Friday, September 21, 2018

From the ATL to the TLE.

"How is IT going?" I ask him.

"IT is going just swimmingly" he says.  I picture in my mind's eye, him blogging pictures of children in pools with the arm floaties, as if he were some kind of half-assed gangster.

"What are we talking about, Roger?" asks Riggs.

"Short word" says Murtaugh.  "Two letters.  Kind of an indirect pronoun.  Meaning to be understood between two communicating participants."

"The wife's romance novels?"

"I say then that IT has hit a roadblock!" says Murtaugh.

"You know what they do?"  yells Joe Pesci.  "They F*CK IT!  One minute you're out on bail, then you're back in the communal shower in time to join the supper line!"

"Very much unacceptable, socially-speaking" says the lieutenant.  "And you two screw-ups are off the case!  Desk assignments until further notice!  Give me your sidearms!  You can't destroy half of a major American city for a traffic violation!"

Thursday, September 20, 2018

Jean Rousseau-Tati's absurdist cult film: The Exploded Arch

Although it really sounds like the title of a sword'n'sandals epic from the Italian studio machine, this one comes from Jean Rousseau-Tati, who was known to dabble in several movie-making styles.  In an E interview, he says, wearing his customary Panama hat and smoking his stogie, "there was dabbling, a blending of various disciplines into a singular, but unfocused body of work."

Though his other works won more awards in the independent circuit, The Exploded Arch has stood the test of time.  One would observe that "ecumenical feeling" propelled the success of the other films, where here in the cult film, Tati works with archetypes, a sub-language seemingly existing beneath the real design language of the film.

He presages the rain forest skirmishes of the Vietnam Era, some argue, in the dripping folage of the Phillipines, the swamp setting that was kind of a fecund hell, a Grun Heil.  And the cloudy, tense atmosphere, filtered sunlight, hand-held cameras overlaying a kind of action that had a tensity behind every word, an "emotional content".  It was only right then, for fans of the film, that they saw the nightmare unfolding in the Peace Movement and the Anti-War Movement, when over 30,000 young Americans were killed or declared lost in the jungles of Southeast Asia.

the markets some time play-off the best of the BS in the conversations, just as the effect of Donald J Trump excessive social media posts loads the system with enough pig shit that one would think that the entire political world was fueled simply by the fumes from all of it.

I return to an old argument about the German expressionist foretelling later National Socialist Enthusiasm and Empire Building.  I submit that the films before the Nazi movement are not accountable for any kind of "fortune-telling", but rather a reverse-observation, "looking out my back door" as from the Delta blues in the US, being a forecast, not of the future, but an autopsy of thoroughly passed historicity.  That many of the films look at Academia and nothing more, which was the richest then-recent source of national pride.  The Rhinelanders still take their national pride very seriously, I understand.

My first car was a haunted Morris Minor.  I later sold it for scrap.

Some even say there are economic forecasts in the films, but only in the most-royal and exquisitely represented and widely-consumed, but let me say that the markets some time play-off the best of the BS in the conversations, just as the effect of Donald J Trump excessive social media posts loads the system with enough pig shit that one would think that the entire political world was fueled simply by the fumes from all of it.

Wednesday, September 19, 2018

Terra Phenomicon Agomemnus. Verse.

We some southern boys,
with the farmers tan;
ain't nobody taking down
our green man.

You can try to attack,
but we fire missiles back.
You ain't never
coming over our ridgeline!

We some southern boys,
with the farmers tan;
we didn't ask no questions when
Uncle George said "invade Afghanistan."

Monday, September 17, 2018

Stray spark in the straw.

I wonder tonight, whether the chief good is known innately, as from birth, something in the collective unconscious, or whether the chief good is taught at some point.

I relate my own experience, sitting in a Methodist church as a child, reciting things, creeds and so forth, and the Model Prayer.  We were told of God, and that we should communicate with God, that God would talk within us.

Proviso: I note my own estimation of the chief good, is of course, Elohim/Yahweh/Jehovah.  All else falls short, or at least anything outside of the Trinity(and doctrine of the trinity is beyond the scope of this discussion).

I sit three credit hours from a theology certificate.

So I say that I learned of God first, through organized religion, teaching/sermons of the Methodist church, then came into a sort of a relationship with Jehovah later, as I approached maturity.

Imagine that we are born, our brains growing, approaching self-awareness, having forgotten our ideal since being in physical man form, far removed from the archetype that is the deity, as the figure or the original design on which we humans are based.

