Life really does have a hilarious way of letting you know that you're worthless and directionless, that your dreams are unattainable, that your talents are overrated, that your love life (as if) is laughable, and most of all, that the reason for all the aforementioned is that you are simply not good enough at what you do and how you live to matter.
In other news, it was uncharacteristically sunny in Hell today.
Bomb the Blogosphere,
Mike
Wednesday, February 28, 2007
Friday, February 23, 2007
"Your new aethetic"
It's one of those days.
One of those long, lonely nights that I sit through and think about how I'm utterly sick of writing poems with happy closing couplets.
I'm sick of investing hope in things that break too easily.
Like... people.
The "I am what I am, take me or leave me" philosophy isn't worth the bullshit its written in. Because you never what someone thinks of you, really. You never know what's whispered behind your back between chuckles at your flaws. You can't tell if your participation in a group of people is real or some kind of running joke shared between the select elite. I can't in good conscience name a single person at this fucking college that I am certain likes me for the person I am. Not for the things I say or the words that spill from behind my teeth or quivering pen onto page. Not for some fragile link, a connection via some rediculous common interest. A single person that thinks for just a fleeting moment, "I thoroughly enjoy time spent with Mike. He is a genuinely good friend."
And it isn't limited to within this environment, however God-forsaken. Friends from home move ahead in life, advancing towards tangible, goal-based futures. Creating relationships based on something like all that is left of what was once called love. Forging friendships and sailing unblinking into tomorrows brightly lit by life led without me. Where am I? What am I doing here? What makes up my tomorrows?
I'm sick of doubting.
And I'm sick of the turnpike stench and knowing that there isn't a corner of the globe I can huddle in to escape it.
Every city, every state is an imperfect reflection of the last. The paradigms and dynamics fall into place in ways the deviate frighteningly little from the known. The people occupying schools or streets: blurred shadows cast in the setting sun creating outlines on the pavement. Constant, consistent outlines. At least that's how it feels when you can't help but believe that you are so totally alone in your life experience. In my life experience.
Where's the life? Where is the beauty in character or personality besides lost behind synthetic emotion? The horror in symmetry. These are just aethetics. I am not a fucking print. I am not a fucking copy of the Mona Lisa that the poster store sells a hundred thousand of for $8.99 plus shipping. I breathe and I hurt and I long for company. For companionship. For love?
But is that what you want? A manakin that you can pose and manipulate and reinvent? Is that all we are? All we do? Faces in a tool chest. Filling roles and performing tricks.
This is what I get for being honest. For trying to embrace a life of minimal delusion and falsery. And yeah, I've said some fucked up things. I've made some fucked up choices. I've hurt a lot of feelings and maybe broken some spirits. But my perception does not define you! I don't claim to be law any more than I claim to be God. These vibes that I get- this instinct I trust my social conduct to- it's so tragically imperfect. But when I'm right I succeed. And when I'm wrong I fail. Isn't that just so beautifully "so it goes"?
And I've made a lot of mistakes.
I've been wrong about people before. I'm detached and defended against someone while being raped raw by another. I've had my spirit broken too. I've fucked up in letting myself be vulnerable before, and I keep doing it. Not for aesthetics. For honesty. And if who you know isn't who I am... I've lost myself.
This arrogance. This pretense. This is my aethetic. This is my defense.
One day maybe I'll learn to trust again.
Bomb the blogosphere,
Mike
One of those long, lonely nights that I sit through and think about how I'm utterly sick of writing poems with happy closing couplets.
I'm sick of investing hope in things that break too easily.
Like... people.
The "I am what I am, take me or leave me" philosophy isn't worth the bullshit its written in. Because you never what someone thinks of you, really. You never know what's whispered behind your back between chuckles at your flaws. You can't tell if your participation in a group of people is real or some kind of running joke shared between the select elite. I can't in good conscience name a single person at this fucking college that I am certain likes me for the person I am. Not for the things I say or the words that spill from behind my teeth or quivering pen onto page. Not for some fragile link, a connection via some rediculous common interest. A single person that thinks for just a fleeting moment, "I thoroughly enjoy time spent with Mike. He is a genuinely good friend."
And it isn't limited to within this environment, however God-forsaken. Friends from home move ahead in life, advancing towards tangible, goal-based futures. Creating relationships based on something like all that is left of what was once called love. Forging friendships and sailing unblinking into tomorrows brightly lit by life led without me. Where am I? What am I doing here? What makes up my tomorrows?
I'm sick of doubting.
And I'm sick of the turnpike stench and knowing that there isn't a corner of the globe I can huddle in to escape it.
Every city, every state is an imperfect reflection of the last. The paradigms and dynamics fall into place in ways the deviate frighteningly little from the known. The people occupying schools or streets: blurred shadows cast in the setting sun creating outlines on the pavement. Constant, consistent outlines. At least that's how it feels when you can't help but believe that you are so totally alone in your life experience. In my life experience.
Where's the life? Where is the beauty in character or personality besides lost behind synthetic emotion? The horror in symmetry. These are just aethetics. I am not a fucking print. I am not a fucking copy of the Mona Lisa that the poster store sells a hundred thousand of for $8.99 plus shipping. I breathe and I hurt and I long for company. For companionship. For love?
But is that what you want? A manakin that you can pose and manipulate and reinvent? Is that all we are? All we do? Faces in a tool chest. Filling roles and performing tricks.
This is what I get for being honest. For trying to embrace a life of minimal delusion and falsery. And yeah, I've said some fucked up things. I've made some fucked up choices. I've hurt a lot of feelings and maybe broken some spirits. But my perception does not define you! I don't claim to be law any more than I claim to be God. These vibes that I get- this instinct I trust my social conduct to- it's so tragically imperfect. But when I'm right I succeed. And when I'm wrong I fail. Isn't that just so beautifully "so it goes"?
And I've made a lot of mistakes.
I've been wrong about people before. I'm detached and defended against someone while being raped raw by another. I've had my spirit broken too. I've fucked up in letting myself be vulnerable before, and I keep doing it. Not for aesthetics. For honesty. And if who you know isn't who I am... I've lost myself.
This arrogance. This pretense. This is my aethetic. This is my defense.
One day maybe I'll learn to trust again.
Bomb the blogosphere,
Mike
Thursday, February 15, 2007
Blown a wish
You know, I have never had a valentine.
Just throwing that one out there.
I was doing better at updating regularly for a while, and now I'm back to slacking off again. Though, as usual, I have the "nothing to report" plea to fall back on. Valentine's Day this year brought with it some snow. Or rather, quite a lot of snow. Enough foul weather, in fact, to cancel all the classes at good ol' RCNJ. Good new, right? Sure. If it was any day but Wednesday. Mother Nature has a sick taste for irony, doesn't she? Piling us with snow on the one day of the week that I have a class I enjoy. It couldn't be tomorrow- rescuing me from an early math class in which a group project is due and a late Readings in Humanities class in which an essay is due. An essay that, of course, I have not yet begun. Typical, eh? Typical.
So in many senses, the bleak wintered stormy weathered Valentine's Day is oh-so appropriate. Like the coldness of my heart, emo-me says. But seriously, I can't stand Valentine's Day. I hate the idea of recognizing a holiday celebrated by a select population. It's like... a day for the people who are happy anyway to be extra happy and rub it in the faces of those who aren't. Let's all just celebrate how fucking happy we all are! Please. Sure I'm bitter. But I am so not alone in this.
I woke up this morning for long enough to check my email and make sure that I didn't have a class to prepare for. Then I rolled over for another good hour and a half. After finally getting up, showering, and dressing it was time to work on that math project. The one that's due tomorrow. We finished it up (and when I say "we", I really mean Ashley and Jess. I am so useless at math. I pretty much sat there and stole Ashley's music. I'm such a waste.) and parted ways.
Then I watched Eurotrip and chilled with some legit people (at Ramapo!) until around 6:30, at which point I had to make good on a promise I made to Casey a couple weeks ago. A promise that I'd accompany her on guitar while she sings "You Get Me" by Michelle Branch to Mark. So we did that and it was cute and sweet and adorable and "awwww"-inspiring. Yeah. Oh, how I hate you, St. Valentine.
So I went back and we ordered up some Chinese, hung out, and played Scene-It for a while. Afterwards we just talked about all aspects of life for.... for hours. It was seriously incredible. I'd missed that. It was really refreshing and I felt so welcomed. I can't really phrase anything without sounding lame so you'll have to trust me. Even without the typical ingredients to a good college time... I had fun.
"But you... but you... You write such pretty words."
But I guess there are worse things than being alone on Valentine's Day. Being single on Valentine's Day. Because there's all this promise, right? All. This. Hope. That maybe she's right around the corner or in the blind spot beneath my nose. Maybe she's staring me in the face but glancing away when I chance a look. Like we're taking turns flinching and missing each other. Or maybe she's waiting somewhere in the coming months. Here, home, elsewhere... Who knows? All I can say with some semblance of certainty is that she's out there somewhere. Somwhere watching the Earth turn and hoping that I'm out there. Counting stars in the same way we're all blown a wish on the wings of tomorrows and tomorrows and tomorrows.
Awfully romantic for being anti-V-Day, wouldn't you say?
Yeah. I guess I would too.
Bomb the Blogosphere,
Mike
Note: Today's title refers to "Blown a Wish" by My Bloody Valentine off the album Loveless. Ain't I clever?
Just throwing that one out there.
I was doing better at updating regularly for a while, and now I'm back to slacking off again. Though, as usual, I have the "nothing to report" plea to fall back on. Valentine's Day this year brought with it some snow. Or rather, quite a lot of snow. Enough foul weather, in fact, to cancel all the classes at good ol' RCNJ. Good new, right? Sure. If it was any day but Wednesday. Mother Nature has a sick taste for irony, doesn't she? Piling us with snow on the one day of the week that I have a class I enjoy. It couldn't be tomorrow- rescuing me from an early math class in which a group project is due and a late Readings in Humanities class in which an essay is due. An essay that, of course, I have not yet begun. Typical, eh? Typical.
