality, in love with a fiction.
• I'm re-reading Niedecker's The Granite Pail. She writes in a style I've kind of abandoned for now, using a lot of space, emphasizing the deep image. I still like the deep image, but unless one is really talented and very dedicated, the use of indention can come off as "hiding" faults in the craftsmanship. When Niedecker's good, she's amazing -- and as "objectivist" as any poet could be. But when she's unclear, the poem seems inconsequential.
• There's this guy I talk to all the time now. And there is no tree tall enough for me to climb for him. Everything I do, he has done better. Who are these people, who constantly need to define themselves before your very eyes? If I say, "It's raining outside," he responds with, "Oh, you have no idea. Once, when I went to South Carolina, it rained five inches. Five!" For everything I say, "(I) have no idea." I've come to say things like, "I have no idea, but it's 4:30 right now."
• The hardest part about being a parent has to be seeing your kid suffer, and not being able to do anything about it. I don't think I'm going to be a very good parent in this respect.
• Have you ever known someone who won't, or can't, change, but they need to? Maybe they don't even realize it. I don't know why, but after some age, some indefinable passage, there's no way to tell them.
• "Gone, going, gone, everything, give a damn."
• I've known several people who have presented the "relative" argument to me: "It's all for the best. It all would have worked out in the end, no matter what." I'm sure I have been one of the proponents of this idiocy at one point in time. The thought is, the plan was for you to take A + B + V + Q = X. (X, being where you are now.) And the "relative" argument goes on, stating, OK, so you took A + B + V + M = Y. And, certainly, Y is different than X, but you're OK, it's all relative. In effect, they argue: X is congruent to Y. These are people who desperately want to believe there are always happy endings, that there are no real lonely people in the world, that good people cannot be irreparably hurt. These are people who could not imagine a world in which sometimes dumb luck was the only thing to change one's life.
