PECHORIN'S PAINTBOX

2011-05-23T16:31:00.001+01:00

//Time destroys all things\\
\\Time heals all wounds//
//Time destroys all things\\

My hero.

2011-05-22T12:41:00.000+01:00

"My log hears things I cannot hear. But my log tells me about the sounds, about the new words. Even though it has stopped growing larger, my log is aware"

2011-05-22T03:30:00.001+01:00

What is it about smell that induces nostalgia so effectively? I often wonder about how effective a form of cinema would be which could create a fabric of smell to accompany image. A form which could effect a total recall of the 'good-times'.

I wish there were some way of capturing smell, in order to induce memories of a certain time or place. If such a device were to exist, (a small glass vacuumed bottle, with a cork stopper, which could suck in perfumes and fragrances, immortalising a period of time, a date, an event in a few cubic centimeters), I would code the olfactory present, and preserve the olfactory past, for the benefit of my olfactory future.

I find myself manufacturing this kind of nostalgia through music, something which is far less potent in conjuring that crashing feeling of 'long-lost' kitsch which smell can evoke so well. On the occasion that in the present, I am able to forecast a nostalgia: a nostalgia which will only make itself evident after a certain amount of time leaves me detached from it (childishly self-conscious, I know); I find myself faced with an overwhelming desire to code that moment with a particular album, or song. For example, Black Mirror by Arcade Fire reminds me of travelling from Newark through to central Manhattan on the train, whereas Maria by Blondie will always carry memories of childhood - sitting in the back of my father's car and driving to the beach in the evening.

I live in perpetual fear of the day that hearing a particular song reminds me of the time when I self-consciously sought to immortalise a piece of the past in the future. It is at that precise, horrifically meta moment, that I will have failed. It is also at that precise moment, that the nature of nostalgia will have shifted.

Nonetheless, if a contraption existed for preserving smells, I would cultivate a shelf full of quaint identical bottles, all containing their own memory. They would be locked in a small room, for me to indulge in. The bottles would be labelled, not with time, or place, or even a description of the contained smell, but rather, names, or events, to which those smells pertained.

I feel like the creepy guy from that John Fowles novel The Collector.

Excuse me.

BOOKS FOR SALE

2011-05-21T20:09:00.004+01:00

Okay, so I'm cutting a few of my books loose.

I'm going to say £1 for each.

Leave a comment, or tweet me at @garethaledavies if you are interested.

~~Jean Rhys - Wide Sargasso Sea (Penguin classics)~~
George Saunders - The Brief and Frightening Reign of Phil
Frank Herbert - Dune
Cormac McCarthy - No Country for Old Men
Joseph O'Neill - Netherland (Harper Perennial)
Samuel Beckett - Molloy (Faber & Faber) - Bargain right there! ;)
Wordsworth and Coleridge - Lyrical Ballads (Routledge Classics)
Stuart Maconie - Pies and Prejudice: In Search of the North

13 Assassins

2011-05-15T22:49:00.000+01:00

Director: Takashi Miike

Starring: Kôji Yakusho, Gorô Inagaki

Run time: 141 minutes

Rating: ***

To glance back over Takashi Miike’s career in film is to subject oneself to some of the strangest, most disturbing scenes in cinema history. From fully grown humans giving birth to, well… fully grown humans (Gozu), to sliced off faces (Ichi the Killer), to catatonic lactating women (Visitor Q), one might wonder, after having directed over 70 productions, whether Miike’s well of perverse possibilities might be running dry.

13 Assassins sees the notorious director moving in new directions, and embracing a form which seems in some ways more mature than the twisted and bloody yakuza dramas he is most well-known for. Nonetheless it is a movie which shows us that Miike has certainly not lost his flair or identity as a director, despite this change in topic. Managing to seamlessly marry his taste for the bizarre with the established and structured jidaigeki form, he makes it his own, and injects life into the somewhat stagnant genre. The insertion of trademark Miike moments never jar with the overall tone of the movie, as one might be inclined to expect. Instead they often add a sense of (quite literally) dumb horror, or alternatively odd moments of comedy, which are distinctly refreshing.

However, unique as Miike’s quirks may be, one can hardly fail to notice the movie’s inevitable tie to its filmic ancestors; in particular the father of the genre, Akira Kurosawa. This is something which holds the movie back. Miike establishes a team of 13 samurai who will ambush the tyrannical Lord Naritsugu in order to restore peace to the realm, much in the same way as Kurosawa introduces his seven samurai, who seek to ambush bandits intent on pillaging a small village. 13 Assassins is even replete with a distinctly Kurosawan commentary on the arrogance of the samurai, and a bandit character who is a blatant cariacature of the wonderfully charismatic Kikuchiyo. It is perhaps this intertextuality which is one of 13 Assassins’ most unfortunate downfalls. Having almost twice as many samurai and almost half as much tension, viewers find themselves unwittingly making negative comparisons.

But make no mistakes about it 13 Assassins is a solid film in its own rite. When compared to Seven Samurai so many chanbara fall short, but this does make them any less valid as independant works of art. The slow pace 13 Assassins renders its long-awaited climax scintillating, as a brooding sense of tension is crafted over ninety minutes of conference and character development. The film ends on a blistering fifty minute battle scene where we see exploding cattle, fancy sword-play and perhaps most memorably, torrents of blood raining from the sky. Whilst the movie’s use of set-pieces, and the choreography of sword-fights is nothing less than spectacular, at thirty minutes in the scene begins to slow, the violence becomes saturating, and the dramatic effect of such gore inevitably begins to wane. This is unfortunate, as a basic issue of restraint compromises a denouement which begins to reek of squandered dramatic potential.

City Limits

2011-05-15T11:14:00.000+01:00

Sate your melancholy soul.

Timelapse - The City Limits from Dominic on Vimeo.

Waste Land

2011-05-14T23:37:00.002+01:00

‘What are the roots that clutch, what branches grow out of this stony rubbish’.

We’re all familiar with T.S.Eliot’s magnum opus The Wasteland. But does its message of a planet in decline still resonate with the world we live in now? Yes, says Lucy Walker, and more than ever before. Her new creation Waste Land, influenced in part by the poem, is a documentary about the world’s largest rubbish dump, Jardim Gramacho of Rio de Janeiro, and the self-appointed catadores (scavengers) who work there. Sifting through the 7,000 tons of Rio’s rubbish deposited there every day, they hope to earn their living by searching out recyclable materials such as cans, bottles, plastic, and paper.

Today almost 20,000 catadores live at the site, scavenging 200 tons of waste a day. Entirely dependent on an economy based on the trade of recyclable materials, they have extended the life of the landfill site by removing materials that would otherwise have been buried. The catadores might have given Jardim Gramacho the highest rate of recycling in the world, but the fact remains that it is not a sustainable future. Amidst the fear and squalor of Rio, the catadores, half of whom actually live and sleep in the rubbish, choose this career as a last resort. Faced with drug trafficking, prostitution, or garbage as a way of life, they choose garbage.

But don’t be fooled Waste Land isn’t just a ‘day in the life’ snapshot into the work of the catadores, but an artistic collaboration. It documents the relationship between these rubbish collectors, and Brooklyn based artist Vik Muniz, who seeks to create portraits of them using the waste materials of the dump – bringing a new meaning to the idea of recycling. Muniz’s use of rubbish as a medium for artistic expression is unconventional to say the least. He explains why it interests him: “The beautiful thing about garbage is that it’s negative; it’s something that you don’t use anymore; it’s what you don’t want to see.”

By creating portraits of Rio’s poor out of ‘garbage’ his task becomes highly symbolic. In fact rubbish seems a perfect medium for this type of artistic venture – representing a group of ignored and forgotten people through something we “don’t want to see” is both fitting and provocative. Director Lucy Walker remarks that across the way from Jardim Gramacho you can see Christ the Redeemer reaching his arms out to the wealthy south, explaining that “They say even Christ turns his back on the north of Rio, where we are.” Waste Land is not just a project focussed on exposing human and environmental concerns, but as a criticism of the economic disparity in Rio, and the government’s reticence to address the problem of the catadores.

Director of the project Lucy Walker speaks about what influenced her to make this movie, saying: “I have always been interested in garbage. What it says about us. Where it goes and how much of it there is. How it endures. What it might be like to work with it every day.” Speaking on location I hear that answering these questions proved more difficult than anticipated: “just when you get used to the smell they find a human body, or mention a leprosy epidemic, and the sound man passes out... there are so many things to be afraid of from dengue fever to kidnapping”.

Vik Muniz states that what he really wanted to do with Waste Land was “to change the lives of a group of people with the same materials they use every day”. The portraits Muniz creates from the waste of Jardim Grammacho are sold at auction and all of the profits accumulated are given back to the catadores, to help them build better, safer, sustainable futures for themselves. “I hope the movie serves as a means for us to see our journey to becoming involved with people so far from ourselves,” Walker says, encouraging us to get involved, and take responsibility. By granting the viewer an emotional connection with the catadores, Muniz and Walker are able to demonstrate the transformative power of art, and the alchemy of the human spirit.

Waste Land inspires the viewer to take the time to think about how much waste we generate as individuals, and the effect it has not just upon the environment, but our fellow human beings. “Garbage is the negative of consumer culture”, Walker says, “it's everything that nobody wants, and when it disappears from everyone's lives, rich or poor, it doesn't disappear at all, it appears here.” Muniz and Walker’s project is not just based on recycling waste materials for artistic ends, but encouraging us to recycle our own perceptions of waste, the environment, and the people it affects.

16mm: An Economy of Negatives?

2011-05-14T23:20:00.002+01:00

In the late 1920s, as the first few movies managed to successfully synchronise sound and image, there was suspicion, and even outcry in the world of film. Silent film was seen by many as a pure visual medium which, uninhibited by sound, offered a unique aesthetic virtue, for it ascribed a primacy of expression to the muted body, which had to convey meaning through dumb mime, gesture, touch, and even dance. Film was an art of the body, to be undercut, diluted and radically altered by the new-found opportunity to express meaning through speech. Many asked themselves: of what interest was a form which synchronised sound and image? Which reflected reality so intimately?

Of course with any technological or cultural advance, there are those who embrace change and evolve, and those who cling to what they cherish and know best, despite what the status quo may dictate. Silent films are made today, but when was the last time you saw one? The times change, and the sad fact is that certain media forms are overtaken by others, and find themselves lingering on dusty archive shelves. But does this really have to be the case? The old debate between the silent film traditionalists, and the advocates of the ‘talkies’ is not mentioned in vain, for we find a similar debate at play in contemporary society, regarding what is often referred to as the ‘digital revolution’ in film.

Three months ago the UK’s last professional lab to be printing 16mm film, based in Soho, was sold. Its new American owners say that they will discontinue 16mm. Within a couple of days of this announcement thousands of signatures had appeared on the ‘Save 16mm’ petition, and a number artists faithful to the medium spoke out against the development. As the grip of the digital age tightens, could the death of 16mm in the UK signal the start of a more widespread and damaging revolution, involving celluloid en masse?