So in many senses, the bleak wintered stormy weathered Valentine's Day is oh-so appropriate. Like the coldness of my heart, emo-me says. But seriously, I can't stand Valentine's Day. I hate the idea of recognizing a holiday celebrated by a select population. It's like... a day for the people who are happy anyway to be extra happy and rub it in the faces of those who aren't. Let's all just celebrate how fucking happy we all are! Please. Sure I'm bitter. But I am so not alone in this.
I woke up this morning for long enough to check my email and make sure that I didn't have a class to prepare for. Then I rolled over for another good hour and a half. After finally getting up, showering, and dressing it was time to work on that math project. The one that's due tomorrow. We finished it up (and when I say "we", I really mean Ashley and Jess. I am so useless at math. I pretty much sat there and stole Ashley's music. I'm such a waste.) and parted ways.
Then I watched Eurotrip and chilled with some legit people (at Ramapo!) until around 6:30, at which point I had to make good on a promise I made to Casey a couple weeks ago. A promise that I'd accompany her on guitar while she sings "You Get Me" by Michelle Branch to Mark. So we did that and it was cute and sweet and adorable and "awwww"-inspiring. Yeah. Oh, how I hate you, St. Valentine.
So I went back and we ordered up some Chinese, hung out, and played Scene-It for a while. Afterwards we just talked about all aspects of life for.... for hours. It was seriously incredible. I'd missed that. It was really refreshing and I felt so welcomed. I can't really phrase anything without sounding lame so you'll have to trust me. Even without the typical ingredients to a good college time... I had fun.
"But you... but you... You write such pretty words."
But I guess there are worse things than being alone on Valentine's Day. Being single on Valentine's Day. Because there's all this promise, right? All. This. Hope. That maybe she's right around the corner or in the blind spot beneath my nose. Maybe she's staring me in the face but glancing away when I chance a look. Like we're taking turns flinching and missing each other. Or maybe she's waiting somewhere in the coming months. Here, home, elsewhere... Who knows? All I can say with some semblance of certainty is that she's out there somewhere. Somwhere watching the Earth turn and hoping that I'm out there. Counting stars in the same way we're all blown a wish on the wings of tomorrows and tomorrows and tomorrows.
Awfully romantic for being anti-V-Day, wouldn't you say?
Yeah. I guess I would too.
Bomb the Blogosphere,
Mike
Note: Today's title refers to "Blown a Wish" by My Bloody Valentine off the album Loveless. Ain't I clever?
Thursday, February 08, 2007
I use the same words in every poem.
It seems as if the RSS feed that spoonfeeds this monster into facebook no longer works. It's just as well, really. I don't have too much of value to say these days. Watch though, I'll preface this blog as such and suddenly everything miraculously fixes itself and I look like a huge douchebag. Wouldn't be the first time.
My life varies only slightly from week to week. My "everything" seems to be a small array of unending cycles that spin round and round fluctuating only minutely from cycle to cycle. The thing is that they aren't cumulative. Nothing ever builds on itself or anything else. It's like Groundhog Week meets The Mike Stringer Show meets A Comedy of Errors. Good God, give me something to work with!
On the other hand, I'm writing lots of poetry. Lots of poetry that I'll actually look at and read without wincing. I'm happy about that despite my conscious rejection of the knowledge that you can't raise a family writing poems. And unless I plan on writing the great American novel, I can't expect prose to pay the bills either. Some people are good at math or science or something else that translates into an economically stable future. I end up being the starving artist. Though I suppose that the art comes from the pain which comes from the struggle. How's that for twisted?
Regardless, I both dread and eagerly await recieving the decision on my transfer application to Rutgers. It could be quite altering. Imagine losing a year... as I'd essentially be doing. Is it worth it? Is it really better there? One can only hope.
I remember talks I used to have with old friends about "real" people and "fake" people. But now it feels like the argument isn't so accessible anymore. I don't know these people. I make judgements and I end up being wrong. I get caught up in a whirlwind of being myself and trying to be likeable and I wonder... who am I to say who's "real" anymore. Am I even? I really sincerely hope so.
I've always been facinated by lying, the nature of falsehood, and bullshit. And I can't help but think that of all the things these people have told me - all this shit I've swallowed as fact - there's gotta be some bullshit in there. These are the things that I think about when I'm being introspective.
Maybe I should post some writing on this bitch.
Maybe.
Bomb the Blogosphere,
Mike
My life varies only slightly from week to week. My "everything" seems to be a small array of unending cycles that spin round and round fluctuating only minutely from cycle to cycle. The thing is that they aren't cumulative. Nothing ever builds on itself or anything else. It's like Groundhog Week meets The Mike Stringer Show meets A Comedy of Errors. Good God, give me something to work with!
On the other hand, I'm writing lots of poetry. Lots of poetry that I'll actually look at and read without wincing. I'm happy about that despite my conscious rejection of the knowledge that you can't raise a family writing poems. And unless I plan on writing the great American novel, I can't expect prose to pay the bills either. Some people are good at math or science or something else that translates into an economically stable future. I end up being the starving artist. Though I suppose that the art comes from the pain which comes from the struggle. How's that for twisted?
Regardless, I both dread and eagerly await recieving the decision on my transfer application to Rutgers. It could be quite altering. Imagine losing a year... as I'd essentially be doing. Is it worth it? Is it really better there? One can only hope.
I remember talks I used to have with old friends about "real" people and "fake" people. But now it feels like the argument isn't so accessible anymore. I don't know these people. I make judgements and I end up being wrong. I get caught up in a whirlwind of being myself and trying to be likeable and I wonder... who am I to say who's "real" anymore. Am I even? I really sincerely hope so.
I've always been facinated by lying, the nature of falsehood, and bullshit. And I can't help but think that of all the things these people have told me - all this shit I've swallowed as fact - there's gotta be some bullshit in there. These are the things that I think about when I'm being introspective.
Maybe I should post some writing on this bitch.
Maybe.
Bomb the Blogosphere,
Mike
Thursday, February 01, 2007
"Nothing feels good"
Interestingly, the sheets of paper on my dorm room door declare that "FM Stringer's Song of the Week" for this particular row of calendar squares is "Nothing Feels Good" by The Promise Ring. If you haven't heard the song, don't sweat it. You're in good company, I'm sure.
But yes, "Nothing Feels Good". Am I a champion of apropos song selection or what?
Please excuse the following. I'm rather fractured.
So I'm sitting in the dark with The Honorary Title blaring in my earbuds as my roommate flicks channels back and forth between "the Strongest Man in the World" competition and an interview with Bill Nye "the Science Guy" on CNN. CNN of all things! Oh... it's Larry King live. Never mind.
I have math class in six hours.
But see, the terrible irony in writing this thing is that the people who really should be reading it almost certainly are not. And she's done so much for me. Despite the cryptic conversation and speaking between intentions. Despite the months of hatred and miscommunication. Despite heated words and broken hearts. Despite time gone by... I still bleed for you. I sing your graces between swigs of the Captain because, let's face it, that's when we're at our most honest. And our most vulnerable. I read that poets drink not to make the pain go away... but to fuel it. To remind ourselves that we're alive. And my best poetry is about you.
Even though there are few moments that go by in which I don't pray for someone beautiful to glide into my life in skinny jeans and flats (holla Rick)... even though my most magnificent dreams feature some- some angel brushing her bangs out of her atlantic blue eyes and asking me if I'm into Okkervil River... even though I can't think of what I wouldn't give to love and be loved again...
I think that on the back burners of my brain simmers the lukewarm hope that you'll take me back.
But I'm being silly.
And it's time that I put these absurdist fantasies to rest and start running the singles gambit again. Because kissing girls in dark rooms before stumbling back to my own is only worth so much. It's the conversation that carries the most value. The giggles between butterfly kisses. The comfort. The cuddling. The needlessness of libido.
What it comes down to isn't anything profound. This isn't an entry in which I, in all pretentiousness, unleash upon whoever fucking reads this my worldly pretty-talk and smirking quirks. This is putting down in text how truly alone I feel.
One day I'll make a living being vulnerable. One day maybe you'll take advantage of me. One day maybe you'll rape me and leave me battered and broken. But I'll get up. And I'll write. And I'll make a living being vulnerable.
But for now... this is me feeling lonely.
Math class can go fuck itself. Really.
But then
It's been 26 hours since my last cigarette so I guess things are, in some strange way, looking up.
Bomb the Blogosphere,
Mike
But yes, "Nothing Feels Good". Am I a champion of apropos song selection or what?
Please excuse the following. I'm rather fractured.
So I'm sitting in the dark with The Honorary Title blaring in my earbuds as my roommate flicks channels back and forth between "the Strongest Man in the World" competition and an interview with Bill Nye "the Science Guy" on CNN. CNN of all things! Oh... it's Larry King live. Never mind.
I have math class in six hours.
But see, the terrible irony in writing this thing is that the people who really should be reading it almost certainly are not. And she's done so much for me. Despite the cryptic conversation and speaking between intentions. Despite the months of hatred and miscommunication. Despite heated words and broken hearts. Despite time gone by... I still bleed for you. I sing your graces between swigs of the Captain because, let's face it, that's when we're at our most honest. And our most vulnerable. I read that poets drink not to make the pain go away... but to fuel it. To remind ourselves that we're alive. And my best poetry is about you.
Even though there are few moments that go by in which I don't pray for someone beautiful to glide into my life in skinny jeans and flats (holla Rick)... even though my most magnificent dreams feature some- some angel brushing her bangs out of her atlantic blue eyes and asking me if I'm into Okkervil River... even though I can't think of what I wouldn't give to love and be loved again...
I think that on the back burners of my brain simmers the lukewarm hope that you'll take me back.
But I'm being silly.
And it's time that I put these absurdist fantasies to rest and start running the singles gambit again. Because kissing girls in dark rooms before stumbling back to my own is only worth so much. It's the conversation that carries the most value. The giggles between butterfly kisses. The comfort. The cuddling. The needlessness of libido.
What it comes down to isn't anything profound. This isn't an entry in which I, in all pretentiousness, unleash upon whoever fucking reads this my worldly pretty-talk and smirking quirks. This is putting down in text how truly alone I feel.
