“ I watched TV for a while. Maybe I could get involved in that world, or else kick in the screen. But this was our TV set, the one we watched, a lamp of sorts, a kind of household deity.” ~ Orhan Pamuk
This one made me guffaw out loud and almost topple over. Not very unlike my twisted views, the TV although not directly targeted, the attack seems obvious enough.
Being out of touch of sorts with the book world, Pamuk was one foreign sounding writer I had to read. The one I was anticipating on stumbling upon was Murakami. But I remembered seeing a picture of Pamuk with his writing desk and it stuck. So I was upon it, snatching and issuing. The desk had looked incredibly cluttered and he sat against a backdrop of a heavily postered wall and a cat for company.
Earlier in the day, while I reclined peacefully in a comfortable car backseat, chatting away amicably with my mother, things struck me bitterly with an unfortunate frequency. And I started upon a grilling mental monologue about everything that’s wrong with the world today along the route we took to get to the place my brother had spent the day at. Although it sounded a lot more hard hitting and world-change-worthy the minute it unadulteratedly rapped itself out on the humongous stage in my head. But now it’s mostly slush mixed into a later flash-back kind of a way with very pleasing guitar riffs and classical vocals for company.
The statements had started with a sufficiently sarcasmic ‘what the hell’ and ended with a question mark like a loud bang, hitting a nail on its head. Having mostly dealt with educational practices, the value of entertainment and existential crap, tangentially touching the previously derided outdated marriage customs, the soliloquy was mostly for discerning audiences, the existence of which is the lone topic of thinkussion there is right now.
Just put in a microchip in my brain with a tiny keyboard where I could save the shit I think. Maybe that’s called memory for normal humans but my ability mostly flew out when I opened my mind a bit too much. Maybe god did that. He also made the world what it is today so I could go on an unending rant on it and not think about the other important stuff, like what I am and are supposed to do with my life. Yes, what. WHAT. Yes, dear people-I-hardly-know-who hang-out-with -my-dad-occasionally, thank you for asking. I’ll send you an email as soon as I’m hit with an epiphany on how to earn money to clothe my poor ass in the future. You’re welcome.
Work on that smile a little more, it’s encouragement and not sympathy. Stop trying to smile while I half give-up half try to explain in a half interested attempt so you understand none at all, concluding that the alphabet in my mind with which I talk to myself is probably centuries ahead of your cuneiformed baked clay. Some long lost artifact which will be found after the hundred and seventeenth apocalypse, offering hugeass mounds to the salivating futurist archaeologists and the source shall give up unimportant buzz compared to the boom my epics will cause, which hopefully will be conserved in a better and enduring way.
Talk about flights of fancy. But the blog title gives it away. So give it up.
Frances Hodgson Burnett is most definitely one of the geniuses to rise up after the last Ice Age. The two books I read, probably exactly a decade ago are childhood defining worthy. Thankfully I cannot find if it’s that very exact timing I assumed or my mind would be blown. And I need to keep with me mind howevermuch I can. The Secret Garden and The Little Princess were my very first favourite classics. Long before I realized not every classic is as good as they make them out to be. I could not go beyond the first chapter of some. That is small Dickens to some others.
Such beautiful, beautiful writing. And now that I revisit it after eons, the little Sarah Crewe seems uncannily like little Myself. Aww. And scary. Well, yeah. Another books I got hold of today is a collection of the writings of Woody Allen. Something of a genius himself. Think Match Point. I’m only thinking that because it’s the one I remember. The ones I caught of him that he acted in I couldn’t continue myself to watch. But fragments of some scenes stay. What is hard to imagine is how Lost in Translation was directed by a woman. Sofia Coppola also directed the Virgin Suicides. The former it is hard to swallow. For some silly reason which evades me.
So I guess I’m now going to click forward some scenes in the movie and definitely watch the one in which she stares at the Buddhist monks, after she chances upon a wedding, and feels NOTHING. The big BIG emotional scare of a popular culture inspired romantic. But is there any other kind? They show Japan as so bland WITH the plethora of bright neons. It’s staggering. And kudos to the woman for the exceptional direction. Bill Murray exceedingly funny with every little twitch of an eyebrow.
It has some immensely well directed scenes, the one in the very beginning maybe. By the way, the view from the skyscraper. Whoa. Gets me everytime. Wait, I think I’ll pause my incessant typing and rewatch. YES. Eyebliss time.
The whole movie is one big example of existential rut. The first world white person superstar problems. Minus the superstar, what else is there generally? In major league cinema, that is. Rewinding from weird commentary, there is a moment where the sleepy middle of the night guy pulls her in a failure of a cuddle to sleep while she is still in insomniac thinking about everything stupor. And then he snores. (While she pulls away and sits up to badass bokeh. Yes, I get pulled back to it.) Speaks an encyclopedia much.
The cook your own sushi making scene and the epitome of strange unnamable relationships.
"Well, she (the wife) is closer to your age.You could talk about things you have in common, like um, growing up in the '50s, maybe she liked the movies you were making in the '70s, when you were still making movies."
"Wasn't there anyone else there to lavish you with attention?"
“ Why do you have to defend her?”
“Well, why do you have to prove how stupid everybody is all the time?”
“ I thought it was funny. Forget it.”