The chief good then, through human eyes, is indefinite, beyond measure, existing in parts of reality, parts of existence, parts of the universe that are unavailable and insensible to us.  Lest we assume only what we see.  We congratulated the psychiatrists using the iceberg analogy of the large, powerful indefinable unconscious of humans, that which remains submerged/hidden, yet these same people, having an ounce of faith regarding their own brain power, would then scoff at Jehovah, but still live based on heart feelings, convinced that existence is an accident of some kind, like a stray spark in the straw.

more of the ascetic spinning dance

Elohim/Yahweh/Jehovah is righteousness, the most high, the creator.  Theologians come to the statement that Jehovah is truth.  Perfect and unvarnished.  We are then but the imperfect little foster children, as the elect in Christ.

I read something similar, amongst tallying my cigarette consumption for the day.  I do that now, since quitting cold turkey is a bridge too far; rather slowing down if I can't stop outright.

So.  Anyway.  These people with a big pack of kids were at the fuel and snacks register, and I with no shame at all, was at the tobacco counter, while hidden speakers piped-in time checks, auto ads, and southern gospel music.  an armload of coffees and a florence morning news newspaper.

ever a man of the world, and a man of the people.

thinking to myself all along that even in full maturity we never get so much even in smelling distance of theophany, while we occupy flesh, rather we come out of a tunnel at death, a mimicry of the escape from the birth canal when we first entered the world, and at once the truth is as substantial, solid, as blinding harsh daylight on unprepared eyes.

it is then, to put it in a pithy, contrite way, a wonder; we can feel within, but not grasp it totally.

Unto the Cradle of Lud(mediation during the storm)

In the stark light of modernity, old blemishes may be seen with a new focus, as with the fresh eyes of a younger generation, re-evaluating traditions, standards and practices that are the best fruits of their inheritance.  there will be some new ideas, new practices that set new precedents that will be laid upon those old cornerstones, so that the best of the new will become, in time, traditions in their own right, like a new child figure made of stone, laid down into the cradle of Lud, eventually defended as tradition, dogma, institutes and ideas become with age, sacred.

what is a observed is a continuing process of two stages, being worked upon in some degree at the same point in time, as with one appreciating both Shakespeare and Francis Bacon, without showing particular preference or favor to either, as of Coke and Pepsi co-existing, light and dark in the atmospheric resteraunt franchise, as of flavor outranking appearance, with the substance of a given idea being considered beyond just an initial, summary appraisal, as of the old liberal "knee-jerk", supplanted, with a new generation of idea sitting on that once jittery eager knee, like a warm bit of heft, a ballast, a new soul, to be nurtured or nursed, like the pain of an old bad tooth, that one really would miss that particular throb of pain were it not there.

not Shoney's but Wendy's.  not IHOP but instead car-hops at America's Drive-In, Sonic.  and explaining that European football is just soccer, like the traveller explaining carl's jr and Hardees are one and the same, and then some progressive in the back row, remaining still nameless, asks why Arby's doesn't put the Arby sauce on the roast beef in the first place, but instead one must squeeze the packet until the sandwich and curly fries are covered, and the peanut gallery responds that the status quo must be maintained, that it is what it is, that it is "just the way it is" and my old bff says its just my imagination, yet I know, from an outward perspective, that those gears were in operation long before I was born.

Monday, September 10, 2018

The mental equilibrium of Kid A

Mastrogianni has been busy lately uncovering documents left behind by JD Sawyer-Weathers.  Mastrogianni himself is a scholar and a professional critic of cable television, but here, Sawyer-Weathers has unpublished pieces on perception and cognitive states.  Sawyer-Weathers subjects were his actual patients, about whom, observed in a clinical situation, he made detailed notes, which comprise the bulk of the papers, along with some Murphy Brown fan fiction.

He could have published at any time, and with more patients on the way.

Kid A was an example of a rather trying case in which a conventional diagnosis was thwarted by conditions at every turn.  The neuropathology of Kid A was like the volatile Genesis planet in Star Trek 3, changing conditions which defied, not only diagnosis, but vexed Sawyer-Weathers in establishing any kind of equilibrium in the patient.  Counseling sessions were like journeys into nightmares, and each time one of a new, more horrifying variety.

At the end of the file, the psychologist notes that the patient, then an adult, had been in the penal system for some time, so obviously we blame the internal mental condition, and assuredly, the case vexed Sawyer-Weathers and is the subject of later papers.  It seems the psychologist visited Kid A during his incarceration, and tried to be a source of support.