One day I'll make a living being vulnerable. One day maybe you'll take advantage of me. One day maybe you'll rape me and leave me battered and broken. But I'll get up. And I'll write. And I'll make a living being vulnerable.
But for now... this is me feeling lonely.
Math class can go fuck itself. Really.
But then
It's been 26 hours since my last cigarette so I guess things are, in some strange way, looking up.
Bomb the Blogosphere,
Mike
Monday, January 29, 2007
Fingerpainting
Almost as if to illuminate my miserable inability to achieve closure and the new beginnings which follow, I find myself prefixing an unhealthy number of sentences with "and" or "so."
Just food for thought.
I'll let you chew on that for a moment.
Okay.
There isn't a whole hell of a lot to report, truth be told, sans the boring rehash of the goings-on in my life. But I guess that there are worse things. This past weekend was largely pleasant and Eric's visit was most welcome, as was the assurance that the past six months or so haven't been the product of my growing maddness therein. It was fun to decline responsibility for a night- just saturate and let come what may. I don't get to do that often. And probably for good reason. We went to New York and that always manages to put me someplace magical for a while. The lights and sounds and people. It's the second greatest city on Earth. Second, of course, to London... which is only so great because I've never been there. And until I do it will continue to simply be the flawless depiction of class and zeal that I've scrawled -nay- haphazardly fingerpainted on the canvas of my mind.
There are so many places I've never been.
And then there's this thing I do with isolated lines. You know, when I'm saying something that I think is significant, worldly, quotable, or wise. Is it really as effective in accentuating a thought as I think it is?
Is it?
Or perhaps it's just useful in creating a tempo, pauses and moments implying their passage, in the piece. Are we having a conversation, dear reader? A depressingly one-sided conversation? Have I effectively made it so that my monologuing is compelling and theatrical?
I'm probably pretty unbearable to read or even talk to when I'm being cynical. Whatevs. This morning I had math class, another 90 minutes piled atop a mountain of time wasted trying fruitlessly to learn how to think in numbers. I'm a mathematical lost cause. Maybe when I die they'll observe my brain to find some rare tumor only present in the grey matter of those weirdos who'd rather write an essay than do long division. Okay, maybe a slight exaggeration. I'm actually pretty fucking good at long division.
Afterwards I opted not to go back to sleep in hopes of limiting my hours as an insomniac - a stupid decision considering that tonight is 24 night and I don't have class tomorrow. So I could theoretically stay up as late as I want, watching movies or something equally useless. So once again my good intentions are trumped and my eyelids are getting heavy. It's not even 1pm yet. I think I'm hypersomniac.
Or a hypochondiac. Hm.
Bomb the blogosphere,
Mike
PS. I can't figure out if I should capitalize "blogosphere". I suppose it is a proper noun. Fuck.
Just food for thought.
I'll let you chew on that for a moment.
Okay.
There isn't a whole hell of a lot to report, truth be told, sans the boring rehash of the goings-on in my life. But I guess that there are worse things. This past weekend was largely pleasant and Eric's visit was most welcome, as was the assurance that the past six months or so haven't been the product of my growing maddness therein. It was fun to decline responsibility for a night- just saturate and let come what may. I don't get to do that often. And probably for good reason. We went to New York and that always manages to put me someplace magical for a while. The lights and sounds and people. It's the second greatest city on Earth. Second, of course, to London... which is only so great because I've never been there. And until I do it will continue to simply be the flawless depiction of class and zeal that I've scrawled -nay- haphazardly fingerpainted on the canvas of my mind.
There are so many places I've never been.
And then there's this thing I do with isolated lines. You know, when I'm saying something that I think is significant, worldly, quotable, or wise. Is it really as effective in accentuating a thought as I think it is?
Is it?
Or perhaps it's just useful in creating a tempo, pauses and moments implying their passage, in the piece. Are we having a conversation, dear reader? A depressingly one-sided conversation? Have I effectively made it so that my monologuing is compelling and theatrical?
I'm probably pretty unbearable to read or even talk to when I'm being cynical. Whatevs. This morning I had math class, another 90 minutes piled atop a mountain of time wasted trying fruitlessly to learn how to think in numbers. I'm a mathematical lost cause. Maybe when I die they'll observe my brain to find some rare tumor only present in the grey matter of those weirdos who'd rather write an essay than do long division. Okay, maybe a slight exaggeration. I'm actually pretty fucking good at long division.
Afterwards I opted not to go back to sleep in hopes of limiting my hours as an insomniac - a stupid decision considering that tonight is 24 night and I don't have class tomorrow. So I could theoretically stay up as late as I want, watching movies or something equally useless. So once again my good intentions are trumped and my eyelids are getting heavy. It's not even 1pm yet. I think I'm hypersomniac.
Or a hypochondiac. Hm.
Bomb the blogosphere,
Mike
PS. I can't figure out if I should capitalize "blogosphere". I suppose it is a proper noun. Fuck.
Sunday, January 21, 2007
Everyone sells out
So lately I've been in between dreams, scheming and seeing nothing through. Running around in circles and wondering why the scenery isn't changing. Shit goes wrong and shit goes right but in the long run they're really nothing more than potholes in the long road to the middle. My aspirations to mediocrity.
I've been occupying my time doing things with the purpose of making the hands tick by faster. I've accomplished damn near nothing. I am unmotivated. I am uninspired. I am utterly utterly unoriginal.
"I like too many things and get all confused and hung-up running from one falling star to another till I drop. This is the night, what it does to you. I had nothing to offer anybody except my own confusion."
Jack Kerouac was never wrong about anything.
My creative writing course is going to be a lot more difficult than I had originally expected and it seems that this whole semester is going to be one big failure after another. Everything I've written since the first meeting of the class is complete and total garbage, melodramatic slobber that drips from the page like kisses wet with tears. Utter. Emo. Shit. I'm trying too hard. That's really what it is. I want so badly to scribe something enlightening and... fuckin'... important that I'm selling out in the worst of ways. I'm trying to write good poetry. I'm trying to produce something utterly synthetic and sell it as philosophy. I'm a fucking scenester. I hate people like me.
In between writing stanzas better suited for boys with feathered hair and girl's jeans than the intellectual elite I'm ignoring my other work and trying to subscribe to a work-out regiment. So I'm trying to look better before swimsuit season. Fucking sellout.
And as sick as I am of the whole "Waahh, I'm upper middle class white with feelings and no one understands them" mentality, I can't help relate. It's this cancerous feeling of not belonging in the pit of my stomach.
Where's my golden girl?
"The only people for me are the mad ones. The ones who are mad to love, mad to talk, mad to be saved; the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn like fabulous yellow Roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars."
You know you've hit a new plateau of lameness when you snag quotes from your facebook profile to convey tone in your blog - which incidently has an RSS feed with facebook and loads all blog entries into the page's "notes" section.
Christ.
Bomb the blogosphere,
Mike
In honor of High Fidelity:
My Top 5...
Pump-Up Songs
5. "Invalid Litter Dept." by At the Drive-In (tie)
5. "Post Script" by Finch (tie)
4. "Timberwolves of New Jersey" by Taking Back Sunday
3. "Amphetamine" by Everclear
2. "Let's Go" by Trick Daddy ft. Lil Jon and Twista
1. "Victoria's Secret" by Sonata Arctica (don't knock it 'til you try it)
Honorable Mention:
"Fight Club Theme" by Nine Inch Nails
"Theme Song of a New Brunswick Basement Show" by Lifetime
I've been occupying my time doing things with the purpose of making the hands tick by faster. I've accomplished damn near nothing. I am unmotivated. I am uninspired. I am utterly utterly unoriginal.
"I like too many things and get all confused and hung-up running from one falling star to another till I drop. This is the night, what it does to you. I had nothing to offer anybody except my own confusion."
Jack Kerouac was never wrong about anything.
My creative writing course is going to be a lot more difficult than I had originally expected and it seems that this whole semester is going to be one big failure after another. Everything I've written since the first meeting of the class is complete and total garbage, melodramatic slobber that drips from the page like kisses wet with tears. Utter. Emo. Shit. I'm trying too hard. That's really what it is. I want so badly to scribe something enlightening and... fuckin'... important that I'm selling out in the worst of ways. I'm trying to write good poetry. I'm trying to produce something utterly synthetic and sell it as philosophy. I'm a fucking scenester. I hate people like me.
In between writing stanzas better suited for boys with feathered hair and girl's jeans than the intellectual elite I'm ignoring my other work and trying to subscribe to a work-out regiment. So I'm trying to look better before swimsuit season. Fucking sellout.
And as sick as I am of the whole "Waahh, I'm upper middle class white with feelings and no one understands them" mentality, I can't help relate. It's this cancerous feeling of not belonging in the pit of my stomach.
Where's my golden girl?
"The only people for me are the mad ones. The ones who are mad to love, mad to talk, mad to be saved; the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn like fabulous yellow Roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars."
You know you've hit a new plateau of lameness when you snag quotes from your facebook profile to convey tone in your blog - which incidently has an RSS feed with facebook and loads all blog entries into the page's "notes" section.
Christ.
Bomb the blogosphere,
Mike
In honor of High Fidelity:
My Top 5...
Pump-Up Songs
5. "Invalid Litter Dept." by At the Drive-In (tie)
5. "Post Script" by Finch (tie)
4. "Timberwolves of New Jersey" by Taking Back Sunday
3. "Amphetamine" by Everclear
2. "Let's Go" by Trick Daddy ft. Lil Jon and Twista
1. "Victoria's Secret" by Sonata Arctica (don't knock it 'til you try it)
Honorable Mention:
"Fight Club Theme" by Nine Inch Nails
"Theme Song of a New Brunswick Basement Show" by Lifetime
Thursday, January 11, 2007
"Always ten feet tall"
So winter break, in all its ups and downs, draws to a close as friends trickle down the Parkway or some other more interstate superhighway and I find myself whiling away the evening hours alone... again.