Despite 16mm’s status as a growing medium for artists in recent years, it is becoming less and less economically viable to produce, the cost of shooting a DV film and using digital post-production software pales into insignificance when put in contrast with the time and money involved in preparing celluloid. But doesn’t celluloid have a certain inimitable warmth? Doesn’t it carry an aura of sorts? Isn’t there something comforting about its grainy texture, something vaguely nostalgic, something soulful? Isn’t that alone something worth fighting for?

Advocates of digital film will no doubt tell you that it’s cheap, quick, and offers brighter and clearer images, but isn’t the artistry of using celluloid bound up to a certain extent in its preparation? In cutting the film from the rush print, sticking the shots together with tape, spooling, splicing, colouring each individual image in a transformative, alchemical process. Working with super16 requires the film-maker, as Tacita Dean has stated, to become both artist and artisan, in a hands-on creative process which requires more than just the clicking of buttons.

There have been claims that 16mm is an ‘outdated’ medium, which few use. Contrary to popular belief some of the most successful movies of the past few years have been shot on super16, including Oscar winners Black Swan, and The Hurt Locker. But as digital begins to take over, we find ourselves more and more concerned with clarity, high definition, ‘quality’, and the ability to shoot, produce and edit films to short time frames.

Far from stating that celluloid is better than digital it is clear that both mediums have their unique benefits, but why should we have to compromise one for the other? Celluloid finds itself at increasing danger of being trampled under hoof by digital. Digital film seems more and more to satisfy a dominant cultural mode of transparent mediation, allowing for a crispness and clarity of image which celluloid could never attain. But just because celluloid offers a different aesthetic effect to the consumerist norm doesn’t mean it should be cut. In fact this is precisely a reason to fight for its longevity. But as HD and 3D become increasingly desirable and profitable, celluloid’s downward spiral seems set to continue.

The ascent of one form of film-making shouldn’t mean the destruction of another. As a progressive society, and patrons of art, we should be encouraging and incubating open-mindedness in the process of filming and editing, and this should include protecting celluloid from excinction. However, the form can only be protected so long as there are people willing to fight for it. Like the transition from the silent films to the talkies, there is no doubt that digital is the way forward, but the ability and opportunity to experiment with celluloid should not be denied anyone.

Child of God

2011-05-05T13:20:00.000+01:00

Few writers share McCarthy’s talent for abusing language to poetic effect. His distorted, crooked, broken syntax allowing for a literary experience which exudes as much cerebral as visceral power. Child of God, McCarthy’s third novel, can perhaps be read as the genesis-point of the author’s recognisable aesthetic: funnelling the pared down prose style of Faulkner, the dark lyricism of Poe and the gritty realism of Steinbeck, into a form which is unshakeably American.

Child of God is the tale of Lester Ballard, perhaps one of the darkest, most disturbed characters in McCarthy’s oeuvre. Ballard is an outsider, a loner, a character who is as much a creature as a man. Lurking in a dark, dank cave, and interacting primarily with the festering corpses with which he adorns underground lair, Lester is a disadjusted individual who, out-casted by his country-men, descends into paedophilia and necrophilia.

Child of God is a novel which perhaps more so than No Country for Old Men, or The Road, or even Blood Meridian, presents itself as a work of aesthetic potency. McCarthy’s use of antique words, which furnish the frame of his narrative, facilitate an unprecedented beauty, a dark, primordial lyricism, which lends Ballard an almost mythical stature. McCarthy creates in Child of God a narrative which stretches the very sinews of language with Shakespearean liberality, and in doing that, offers a haunting insight into the mind of a psychopath.

Pantha du Prince - Asha

2011-04-19T17:02:00.000+01:00

I only discovered Pantha du Prince recently. Addicted to his second album This Bliss. If you have spotify check it out. He's influenced by an avant-garde musical tradition, heralded largely by Cage, based around the idea that all sounds are music. His particular sound gives pride of place to negative space, his songs seem to drift, musical structures are held together by a relentless beat, which orders chaos. It's really beautiful stuff, and inspires me to start making my own minimal, avant-garde electronic music. Perhaps that's something to start doing over summer.

2011-04-15T23:13:00.000+01:00

"[The writer] knows that words, as Brice-Parrain says, are 'loaded pistols'. If he speaks, he fires. He may be silent, but since he has chosen to fire, he must do it like a man, by aiming at targets, and not like a child, at random, by shutting his eyes and firing merely for the pleasure of hearing the shot go off"

Jean-Paul Sartre - What is Literature?

スポンジ・ボブ

2011-04-15T20:39:00.001+01:00

<br>

Every week I find about 10 new reasons why I love Japan. This is just one of them.

You know what...?

2011-04-11T15:24:00.003+01:00

You know what? Every time I lapse back into the terrifying and consuming realm of 'reality', this blog goes out of the window. Every time I come back to it with a half-arsed intention of re-kindling it from the embers, I make grand promises regarding its longevity, even if only for myself, then reality takes over again, and out of the window it goes.

So this time there will be no grand promises, and for the record I don't intend to narrativise the past year of my life. In fact, the reason I came back here is because it's formidably enjoyable to fellate your own ego. It's good having something to read over. I feel like Krapp. I keep my blog for the sole reason of being able to rouse myself to nostalgia in the future. A future in which I can damn whatever I write and sneer at my past thoughts and (re)actions. No doubt that use of pretentious deconstructive brackets will be one of the first things that comes under fire when my identity has shifted again.

Despite my remark that there will be no grand promises, I would sincerely like to keep this going. I think that once I have graduated, in about two months time, I'll miss writing. I mean both in an academic and journalistic way. With Nouse gone and no more essays to write, I can see myself feeling lost. So yes, this blog will continue, as long as I do, but whether it is regularly updated or not, I can't tell. It all depends on states of mind. This blog is all based on a state of mind. I am also battling with the dilemma of whether to switch over to tumblr/wordpress or not. Blogger has always seemed sterile to me. There are better blogging formats out there, and blogger just seems old. So I think, in the back of my mind, I am planning a move. We'll see.

Before I graduate, however, there is plenty to be getting on with. In fact, it is in some ways a surprise that a desire to begin writing this again has struck me now. With 13,000 words of essay to write and a newspaper to keep alive my words should perhaps be going to a more noble cause. I am currently writing an essay on McCarthy's The Road. A novel which, incidentally, I reviewed on this blog about nine months ago. It was the first novel in a while that I'd really stayed up all night to finish. That made it special in its own rite. However, despite its status as a kind of (post)modern American classic, it's interesting how much perspective 9 months of close-reading can give you. The novel, though thoroughly enjoyable, is constructed over a series of logistical fault-lines which make its very fabric kind of crooked in the first place. I mean, this is where my present idea has been born from. Focusing in on these fault-lines, and looking at the way they can be exploited, by the inquisitive reader, and with McCarthy himself.

During the research for this essay I've been able to read so much that I've needed to for a long time. That includes Derrida, Zizek, Fukuyama, Marx. I think that perhaps it has been the most stretching essay I've written yet, both with regards to what I've read and how much I've read. It has also been ego-boosting, which is both a good and a bad thing. To have actually read the whole of Jacques Derrida's Spectres de Marx and understood it is something I could never have done three years ago. Much of my essay on The Road centres around Derrida's concept of the specter as a deconstructive entity, and his term hauntology. In fact, in the next couple of weeks I intend to write an extended post on the spectral and hauntological aspects of a number of texts and albums which have come to my attention. In conducting my research I found that very little has been written on the two terms with respect to popular and postmodern culture. The most informing texts I found happened to be on blogs (like this), where the terms could be applied instead of defined. The terms specter and hauntology elude ontologically stable definitions expressly by being ontologically unstable terms, making them formidably difficult to understand in the first place. So in some ways I want to share what I've learnt, and to perhaps help others who are interested in hauntology and spectrality get a grip on what they actually mean by using examples.

But for now I will continue trundling along with the essay itself. And until that is finished there will be no blog post on the subject I can assure you. It's pretty much finished, but of course I have the long editing process and numerous confidence crises ahead of me. Wish me luck!

Burke and Hare

2010-11-07T13:52:00.000Z

Burke and Hare
Director: John Landis
Starring: Simon Pegg, Andy Serkis, Jessica Hynes
Runtime: 91 minutes
Rating: ***

John Landis is perhaps best known for formidable cult classics The Blues Brothers, and An American Werewolf in London, as well as a stream of commercial movies in the seventies and eighties. Burke and Hare, however, is the first film he has directed in twelve years. He seems to have gotten a little rusty . . .

Burke and Hare (Simon Pegg and Andy Serkis respectively) are a pair of penniless Irish opportunists looking to get rich quick in Victorian Edinburgh. After their initial venture fails (selling mould to the naive by claiming it has omnipotent healing properties!?), the duo resort to less respectable (and less legal) means of procuring an income. The twosome realise there is a gap in the market selling corpses to professors for use in medical experiments, but they soon find themselves faced with a dilemma. Where to get the corpses from? Pegg and Serkis rapidly win themselves a small fortune murdering those unfortunate enough to cross paths with them. However, the pair’s success is short-lived as suspicion begins to grow in the city.

Pegg and Serkis star alongside a host of British stars including Bill Bailey, Stephen Merchant, and an aging Ronnie Corbett in this blacker than black comedy. The slapstick Laurel and Hardy-esque humour of the film combines itself with a graphic violence, which ultimately manifests itself in an unsettling dark humour. Although this violent, deadpan humour is in many places effective, the film always feels somewhat awkward, in that it threatens to overstep the mark of what seems acceptable. Part of me, for instance, still cannot decide whether making the viewer sit through the four minute ‘burking’ (forcible asphyxiation) of an elderly woman is just a bit too much? Needless to say, this is not a comedy for the faint-hearted. Saying this though, where the comedy can be dubious, the script is for the most part punchy and well written. The playful relationship between Pegg and Serkis is often a pleasure to watch. It is only during the final thirty minutes that one can’t help feeling that (not just the script), but the denouement lets the viewer down, playing itself out with the type of cliché that has long come to be expected of Hollywood.

It seems that Burke and Hare is a movie which relies a little too much on its big names rather than its actual content. There is no doubt that the inclusion of Simon Pegg alone will bring many to the cinemas. Although his performance is really very good and the set-pieces of a bustling Victorian Edinburgh are truly impressive, the film lacks a general cohesiveness which makes it seem somewhat rushed and incomplete. I can’t help thinking that the tagline to the movie seems coincidentally appropriate: “They’re making a killing”. No doubt they are in the box office but those expecting the next Shaun of the Dead, or Hot Fuzz should be warned. Despite being rife with cliche Burke and Hare is overall an enjoyable watch, as long as you are content not to expect too much from it.

Post-October Catch-up!

2010-11-07T10:45:00.000Z

Hey guys!

I've been absent from this blog for far too long. I really mean that. It's been a ridiculous amount of time. Since coming back to university this has become somewhat a secondary.... okay maybe tertiary concern (as it always threatens to). It is only in the last week that an internet connection has actually been established in my house! It's great. And means that unlike last year, I have no reason NOT to be blogging regularly.

In an attempt to make a final leap into student societies (almost too late), I ran for Nouse film editor with my friend Michael. Nouse, for those who don't know is the university's student run newspaper. So I'll also be writing regular film reviews and features. Oh, I also get my own web based blog on the site to review/rant about surreal, weird, underground films. I'm pretty damn excited about that. Anyway, all of my posts for Nouse will eventually be fed through here anyway, so as to make a secondary 'catalogue' of my writing!

