Monday, May 30, 2016

Screenplay: Under the Sun(chapter two)

Under the Sun(my screenplay distillation of the second chapter of Ecclesiastes)

                 Narrator
"I said in mine heart, go to now, I will prove thee with mirth, therefore enjoy pleasure."

MEDIUM TRACKING/DOLLY ON: Young Narrator(he is obviously a younger version of Bitter Face, without the bitterness of time and experience and clean-shaven) and Sarah leaving the city arm in arm, in celebration, smiling and surrounding by smiling friends.  Flower petals rain around them like confetti.

Narrator
"I said of laughter, It is mad: and of mirth, What doeth it?"

MEDIUM PLUS ESTABLISH ON: Narrator's empty building site, an undeveloped plot of land that belongs to he and Sarah, where he will build their home.  It is a sandy expanse amidst a portion of open green ground.

TIME LAPSE/DISSOLVE IN: House and Stables appear.  Time has passed.  The Narrator and his young wife have indeed but a life on their land.  Slaves move about, entering and exiting the house, busy at their duties.

CU ON: Flower petal on stone floor in ambient golden light of afternoon.  Signifies the end of the celebration and the return to the narrator's normalcy: his searching.  It is as delicacy itself disregard, discarded and forgotten, but it is there just the same, waiting, unbusy, unoccupied and unclaimed.

Narrator
"I sought in mine heart to give myself unto wine, yet acquainting mine heart with wisdom; and to lay hold on folly, till I might see what was that good for the sons of men, which they should do under the heaven all the days of their life."

MEDIUM ON: Young Narrator reading from book with wine jug in one hand.  Absent- mindedly, he takes long drinks from the jug.  Afternoon light spills in from the gaping void of a window frame.  This lighting is happier than the shot of the office and desk, with a cheerful mood is in its orange quality, making it almost, but not quite a sepia effect.

Narrator
"I made me great works; I builded me houses; I planted vineyards: I made me gardens and orchards, and I planted trees in them of all kind of fruits.  I made me pools of water, to water therewith the wood that bringeth forth trees."

LONG ON: Narrator fiddling with grape vines, tending the young, tender plants, guiding them across his trellis.  He uses thread to secure the vines, tying around and around them.

MEDIUM ON: Narrator walking eating a handful of nuts.  Dogwood blooms rain down upon him, almost like a celebration, like from earlier.  This is the happiness not yet over, at least from the perspective of the Narrator, and that nature itself celebrates alongside him.

MEDIUM STATIC ON: Fool asleep under the tree.  Narrator regards him, disappears from sight, walking out of frame for a few moments and returns with blanket.  He puts the blanket on the FOOL and tucks it in, regards him for a minute with an ounce of doubt on his face, which might be the dawning of despair within him.

Narrator
"I got me servants and maidens, and had servants born in my house; also I had great possessions of great and small cattle above all that were in Jerusalem before me: I gathered me also silver and gold, and the peculiar treasure of kings and of the provinces: I gat me men singers and women singers, and the delights of the sons of men, as musical instruments, and that of all sorts."

LONG ON: Narrator and FRIEND side-by-side watching the bustling of the workers.  He passes by each in MONTAGE, smiling, and they smile in return, because they are happy there, treated well.  They pick fruits, carry pails of water and cajole with one another.

Narrator
"Whatsoever mine eyes desired I kept not from them, I withheld not my heart from any joy; for my heart rejoiced in all my labour: and this was my portion of all my labour."

LONG/MEDIUM ON: Pregnant Sarah with servants.  The servants are mostly women, girls and boys, fetching dollops of water from a spring, joyfully.  Sarah smiles with them, and plays with them, as though she were one of them.

Narrator
"Then I looked on all the works that my hands had wrought, and on the labour that i had laboured to do: and, behold, all was vanity and vexation of spirit and there was no profit under the sun."
(on "vexation", CUT TO: close up, bitter face)
(on "under the sun", CUT TO: sun shot with artifacts)

LONG ON: Nightime.  Bedchamber.  Sarah poised in childbirth: legs open, pushing.   She writhes in torment, then seemingly passes out with a blank drained look on her face, eyes open wide, neck stretched.  There is something animal about her.

TIGHT ON: Narrator regarding Sarah, shocked and concerned.  (O.S.)Sarah is dead, but the midwives are still working.

SAME: Narrators head turns.  Something around the midwives has called his attention.  But what?