Such is the end of anything though, I suppose. But I'm beginning to really believe it's true that it's better to burn out than it is to fade away. At least then you don't have to worry about the weekends spent in limbo... in fumbling preparation for closure. It's just, poof, concluded. I guess that's not the way the world works though. And what kind of mixtape would my life be without transitional sequences, right? right.
Everyone is all "God, I can't wait to get back to RU!" or "Man, my homies at Harvard must be missin' my gangsta ass." Even facebook statuses proclaim a longing for Universities missed and friends missing. Brittney is MiSsIn hEr RaMaPoOo gUrLeEz! lol!!1 <333
Christ.
Everyone.
Everyone.
Everyone... and yet the funny thing about it is how easy it is for me to get comfortable. With people, with places, with habits, with whatever. But I'm thinking that when you get rooted so easily, constant upheavals... constant instances of uprootedness weaken your grip. Weaken my grip.
Elipses imply uncertainty. Almost always.
As often, at least, as they imply a presence of the unspoken.
Just pause to add your own intentions. Right here.
...
Feel better? Neither you nor I, dear reader, will ever be able to, respectively, read between those dots. So fuck 'em. Fuck 'em all.
Oh, home. Which house is yours?
Bomb the blogosphere,
Mike
...
Such is the end of anything though, I suppose. But I'm beginning to really believe it's true that it's better to burn out than it is to fade away. At least then you don't have to worry about the weekends spent in limbo... in fumbling preparation for closure. It's just, poof, concluded. I guess that's not the way the world works though. And what kind of mixtape would my life be without transitional sequences, right? right.
Everyone is all "God, I can't wait to get back to RU!" or "Man, my homies at Harvard must be missin' my gangsta ass." Even facebook statuses proclaim a longing for Universities missed and friends missing. Brittney is MiSsIn hEr RaMaPoOo gUrLeEz! lol!!1 <333
Christ.
Everyone.
Everyone.
Everyone... and yet the funny thing about it is how easy it is for me to get comfortable. With people, with places, with habits, with whatever. But I'm thinking that when you get rooted so easily, constant upheavals... constant instances of uprootedness weaken your grip. Weaken my grip.
Elipses imply uncertainty. Almost always.
As often, at least, as they imply a presence of the unspoken.
Just pause to add your own intentions. Right here.
...
Feel better? Neither you nor I, dear reader, will ever be able to, respectively, read between those dots. So fuck 'em. Fuck 'em all.
Oh, home. Which house is yours?
Bomb the blogosphere,
Mike
...
Monday, January 01, 2007
"So this is the new year"
And, really, I don't feel any different.
So this is the new year.
And I don't feel any different.
The clanking of crystal
Explosions off in the distance.
It's truly been one hell of year. I pretty much did all of the obligatory recapping in my last entry, detailing friendships made and friendships kept. I talked about my classes and about my friends. Nothing much has really changed since then except that I learned just how right I was about everyone. Winter break shared with old friends has been less a breath of fresh air than a desperate gasp. I don't know if it's healthy to cling to the accostomed to with such ferocity - and I know even less if I'm even going to let it bother me.
Granted, I miss my friends from college too. It's two different worlds really. And I was never terribly good at juggling.
So this is the new year
And I have no resolutions
For self-assigned penance
For problems with easy solutions.
But this isn't about last year. This isn't about Bava house parties or Harvard or Europe or Prom or Graduation or Summer of '06 or my first semester away from home. This isn't about mistakes made or questionable decision making. This isn't nostalgia and this certainly isn't about regret.
"We are nowhere and it's now."
And what really matter in these first hours of 2007 is the twelve empty pages of calendar days ahead. It's impossible to tell where I'll be in 365 days. I couldn't tell you now if i'll be enrolled in Ramapo or Rutgers. I couldn't tell you if I'll be single or in a relationship or madly in love. I couldn't tell you now if I'll still be making music in the wee hours of the night, seeking solace in the satisfaction of independent accomplishment. I don't know if I'll be drunk or sober, stoned or sitting by the window, dreaming. Maybe in a year I won't be listening to Death Cab or Bright Eyes. Maybe I will be. I couldn't tell you now what will have unfolded or changed or fallen apart or been built. I couldn't tell you. All I really know is that in 365 days I'll be here, typing about how I don't feel any different. But I will be.
So everybody put your best suit or dress on
Let's make believe that we are wealthy for just this once
Lighting firecrackers off on the front lawn
As thirty dialogues bleed into one.
New Years resolutions are for people who need some empty promise to motivate them in rectifying something about themselves that they or their partner find troublesome.
This year, I do not resolve to lose weight. I do not resolve to go to the gym more or to do extra crunches to trim baggage off because I'm supposed to want to. I do not resolve to make more of an effort to talk to girls or to be friendly to everyone. I'm probably not going to join a club. I don't promise that this time next year I'll be self-crafted out of stone. I have neither an iron will nor a shallow heart. I don't resolve to lay off the liquor or stay off cigarettes. I won't allow myself to be governed by anything like it.
This year, I will sing whatever tunes is in my head and blaze whatever trail leads to where I want to be. I will keep my friends close and my enemies far far away. I will contribute to conversation in a lively and effervescent manner. I will laugh obnoxiously and, grinning, tell stories. I will play my guitar as loud as it'll go. And I might play out of key. I'll live. I'll be.
I wish the world was flat like the old days
Then I could travel just by folding a map
No more airplanes, or speedtrains, or freeways
There'd be no distance that can hold us back.
New Year's Eve is the most popular suicide night of the calendar year.
And we're all still here. We've got clean slates and another handful of weeks to accomplish and experience and to fall in love. We've got clear sailing. We've got blue skies 'til morning.
There'll be no distance that can hold us back.
Bomb the Blogosphere,
Mike
Lyric Credit "The New Year" by Death Cab for Cutie
So this is the new year.
And I don't feel any different.
The clanking of crystal
Explosions off in the distance.
It's truly been one hell of year. I pretty much did all of the obligatory recapping in my last entry, detailing friendships made and friendships kept. I talked about my classes and about my friends. Nothing much has really changed since then except that I learned just how right I was about everyone. Winter break shared with old friends has been less a breath of fresh air than a desperate gasp. I don't know if it's healthy to cling to the accostomed to with such ferocity - and I know even less if I'm even going to let it bother me.
Granted, I miss my friends from college too. It's two different worlds really. And I was never terribly good at juggling.
So this is the new year
And I have no resolutions
For self-assigned penance
For problems with easy solutions.
But this isn't about last year. This isn't about Bava house parties or Harvard or Europe or Prom or Graduation or Summer of '06 or my first semester away from home. This isn't about mistakes made or questionable decision making. This isn't nostalgia and this certainly isn't about regret.
"We are nowhere and it's now."
And what really matter in these first hours of 2007 is the twelve empty pages of calendar days ahead. It's impossible to tell where I'll be in 365 days. I couldn't tell you now if i'll be enrolled in Ramapo or Rutgers. I couldn't tell you if I'll be single or in a relationship or madly in love. I couldn't tell you now if I'll still be making music in the wee hours of the night, seeking solace in the satisfaction of independent accomplishment. I don't know if I'll be drunk or sober, stoned or sitting by the window, dreaming. Maybe in a year I won't be listening to Death Cab or Bright Eyes. Maybe I will be. I couldn't tell you now what will have unfolded or changed or fallen apart or been built. I couldn't tell you. All I really know is that in 365 days I'll be here, typing about how I don't feel any different. But I will be.
So everybody put your best suit or dress on
Let's make believe that we are wealthy for just this once
Lighting firecrackers off on the front lawn
As thirty dialogues bleed into one.
New Years resolutions are for people who need some empty promise to motivate them in rectifying something about themselves that they or their partner find troublesome.
This year, I do not resolve to lose weight. I do not resolve to go to the gym more or to do extra crunches to trim baggage off because I'm supposed to want to. I do not resolve to make more of an effort to talk to girls or to be friendly to everyone. I'm probably not going to join a club. I don't promise that this time next year I'll be self-crafted out of stone. I have neither an iron will nor a shallow heart. I don't resolve to lay off the liquor or stay off cigarettes. I won't allow myself to be governed by anything like it.
This year, I will sing whatever tunes is in my head and blaze whatever trail leads to where I want to be. I will keep my friends close and my enemies far far away. I will contribute to conversation in a lively and effervescent manner. I will laugh obnoxiously and, grinning, tell stories. I will play my guitar as loud as it'll go. And I might play out of key. I'll live. I'll be.
I wish the world was flat like the old days
Then I could travel just by folding a map
No more airplanes, or speedtrains, or freeways
There'd be no distance that can hold us back.
New Year's Eve is the most popular suicide night of the calendar year.
And we're all still here. We've got clean slates and another handful of weeks to accomplish and experience and to fall in love. We've got clear sailing. We've got blue skies 'til morning.
There'll be no distance that can hold us back.
Bomb the Blogosphere,
Mike
Lyric Credit "The New Year" by Death Cab for Cutie
Thursday, December 14, 2006
Unearthing clues to where the wild things went
At 3:44am on what is technically a Thursday morning I suppose it's fairly safe to say that I have nothing better to do than compose and hopefully publish a blog entry. I can sleep when I'm dead.
So it seems that a semester come is a semester gone, predictably quickly when counting in college minutes. There are a whole lot of things to think about and reflect on after having experienced something as new and unusual as one's first couple monthes away from home. One's first real experience with self reliance and responsibility. So what better a time and a medium for expressing such sentiments than here and now? I can't think of any, and I'll be damned if you can either.
College courses are interesting to say the very least. My week began at 8am on Monday morning with Professor Janusko's smiling, or grimacing, ol' mug. The thing is though, I didn't really mind getting up early after a busy weekend for English class. It was structured in such a way that it was easy to settle into and get used to. There weren't any surprises. Just 20 or so minutes of discussion, 20 or so minutes of freewriting and 20 or so minutes of sharing what we've written. Somewhere in there was a rant and a tangent, but for the most part they were interesting and enlightening. Additionally, Rob J's sense of humor was unparalleled as far as any teacher I've ever had is concerned. Somehow he managed to see the comedy in my half-asleep rants about Frederick Douglass or my masterpiece composition detailing a 6-step method for women to defy the tyranny of men. That's great. Finally, an english teacher with an appreciation for individual style, one who doesn't expect his student to conform to his ideals. Refreshing. I'll miss him.