Adieu!

p.s. my author page (with very little on it at the moment)
https://www.nouse.co.uk/author/gareth-davies/

Idi I Smotri (Come and See) 1985

2010-11-06T23:05:00.000Z

Critically acclaimed upon its release, and clocking over 25 million admissions in the Soviet Union alone, is Come and See, the tale of a child soldier, Florya, and his fight for survival in Nazi occupied Belarus. Despite its formidable success at the box office, Come and See is a film which has managed to glide under the radar into relative obscurity. It has, however gained a strong cult following, and for good reasons. Finding that his village and home has been raided, and all its inhabitants, including his family murdered, the young Florya finds himself alone in a desperate struggle for survival. As we follow Florya through war-stricken Belarus we bear witness, on the one hand, to the systematic genocidal activities of the Nazi troops, and on the other, to the misery of displaced communities of starving, homeless, Belarusian civilians. A distressing mask of anguish begins to replace Florya’s once pure and youthful visage. His innocence is stripped from him, revealing to the child a grim and premature knowledge of the horrors of war. Whilst with each successive scene of misery and terror, we share in this knowledge, and our senses are assaulted. Any fleeting glimpses of hope given to the viewer are quickly stolen away from us, presenting a view of war which is unflinching, shocking, traumatic. Horrific as it may be though, the film exudes an eerie and indefinable beauty. Klimov creates an emotional landscape which leaves the viewer so wrought with tension and sorrow that its climax becomes dizzying and euphoric in its intensity. Filmed using live ammunition, and portraying Nazi war crimes with graphic brutality, this film is not for the faint hearted, but those daring enough to sit through it will certainly reap the rewards, being presented with a depiction of war “as Hollywood could never portray it”.

http://www.nouse.co.uk/2010/10/27/come-and-see-1985/

Decadence

2010-10-16T17:24:00.001+01:00

'It is the difference between the raw, white and direct light of a midday sun beating down on all things equally, and the horizontal light of evening, firing the strange clouds with reflections . . . Does the setting sun of decadence deserve our contempt and anathema for being less simple in tone than the rising sun of morning?

Theophile Gautier

Beirette

2010-10-12T15:40:00.000+01:00

My new baby. £12 in an antique shop. Seems to be working. Loaded a black and white film, and just going to see what happens. I can't stop looking at it though, and carrying it around everywhere with me. It is such a cute little camera! Can't wait to see how these photos come out!

I need to stop buying and using film cameras. It's an expensive hobby.

Tumbleweed

2010-10-07T15:23:00.000+01:00

Normal service will resume shortly

yrs, Gareth.

Essay Writing.

2010-09-29T14:10:00.004+01:00

CLICK ME FOR DIVINE INSPIRATION

Hope you enjoy as much as I do.

Or alternatively,

HERE

Old... but still SO GOOD!

SEXY

2010-09-29T13:34:00.006+01:00

"Mrs Robinson! You're trying to seduce me, aren't you?"

One of life's great tragedies that this never happenned.

Bill Gates should totally have got the role over Dustin Hoffman!

Eighteen...

2010-09-29T01:56:00.003+01:00

. . . days and counting.

Getting pretty worried now. Sometimes I'm glad I'm a worrier. I'm told that it means I get more done, out of mortal fear, or a lack of belief in my own abilities. I think that's quite a good character trait to have in these situations. The rest of the time, I would disagree. It is unhealthy.

It seems like it's been a long time since I've posted anything substantially wordy on here (I like to think all my words are going to a better cause right now...). It seems as I scroll down my own page that this blog has become some kind of image-fest. Note to self: images in moderation. We can't be having all of these pictures cluttering everything up. I mean, why for example did I decide to post a picture of a skeleton praying. I suppose maybe I thought that people might interpret it in some way for themselves or find it 'interesting'. Let's face it, it's not! And why did I decide to post a picture of the decidedly plastic looking airbrushed Brigitte Bardot? And also... why is my computer full of photos of her crazy proto-botox face!? (I really am confused about that one).

Anyway, in the name of the 'word' here I am.

Saturday I go back to York. Not sure if I'm excited, or relieved, or what. I feel distinctly indifferent. Standard feeling in this situation. I feel like I've really settled back into homelife. Unfortunately, however, everyone else has gone back to their respective employments around the country leaving me stranded in this now barren land. Unfortunately (also), the last few weeks in Cardiff have been my most socially active for the whole summer. A shame really. Everyone come back please I was just beginning to enjoy myself!

And for lack of anything else to say I am going to end this post with yet another random image from my hard drive. This won't happen again.

Giulietta Masina - far preferable to slutty Madame Bardot.
Let's at least have some decency here!

It all makes sense now . . .

2010-09-27T17:48:00.001+01:00

Pssshhh, stupid dinosaurs

Brigitte Bardot

2010-09-27T12:25:00.000+01:00

Part of me says she is beautiful, and part of me says she is awful. Eep.

Baby Octopus

2010-09-26T21:37:00.000+01:00

Somebody get me one? :D

XXXVI

2010-09-26T14:20:00.002+01:00

Hipster Dinosaurs

2010-09-26T01:32:00.001+01:00

Fisheye

2010-09-25T16:02:00.001+01:00

Photos came back.
It appears I am a flash abuser.
And I feel deeply ashamed of myself.

At least I know how much light I need now.
Here are some of the ones that did come out well.

♥

2010-09-24T23:10:00.000+01:00

It's been a fun few days with this bad boy.

Getting my first film developed tomorrow.

Excited.

Gargantua & Pantagruel

2010-09-22T17:36:00.000+01:00

Readers, friends, if you turn these pages
Put your prejudice aside,
For, really, there's nothing here that's outrageous,
Nothing sick, or bad — or contagious.
Not that I sit here glowing with pride
For my book: all you'll find is laughter:
That's all the glory my heart is after,
Seeing how sorrow eats you, defeats you.
I'd rather write about laughing than crying,
For laughter makes men human, and courageous.

BE HAPPY

Octahedron

2010-09-20T20:08:00.001+01:00

MASTERPIECE

(seriously)

Russian Dolls in Tandem.

2010-09-15T12:10:00.002+01:00

Russian dolls in tandem, sit deep on my windowsill. They are elaborately painted, varnished, reflect the light from behind me. There are five dolls in total. All face forward. Each doll stares into the back of the head of its respective elder. Except for the smallest. The only one which is not hollow, has not been bisected. It is the only doll which is whole. But it does not feel that way. This doll stands in defiance of the others. It has its back turned, a blue and red shell. It stares out of the window at the tear stained pane, and the giant oak which lies beyond it.

A blue origami elephant also stares, but this time into the white wall. I made it last week. It is sketchy, slightly malformed, a first attempt. I can see its reverse fold tail poking out from between two fragile hind legs. It sits on a copy of Love is a Dog from Hell. I made two. The second was much better. It has been sent to someone special in the post. These two baby blue effigies seperated by hundreds of miles. I am skilled at tearjerking. Do you feel it yet? I wonder if they think about each other at night. Maybe not. The elephant continues to stare into the wall.

The Burrow

2010-09-14T19:20:00.001+01:00

Been reading the short stories of Kafka. The Burrow. I feel as if I have read this story at the most perfect stage in my life, that it speaks to me more than it ever could. With time I don't think i'd ever be able to take any more from it than I can now. Which is perhaps an insult to Kafka's work. I feel like I've experienced some kind of complete affinity or absorption. Probably doesn't say much for my mental state / perception of self that I can identify so much with it. I'm not too concerned about that. It's made me realise how little I identify with everything else. Instead of having to deal with my birthday on thursday, I just want to be in my burrow.
I think that Kafka may be my favourite literary 'personality'.

I had the blues but I shook them loose . . .

2010-09-13T20:48:00.001+01:00

Letter from Sydney Smith to Lady Georgiana
16th February 1820

Dear Georgiana,

Nobody has suffered more from low spirits than I have—so I feel for you. Here are my prescriptions;

1st Live as well as you dare.
2nd Go into the shower-bath with a small quantity of water at a temperature low enough to give you a slight sensation of cold.
3rd Amusing books.
4th Short views of human life—not further than dinner or tea.
5th Be as busy as you can.
6th See as much as you can of those friends who respect and like you.
7th And of those acquaintances who amuse you.
8th Make no secret of low spirits to your friends, but talk of them freely—they are always worse for dignified concealment.
9th Attend to the effects tea and coffee produce upon you.
10th Compare your lot with that of other people.
11th Don’t expect too much from human life—a sorry business at the best.
12th Avoid poetry, dramatic representations (except comedy), music, serious novels, melancholy sentimental people, and every thing likely to excite feeling or emotion not ending in active benevolence.
13th Do good, and endeavour to please everybody of every degree.
14th Be as much as you can in the open air without fatigue.
15th Make the room where you commonly sit, gay and pleasant.
16th Struggle by little and little against idleness.
17th Don’t be too severe upon yourself, or underrate yourself, but do yourself justice.
18th Keep good blazing fires.
19th Be firm and constant in the exercise of rational religion.
20th Believe me, dear Georgiana, your devoted servant, Sydney Smith

The Slip

2010-09-07T19:47:00.000+01:00

I don't care how many other people dislike this album. I think it's one of their best. This track has come back to dominate my life.

...And They Have Escaped The Weight Of Darkness

2010-09-03T23:05:00.004+01:00

There is only one phrase I can think of to aptly describe the new album from Ólafur Arnalds.

And that is, as the soundtrack of a broken heart.

I have been a fan of Ólafur Arnalds almost since his initial arrival on the neo-classical scene in 2007 with his mindblowing debut, Eulogy for Evolution. I remember being astounded that a musician of only twenty years of age could produce something so emotively charged... something so mature. It is only recently that his second complete 'studio album' (for there are other projects of his out there) hit the streets. It does not dissappoint...

It is an album which is difficult to speak of in musical terms, but lends itself to description in terms of light and dark, of weights, maybe even colours, and, of course, emotions. Ólafur's musical task is different to that of many other contemporary classical composers, in that he often fuses indie, electro sounds into his work. Similarly, although his music centres around a solitary and desolate piano, you will find a variety of instruments incorporated such as drums, an agile strings section, and of course synth. Arnalds' has stated that his aim is to mix his classical sound with those contemporary in popular and indie music. This gives him a sound which I would be reticent to compare to that of any other groups, but in some ways seems in keeping with the contemporary musical output of his home country, Iceland, which has been the home of many post-rock-esque, neoclassical groups in the past.

Like his previous albums, ...And They Have Escaped The Weight Of Darkness is a work which is deeply melancholic, one could go as far as depressive. It is the sort of music which is capable of invoking a barrage of emotion which is sometimes hard to categorise and understand. Unlike Eulogy of Evolution, however, where the album spirals into a overwhelming and dizzying climax of emotion, it is clear that this new album is much more balanced. This, of course, can be interpreted as either a good thing or a bad thing depending on taste. The album takes a course which retains a sense of brooding sadness, but listeners will find that where they least expect it a wistful, and struggling light can be found in the music, which breaks through triumphantly causing the music to blossom and revel in its own beauty.