OVERHEAD ON: Outdoors.  Narrator holding up naked, healthy, writhing baby, in victory, as if an offering to God or a presentation of the baby to its heavenly maker.   The baby writhes in good health.

Narrator
"Then I saw that wisdom excelleth folly, as far as light excelleth darkness."

LONG ON: Narrator on farm in morning.  He has let his beard grow, as a bow to the strength of wisdom, or experience, or just as a rememberance, or the silent protest of a righteous man.

Narrator
"And I turned myself to behold wisdom, and madness, and folly: for what can the man do that cometh after the king? even that which hath already been done."

MEDIUM ON: Narrator regarding FOOL again, with the FOOL sitting against the tree, in the middle of a coughing fit.  Foolishness has not been good to his health.  The mixed hues of sunset are in BG.

Narrator
"The wise man's eyes are in his head; but the fool walketh in darkness: and I myself perceived also that one even happeneth to them all."

MEDIUM ON: FOOL talking before a crowd, the prodigious movement of hands helping to illustrate his words.  Here there is some wisdom mingled with foolishness; up to the viewer to decide which is in greater supply.

Narrator
"Then said I in my heart, As it happeneth to the fool, so it happeneth even to me; and why was I then more wise?  Then I said in my heart, that this also is vanity."

TIGHT ON: Narrator regarding FOOL again.  Longer establish, but then a meditative close-up on the Narrator.

ZOOM ON: Narrator's eyes, with appropriate light to read the figure of the FOOL in the black iris of the Narrator.  As if he has encompassed or imprisoned the dying FOOL.

Narrator
"And how dieth the wise man? as the fool."

TIGHT ON: FOOL'S FACE, placid and lifeless, as he is enclosed in the blanket that the Narrator gave him earlier.  The effect is as though curtains are being closed.

CU, FOOL POV: Blanket closing over him-the two sides converging like a curtain, bringing perfect darkness before next shot of brilliant mid-day light.

Narrator
"Therefore I hated life; because the work that is wrought under the sun is grievous unto me: for all is vanity and vexation of spirit."
(on "under the sun", CUE sun shot w/artifacts)

MEDIUM SIDE SHOT ON: Narrator stretching his back in the vineyard, midday, in which the sun is harsh.

FULL SHOT OF: Young son, maybe three yrs. old, playing in the dusty dooryard, while Narrator sits on doorsteps.

CU ON: Narrator's meditative face, gray mingling into his beard.  He is becoming the Bitter Face, slowly but surely as time and experience beats lessons into him.

Narrator
"Yea I hated all my labour which I had taken under the sun: because I should leave it unto the man that shall be after me.  And who knoweth whether he shall be a wise man or a fool?  yet shall he have rule over all my labour wherein I have laboured, and wherein I have shewed myself wise under the sun.  This is also vanity.  Therefore I went about to cause my heart to despair of all the labour which I took under the sun."
(on each of three "under the sun" iterations, CUE sun shot w/artifacts)
(after first "under the sun", CUT TO: CHILD playing in dust)
(after second "under the sun" CUT TO: Narrator's meditative face)

Narrator
"What hath man of all his labour, and of the vexation of his heart, wherein he hath laboured under the sun?  For all his days are sorrows, and his travail grief; yea his heart taketh not rest in the night."
(on "under the sun", CUE sun shot w/artifacts)

CU ON: Sarah's grave: a pile of rocks roughly the size of a human.

CU ON: Sarah's smiling face remembered: beautiful, happy.

REPEAT CU ON: Sarah's grave.

Narrator
"There is nothing better for a man, than that he should eat and drink, and that he should make his soul enjoy good in his labour."

LONG, FROM INSIDE HOUSE, FRAMED HEAD-ON ON DOORWAY: Narrator sitting in doorway with a clay jug, watching the child play in the dust.  The doorway is like a truncated screen, with all inside the house invisible, and the father and son seeming like the only thing that exists.  We might ask where all the happy servants went.

Sunday, May 29, 2016

The Abaddonian Virtues

First, the virtues of Marcus Aurelius:

Spiritual Authority
Humor
Mercy
Dignity
Tenacity
Frugality
Gravity
Respectability
Humanity
Industriousness
Dutifulness
Prudence
Wholesomeness
Sternness
Truthfulness

Now, the Abaddonian Virtues:

Patience in waiting for luck/providence
Patience in waiting for weather to change
Ambition or Sangria Caliente(Hot Blood)
Supple feet/hands

All essential.