Feizi's Bio class was Bio, there's nothing more that can really be said. 90 minutes twice a week of him talking at us in his Iranian accent, trying and failing miserably to accurately pronounce and spell the words whose definition he was trying to convey. But still, he had a personality to him that made him more than likeable. Especially when he told everyone to stop smoking cigarettes and start smoking marijuana. That was great.
American Studies was my least favorite class for several reasons. First was the professor. She did not like me. I don't know if she didn't like me because I wasn't a radical feminist, because I wasn't a minority, because I'm male, or because I refused to simply agree with the dumbass opinions she had about everything. Second, I considered myself liberal upon entering Ramapo. Leaving that Am Studies class I felt neo-conservative. A direct quote from one of the lovely future Political Science majors here at Ramapo: "We should really just redistribute the wealth so that everyone is equal. Then there won't be so many problems with like, poverty and stuff." Huh. Someone slap me next time I accidently register for Communism 101. Seriously. I have no idea what my final grade will be in that course but I'm pretty sure I don't care. I have bigger things to worry about than some woman who gets her jollies out of penalizing students for thinking for themselves.
Leadership Skills meant John Yao. John Yao is the man. The class was painfully short for the amount of material available, so I really hope they consider that for the next time they run it.
First Year Seminar. New York. I couldn't possibly have more mixed feelings than I do now, writing about this class. It's one of those things that you absolutely hate and can't stop talking shit about until it's all over and done with and you realize how much you learned and got out of it. I'd never written a 15 page research paper on a neighborhood before. I'd never written, directed, shot, cut, produced, and presented an amateur film before. I'd never scoured the streets of Manhattan in a desperate attempt to find some random-ass coffee shop's name. But I have now. And I'm seriously all the better for it. I've fallen in love with Manhattan, all its opportunities and all that it stands for. In addition, I've met some of the coolest people here at the 'po through this course. Ali and Jess, who scared me with their zaniness on that first walking tour. Sean and his infinite insight and honesty. Noah and his stellar taste in music. Val. Susie. Trina. Elisa. Sam. Heather. Kevin. Yes, Kevin. Everyone added something fantastic and facinating to my first semester here. And if I didn't mention your name here explicitly you probably had such a profound effect on me that that particular part of my brain is numb.
Yeah.
People are important in life.
And here I guess I can say I've met some sweet ones. Keith, Brian, Mark, Kim, Casey, Jenny, Jill, Ryan, Ali, Jess, Justin, et cetera et cetera et cetera. The list could go on for quite a while longer but it's tragically limited by my laziness. Everyone contributed to the flavor of these past few monthes. We've been through great times. We've been through shit times. But as lame as it sounds, we weathered them together. So whatever. You kids are fuckin' cool.
And still, I miss my crew from home more and more every day. Every joke, song or movie seems to remind me of something awesome shared by one or more of us back in Freehold, 'Nallypan, Mar'boro, or Howell. I miss driving aimlessly North and South on Route 9, knowing no other directions or deviations. I miss chilling at the Bava castle or scarfing half-priced appetizers at Applebee's post-10pm. I fucking miss Wawa. It's impossible to imagine a life without Steve, Mike, Eric, Kristen, Christie, Bryan, Nicole^2, Dan, Jim, John, and everyone else. So I dunno. The Rutgers transfer application sits on my desk unfinished and I couldn't really tell you what next year, or even next semester brings in those terms. And I think I'll die if I don't see my drama homies from high school. My life needs some Dustin, Boasi, Egizi, Brent, Buccheri and Yodice lovin' in it. Some lovin' I intent to secure over break.
Love at Ramapo is, thus far, unseen and growing unbelieved in. Everyone constantly tells me that she'll walk into my life the second I stop looking, but I find this silly and terribly unrealistic. I sometimes wonder what I could change about myself to make me more accessible, to become that guy I want, that everyone wants, to be or know or be close to. I believe in knowing thyself. And I believe in making thyself. Still. Vision is so easily blurred, you know. Direction is so easily... misdirected. Despite this, I talk a big enough talk in my lectures to Jimmy and such that I suppose it's time that I myself started holding my head up higher. Besides, how can one see all there is to see with his head fixed on his feet? I guess he can't. And I guess I haven't been. New Years resolutions are only worth so much, but a little goes a long way in this crazy mixed up world of intangible currencies.
But I have found passion at Ramapo. Slam poetry has consumed me and fills every blank page slid in front of me. Next semester I'll be taking TOPICS: Advanced Creative Writing (skipping the initial Creative Writing course entirely, in my infinite wisdom) so that should either make or break me. Maybe we'll all see the beginnings of that novel I've been putting off. Maybe I'll finally share the shit I DO have. Maybe. We'll see.
So that brings me to now. 4:23am. But not feeling any earlier or later. Like our time together, me and this machine, was spent in some rift in time. Independent of anything more than the topic at hand. Venting. Recovery. It felt good, and this shit ran a lot longer than I thought it would. I have no doubt that spelling and gramatical errors run abound. But I'm pretty sure I don't care, and if you do... well. I'm pretty sure I don't care about that either.
Happy Holidays to all, and to all a Good Morning...
Bomb the Blogosphere,
Mike
So it seems that a semester come is a semester gone, predictably quickly when counting in college minutes. There are a whole lot of things to think about and reflect on after having experienced something as new and unusual as one's first couple monthes away from home. One's first real experience with self reliance and responsibility. So what better a time and a medium for expressing such sentiments than here and now? I can't think of any, and I'll be damned if you can either.
College courses are interesting to say the very least. My week began at 8am on Monday morning with Professor Janusko's smiling, or grimacing, ol' mug. The thing is though, I didn't really mind getting up early after a busy weekend for English class. It was structured in such a way that it was easy to settle into and get used to. There weren't any surprises. Just 20 or so minutes of discussion, 20 or so minutes of freewriting and 20 or so minutes of sharing what we've written. Somewhere in there was a rant and a tangent, but for the most part they were interesting and enlightening. Additionally, Rob J's sense of humor was unparalleled as far as any teacher I've ever had is concerned. Somehow he managed to see the comedy in my half-asleep rants about Frederick Douglass or my masterpiece composition detailing a 6-step method for women to defy the tyranny of men. That's great. Finally, an english teacher with an appreciation for individual style, one who doesn't expect his student to conform to his ideals. Refreshing. I'll miss him.
Feizi's Bio class was Bio, there's nothing more that can really be said. 90 minutes twice a week of him talking at us in his Iranian accent, trying and failing miserably to accurately pronounce and spell the words whose definition he was trying to convey. But still, he had a personality to him that made him more than likeable. Especially when he told everyone to stop smoking cigarettes and start smoking marijuana. That was great.
American Studies was my least favorite class for several reasons. First was the professor. She did not like me. I don't know if she didn't like me because I wasn't a radical feminist, because I wasn't a minority, because I'm male, or because I refused to simply agree with the dumbass opinions she had about everything. Second, I considered myself liberal upon entering Ramapo. Leaving that Am Studies class I felt neo-conservative. A direct quote from one of the lovely future Political Science majors here at Ramapo: "We should really just redistribute the wealth so that everyone is equal. Then there won't be so many problems with like, poverty and stuff." Huh. Someone slap me next time I accidently register for Communism 101. Seriously. I have no idea what my final grade will be in that course but I'm pretty sure I don't care. I have bigger things to worry about than some woman who gets her jollies out of penalizing students for thinking for themselves.
Leadership Skills meant John Yao. John Yao is the man. The class was painfully short for the amount of material available, so I really hope they consider that for the next time they run it.
First Year Seminar. New York. I couldn't possibly have more mixed feelings than I do now, writing about this class. It's one of those things that you absolutely hate and can't stop talking shit about until it's all over and done with and you realize how much you learned and got out of it. I'd never written a 15 page research paper on a neighborhood before. I'd never written, directed, shot, cut, produced, and presented an amateur film before. I'd never scoured the streets of Manhattan in a desperate attempt to find some random-ass coffee shop's name. But I have now. And I'm seriously all the better for it. I've fallen in love with Manhattan, all its opportunities and all that it stands for. In addition, I've met some of the coolest people here at the 'po through this course. Ali and Jess, who scared me with their zaniness on that first walking tour. Sean and his infinite insight and honesty. Noah and his stellar taste in music. Val. Susie. Trina. Elisa. Sam. Heather. Kevin. Yes, Kevin. Everyone added something fantastic and facinating to my first semester here. And if I didn't mention your name here explicitly you probably had such a profound effect on me that that particular part of my brain is numb.
Yeah.
People are important in life.
And here I guess I can say I've met some sweet ones. Keith, Brian, Mark, Kim, Casey, Jenny, Jill, Ryan, Ali, Jess, Justin, et cetera et cetera et cetera. The list could go on for quite a while longer but it's tragically limited by my laziness. Everyone contributed to the flavor of these past few monthes. We've been through great times. We've been through shit times. But as lame as it sounds, we weathered them together. So whatever. You kids are fuckin' cool.
And still, I miss my crew from home more and more every day. Every joke, song or movie seems to remind me of something awesome shared by one or more of us back in Freehold, 'Nallypan, Mar'boro, or Howell. I miss driving aimlessly North and South on Route 9, knowing no other directions or deviations. I miss chilling at the Bava castle or scarfing half-priced appetizers at Applebee's post-10pm. I fucking miss Wawa. It's impossible to imagine a life without Steve, Mike, Eric, Kristen, Christie, Bryan, Nicole^2, Dan, Jim, John, and everyone else. So I dunno. The Rutgers transfer application sits on my desk unfinished and I couldn't really tell you what next year, or even next semester brings in those terms. And I think I'll die if I don't see my drama homies from high school. My life needs some Dustin, Boasi, Egizi, Brent, Buccheri and Yodice lovin' in it. Some lovin' I intent to secure over break.