This sense of 'balance' does not just pervade the progress of the work as a whole, but also the individual tracks themselves, which are composed with utmost delicacy and attention to detail. The richness of the music is expressed through its cadences, its crescendos, and the timbre of sounds which resonate through the whole album giving it a cohesiveness which makes each track a single fragment in a much wider musical vision. Although the classical instrumentation of the album is top notch, surprisingly powerful bouts of musical climax are expressed through Olafur's carefully positioned use of drumming and (increasingly economical) use of synth, which really take tracks such as Tunglið and Þau hafa sloppið undan þunga myrkursins to a much higher level of musical complexity, and increase the depth of sound within a genre which is often criticised for its shallowness and minimalism. It is in these instances that the contemporary style that Ólafur aims for is most obvious.

Drowned in Sound have said that the album 'is not a sudden tidal wave of emotion laid on thick, but a glacial melting of mournfulness,' a statement I couldn't agree with more. The melancholy of the album, though intense, seems to wash over the listener and be replaced at times with fleeting glimpses of optimism. But regardless of this, it still remains one of the most melancholy and touching pieces of music I've ever heard. I'm not sure I'd rate it above his debut Eulogy for Evolution but it certainly gives it a run for its money. There are few people out there at the moment with the same vision as Ólafur Arnalds, a vision which works so well. The album is an incredibly rewarding listen, and one of the most emotionally resonant works of art I've had the pleasure of experiencing. It could even be my favourite album so far this year...

The album can be bought at Erased Tapes

Spotify users can listen to his first album, and his musical 'experiment' Found Songs here

And here's a little taster of the new album for all of you.

Illuminate My Heart, My Darling.

2010-09-03T11:55:00.002+01:00

One of the most beautiful songs I've ever heard.

It may be long, but it is SO worth it.

Apparently they'll be supporting Oceansize on their UK tour this september. Surely a chance not to be missed.

Part 1

Part 2

Provincetown

2010-09-02T00:44:00.006+01:00

I am in love this photo which my Dad took in Provincetown, MA., in July.
It is so perfect that it looks like a painting. I should add that this hasn't been photoshopped or edited at all.

I'm still shocked at how un-real it looks.

Totoro

2010-08-31T22:48:00.004+01:00

I want a Totoro! Now, just to find a secret passage-way under a bush and fall through a hole in a tree onto his stomach!

I've only seen six of the nineteen studio ghibli movies. This needs to be sorted out this summer. But hopefully the overwhelming cuteness doesn't affect my character too much ;)

Blueprints.

2010-08-30T19:16:00.008+01:00

The road I'm on right now - quite literally through the bowels of Milton.
(Click on the thumbnails for a better view)

Hopefully this doesn't somehow constitute academic misconduct.

Milton.

2010-08-28T17:53:00.013+01:00

...time may come when men
With angels may participate, and find
No inconvenient diet, nor too light fare:
And from these corporeal nutriments perhaps
Your bodies may at last turn all to spirit...
(5.494-97)

After about three months of no concentrated Milton, I decided that today was the day that 'work' (an English Literature degree is never really 'work' is it - and anyone who says it is, is taking themselves too seriously) was going to happen. Thankfully, it did. Up at 8, and to work at 10, my productivity only impeded by a man doing horrible phlegmy coughs on the other side of the room, and a (most likely homeless) man asleep, mouth wide open, snoring. Luckily someone must have complained, because a young lady quickly came to wake him up, and whispered a few cautionary words to him. It was only then that he produced a blue polyethalene bag, and began to eat spring onions out of it. Bizarre.

Anyway, that's all beside the point really. It seems slightly ridiculous to be writing to the world (wide web) about my fairly mundane trip to the library. Maybe I'm writing this because I'm somehow proud of myself, in a more than pathetic way, for having actually done something, other than reading for pleasure, or breaking out of my usual trend of getting to the library in order to boycott work in favour of reading other books. It comes as a relief to me that I finally seem to have an idea. It was only last night that I was moaning to a friend about my 'hopeless' situation. But I think I have something. The quality of which is debatable, but it is an idea, it can be worked on. Obviously I don't want to broadcast my whole idea on the internet, but it centers around the digestive processes (both mental and alimental) which operate within Paradise Lost, on various levels. Hence the quote above. My notes are littered with these little diagrams of stomachs and cosms with annotations within them. I wish I could take a picture of them, they look pretty cool. (If I do say so myself). It's also pretty entertaining to be reading about such childishly funny things like poo and farting. And Milton's own view on these things, as poo and farting are topics which (believe it or not) are worryingly common in his collected works. It is most explicitly mentioned in De Doctrina Christiana, but you can also find references to both of these things in Areopagitica, Lycidas, and of course in Paradise Lost.

I decided a few weeks ago to do a Milton tour around London (NERDY I KNOW) and visited the site of his old house in Bread Street, now the site of imposing glass office blocks, St. Paul's where he was taught and bought his books, and also Whitehall where he worked for many years of his life. I wish I could say that seeing the places that constituted Milton's world were in some way remarkably inspiring, but unfortunately, that was not the case. Although after re-reading parts of the poem today I think I have re-entered a 'love' phase, which is good for work. I just hope that the 'hate' phase doesn't swing around too soon behind it. The more I read of it, the more I feel that it is most definitely a poem to be tackled in small sections. Really small sections. Ideally probably no more than 50 lines in an evening. But obviously at this stage time won't allow for that. I wonder if there's some kind of 'Read Paradise Lost in a year' scheme, like they do with the bible. That'd be good. I always worry that I'm going to ruin my enjoyment by having to read big sections in short periods of time.

Nothing else to report.
Hopefully I can get something on paper soon.

To quote Satan himself:

"...Nor think thou with wind
Or airy threats to awe whom yet with deeds
Thou canst not..."
(6.282-84)

Seems pretty relevant in considering what I've just done - talking rubbish about my essay for which I have very little to show.

Darkness Implacable - Cormac McCarthy's 'The Road'

2010-08-25T13:12:00.021+01:00

"No lists on things to be done. The day providential to itself. The hour. There is no later. This is later. All things of grace and beauty such that one holds them to one's heart have a common provenance in pain. Their birth in grief and ashes"

After having seen Cormac McCarthy's name bouncing around for the last few years, on numerous lists of 'best 21st century novels', award winning fiction, and perhaps most tellingly lists of 'modern classics', I began to pay attention. Not to mention after hearing about the recent film adaptation of The Road and seeing the adaptation for film of No Country For Old Men in 2008. So, when I came face to face (numerous times) with cheap editions of The Road in charity shops and online, I figured it was meant to be. It was almost as if the book were following me, begging me to read it. (Okay maybe that's bullshit, I just saw it a few times and thought why not?). But all I can say is thank you phantom stalking book. I think I could safely say that The Road has become a new favourite, and is certainly a keeper. One which will remain on my bookshelf for a long time (and which I already have an itching desire to re-read).

As I've come to realise, after reading No Country for Old Men and All The Pretty Horses, The Road marks a departure from McCarthy's usual nouveau-'wild-west' topical field. The Road, then, somewhat uncharacteristically is a dystopian and post-apocalyptic vision of a new America. The novel contains only two main characters, who are referred to as simply 'man' and 'boy'. We follow them on their journey for survival across a barren palimpsestic America, never gaining knowledge of the events whose aftermath cause an annihilation of almost the whole population of America, and for a perpetual snow of ash to rain over the country. As well as simply finding food and clothing remaining from 'old' America, the duo must also face the challenge of avoiding and fighting off other human beings who, in desperation, have resorted to cannibalism. The novel bleakly details the journey of a man and his son along the road. A never-ending road which must be travelled for sustenance and safety.Though do not be mistaken, the bleakness of this journey is not completely overwhelming. Amongst the hopelessness and wretchedness of the post-apocalyptic monochrome America that McCarthy creates, both man and boy show a tenderness towards each other which (astoundingly) defies their awful situation. The massive contrast between outer darkness and inner warmth makes The Road a novel which is capable of creating for itself an air of being in some way 'epic' and a depth of emotional charge which is often surprising considering the minimal character development.

The Road is a novel which could be argued to be much more socially and politically 'contemporary' than McCarthy's other novels, in its capitalisation upon the post 9/11 mindset and the 'era' of terror. Although the fear of mutually assured destruction and the tradition of post-apocalyptic literature reaches back some sixty-five years now, since the first use of the atomic bomb, the arms race that followed, and the Cuban missile crisis in '62. The Road's warning of a barren, empty post-apocalyptic America, as we sit on the brink of a second nuclear era, seems to have become increasingly relevant in the last four years since it was published. As previously stated The Road is somewhat an anomaly in Cormac McCarthy's otherwise testosterone filled tales of life in the deep south. What starts out as a simple tale of two men travelling along a road, gradually blossoms into an emotionally intense and shatteringly beautiful piece of literature.

The text itself is wonderfully crafted in a way which is reminiscent of both Beckett and Coetzee in style and tone (and maybe even content with Beckett). What is striking about McCarthy as an author is the economy with which he utilises his words. It is a text, which in true Coetzee-an style, can at times seem deceptively plain and simple, but is constructed in a way that it expresses a lot more than it can ever be said to let on. Whilst using these frugally concise-yet-complex sentences, McCarthy uses two of Beckett's (arguably) most characteristic literary traits, these being the one word sentence, and his re-arranged syntax, which manipulates the manner and the order in which meaning is released, and constructed. We are confronted with this particular trait in the second sentence of The Road where McCarthy remarks upon the "nights dark beyond darkness and the days more gray each one than what had gone before". The style works well, for McCarthy’s purpose, and serves to highlight the disorder of the 'new life' deserving of a new modified language, and also increases a feeling of uneasiness and vulnerability in the reader, firstly from reading disjointed thoughts, and secondly for the perilous position of ‘man’ and ‘boy’. McCarthy’s one word sentences complement this occasional awkwardness of syntax by creating this punchy 'that’s all there is' feeling. It would be unfair, though, to deride McCarthy's own creation by apportioning his literary achievement to those who have come before him, and not giving him credit for his own endeavouring individuality of style. (A style which rather strangely results in the omitting of apostrophes and speech marks, which can be confusing). Whilst the novel could be labelled as Beckettian in tone, and Coetzee-an in style, it retains a sense of distinct 'American-ness' in a way which seems to function far beneath the text, but is somehow unplaceable.

Nevertheless what is striking about The Road is the sparseness of anything, be it within the actual events of the novel, or within the speech of the characters, (the majority of speech between the boy and man comes in one word entries), or even in the punctuation of the novel, commas reserved for special occasions. McCarthy favours the dead full stop, creating a sense of emptiness and desolation which can be physically portrayed in the text itself, in contrast to the lengthy comma-less sentences which seem in some way to be physically representative of the never-ending road which the duo must travel. It has been a long time since a novel has been capable of making me feel so many things with seemingly so little effort. There were times when I was scared, tense, and even just plain upset. What McCarthy has created on retrospect in The Road is incredibly impressive, considering the plain, dark and empty style. For something so flat on the surface to create something so emotionally contoured on the inside has surprised me. And it is because of this, and its deliciously dark bouts of description that it is a novel which I am sure to re-read soon. And indeed, one deserving of a hearty 5 stars in my books.