A Walden spin-off book leads me to wonder how many times I can use the word 'damn' alone as a complete sentence.  Going into the woods with a partially-eaten 10 pc McNuggets, a garden hose and a dull pocket knife.  I was not destined to become cotton king.

The android servant would be dangerously low on power and out-of-service-area, thusly present, but in the pocket, powered-down.

But I can wash my body in the waters of the pond and then laze about the shore, sit on my porch and read from the Kindle, as work needs doing and the day gets late.

Can you find truth within yourself, searching that limited space like a child that has fallen down a well?  Or will you be so disgusted by what you find that you become self-destructive, feeding yourself sumptuously but without health, so as to promote your own early demise?

After I eat the nuggets, I can use the box for any figs or berries I find in the woods, making like a new Macguyver.

Thursday, May 26, 2016

Movie idea: The Moses of Sex Offenders.

Can you ream the comedy out of any situation, oh jaded internet user?

Picture it: roaches crawling across a sinkful of dirty dishes.  Pizza boxes and socks on the floor.  Vince Vaughn dating your mother with the worst of intentions.  You know he is going to hit and quit it, breaking her heart forever, making her a resident at your house until one of you dies.

He rides by the school everyday in his 70's toyota with the steel rims, looking at the girls, but lacking the nerve to act.  We never consider what evil goes through their minds that they DONT act on.  It is to be wondered as an academic concern, what sexual activity is too gross for one of those sex offenders? Perhaps those depths shall be plumbed, bob.

You could even go back to Lolita, where the boy has a botched sexual experience at a young age, which ruins his sexuality, forever making him attracted to 12yr olds.

He is the modern sexual polyglot.  Mutual masturbation with a bored housewife, and other such sporting activities.  The mutual masturbation happens because they dont want to touch, for in their compartmentalized world, they want a little truffle of a sexual experience, while being too afraid to kiss a stranger for fear of disease.

The big finish: he gets smushed through a storm drain, going into the sewer, floating down a river of rainwater and shit.  He hits a grating, stopping his progress, and the water begins to rise.  We see the dirty water rise over his widened eyes.  Then he is gone, and there is only rushing water filth.

Monday, May 23, 2016

Screenplay: Under the Sun(chapter one)

FADE IN ON TITLE CARD:
soundtrack sting(for this is wisdom being thrown on the audience)
"Vanity of vanities, saith the preacher, vanity of vanities.  All is vanity."

Narrator(O.S.)
"Vanity of vanities.  All is vanity."

FADE OUT

FADE IN ON

(CUE)CLOSE UP ON: the BITTER FACE of the Narrator: He is old, beaten into age by time, with white hair and long, white, beard.  He has weathered time by haggard acceptance.  His eyes contain wisdom, the mark of the time that corroded the rest of his person.

Narrator
"One generation passeth away, and another generation cometh, but the earth abideth forever."

CUT TO:
(LOW PERSPECTIVE ON:) A massive mountain stands before the camera.  The camera is near the base of the mountain, looking up.  The height of the mountain is impressive.  Trees, houses or other objects needed to reinforce perspective and distance.

(OVERHEAD POV ON:) Sand dunes.  Sunny. Staid.  A waste of sand as far as the eye can see.  The sand has blown and drifted, this way and that, making funny identions, hills, peaks and valleys are carved out of the brilliant oppressive sunlight.

(TIGHT SHOT OF:) Evening time, dusk orange in bg.  the silhouette of two hands, picking up sand and letting it slowly spill from between the fingers, time spilling back to the great dust bin of the earth.  The grains seperate at the edge of the hand, making an effect like vapor, granulation.

Narrator
"The sun also riseth, and the sun goeth down, and hasteth to his place where he arose."

CUT TO: sun shot with artifacts-a blue sky drowned in the brilliance of the sun, which dominates and obliterates our perspective of the static sky shot .  The artifacts are harsh and light, like visual static.

CUT TO: (stock footage) solar flares slowly and angrily rising off the surface of the sun.   The orange of the sun contrasts the inkblack of space.  Tendrils of fire reach out into the blank cold void of space.

Narrator
"The wind goeth toward the south, and turneth about unto the north; it whirleth about continually, and the wind returneth again according to his circuits."

CUT TO: CLOSE UP ON: (cue wind noises OS)Van Gogh's Starry Night, emphasizing the swirl of the wind through the royal blue night sky.  Here is our wind: the illustration of currents around the stars, swirls that travel around and about and inevitably across the canvas.