Love at Ramapo is, thus far, unseen and growing unbelieved in. Everyone constantly tells me that she'll walk into my life the second I stop looking, but I find this silly and terribly unrealistic. I sometimes wonder what I could change about myself to make me more accessible, to become that guy I want, that everyone wants, to be or know or be close to. I believe in knowing thyself. And I believe in making thyself. Still. Vision is so easily blurred, you know. Direction is so easily... misdirected. Despite this, I talk a big enough talk in my lectures to Jimmy and such that I suppose it's time that I myself started holding my head up higher. Besides, how can one see all there is to see with his head fixed on his feet? I guess he can't. And I guess I haven't been. New Years resolutions are only worth so much, but a little goes a long way in this crazy mixed up world of intangible currencies.
But I have found passion at Ramapo. Slam poetry has consumed me and fills every blank page slid in front of me. Next semester I'll be taking TOPICS: Advanced Creative Writing (skipping the initial Creative Writing course entirely, in my infinite wisdom) so that should either make or break me. Maybe we'll all see the beginnings of that novel I've been putting off. Maybe I'll finally share the shit I DO have. Maybe. We'll see.
So that brings me to now. 4:23am. But not feeling any earlier or later. Like our time together, me and this machine, was spent in some rift in time. Independent of anything more than the topic at hand. Venting. Recovery. It felt good, and this shit ran a lot longer than I thought it would. I have no doubt that spelling and gramatical errors run abound. But I'm pretty sure I don't care, and if you do... well. I'm pretty sure I don't care about that either.
Happy Holidays to all, and to all a Good Morning...
Bomb the Blogosphere,
Mike
Tuesday, November 21, 2006
Tryptophan, baby
I have, for as long as I can remember, considered Thanksgiving an overcommercialized slab of purposeless slobber. I thought, "What could possibly be the value in a celebration recognized only by Americans - one of the few days of the year that we all stop bitching and reassess our positions in life, recognizing really how lucky we are." This internal statement was often responded to with the further internal sentiment "fuck that." It takes a serious uprooting, a change in circumstance, to force those such as myself to take inventory of our blessings and give thanks to all those who deserve it. Every year we would go around the dinner table and say what we are thankful for. For me, and I'm sure I'm not alone here, such a practice was more an excercize in convincing bullshittery than anything else. As I've alluded to, however, something about this year is different. And what better a forum for expressing my gratification than to the millions who populate the internet at a given second? So allow me to waste a little more of your time, dear reader, and give credit where credit is due. Maybe this way I'll provide, at least for myself, some substance to what before now has just been a square on the calendar. I am thankful for these things:
Ramapo Friends - While my definition, and indeed the list of those who compile this list is constanly changing, I am nevertheless thankful for all that you have done to/for me. There are times when lonliness can be a big big bitch, adn in these times it's really comforting to have a friend. Someone to sit around and talk about nothing with. Whether we're scouring campus for something resembling a good time or basking in our own snobbery, detailing with great wit our shared discontent with RCNJ's offerings, these are the times and relationships that make people - and I'm happy to be sharing them with you.
High School Friends in College - We are long overdue to have an enormous party. An enormous sloppy get-together. Thank you all so much for the memories and the promise of future glories ahead.
The New Jersey Forensic League - The NJFL is the shit. It was incredible to observe the speech and debate scene from a judge's standpoint, finally becoming "the enemy." Sure I miss competing. Having only done so for a year and a half, I can't help but know that I cheated myself out of quite the experience. But still. Returning and getting to see all the high school kids I competed against, coaches, judges, and the lovely Randolph girls was amazing. And then there's this little team that I'm affiliated with. I couldn't possibly by prouder. I see national competitors in so many of you, including but not limited to Alanna, Joe, Nicole, Priyanka and Big Scott, the freshman LD demigod. Thanks for welcoming me back and giving me something valuable to do with my Saturdays.
The Patriot Players - I type this having just returned from a rehearsal of the aforementioned and anything I said about being welcomed back warmly goes 100x here. Returning to the drama club is like being some hero of war returning to his home country after global conquest. It was so great to see all of you - to notice that you're all growing up but that you haven't changed a bit. Every little dynamic and paradigm is still there. From the moment Joe grabbed my ass I knew that this was the club that I had invested so much in throughout high school. And what's more, you're carrying on everything we've instilled in you with such luster and might. Thank you for that.
Mike Locke/ Eric Branning/ Steve Kropa - The Big 3. There's little I can say here. You dudes are my boys, my best friends, my... dare I say... bros. Thanks for being fuckin' awesome.
The Female Population - Thank you. Just thank you.
That is all for tonight. Hope everyone has a safe holiday. Happy thanksgiving!
Bomb the blogosphere,
Mike
Ramapo Friends - While my definition, and indeed the list of those who compile this list is constanly changing, I am nevertheless thankful for all that you have done to/for me. There are times when lonliness can be a big big bitch, adn in these times it's really comforting to have a friend. Someone to sit around and talk about nothing with. Whether we're scouring campus for something resembling a good time or basking in our own snobbery, detailing with great wit our shared discontent with RCNJ's offerings, these are the times and relationships that make people - and I'm happy to be sharing them with you.
High School Friends in College - We are long overdue to have an enormous party. An enormous sloppy get-together. Thank you all so much for the memories and the promise of future glories ahead.
The New Jersey Forensic League - The NJFL is the shit. It was incredible to observe the speech and debate scene from a judge's standpoint, finally becoming "the enemy." Sure I miss competing. Having only done so for a year and a half, I can't help but know that I cheated myself out of quite the experience. But still. Returning and getting to see all the high school kids I competed against, coaches, judges, and the lovely Randolph girls was amazing. And then there's this little team that I'm affiliated with. I couldn't possibly by prouder. I see national competitors in so many of you, including but not limited to Alanna, Joe, Nicole, Priyanka and Big Scott, the freshman LD demigod. Thanks for welcoming me back and giving me something valuable to do with my Saturdays.
The Patriot Players - I type this having just returned from a rehearsal of the aforementioned and anything I said about being welcomed back warmly goes 100x here. Returning to the drama club is like being some hero of war returning to his home country after global conquest. It was so great to see all of you - to notice that you're all growing up but that you haven't changed a bit. Every little dynamic and paradigm is still there. From the moment Joe grabbed my ass I knew that this was the club that I had invested so much in throughout high school. And what's more, you're carrying on everything we've instilled in you with such luster and might. Thank you for that.
Mike Locke/ Eric Branning/ Steve Kropa - The Big 3. There's little I can say here. You dudes are my boys, my best friends, my... dare I say... bros. Thanks for being fuckin' awesome.
The Female Population - Thank you. Just thank you.
That is all for tonight. Hope everyone has a safe holiday. Happy thanksgiving!
Bomb the blogosphere,
Mike
Monday, November 13, 2006
FUCK
Fuck.
After nearly completing the longest blog entry ever (trademark) firefox fucking "quits unexpectedly" and I lost everything.
Fuck you Firefox.
And fuck you Blogger for not having a recovery feature.
After nearly completing the longest blog entry ever (trademark) firefox fucking "quits unexpectedly" and I lost everything.
Fuck you Firefox.
And fuck you Blogger for not having a recovery feature.
Wednesday, November 08, 2006
Monday, October 30, 2006
I am out of my fuckin' mind
Dane Cook.
November 12.
Floor seats.
Be jealous.
"This is more exciting than that time we went to see 'Sunshine'."
-Keith Stratton
November 12.
Floor seats.
Be jealous.
"This is more exciting than that time we went to see 'Sunshine'."
-Keith Stratton
Tuesday, October 24, 2006
Forgive my lack of tact.
Please do. This hasn't been prepared. This hasn't been edited or proofread. This is pure unadultered NOW. Odds are it'll come out as a couple paragraphs of slobber. I couldn't possibly give less of a fuck.
I have been at Ramapo College of New Jersey for more than a month and more and more I wonder where the college experience is. What the hype is all about. I spend hours at a time sitting at the desk of my dorm room checking facebook for attention tossed my way from friends at other Universities. I pour over pictures of their drunken escapades, smiling faces, throngs of new friends. I read their walls and laugh as if I understand the inside jokes therein. I sit on AIM and hold online conversations with kids left behind, confidently comfortable in their high school situations. Perhaps this is because they're seriously satisfied with clique dynamics and the "mean girls microcosm". More likely they're counting the days until they too get to toss their caps into the air and join everyone else on the long trail to mediocrity. We expect to leave high school when we graduate. I didn't sign on for four more years of it.
Some of this is doubtlessly my own fault. For all my pretty wordplay I certainly would expect an element of maturity of myself which doesn't appear present. I still care too much about what people think. I'm still shy around girls and I still get my feelings hurt way to easily. Oh. And I still fucking hate myself. For all the aforementioned reasons. For my uncanny ability to always be around (cause?) all the goddamned drama. And then I drink. Maybe it's my suicide. More likely it's satisfaction to my desperate need to feel loved.
I left LiveJournal to symbolize an end to the self-loathing, girl chasing diary entries ripped from the pages of a fucking Chbosky novel. Old habits die hard.
What do I need? I can't even wrap my tongue, or in absense of an ear to listen, my keyboard around an appropriate articulation. I need so badly someone to love. Someone to send flowers to for no good reason. Someone to go on chilly autumn walks with. Someone to give my jacket to when she shivers. Someone to drink hot chocolate and count stars with, to sit in silence for hours... speaking nothing and saying everything. Someone to hug and hold. To watch smile and to watch glow.
Someone to write love songs about.
But the more I think about it, the more conclusive I am that I am so undeserving of that. Of that love.
Everything here is so fucking unstable. One day someone is pissed. The next the offending party, distraught with the effects of its actions, tosses and turns wondering how to make well. And then it's like... everything is hunky fucking dorey except the hole in my heart because I lost sleep over you and you never needed me half as much as I still need you.
No one knows what my problem is, least of all myself.