This country will kill you in a heartbeat and still people love it.

2010-08-24T00:30:00.010+01:00

My new friend. His name? Cormac McCarthy. I am addicted.

I've only read The Road and No Country For Old Men, but they we're both really very good. Gonna be searching for cheap editions of his novels in the next few weeks. Maybe I'll pick up a new one tomorrow - perhaps Blood Meridian or All The Pretty Horses. His novels are so readable and page-turnery but also good, not shit, no no, good. Really gripping, with punchy speech, and highly plot driven, but also very American. I ended up making pages of quotes and notes on The Road. It is so deliciously dark. Maybe I will bombard you with some of the quotes here, you unsuspecting little things. Hehehe. Okay, here are my favourites. I'll only put two in. Just want to share the love. (I would try and persuade everyone around to how great NCFOM was as well by doing this if it wasn't completely and utterly unquotable- n.b. the title of this post is actually a quote from the book. Maybe I exaggerated the truth a little there. There is one quote of worth. Enjoy it.)

This first quote is the first three sentences of the novel
"When we woke in the woods in the dark and the cold of the night he'd reach out to touch the child sleeping beside him. Nights dark beyond darkness and the days more gray each one than what had gone before. Like the onset of some cold glaucoma dimming away the world."

Numero Duo!
He walked out in the gray light and stood and he saw for a brief moment the absolute truth of the world. The cold relentless circling of the intestate earth. Darkness implacable. The blind dogs of the sun in their running. The crushing black vacuum of the universe. And somewhere two hunted animals trembling like ground foxes in their cover. Borrowed time and borrowed world and borrowed eyes with which to sorrow it."

Maybe I’ll write a review of it soon, and then put a shiny hyperlink right here (____here it is____) when it’s done so people can click away. I think I will. Yeah, I’ll do that.

Feel like I haven't posted on here in a long time. Can't say there's any reason for that. Apathy perhaps? Or maybe I've realised I simply have. nothing. to. say. I don't think it's that though. I think in reality I've been too absorbed in reading things to give a second thought to this blog, or its function of keeping me sane over the holidays. I think all the reading has done me good though. It's made me feel relaxed. Maybe too relaxed. In fact I don't think I've read this many books in such a short period of time since my imprisoning holiday in France two years ago, where the only alternative to complete and utter boredom was complete and utter escapism.

In the last week I've read The Road, and No Country For Old Men. Zeitoun by Dave Eggers - a non-fiction book about one man's experience of Hurricane Katrina told in the style of a novel. It was kinda strange reading non-fiction events in that style. But it worked well. I also read All My Friends are Superheroes, by Andrew Kaufman. I think I spoke about it in my last post. It was complete and utter rubbish. Enjoyable enough to get to the end of, but still undeniably rubbish. Too cutesy. I'm currently three chapters away from finishing Watchmen by Alan Moore. Though I have to admit that my interest is waning. Surely it should be peaking about now? Oh well. As one of Time's best 100 novels I thought I'd better check it out. But it's been disappointing so far. I guess I've not finished it yet though, perhaps I shouldn’t judge. Trying to make myself believe that slowness of plot = deeper character development which will then make the climax even more valuable. Ready to read next I have Bret Easton Ellis' new novel Imperial Bedrooms, let's hope it isn't as awful as his last novel Lunar Park. I threw my copy away it was that bad. Blegh. Part of me is beginning to believe that he is past it now. The novel is supposedly a sequel to his first novel Less Than Zero, I just think that by writing this sequel he might end up shitting all over the success that was Less Than Zero, or inviting a negative comparison between the now aging Bret and the early, creative, teenage Bret.

No other news to report. Until I have to resurface, complete escapism will be the order of the day...

Along with pushing John Milton and that fucking shitting ridiculously painful neverending poem, Paradise Lost to the back of my mind for as long as is humanly and hopefully sensibly possible.

I do solemnly swear

2010-08-16T22:17:00.004+01:00

... that I will go to the library tomorrow and think for an hour or two about this essay.

(Only then will I continue to trick myself into believing that reading any books published in the 21st century and written by American authors constitutes 'work')

Just finished Netherland by Joseph O' Neill. I'll post a review as soon as I've given it some thought. Until tomorrow's designated library time I might as well start on the next novel - All My Friends are Superheroes by Andrew Kaufman.

Oh, and, I started using goodreads again. Check it out - www.goodreads.com/garethaleddavies

Blessed & Cursed

2010-08-15T20:45:00.003+01:00

I still can't work out whether I prefer the new Devil Sold His Soul album to their last.
Regardless, it's bloody amazing, and I can't stop listening to it!

Job 15:2

2010-08-09T15:34:00.004+01:00

Research for my Milton essay seems to be leading on a bizarre trail through the nether areas of the bible, including Job, and the deleted book: The Apocrypha.

Seems like the research for this essay isn't actually as boring as I thought it would be. I even managed to find some pretty cool quotes:

'Should a wise man utter vain knowledge and fill his body with the east wind?'

Snails

2010-08-06T16:12:00.005+01:00

Ah, The Format, why did you have to split up?

I am lucky that there is so much good music in my life right now.
Proof ----> click me

Jehovah's Witnesses

2010-08-05T18:28:00.003+01:00

On the way home from school after the zoo I got in a fight with Harold Lund. He is a big grease who is friends with Marty Polaski. He ambushed me, which is dirty fighting, man, and jumped on me and pinned me with his knees on my shoulders till Shrubs smashed him in the head with a garbage can and we both ran home.
When I got home the first thing my mom said was "Don't open up your mouth," because my pants were green on the knees from the grass. (They were new, I got them at West's Clothing where they don't have doors on the little rooms and a girl saw my underpants.) "It's a crime," said my mother. "Who beat you up this time?"
"The Jehovah's Witnesses," I said
"What?"
I walked away. She chased me and grabbed my arm.
"Tell me the truth young man," she said.
So I told her. I got run over by a car which was drove by a Jehovah's Witness and he got out and said I wasn't a Jehovah's Witness but I said I was, only he didn't believe me and then we had to arm wrestle and I beat him because he was weak and then a negro came and said I could be a negro if I wanted so I said ok and then the Jehovah's witness got mad and pushed me on the grass and then I came home.
I walked up to my room. My mom yelled "You get back down here and tell me the truth." But I didn't.
(I don't know what a Jehovah's Witness is.I think it's when you wear a sports jacket.)

--- Taken from When I Was Five I Killed Myself by Harold Buten
(so charming!!)

Black Hole - Charles Burns

2010-08-04T19:22:00.015+01:00

--Review of Charles Burns'' graphic novel Black Hole - with lots of shiny pictures as promised--

I have to admit that I am somewhat a comic book rookie. In high school I remember the craze of bringing in ultimate spiderman for the 10 minutes of compulsory reading school used to enforce on a wednesday morning. I remember reading a few of these, but never really getting into them. I always disregarded comics as a kind of illegitimate art form. One which could never say anything profound, but was a pass-time of those who found regular novels 'too boring' or inaccessible. Oh, how I was wrong. The first graphic novel I ever read was The Complete MAUS, last christmas. Since then my opinions have changed. But this entry isn't about MAUS, (as much as I would love to sing its praises almost endlessly - it really is great), it is about Charles Burns' graphic novel Black Hole. I picked up Black Hole solely because (like Eeeee Eee Eeee) it is on my postmodern fiction module next term (I am being a good student this time, and getting prepared). I knew nothing about the book before I picked up a very well read copy from the library.

The novel tells the story of a group of teenagers who are affected by a sexually transmitted disease which causes them to physically mutate. These mutations aren't particularly obvious in some cases. One woman grows a tail, another man grows a second mouth towards the base of his neck. They may not be obvious, but they're pretty gruesome nonethteless. The disease can be contracted through either sexual contact, or a mixing of bodily fluids. The one really creepy thing about the bug is that it causes affected characters to shed their skin. The novel follows the actions of two main characters, one male - Keith, and one female - Chris, and switches between the two, offering a sexually balanced tale, a form which works surprisingly well. We experience through the course of the comic how these two characters contract the bug, and the aftermath, which results in them becoming social and physical outcasts who are forced to go to various lengths to either hide themselves or get away from other people.

All of the illustrations are monochrome, like the successful MAUS comics. Burns' style, however is much more clean cut and precise than Speigelman's making many of the panels incredibly impressive and almost vibrant in their contrast. This novel could essentially be classified as horror, or teen horror, or by some as B-horror. The high contrast of images suits this genre so well, because it adds a sense of startling postmodern realism to many of the more graphic scenes (i.e. the skin shedding, but most of which I shouldn't speak about for fear of ruining the book) which you might not get with a more sketchy style. The very realistic drawing style however, combines with a very creative and unconventional ordering of panels. Burns at his most impressive makes use of the seperate panels to depict one area of a whole picture. It is hard to explain in words, but basically you get whole but fragmented images (such as the one directly below). There are also two or three occasions where a very 'rules of attraction-esque' technique is used whereby two halves of two different faces lain side by side make a whole. This creativity also manifests itself in the chapter headings, which are far from conventional, usually consisting of an image of something, mysteriously framed in an expansive black page. (None of the chapters are numbered, and none of the pages are either).

Burns seems very keen (like Tao Lin does in Eeeee Eee Eeee) on not keeping to a completely linear plot development. But whilst Tao Lin completely confuses the order of events in the novel, Burns at least retains a strong sense of direction - his confusion of time comes through the retrospective thoughts of characters, and the gaps of time between the events in each chapter (which we, as readers, in some cases, are encouraged to estimate for ourselves). You find at some points that because of the two interlinking plots, that of Keith's and that of Chris', one will sometimes seem to move faster or have more gaps than the other. Which means that events will take place, and then after the events have taken place, the character will back track on what happens directly before that event, but only after it has been told (I hope that makes sense). The effect is that you are encouraged to re-interpret the information you've been given, and consciously re-order things. Burns doesn't really use this technique to much effect though, it's not as if any assumptions you may make about these characters are overturned by their then retrospective indulgences, in order to perhaps overturn stereotypes the reader may have had, or expectations (though I realise this is very difficult and requires a lot of psychological insight into the reader and their expected thought process whilst reading).

Black Hole is clever in its use of the concept of the sexually transmitted mutation, an idea which could easily have been very cheesy - but Charles Burns does his idea justice (even if it does come across as a bit of an 'in your face' allegory for AIDS). The concept of the bug is manipulated so that it allows the author to enlighten us as to the reasons why one may become a high-school outcast. Many of those who contract the bug become deviant not only because of their disease, but due to their personal natures. It's hard to elaborate further without ruining the plot, but Burns highlights in particular those with bisexual sneaking into homosexual tendencies, and to an extent (and I am wary to say this), those with a tendency towards bestiality. But the novel isn't as skin deep as just correlating physical mutation and the outsider status. It gives us a psychological insight into this status, coming most prominently from the character Dan, a boy who was 'unpopular' in school and forced to leave because of his mutations. There is a lot in there that I haven't yet seen, I'm sure of it. I'll be reading it again in a few weeks when I have had time to think about it in more depth.