CUT TO: (stock footage) strong wind twirling a road sign as if it were a pinwheel while limbs writh in background.  Any expressive storm footage would do, as long as we can see movement and perhaps blowing rain to emphasive the strength and pull of the wind.  A road sign twisting is again prefered here, preferably being identifiable as a road sign while remaining illegible due to its constant motion.

Narrator
"All the rivers run into the sea; yet the sea is not full; unto the place from whence the rivers come, thither they return again."

CUT TO: (stock footage) The dark but reflective surface of a stream as it runs into a pond.  Through the darkness of the water and the reflection of a forest canopy, we see ripples which imply a hardy current.  Several dead, brown leaves drift by lazily on the surface of the water.

Narrator
"All things are full of labor; man cannot utter it: the eye is not satisfied with seeing, nor the ear filled with hearing.  The thing that hath been, it is that which shall be; and that which is done is that which shall be done: and there is no new thing under the sun."

(on "full of labor") CUT TO: LONG SHOT Pyramids, smokey, smoggy in dust and heat, sun behind.  The long shot is to emphasize the size and sturdiness, the very impressive mounds of the pyramids.

ANIMATION: MEDIUM.  Orange dusklight in BG, Row of dark silhouetted slaves in FG.   They toil slowly, arm motions up to down to up and over again.  Their action may be synced, like a chorus line of dancers, to imply monotony and emphasize their number and lack of dignity, the collective toil-the sociological scream of fatigue.

(on "under the sun", CUT TO: sun shot with artifacts)

Narrator
"There is no rememberance of former things; neither shall there be an remembrance of things that are to come with those that shall come after."

CU ON: Graves in a row, old dusty weeds grown up around them.  An old forgotten cemetary, where the lie the forgotten dead of a bygone era.  We see only the rows of markers amidst the scrubgrowth to mark the graves, and without them, the dead are gone from memory.

DISSOLVE TO: OVERHEAD ON Terrapin Square, with a superimposed title, the bustling city of old, Jerusalem.   People going this way and that, busily, or about their business.  There are stone buildings and dirt streets in the old city, and the people are dressed in robes, most white.

CUT TO: MEDIUM ON a woman with a bowl of fruit on her head, walking.

CUT TO: CU ON oranges in bowl, like a still-life painting that so many attempt.  (Hold shot until SUN SHOT CUE)

CUT TO: Still Life painting.  An orange on a table, painted by a fledgling artist to attempt capturing shadow and texture.  Results?  Nebulous.

Narrator
"I have seen all the works that are done under the sun; and, behold all is vanity and vexation of spirit."
(on "under the sun", FADE TO: sun shot with digital artifacts, the effect here is that the orange becomes the sun.)
(on "vexation", CUT TO: close up, bitter face)

CUT TO: MEDIUM SHOT of narrator at desk.  The only light spills in through the dusty air via an open window-a naked aperture of brilliant brightness.  There is high- contrast here, with the blackness pervading in the rest of the room, and the light bleaching over the simple desk of the narrator and his scrolls.

Narrator
"I gave my heart to know wisdom, and to know madness and folly: I perceived that this also vexation of spirit.  For in much wisdom is much grief: and he that increaseth knowledge increaseth sorrow."
(on "vexation" CUT TO CU on bitter face)
(return to MEDIUM SHOT of Narrator at desk on "he that increaseth")

Saturday, May 21, 2016

Dear Diary, from Handsome

Had a good morning.  All taters and onions, bitches.  Results may vary.  Users typically experienced drowsiness and irritability after four hours.  Consult a doctor if symptoms persist.

Had a good thought for the world.  The world sneered back at me in indignation.  This was not unexpected.  My well wishes are not generally met with a positive attitude from my fellow citizens.

Straight laying rail until lunchtime, when I feasted then lapsed into slumber.  It couldn't roll any better if I were an interstellar gangster holed-up on Tatooine.

The primetime television kept me from thinking about killing myself.  Not that I would be equipped for that.  Probably an unforseen mishap would ruin the whole thing, causing instead of death, some horribly painful injury that would remain obvious to all around me as long as I lived.

But a whipped pup, skampering under the porch, unless of course, you lay hands on my fried chicken.  Then I'll tear your arm clean off.  Imagine a pink teddy bear with blood and gore stringing from its mouth, then look into its black, coal, obsidian eyes.