Bomb the fucking Blogosphere,
Mike
I have been at Ramapo College of New Jersey for more than a month and more and more I wonder where the college experience is. What the hype is all about. I spend hours at a time sitting at the desk of my dorm room checking facebook for attention tossed my way from friends at other Universities. I pour over pictures of their drunken escapades, smiling faces, throngs of new friends. I read their walls and laugh as if I understand the inside jokes therein. I sit on AIM and hold online conversations with kids left behind, confidently comfortable in their high school situations. Perhaps this is because they're seriously satisfied with clique dynamics and the "mean girls microcosm". More likely they're counting the days until they too get to toss their caps into the air and join everyone else on the long trail to mediocrity. We expect to leave high school when we graduate. I didn't sign on for four more years of it.
Some of this is doubtlessly my own fault. For all my pretty wordplay I certainly would expect an element of maturity of myself which doesn't appear present. I still care too much about what people think. I'm still shy around girls and I still get my feelings hurt way to easily. Oh. And I still fucking hate myself. For all the aforementioned reasons. For my uncanny ability to always be around (cause?) all the goddamned drama. And then I drink. Maybe it's my suicide. More likely it's satisfaction to my desperate need to feel loved.
I left LiveJournal to symbolize an end to the self-loathing, girl chasing diary entries ripped from the pages of a fucking Chbosky novel. Old habits die hard.
What do I need? I can't even wrap my tongue, or in absense of an ear to listen, my keyboard around an appropriate articulation. I need so badly someone to love. Someone to send flowers to for no good reason. Someone to go on chilly autumn walks with. Someone to give my jacket to when she shivers. Someone to drink hot chocolate and count stars with, to sit in silence for hours... speaking nothing and saying everything. Someone to hug and hold. To watch smile and to watch glow.
Someone to write love songs about.
But the more I think about it, the more conclusive I am that I am so undeserving of that. Of that love.
Everything here is so fucking unstable. One day someone is pissed. The next the offending party, distraught with the effects of its actions, tosses and turns wondering how to make well. And then it's like... everything is hunky fucking dorey except the hole in my heart because I lost sleep over you and you never needed me half as much as I still need you.
No one knows what my problem is, least of all myself.
Bomb the fucking Blogosphere,
Mike
Tuesday, October 17, 2006
Tuesday, October 03, 2006
The Longest Winter.
I wrote this bit of free-form prose in Bio class (naturally) and I swore that I wouldn't post it. But now I am. It doesn't really matter. We're each entitled to reflection on our histories, am I right? If someone reads this who was never supposed to, well, whatever. My experiences and my life are mine to share. With the internet. Hm. Yeah.
~*~
"The Longest Winter"
It's been the longest winter I can remember - not that it isn't completely and utterly self-imposed. I sit in my snowglobe and recall exactly what it was to be two lost souls swimming in a fish bowl, sifting through all the shit the world has to offer and finding each other a breath, no, a violent gasp, for the drowning. Rewind two years and I'm sixteen and tragically poetic. She's two years my junior and beautiful in a way that can't be expressed in numbers or even in color - but rather in passion and in prose, in springtime and in song. She is unconventional in the most appealing way and her smile completes me. She is a tiny dancer and she is infinite. Radiant. She is the rock to my roll - my bumbling, baffled baffoonery. She is mine and I am so in love.
She stops me in the hallway and starts up and I'm all "maybe? Now? Ready? Foreign. How can I? What if I? I want want want so badly and yet yet yet yet yet... here? Please please please just kiss..." inside my head. Externally I am silent and it is so hard to find the words to express how desperately enraptured I am. She kisses me and everything I had read about fireworks and circles of stars exlode in surest understatement. The bell rings and we separate. For the rest of the day the smile never leaves my face and my feet don't once touch the ground.
Then somewhere I fuck up and am once again drowning.
I leave her in favor of some fairy tale dream which I chase and I chase and am forever eluded by, some oversimplified reflection of my horrific selfishness. Lost was everything we shared. the laughs, the literature, the magic, the film, the music. Oh, God. The music...
I hear "Can You Feel the Love Tonight" play over and over and over and over and yet... a feeling shared by kings and vagabonds both is a feeling I have felt and thrown away. She is beautiful and I am so so stupid.
I can't even come close to articulating how much I miss her. I miss her constant encouragement, laughter, passion, antiquity, tiny hands, powerful voice, funny glasses that she let me wear when she stole my sunglasses. I miss the jittery nervous feeling - the butterflies I got in the pit of my stomach when she signed online. I miss "Almost Famous" and "The Perks of Being a Wallflower". I miss her warmth, her kiss, her love. I miss her.
It's been the longest winter I can remember and there are monthes to go before I wake.
~*~
Yeah. Huh.
Bomb the Blogosphere,
Mike
~*~
"The Longest Winter"
It's been the longest winter I can remember - not that it isn't completely and utterly self-imposed. I sit in my snowglobe and recall exactly what it was to be two lost souls swimming in a fish bowl, sifting through all the shit the world has to offer and finding each other a breath, no, a violent gasp, for the drowning. Rewind two years and I'm sixteen and tragically poetic. She's two years my junior and beautiful in a way that can't be expressed in numbers or even in color - but rather in passion and in prose, in springtime and in song. She is unconventional in the most appealing way and her smile completes me. She is a tiny dancer and she is infinite. Radiant. She is the rock to my roll - my bumbling, baffled baffoonery. She is mine and I am so in love.
She stops me in the hallway and starts up and I'm all "maybe? Now? Ready? Foreign. How can I? What if I? I want want want so badly and yet yet yet yet yet... here? Please please please just kiss..." inside my head. Externally I am silent and it is so hard to find the words to express how desperately enraptured I am. She kisses me and everything I had read about fireworks and circles of stars exlode in surest understatement. The bell rings and we separate. For the rest of the day the smile never leaves my face and my feet don't once touch the ground.
Then somewhere I fuck up and am once again drowning.
I leave her in favor of some fairy tale dream which I chase and I chase and am forever eluded by, some oversimplified reflection of my horrific selfishness. Lost was everything we shared. the laughs, the literature, the magic, the film, the music. Oh, God. The music...
I hear "Can You Feel the Love Tonight" play over and over and over and over and yet... a feeling shared by kings and vagabonds both is a feeling I have felt and thrown away. She is beautiful and I am so so stupid.
I can't even come close to articulating how much I miss her. I miss her constant encouragement, laughter, passion, antiquity, tiny hands, powerful voice, funny glasses that she let me wear when she stole my sunglasses. I miss the jittery nervous feeling - the butterflies I got in the pit of my stomach when she signed online. I miss "Almost Famous" and "The Perks of Being a Wallflower". I miss her warmth, her kiss, her love. I miss her.
It's been the longest winter I can remember and there are monthes to go before I wake.
~*~
Yeah. Huh.
Bomb the Blogosphere,
Mike
Friday, September 22, 2006
Aborted.
Recently I've gotten really into free-form prose. It's not something I ever sit down intending to do. I've been writing a lot of it in Biology class. You know. When I'm supposed to be taking notes. I limit myself to one notebook page per piece. I'm sure I'll be doing a lot of this in the coming monthes. On lucky days, I'll post the results here.
I have to disclaim first. The following is a statement, not necessarily a reflection of my own ideals. Also, none of my grammar nor useage has been corrected for posting here. You get the raw deal.
So here it is. The first of my free-form prose postings. Enjoy.
~*~
"Aborted."
Honey you and I alive and ignited are fire in the sky, burning Gods and beasts across the miles. We are each of us constellations dancing through the depthes of midnight immeasurable by modern science. We are as infinite as the soldiers in the stars before us. We are as limitless as we are open to interpretation. We are lovers engaged in epic toil the scale of which is limited only by perception and the will of God allowing men to so perceive.
We see shooting stars less as wishes cast on wings of hope but instead as the seeds of giants tossed carelessly over darkness. Each one a symbol both of life and of lust - unbridled alignment of signs and scars, of starbursts and supernovas not for creation but for satisfaction.
We are as dark and deep as black holes ending galaxies.
TONIGHT WE ARE BIGGER THAN GOD.
God defines and punishes sin. God solicits prayers for forgiveness of sin among other things - for lottery victories and blessings on voyage. For health and happiness and "God save the Queen!"...
WE ARE SIN.
We fuck a thousand miles above the hemisphere not in celebration of life nor in procreation nor even in love. We fuck because we are so selfish and so sick of the same God damned skyline. While millions fuck below we birth stillborn planets. Dead. Dead. Dead. Dead. Dead.
Aborted.
Each explosion is our passion and each scripture is fuel in the fire. We have lost faith so many years ago.
SO JUST WATCH THE FIREWORKS.
I have to disclaim first. The following is a statement, not necessarily a reflection of my own ideals. Also, none of my grammar nor useage has been corrected for posting here. You get the raw deal.
So here it is. The first of my free-form prose postings. Enjoy.
~*~
"Aborted."
Honey you and I alive and ignited are fire in the sky, burning Gods and beasts across the miles. We are each of us constellations dancing through the depthes of midnight immeasurable by modern science. We are as infinite as the soldiers in the stars before us. We are as limitless as we are open to interpretation. We are lovers engaged in epic toil the scale of which is limited only by perception and the will of God allowing men to so perceive.
We see shooting stars less as wishes cast on wings of hope but instead as the seeds of giants tossed carelessly over darkness. Each one a symbol both of life and of lust - unbridled alignment of signs and scars, of starbursts and supernovas not for creation but for satisfaction.
We are as dark and deep as black holes ending galaxies.
TONIGHT WE ARE BIGGER THAN GOD.
God defines and punishes sin. God solicits prayers for forgiveness of sin among other things - for lottery victories and blessings on voyage. For health and happiness and "God save the Queen!"...
WE ARE SIN.
We fuck a thousand miles above the hemisphere not in celebration of life nor in procreation nor even in love. We fuck because we are so selfish and so sick of the same God damned skyline. While millions fuck below we birth stillborn planets. Dead. Dead. Dead. Dead. Dead.
Aborted.
Each explosion is our passion and each scripture is fuel in the fire. We have lost faith so many years ago.
SO JUST WATCH THE FIREWORKS.
Thursday, September 14, 2006
"Don't let the sun go down on me"
More importantly, don't let the sun make its way onto your list of "must-see" movies in 2007.