From a personal perspective, its one of the most enjoyable things I've read in months (honestly). I had to discipline myself not to read the whole thing in one sitting. Unlike MAUS (excuse my constant references to it) the artwork seems more purposeful. MAUS is almost a comic which relies more on its speech than its imagery (probably a big claim to make). But Black Hole is incredibly different, the artwork and the way it is presented plays an active part in the storytelling process. It is more than a straightforward comic (like MAUS), it actually is a great work of art, and would be a beautiful book to own, even to just look at the pictures (many of them amusingly vaginal - and a selection of which can be seen in my previous blog post on the novel). The story is engaging and the concept is well thought out and executed. As I said, there's a lot in there, from sexual deviance, to critiques on high school shootings, and even the holocaust if you want to push it that far. Mind you, it's not for everyone. If you're not into horror you my want to steer clear. But what strikes me most, and what I'm still most impressed with is the layout of panels and the effects of different types of panels including whole page images, strange zoom effects, and the bizarre portrayal of dreams in comic format. It really is more than your bog-standard comic. I rate it highly.

To those who have questioned my tendency to sporadically delete facebook

2010-08-03T15:50:00.008+01:00

"We have become alienated from those aspects of life we might consider authentic or real. While our working lives are still ‘real’ (we go to work and pay the bills) they are not as real as, say, farming or building a ship. Instead we spend most of our time at our desks in front of a computer screen, engaging with symbolic representations rather than real, tangible objects. Much of our leisure time is spent engaging in simulated experiences or consuming more information. Existence has become more ‘virtual’ than real" - Brian Nicols

It just gets too much sometimes y'know . . . I feel like a technology slave. In fact the whole idea of facebook is weird anyway. I might as well start listing my problems with it. I'm sure I'm not the only one who thinks these things. Here we go...

--1) (Excuse my pretentious use of Baudrillard(ian?) terms). The fact that hyper-real internet profiley 'me' becomes more legitimate to some people than 'real' real me.

--2) Facebook is too 1984 - let's face it.

--3) (Excuse ridiculous paranoia) Everything I say on facebook is probably recorded somewhere.

--4) Facebook is a bunch of bored people tricking themselves that everyone else isn't bored, and somehow entertaining themselves by watching the actions of many other bored people (How does that make logical sense?)

--5) I become depressed when I realise that I have a better relationship with certain people under hyper-real facebook identity than I do with them in real life, on a face-to-face basis.

--6) It is not good for my brain to be bombarded with pointless information about the (usually insignificant) minutae of the lives of a group of people. (those I do care about I see in real life) ((Those I don't particularly care about ... I don't particularly care about))

--7) Although I hate the thing it manages to suck me back in over the holiday breaks. Yes, this only deepens my loathing for it. And makes me feel like a weak smack-addicted cretin.

--8) The wall feature conditions everyone to masquerade and put on a show for others. It encourages people to present themselves not as who they are, but who they want to be or what they want to be. Basically people trick each other into what they are really like (see concern 1 in my list).

--9) The wall feature is (excuse more pretentious terms) panoptic (in the Foucauldian sense). Everyone is watching everyone else. Every stays in check, they are conscious of being judged by others (also links to point 8 and 1).

--10) Think of all of the things you could have achieved if you hadn't spent however much time on facebook in your life so far? Doesn't it give you a stomach lurch?

Obviously it's a useful tool for keeping in touch with people who perhaps live in other places or are old friends who have moved on. But for me the cons outweigh the pros. Even if not having facebook does result in me missing out on invites to certain events (probably the one main con of deleting it). Oh yeah, and there's something really dodgy in that facebook won't actually let you delete your account - it can only be 'deactivated'. Somehow once you've joined there is no escape . . . a bit cult-ish really.

Anyway, that's for all the people who have asked me why I keep deleting facebook, and asking me when I'm 'coming back' (sounds weird, as if facebook is a geographical place) on occassion. Unfortunately I am too weak to keep it deleted all the time (I am only a puny mortal). As soon as I get back to Cardiff I feel its horrible itch coming back to me. I guess that's the result of too much time in the house. Oh well. I think I'll delete again next week perhaps... My productivity multiplies exponentially when it's deleted. Even just reading a book or daydreaming is more productive to me than watching a stream of information from a group of people (the majority of whom I don't have a regular functioning close human friendship with). P.s. I'm sure that this -----> Top Ten Reasons You Should Quit Facebook will be interesting to many of you as well. (Though I'm not sure how legit it is).

(It's kind of painful that I'm making these statements writing on an internet blog, which will then be published on facebook...irony sucks. P.S. sorry for any pretentiousness in this blog post.)

Eeeee Eee Eeee

2010-08-03T02:28:00.001+01:00

"It's depressing that people are different. Everyone should be one person, who should then kill itself in hand-to-hand combat"

Just finished reading Tao Lin's debut novel Eeeee Eee Eeee. What can I say? It is unlike anything I've ever read before. It is on my reading list for a module I'm taking next term in twenty-first century post-modern fiction. I was surprised to find that Tao Lin is relatively unknown, with a close cult-ish following. I could use many adjectives to attempt to describe this novel - but I'm not sure that any one could do it justice, or that using many would help clarify Eeeee Eee Eeee at all. The novel could be pigeon-holed as being kind of surreally hyper-existentialist. It is almost Beckettian in its minimalism and snapishness. The novel seems to focus (of course you could make a massive claim -probably the most valid one- that there is no focus) on American collective identity through repeated turns of phrase and slang, as well as shared names and a sense of a depressive loss of individuality. By far the most confusing instances in the book (and the most notorious) are the set of unexpected conversations with talking bears, hamsters and dolphins . . . one of which result in a bear named Andrew, and a man named Andrew realising that they share the same name (and therefore identity?) It's a witty novel, without a doubt, with laugh out loud humour which will make you wince with its sarcasm. It is often a confusing read, but nevertheless one which does not leave you feeling out of your depth, or as if you've failed to understand something along the way. You learn very quickly that you just have to accept that that's the way it is. Eeeee Eee Eeee is a difficult novel to review, solely because it has no driven start to finish plot, it has talking animals, and is constructed in such a novel way. To present a plot synopsis would be ridiculous - in fact it would almost defy the way in which the novel is written. Tao Lin's prose is is aware of its fragmentation, and in being aware manages to smooth out the fragments and somehow fit them together into a coherent, flowing and whole piece of work (excuse my mosaic-esque analogy). Time itself is fragmented in the novel. It is only in the closing chapter of the novel, that we find out what happenned in the protagonist (dare I call him one) Andrew's life before the novel began - information which would surely be expected within the first few pages, to introduce us to him. The timeline of the book is indeterminably linear, but it is the indeterminability of its linearity which causes those questions to creep in, and for the rational part of the mind to be tempted to organise and make sense of what comes where, to try to establish a time/space linearity which we expect from most novels.

Needless to say (post-blurb), it is a peculiar novel. But amongst the mayhem, the teleporting bears, the murder of Elijah Wood by a dolphin, and the secret passages which lead to a secret animal world, are concerted criticisms on political apathy, identity loss, herd mentalities, terrorism and depression. Many of the reviews I've read have disregarded it for its alleged art-school pretentiousness. Pretentious or not, it is a novel which is engagingly short, easy to read, and seems to simplify, but still accessorise the genre of bizarro fiction while kind of fitting in with the glossy Generation X writers. I don't know if I'd go as far as labelling it 'literature' or saying that it was particularly enjoyable, or 'good', but it certainly is a breath of fresh air and unlike anything I've read before. (N.B. Just because it's refreshing doesn't mean it isn't strange and sometimes seems disconcertingly self-conscious...in fact Gawker magazine said that he is "perhaps the single most irritating person we've had to deal with" YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED).

I'm sure I'll be reading some of his other stuff as soon as I can get my hands on it anyway. He is certainly an interesting writer, even if I'm not sure what I make of him yet. Eeeee Eee Eeee has really confused me a great deal.

His new novel Richard Yates is released on September 7th (with speed and cunning).
Maybe if I enter enough of the competitions on his FRUSTRATINGLY TITLED BLOG (perhaps testimony to his being irritating), I'll be able to win myself a copy!

Currently Reading

2010-08-02T20:49:00.006+01:00

I've never seen so many vaginal images in a comic in my life . . . seriously.

What do you make of this?

Only started it this evening. But the artwork is so crisp, mm. It's good. Makes it infinitely more enjoyable to read than other monochrome comics, like MAUS.

When I'm done I'll be sure to write a review - with lots of those nice shiny crisp screenshots, mmmmmmm.

Still waiting for 'When I was five I killed myself'... Damn you Amazon.

Rock the Bells

2010-08-02T13:13:00.006+01:00

Wish I could have moved my trip to New York a couple of weeks forward. So I could have gone to this. Probably the best hip-hop festival lineup I've ever seen. Immortal Technique, A Tribe Called Quest, Jedi Mind Tricks, Lauryn Hill, Wu-Tang Clan, Ill Bill, KRS-One... wow.

When I was five I killed myself...

2010-08-01T23:01:00.005+01:00

Bought this a few days ago on impulse. The author, Howard Buten, is a psychologist, violinist, and professional clown, living in France. The novel is written from the perspective of an eight year old child. As a psychologist I wonder how accurate the narrative seems, whether it is flawlessly eight years old, whether there are spelling mistakes, etc. I'm told that the novel itself is also '8 year old size' being one third the conventional width and height of a novel (though it maintains the usual page length of a novel). Strangely the novel has sold over a million copies in France and is relatively unknown in the author's home country (America). Anyway, I wish Amazon would hurry up, and it would arrive! I will have my fingers crossed and be waiting in anticipation of the post-man tomorrow! And then suffer the horrible stomach lurch of disappointment when it doesn't. Come on, pull through for me Amazon!

III

2010-08-01T17:29:00.010+01:00

Wake up, groggy, dry mouth. The sound of Fairytale of New York drifts up from below. Somewhere. What the fuck. It's summer for fucks sake. . . what the fuck. Today I'm going to go to the library, I swear on it. It's going to fucking happen. Trust me. But right now there is a pumpkin at the end of my bed. I don't know how it got there. It's so smooth and orange. Like a carrot, but round. And bulbous. I swing my feet out from beneath the covers and then snap them back so they rest above. The pumpkin is so smooth and orange on my feet. It hugs them with its no arms. It is my friend. I pet it with my feet. It feels nice. The pumpkin makes a creaking noise. "I love you" it creaks (or something to that effect). Fibrous and organic. In its own little way. Things get a bit intense and I leave.

Get out of bed. Walk downstairs. Each step moans under my feet. I wince after each one. I apologise under my breath after each one. “Poor souls” I say after each one. Each one seems to shout out to the next one. "Owww ooooh owww, watch out!" A chain of useless warnings. The guilt is consuming. Maybe I should go back to bed. Today is a bad day. Walk to the bathroom. Brush teeth. Usually 72 brushes. Left. Right. Left. Right. Always a problem knowing when to stop. Left or right? Things are uneven and unbalanced whenever I stop. Only one solution. Don’t think about it. Keep brushing. Right. Left. Right. Left. Okay now this is fucking ridiculous. Throw toothbrush on the floor. I can’t remember whether I stopped on left or right. Problem solved. The toothbrush lies on the floor, looking like a murder weapon, a short white toothpaste stain reaches out for it . . .