I skeert my ownself around midnight.  The night terrors again.  Unconscious, tormented by my conscience, that part of me that comes into control while I slumber, that knows not hedonistic calculus, maybe that same part that did the well wishes earlier in the day-a part I need to kill off for all the irrepairable harm it has done in my life.

It's like I'm throwing out meat to the wolves, here.  I shouldn't be feeding these bastards; I should be stomping them.

Commentas a Politicale

To paraphrase: commentary in art is where you find it.

An older man, his mustache dark as molasses and the tip of his bald head shining like mine, drugging then raping a woman, was said to be a biting satire of the fascist government.  To me it sounded like a kind of old/young rape fantasy realized on film-a vicarious satisfaction through voyeurism.

But when will we see the lackadasical mouth-breathing echo chamber of the online world on film?  The opulence and collectivism of the recent Gatsby?  The fantasy of oz, with the agreeing munchkins?  The dread pull of the ring of power in the Hobitt films?

When will we see the earnest nuance-the uncommitted dabbling-of Barack Obama in film?  In a Jennifer Aniston flick?  Adam Sandler?  Or both?

There is an instant gratification-a chance, digitally, to brush the face of a famous person, to avoid waiting-and waiting is a punishment in our modernity-the drag and lack of dignity of waiting in a line, smartphone turned off, or even turned on revealing its own lack of dignity that is so ever present in our modern discourse-our 140 character bleating, our memes that confound the text-oriented spider-eyes of the search engines.

I always argue that the art is more personal than critics say.  I perhaps degrade college political educations, and how these encroach on art.  The art is always personally meaningful to the artist, the writer, then to be captured, as something convivial by a director and a DP.

Personally meaningful to the artist.  Don't doubt so for a moment.

Wednesday, May 18, 2016

a blogger on blogging

I'm an old hand at blogging.  Been doing this on and off since 2004, with varying styles of posts dictated by my judgment of circumstance.  Quite often I feel like, to the reader, I am a Gene Kelly or Fred Astaire or Peewee Herman, an entertainer, talking loudly amidst a crowded marketplace, speaking of my favorite things.

Oh I can squash the meaning out of anything I post here, making it either plain or pointless.

An entertainer, then, occupying a moment of the reader's time, lending perspective where there was none, lending interpretation where there was once questions, and instilling my own sense of clarity on an array of matters.

It is not always like a stage show.  I once composed a blog post, a creative bit, unknowingly pitted between the time of the Sandy Hook shootings and a few moments later when the cable news networks began their first reports of the horror.  I remember a sense of optimism that morning, that persisted even after the first reports, until the scope of the tragedy appropriately diminished that feeling.  Puts things in perspective, quite handily; for there are times for us to be ignored.

This is not unlike 9/11, either the attack on the twin towers or Benghazi, when part of you might acknowledge a possibility, but that collective mind is not yet horrified, but in a dreamlike state imagining the future, even while washing the dishes and cooking the meals of the present.

I call this a recursive medium, perhaps inappropriately, for recursion relates to recycle and regurgitating the past, as though we were a show on the old History Channel, recounting and retelling with only our own intuition guiding us.  But blog posts take the past into account, while being appropriate to the present and expressing a hope for the future.

In our codified language, the future is a metaphysical fog of disguised prophecy, sitting in a soup of language beside nouns, verbs and modifiers that relate to the present and past, for the discriminating mind to sort out.  We are not prophets, anyway-us bloggers; but we have hopes and want to be in the conversation of the future.  Why else take to the blog?  That is our hope then, to help define the past, describe the present and express our hopes for the future: each an opportunity afforded by the internet.

Tuesday, May 17, 2016

Screenplay: Under The Sun

So I read the book of Ecclesiastes for the first time in 2010.  It set me on fire.  Now I finally get around to distilling the whole thing into a screenplay.

The idea is simple.  Scenes filmed without sound.  The soundtrack is a few cues, and a narrator reading over the book of Ecclesiastes, in its King James Version form.  There are some cued shots that repeat throughout the whole piece for flavor(there I say a slightly different meaning is conveyed each time; also begins to achieve a comedic effect).

My first draft comprises half the book at this point, with only the first chapter brushed finely into final draft form.  I had a spate of describing scenes and shots with sparse words, and then I relented, thinking to be as exact as possible; to even make the reading of the screenplay an enjoyable experience, that would convey meaning to someone reading.

The idea is that I make the movie myself, if I ever had the money, directing and producing.

