“ 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derided outdated marriage customs, the soliloquy was mostly for discerning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?"
And this.
“ 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.”