Please Mr. Employer Man

2010-07-30T18:23:00.003+01:00

... give me a job.

Applying for graduate jobs and work experience is the most tedious thing.
Talk about comprehensive application forms ...

Mr. Jaggers

2010-07-12T01:52:00.006+01:00

Brag is a good dog, but Holdfast is a better

The Big Apple

2010-07-09T02:50:00.003+01:00

// Empire State // Penn Station // Wall Street // Battery Park // Statue of Liberty // UN Building // Rockerfeller Center // Times Square // New York Stock Exchange // Central Park // Macy's // Ground Zero // One World Trade Center // Metropolitan Museum of Art // 5th Avenue // Radio City Arena // Broadway // St. Patrick's Cathedral // Chrysler Building // Grand Central Station // Union Square // Museum of American History // New York Plaza //

Safe to say it was a hectic 5 days in New York.
Currently in Chatham Cape Cod after a 4 hour train journey to Boston and a car trip through Plymouth.

NY II

2010-07-01T21:24:00.002+01:00

8 hours to go now, feeling a bit more excited . . .

NY

2010-06-30T13:29:00.003+01:00

I fly out to New York in two days. Why am I not excited? Sigh

Recent Acquisitions

2010-06-27T20:27:00.004+01:00

Mos Def - Black on Both Sides

Arcade Fire - Neon Bible

Sigur Ros - Með Suð í Eyrum

Glamorama

2010-06-17T09:42:00.006+01:00

After an awful week whereby I have probably just scraped a pass on my french exam, missed a Milton seminar, and missed the deadline for the Milton proceedural essay (with no ideas, no plan, having done no research), for some reason I have decided I need escapism. My mind feels all cloudy. Too much stuff has happenned this term. I just need time to relax and tackle Milton in my own time. Deadlines are not going to work. Anyway, I'm not sure how wise this 'escapism' is. I need to be immersed in work and work ethic - but alas, this is what is keeping me sane -

Hopefully his new novel Imperial Bedrooms is just as good. Luckily for me it comes out the day I go to America.

Leviathan

2010-06-09T13:24:00.003+01:00

This week for my Milton class I was set extracts from Hobbes' Leviathan. He writes the sort of things that as a self-indulgent depressive teenager I would have loved. Forgive me for quoting this section - it is so wonderfully, (and not even spuriously) pessimistic. It seems that I haven't completely let go of that part of me...

"Whatsoever therefore is consequent to a time of Warre, where every man is Enemy to every man; the same is consequent to the time, wherin men live without other security, than what their own strength, and their own invention shall furnish them withall. In such condition, there is no place for Industry; because the fruit thereof is uncertain: and consequently no Culture of the Earth; no Navigation, nor use of the commodities that may be imported by Sea; no commodious Building; no instruments of moving, and removing such things as require much force; no Knowledge of the face of the Earth; no account of Time; no Arts; no Letters; no Society; and which is worst of all, continuall feare, and danger of violent death; And the life of man, solitary, poore, nasty, brutish, and short."

True?

Astronomy

2010-06-07T09:29:00.004+01:00

Listening to a lot of new hip hop the last few weeks - Blackstar, Braintax and Army of the Pharaohs. All good stuff.

I left the South, I travelled North, I got confused, I killed a horse. I can't help the way I feel.

2010-05-30T19:35:00.011+01:00

The last few weeks have been so high, so low . . . so strange. I've been all over the place. It's felt good, and also awful. I don't really know how I feel right now, a little more balanced perhaps. Anyway I don't want to publish the details of my entire life on the net. It will suffice to say that it's been a weird two or three weeks.

I've decided I need to get out of this town, I am fed up of York and many of the people within it at the moment. I am travelling back to Cardiff this week for a few days. Hopefully they will refresh and revive me. I'm not quite sure where my head is right now.

Regardless of my mind I have been listening to some awesome new music. Namely Nine Inch Nails' Ghosts double album.

It would be fair to say that it's the most pretentious of NINs albums. It would probably be quite difficult to really get into without having listened to classic NIN albums such as The Downward Spiral, Pretty Hate Machine or even their newest album The Slip (which I should add can be downloaded free of charge from the NIN website) It was marketed as a soundtrack to dream to, and so I was expecting something quite different - maybe a collection of lengthy dark ambient industrial pieces of music. What we are given, rather is almost a patchwork quilt of content, ranging in style, tone and texture. Although the intention is clearly for the album to be set out as four seperate pieces of music, broken up into smaller parts or movements it is frankly quite ineffective, as there is no real continuity or thematic development within any of the four pieces that make them clear movements.
Nevertheless, what you do get is a lot of quality music from a quality musician, and is definitely worth checking out, even if the album's intended 'movements' are ineffectual. As for its label as a soundtrack to dream to, I'll let you come to your own decision.
I will leave you with a little taster (this one brings a tear to my eye - emo I know)

Goodbye! - p.s. contact me if you want to borrow the album!

This week . . .

2010-05-22T11:38:00.001+01:00

. . . has been very good indeed.
That is all.

Sleepmakeswaves

2010-05-09T14:33:00.004+01:00

Addicted to this album right now - "In Today Already Walks Tomorrow" by Sleepmakeswaves, a relatively new band from Sydney, Australia. If you have time, or are looking for some new music, their album is free to download (legally I might add) on last.fm, I recommend it for anyone who's into post-rock, or even for those new to the genre. The whole album has an insatiable drive to it. What sets them apart from groups like Explosions in the Sky or This Will Destroy You is the feeling of direction and purpose interspersed with the typical (wonderful) dreamy, self indulgent emotiveness of post-rock. What I'm trying to say is that there's a lot more contrast. Anyway, check it out, and see what you think. (And if you like it send me a recommendation back!)

Free Download Link:
http://www.last.fm/music/Sleepmakeswaves/in+today+already+walks+tomorrow

Coney Island

2010-05-05T21:20:00.005+01:00

"Anyways, uh let's see what else uh...uh I...It was Coney Island, they called Coney Island the playground of the world. There was no place like it... in the whole world, like Coney Island when I was a youngster. No place in the world like it. It was so fabulous, now it's shrunk down to almost nothing.You see, ahah, and uh I still remember in my mind how things used to be, and uh, y'know I feel kinda very bad. But people from all over the world came here, from all over the wor... it was the playground...they called the playground of the world, over here... anyways, uh, so...but...I...uh...y'know, I even got when I was a...when I was very small I even got lost in Coney Island... but they found me, on the... on the... on the beach. And we used to sleep on the beach here, sleep overnight, but um err, they don't do it anymore, things changed you see. They don't sleep any more on the beach"

Sleep - Godspeed You! Black Emperor

The Magnificent Birth of Future Gareth.

2010-05-04T00:16:00.005+01:00

What if you could completely abstract your future self?

As always, when travelling back to a city you haven’t been to a while, new slang emerges, you are confronted with new words and phrases which seem alien. I noticed, on returning to Cardiff in March, that a number of my friends had begun referring to their future selves . . . not really as a form of slang (though this is how I interpreted it at first), but . . . tactically . I heard my friends come out with things like “Oh I’ll just skip work and let future Chris deal with that”, or “I have to go to a funeral tomorrow, but I’ll get drunk anyway, future Matt can sort it out”. This wasn’t just one or two people, but a whole sub-group of friends. At first this seemed strange to me, not to mention irresponsible and maybe even stupid – but the more I got to thinking about it, the more it began to make sense.

I will openly admit that I am awful at forgetting about responsibilities, and having fun. When I know that there is a deadline, or something has to be done, I usually turn down any propositions in favour of tackling the task at hand. Even if I do manage to talk myself into going out, the worry of what needs to be done usually lingers in my mind, tainting my enjoyment of the night. I am one of those people who (I believe like many others), is always looking to the future, basing decisions, such as, whether to go out for the evening, upon whether I will have time to complete particular tasks, or have the ability to fulfil certain responsibilities, if I do go out. I believe this to be a kind of thought process which a lot of people go through.

What I eventually came to realise, is that future Gareth can be a liberating force in these situations. When I think back over the last two or three years – the number of opportunities I have turned down, due to either time restrictions, responsibility, or even lack of money, worries me. If I had disregarded these trivial stock responses such as “sorry I can’t do that, I don’t have enough money”, “I can’t go out, I have to finish reading such and such by tomorrow”, or anything in a similar vein, I believe I would be a much more rounded, richer, and confident personality. The weird thing about ‘Future Gareth’ is that he can only exist if I, or you, or anyone, is willing to completely disconnect the present from the future; to create a mental divider between the two.

I began to realise, that the future Gareth, wasn’t just a run of the mill saying, but, in fact, a complex mental construct... a mental failsafe. In order for this to work, you have to make your future self a complete abstraction of your present self. You might be sceptical or cynical, and pass this off as some kind of pseudo-intellectual way of explaining the idea of burying your head in the sand (you’d be completely excused) – but I’m convinced that this idea is far more psychologically advanced, and indeed, completely different, to just resigning an obligation or responsibility to the back of your mind. The future self, in adopting this process, forces a person into entertaining what is a temporary, mentally existent second self – a twin, a double who is uncanny, one who must become something other than the self – but must by necessity still be the self. Essentially, an alter-ego must be created. An alter-ego who can carry the consequences of irresponsibility, and who the present self can lump guilt upon.

I guess I should admit, that in recent weeks I have begun to use future Gareth as an excuse TO do things, as opposed to conforming to the routine of letting present Gareth reason his way OUT of doing things. I’m not sure that future Gareth is a healthy aspect of my life, for there are certainly echoes of split personality disorder in his creation and successive re-creations. I’m also not sure if he is a sensible one, but, despite these queries, he is a valuable liberating force. I invite you, like me, to let go of your present self once in a while, and let your abstracted doppelganger take the burden – believe me, it feels good, (until you become that guilt ridden twin, and must build another). But really, aside from all that, if I learnt anything whilst at home in Cardiff, it was to use future Gareth once in a while, and to just let go now and then. Life is much more fun that way.
____________________________________________________________________
THIS IS NOT AN EXIT

Demon Seed

2010-04-27T20:28:00.004+01:00

The sound of summer so far...

Of Man's First Disobedience and the Fruit of that Forbidden Tree...

2010-04-22T17:34:00.006+01:00

Currently re-reading Milton's Paradise Lost, in preperation for the coming term. I forgot how mindblowing some of the description is. So disorientating, and so epic.
This section - Satan persuades Sin to open the doors of hell, in order for him to corrupt mankind.

With impetuous recoil and jarring sound
Th’ infernal doors, and on their hinges grate
Harsh thunder, that the lowest bottom shook
Of Erebus. She opened, but to shut
Excelled her power; the gates wide open stood

Amazing. I'm not going to deny that much of the poem is rather dull. It can be difficult to get through. But Milton's Satan, and the frequent bouts of frankly amazing description completely make up for it. This is one to re-read. His prose works . . . maybe not so much. The ridiculous names, like Areopagitica, Tetrachordon and Colasterion sound like Mars Volta song titles . . . if only they were as interesting.
-Farewell for now.
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THIS IS NOT AN EXIT

Quiet Please - No Mobile Phones

2010-04-18T17:28:00.006+01:00

Sitting in Derwent computer room, no natural light, two other ill looking men, and the mechanical chatter of keyboards. My essay grinds to a halt . . . seven hundred words in and . . . nothing. On the plus side, this summer is shaping up to be a good one. I have (about . . . well, you could say exactly 3 minutes ago) sent off my application to the Study China Programme. A course which consists of three weeks of intensive Mandarin lessons in Shanghai over summer. Everything is paid for, except for the flights. If all goes well I will be travelling to three continents this year. Pretty impressive, seeing as I've only been to two in my whole life. Those being Europe (pretty inescapable really), and North America - having travelled through Canada two years ago. Hopefully I can save up enough money to afford it all.