I refer, of course, to the 2007 Danny Boyle (28 Days Later) film "Sunshine" of which Keith and I saw a screening of last night. The basic premise of the plot is this: In the somewhat near future the sun is dying and, by a simple logical process, so is the earth. The planet's most able scientists purge the land for all remaining resources and invest them in the constuction of what is pretty much just a giant nuclear bomb. Naturally, an international team of physicists and astronauts must embark into space on a ship that looks retardedly like a giant golden contact lense to ignite the bomb and "restart" the sun. Onboard the Icarus II is an oxygen replenishing garden, a freezing cold well in which computers are stored, and a room in which one character looks at the sun a lot. You can taste the originality. En route to the sun the Icarus II picks up a signal from the Icarus I, which was lost in space seven years previously. Physicist and main character Capa played by Cillian Murphy (28 Days Later, Batman Begins) makes the tough decision to change the trajectory of the ship so as to take the bomb (referred to in the film as a "payload" which opens a whole host of innuendos that I'm not even going to touch) and have a second shot at saving the world should their own payload fail. Of course... disaster, insanity, sexual tension, and terrible cinematography ensue.
Right now you are most certainly saying, "But Mike, haven't I seen this movie before?"
And the answer to your question would be "Yes" you have. This streak on the underwear of cinema is most easily described as the child of the mediocre "Armageddon" and the horrendous "Event Horizon". The ugly child. With down syndrome.
We'll get the good stuff out of the way first. Granted, what we saw was still in post-production so whoever is producing this thing could still pull the plug and leave with his dignity. Also, the CGI was incomplete but that doesn't much matter as I wasn't about to discuss the absurd overabundance of sunscape shots and poorly placed beams of light anyway.
Cillian Murphy and Rose Byrne are actually quite good. Their characters shine (har har) particularly brightly (har har) onscreen together, somehow managing to bring humanity to a bleak and dim (okay, I'll stop) screenplay. Cillian's Capa is the textbook unlikely hero, establishing himself as a big softie shortly after the film begins through a video mail to his family back on earth. He is tragically sensitive and responsive to pressure, human both in emotion and imperfection. The audience actually gives a shit when he is in danger. Rose is the likely compliment. She's the girl you grew up playing manhunt with before suddenly realizing that she's smokin' hot. She is young but subborn, petite but intelligent. Her soft presence commands scenes as they are such a contrast to nearly every other character in the movie. She is fragile. A voice of morality amongst a sea of mechanized characters and two-dimensional personalities. The two are a joy to watch and I look forward to seeing them work together in a film that doesn't take place on a fucking UFO and that wasn't written by a four year old.
Unfortunately, the good points (sans the Postal Service-esque soundtrack) end there. The rest of the movie pretty much sucks. What's-his-fuck from The Fantastic Four (Chris Evans) fills the role of the gritty loose cannon, the man dedicated so firmly to the mission that he'd sacrafice any crew member to see it through. He's the Rafael of the cast (yes, the red Ninja Turtle. Leave my analogies alone). Unfortunately for viewers of "Sunshine", his performance is about as good here as it is in TF4. Which means it isn't. Good, that is. The rest of the characters really don't fit into the group dynamic at all - from the asian chick who loves to garden to the asian dude with a terrible memory to the asian capt... wait. What the fuck? I guess in order to obtain international appeal Boyle casted as many asians as possible. He probably hates blacks and hispanics. Nazi douchebag.
I won't ruin the ending for you, or completely detail the rediculous connection to "Event Horizon" but if you're smart, you don't care anyway. 2007 brings with it Spiderman 3, Shrek the third, Pirates of the Caribbean: At World's End, Transformers, The Simpsons, Harry Potter 5 (okay, I'm stretching) so why in God's name would you spend money on this trash? That's right. You wouldn't.
Thanks for reading, and you're welcome in advance.
Bomb the Blogosphere,
Mike
I refer, of course, to the 2007 Danny Boyle (28 Days Later) film "Sunshine" of which Keith and I saw a screening of last night. The basic premise of the plot is this: In the somewhat near future the sun is dying and, by a simple logical process, so is the earth. The planet's most able scientists purge the land for all remaining resources and invest them in the constuction of what is pretty much just a giant nuclear bomb. Naturally, an international team of physicists and astronauts must embark into space on a ship that looks retardedly like a giant golden contact lense to ignite the bomb and "restart" the sun. Onboard the Icarus II is an oxygen replenishing garden, a freezing cold well in which computers are stored, and a room in which one character looks at the sun a lot. You can taste the originality. En route to the sun the Icarus II picks up a signal from the Icarus I, which was lost in space seven years previously. Physicist and main character Capa played by Cillian Murphy (28 Days Later, Batman Begins) makes the tough decision to change the trajectory of the ship so as to take the bomb (referred to in the film as a "payload" which opens a whole host of innuendos that I'm not even going to touch) and have a second shot at saving the world should their own payload fail. Of course... disaster, insanity, sexual tension, and terrible cinematography ensue.
Right now you are most certainly saying, "But Mike, haven't I seen this movie before?"
And the answer to your question would be "Yes" you have. This streak on the underwear of cinema is most easily described as the child of the mediocre "Armageddon" and the horrendous "Event Horizon". The ugly child. With down syndrome.
We'll get the good stuff out of the way first. Granted, what we saw was still in post-production so whoever is producing this thing could still pull the plug and leave with his dignity. Also, the CGI was incomplete but that doesn't much matter as I wasn't about to discuss the absurd overabundance of sunscape shots and poorly placed beams of light anyway.
Cillian Murphy and Rose Byrne are actually quite good. Their characters shine (har har) particularly brightly (har har) onscreen together, somehow managing to bring humanity to a bleak and dim (okay, I'll stop) screenplay. Cillian's Capa is the textbook unlikely hero, establishing himself as a big softie shortly after the film begins through a video mail to his family back on earth. He is tragically sensitive and responsive to pressure, human both in emotion and imperfection. The audience actually gives a shit when he is in danger. Rose is the likely compliment. She's the girl you grew up playing manhunt with before suddenly realizing that she's smokin' hot. She is young but subborn, petite but intelligent. Her soft presence commands scenes as they are such a contrast to nearly every other character in the movie. She is fragile. A voice of morality amongst a sea of mechanized characters and two-dimensional personalities. The two are a joy to watch and I look forward to seeing them work together in a film that doesn't take place on a fucking UFO and that wasn't written by a four year old.
Unfortunately, the good points (sans the Postal Service-esque soundtrack) end there. The rest of the movie pretty much sucks. What's-his-fuck from The Fantastic Four (Chris Evans) fills the role of the gritty loose cannon, the man dedicated so firmly to the mission that he'd sacrafice any crew member to see it through. He's the Rafael of the cast (yes, the red Ninja Turtle. Leave my analogies alone). Unfortunately for viewers of "Sunshine", his performance is about as good here as it is in TF4. Which means it isn't. Good, that is. The rest of the characters really don't fit into the group dynamic at all - from the asian chick who loves to garden to the asian dude with a terrible memory to the asian capt... wait. What the fuck? I guess in order to obtain international appeal Boyle casted as many asians as possible. He probably hates blacks and hispanics. Nazi douchebag.
I won't ruin the ending for you, or completely detail the rediculous connection to "Event Horizon" but if you're smart, you don't care anyway. 2007 brings with it Spiderman 3, Shrek the third, Pirates of the Caribbean: At World's End, Transformers, The Simpsons, Harry Potter 5 (okay, I'm stretching) so why in God's name would you spend money on this trash? That's right. You wouldn't.
Thanks for reading, and you're welcome in advance.
Bomb the Blogosphere,
Mike
Friday, September 08, 2006
In a sunrise
Whatever beauty is in the breakdown cannot possibly compare to the beauty in a sunrise. There's something sweet and comfortable in the air here, filling one with the gladness of a dawning. Of a springtime. Of a beginning.
I find that I have a difficult time writing here. I sit down with every intention, and certainly enough material, of writing an entry and nothing comes out. Maybe it's atmospherically based. I need to settle before I can be enough at ease to make wonderful wonderful love to the english language. To channel it's sexiness and, contorted, plop it on the page you're reading. Like a literary funnel cake. Yeah. That's it.
Because of the aforementioned, my articles will likely be a little on the shorter side. I'm sure they will gradually progress to the massive size of one or two of my previous pieces.
College is awesome.
The group of friends I've made is incredible and the potential for further good friendmaking, especially in my First Year Seminar course, is virtually limitless. It's really amazing how fast crazy shit can happen. And seriously. I could never get the hang of Thursdays. But when everyone is there for each other, even having just met, it's gotta be a sign of great things to come.
I've had some class but not a lot of homework. This is both a boon and bane in that while I'm certainly glad I don't have any... I feel like I should. Oh. And I want my fucking textbooks already, bookstore. God.
So yeah.
Hello, Ramapo College of New Jersey. You beautiful ol' bastard, you.
Bomb the Blogosphere,
Mike
I find that I have a difficult time writing here. I sit down with every intention, and certainly enough material, of writing an entry and nothing comes out. Maybe it's atmospherically based. I need to settle before I can be enough at ease to make wonderful wonderful love to the english language. To channel it's sexiness and, contorted, plop it on the page you're reading. Like a literary funnel cake. Yeah. That's it.
Because of the aforementioned, my articles will likely be a little on the shorter side. I'm sure they will gradually progress to the massive size of one or two of my previous pieces.
College is awesome.
The group of friends I've made is incredible and the potential for further good friendmaking, especially in my First Year Seminar course, is virtually limitless. It's really amazing how fast crazy shit can happen. And seriously. I could never get the hang of Thursdays. But when everyone is there for each other, even having just met, it's gotta be a sign of great things to come.
I've had some class but not a lot of homework. This is both a boon and bane in that while I'm certainly glad I don't have any... I feel like I should. Oh. And I want my fucking textbooks already, bookstore. God.
So yeah.
Hello, Ramapo College of New Jersey. You beautiful ol' bastard, you.
Bomb the Blogosphere,
Mike
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