In other news I have my final (possibly ever) shift at blockbuster tomorrow, which will no doubt consist of an eight hour shift boxing various things up, and packing things away. Although I moan about it, I will miss that place. A customer even wrote me a letter yesterday. Here it is :

To whom it may concern,

Please note, I would like to express my utmost disappointment at the closure of this store. Gareth has always been so friendly, it's a shame.

Sonia 17/04/10

Fairly harmless and to the point, but charming and sweet nonetheless. It is nice to know you'll be missed. Anyway, I must leave now. This room is too claustrophobic, especially on a sunday. Farewell for now
________________________________________________
THIS IS NOT AN EXIT

Enter the Void

2010-04-14T23:22:00.001+01:00

Gaspar Noé's Enter the Void theatrical trailer

You have no idea how excited I am about this...

Back to York

2010-04-13T16:05:00.008+01:00

And so I find myself back in . . . York, in an unreasonably busy and noisy library. For real, there are men with drills and everything, and a strange kind of outside lift thing which makes a siren noise every time it moves. Granted, that is pretty cool, but it's so damn loud! This blog post is my attempt to stray away from trauling through pretensive books about J.M.Coetzee, and the 'South African Problem' - not that I'm implying that there isn't a problem, but I just can't get into it. I am coming to realise that Disgrace, by Coetzee, is probably one of the most complex novels I've read. It masquerades under this subtle clarity of style, as something straightforward and plain to see. But it raises all these different questions about the characters, questions which contradict each other but have to be considered simultaneously. And the sentences are so simple that you feel inclined to question them. I'm sure there is still a lot going on beneath the text that I simply can't see. Blerugh. I seriously can't wait until this essay is out of the way... you have no idea, this book is frying my brain. Anyway, I will be spending the next week living in the house alone (maybe not something you should admit on the internet?) Already I am convinced that there are many ghosts in my house and that someone must be turning lights on when I'm asleep. Well, hopefully I'll survive. More concerning is the fact of having little human contact. I'll see how it goes.
But for now, back to work.
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THIS IS NOT AN EXIT

Lost Highway and Subjective Identity

2010-04-11T18:03:00.018+01:00

Ed -Do you own a video camera?
Renee Mason - No. Fred hates them.
Fred - I like to remember things my on way.
Ed - What do you mean by that?
Fred -How I remembered them. Not necessarily the way they happened.

It would be fair to say that I am a fairly long-standing fan of the work of David Lynch, a man who might be named by some, the king of American surrealism. Having watched all of Lynch's works except the infamous Lost Highway numerous times (mainly in order to grasp an understanding of them) one begins to notice a trend within his work toward making movies about making movies. A stance which actively encourages viewers of his films to read the film's message against itself. For example, in Inland Empire we have the idea of the cursed Polish production being told through the medium of film itself. Alongside this we have the suffocatingly disorienting confusion between what we believe to be the actual movie script, with the script of the fictional movie, which is being filmed within the film. However, to take a step back, we realise that there is no confusion at all, because Lynch has intended for the script to act in this way. What I'm trying to say is, to gain meaning we must take a step back, out of the layers of film. Mulholland Drive also demonstrated this layering effect with Naomi Watts' character (Betty/Diane) playing the role of an aspiring actor, Justin Theroux's character as a director, and a whole host of peripheral characters working on film sets, where the mark at which we place reality becomes lost. I was, then, fairly unsurprised to find Lost Highway addressing similar issues. After a single viewing I cannot claim to have come anywhere near unravelling the many mysteries and layers of the movie, but one thing I have taken away stems from the quote above. Relatively near to the beginning of the film Fred admits to a police detective that he does not like video cameras, he prefers to "remember things [his] own way" explaining that his own memory of things would therefore not, neccessarily, be synonymous with the general consensus of 'history', and past events - the objective history. Throughout the movie there is a confusion of identities. Our protagonist Fred, somehow transforms into another person, Al, who then acts out what we could (feasibly) assume to be a warped account of his past. Similarly Fred's wife Renee seems to shift her identity, becoming Alice Wakefield, the fancy woman of a kingpin. This masking and switching of identity seems to be linked to the idea of subjective, or personal memory, and the idea that history is not completely unchangeable, but, rather, amorphous and impressionable. Once this transformation of identity takes place, we enter into an unpredictable internal world, where objectivity becomes an obselete and, in fact, impossible stance. Instead characters become for themselves, and for others, who they want them to be. Our own faith in the objectivity of film clashes violently with the subjectivity of the characters, who attempt to sabotage what we would perhaps label the 'rational' in favour of the irrational and internal rule of the mind. We are presented with a clash between the subjectivity of human life, and the objective classification enacted by machine. We find, then, that only when the movie's disconcertingly creepy "Mystery Man" comes along with his camera, does Al, Fred's alter-ego, or adpoted identity begin to falter, the subjective construction of 'reality' crumbles, and objectivity 'history' prevails. Through the medium of the camera Al transforms back into Fred. For me, this moment where through the lens of the video camera things become 'real', presents the only genuine exit from the internal, fictional, world of subjectivity - and promises a re-immersion in a world of the camera, which is once again objective. I guess the movie taught me to perhaps see people through a kind of metaphysical video camera. Where feelings, wishes, desires and the warping and distorting power of the mind is sidelined in favour of an all objective frame of view. Perhaps, by evaluating human relationships through this lense of objectivity one can have a clearer view of things, instead of evaluating things according to subconscious and unplaceable desires which are, perhaps, at work without us realising. Lynch seeks to question us further than this though, about the nature of reality, and the idea that a physical manifestation of a personality may be radically different to the body they inhabit. Similarly we pose ourselves the question of whether there can ever be an objective meaning of objectivity itself, and in essence, whether we can even be sure that there is a shared, and objective view of 'history', and not just a web of subjective realities? But I think I'll leave those big questions for another day, to be answered after another viewing. Nevertheless it cannot be denied that Lynch poses these questions very carefully, encouraging us to think about not just our human relationships, but the trust we put in our own perceptions, and our own constructions of 'reality'. I'm sure that on successive viewings more will be illuminated, and the layers of film will reveal themselves. But for now, adieu!_________________________________________________________
THIS IS NOT AN EXIT.

Fragments

2010-04-11T17:35:00.002+01:00

The warbling sounds of King Crimson’s "21st Century Schizoid Man" sliced through the tainted air, the distorted chords and piercing saxophone searching out and probing even the darkest corners of the room. Sitting on my bed life seemed to resemble this song more than ever, the distorted guitar a musical representation of a peculiar strand of confusion, lingering inside my head like an impertinent smog, clouding rational thought. Only last week my life exploded, entering a new phase of disorder, I had become the 21st century schizoid man. My hands incessently trembled, and I couldn't sleep. The nights were now spent staring at the ceiling puzzling out what made all this happen. Any attempts to sit still were in vain, my legs always on edge, tapping, tapping, tapping, my body infused with some restless weakness which was wholly insurmountable. An incense stick burned in the corner of the room a tail of ash dropping off the end, the mesmerising smoke clouding the air, rising, forming, flowering, kaleidoscopic intricate patterns engulfing themselves, perfuming the room. Everything felt warm, numb, everything tingling and fuzzy, yet still unable to sleep, still tapping, dreaming, and dying, all over again; following that reptilian, screaming saxophone noise through the air with a single grubby index finger. I decided to get up, rolled off my bed, the disorientation extreme, yet, on my feet. Pull the curtains away from each other to reveal a darkness, sprinkled with illuminated windows of the neighbouring houses. I don't know what time it is. I sit for a while, watch a man walk from room to room, pacing, thinking. Another elderly woman battles with her small, almost rodent-like dog before closing the door on it. The small animal's slender whine reaches my ears through the double glazing and background music, it is somehow melodic. Walking to the door in the warm light of the room, I grip the handle, and pull, slowly. The door is heavier than usual, but relents. I languidly wander downstairs and sit down on the sofa. I begin to think this whole situation over. Only fragments of memory remain. The alluring sound of heels on cobbles, muffled laughter and the insatiable scent of dusk.

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THIS IS NOT AN EXIT

Summer Afternoon

2009-08-05T10:42:00.003+01:00

Gracefully; blossom
pirouettes towards the ground -
nature’s ballerina.

A window, open,
beckons a timid sparrow -
who sits contented.

Delicate fragrance
of a tulip's tender kiss,
flutters in the air.

Vincent

2009-08-05T00:43:00.005+01:00

C'est beau, n'est pas?

Untitled

2009-08-04T14:57:00.005+01:00

I keep digging, deeper and deeper in the sand. My hands calloused and raw, from the beautiful friction. My hands claw away in this barren pit of filth, searching for the answers to the questions that are so unfathomable in their metaphysical paradoxes that they cannot be uttered, let alone entertained. This few cubic centimetres inside my brain is not enough. As I dig further down, the sand continues to cave in, replacing the areas where meaning, knowledge and thought were once held in pockets; shrouding them, once again, in mystery. As new pieces of the puzzle are uncovered, others are undeniably lost. Before I know it the sun is setting and this space which consumes me is deathly cold. A single, delicate, glass teardrop winds its way from my vacant eyes, perching momentarily on my chin, before hurtling down to perdition. My hair is thinning and my hands . . . my hands are so worn that their sensitivity has faded to such an extent that I do not even feel the beads of blood materialising through the skin anymore, in a kind of gruesome, organic, polka dot. I need this pain to feel alive, to acknowledge the beauty of it all. I need to dig further, deeper faster to reach the ever elusive answers which will ultimately destroy me and set me free . . . but they always escape. Nevertheless I keep digging in vain hope. I can't stop, deeper, deeper, deeper, deeper, until I suddenly realise. I must know when to draw the line in this sand. To step back and walk away.

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THIS IS NOT AN EXIT

Welcome

2009-08-04T03:27:00.000+01:00

Greetings everybody!

Welcome to my new blog, 'Pechorin's Paintbox'.
This blog will consist of my uninhibited ramblings, including music reviews, literary reviews, perhaps some short fiction and whatever I'm finding interesting and wish to share with you lovely people, be it music, poetry, art, or verbose opinionated trash (though hopefully not so much of the latter).

I am writing this blog, not primarily with the point of entertaining, but for my own welfare (I think), to both get things off my chest (because everyone needs a moan once in a while right?) and to get myself into the habit of writing every day, with a view to improving the coherence of my thoughts and to become more comfortable with my own writing. However, if I manage to entertain along the way, even better, right?

And finally, as for the name of this blog . . . well, you can come to your own conclusions.

Farewell

THIS IS NOT AN EXIT