I call this pretty much a pipe dream that will never come to pass, yet I am impelled to work on it by my enthusiasm for the project.  I can't help but feel a nagging doubt that this is all time wasted, during those spare moments-the absurdity of this endeavor becomes apparent.

But I will post the finalized pieces here.  Planning one chapter per week of the twelve chapters, as they are completed.

The plot of the piece is fairly simple, in the context of a sermon written down: the preacher seeks out a goodly way of life, whether to go after gains and mammon, or to just work his vineyards without exterior concerns.  He finds an answer to his query in the end, and I hope the viewer profits from the preacher's experience.

Monday, May 16, 2016

Ozymandias: recitation and commentary

Ozymandias by Percy Bysshe Shelley

I met a traveller from an antique land,
Who said: "Two vast and trunkless legs of stone
Stand in the desert. Near them, on the sand,
Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown,
And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command,
Tell that its sculptor well those passions read
Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,
The hand that mocked them and the heart that fed;
And on the pedestal these words appear:
"My name is Ozymandias, king of kings;
Look on my works, ye mighty, and despair!"
Nothing beside remains.  Round the decay
Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare
The lone and level sands stretch far away.

In the first line is cited an antique land.  Then we call it a haunted antiquity with a bit of sarcasm and satire in it, with a legend preceding it, though it itself remains mysterious, lost in tales of old empires, that rose and fell and bloody conquerings and subjugations in which only the victors contributed to history.

Its a repudiation of immutability, that we maybe do not control history, but history flows like a stream, taking turns and changing course constantly.

"The hand that mocked and the heart that fed"

We have a burning care then, in our hearts, to put a thumb in the eye to power, and here an artist has done so, whether it was the commission of royalty or a private work.  So too perhaps, Shelley.  One could say it is a meditation, while not mentioning the homeland, that Shelley thinks of the ecosystem in England, between the artists and the government, how they indeed sometimes feed one another.

The last four lines, speaking of trunkless legs, takes us to the feet of the lines in rhyming form: ABAB.  This adds to the power and the flow of those last lines, and quickens the eye, besides cementing the work better into memory.  There are other haphazard rhymes scattered throughout and it begs if those were accidental, incidental, or intentional to bolster the cadence of the work, as if it were a musical piece with a prescribed tempo, here in words and lines, line breaks and commas, instead of ticks per minute.

Friday, May 13, 2016

A Three Horseman Dramatic Production

On the ice planet, Mikl and Larry hear something over the hill.  Its an Imperial Probe Droid.  Larry gets its attention by growling, while Mikl shoots it from behind.

"The empire knows we're here now" says Mikl.

Larry grunts.

They flee.  Rikl takes off in his fighter-craft, while Mikl and Larry take the princess aboard the Ford Falcon.

Rikl travels to a distant undeveloped planet to learn to be a Knight, meeting an old master thought dead: Deacon Jones.

"Eat your booty-o's" says Deacon Jones.

Aboard the Ford Falcon, Mikl and Larry use all their skills to evade the empire, even flying into the stomach of a space worm, but escaping just in time.

"Jonbo" says Mikl, staring at the star chart.

"Jonbo system?" says the princess, confused.

"No"  says Mikl.  "Jonbo Calrissian.  Owes me a favor.  We go way back.  He's in charge of the cloud city.  Probably won it in a poker game."

At the cloud city, Jonbo greets Mikl and company.  Its apparent Larry does not like Jonbo, not from the start, or trust him.  As they enter a canteen, there is BOBA FETT waiting with a cadre of imperial troops.

Larry grunts.

Mikl tell Larry: "Shut up, Larry! That's not Boba Fett.  That's TIM WHITE!  Jonbo set us up!"

Mikl is so dangerous, they want to freeze him, which is something that has never been tried on humans before, usually a preserving technique used for produce, shipped around and between the galaxies to far-flung farmer's markets.  They have subdued Mikl with handcuffs, and he stands on the platform of the freezing apparatus, at gunpoint:

Princess: "Mikl, me loves you."

"DONT YOU THINK I KNOW THAT?!" shouts Mikl into her startled face.

He gets frozen.  Then Rikl comes and Seth Rollins cuts Rikl's hand off.  Rikl escapes, barely conscious, falling out of the city and miraculously, directly onto the waiting Ford Falcon.

Dramatic music as Rikl and the Princess stand on the tailgate of a Chevy Silverado, watching Larry drive away in the Ford Falcon.

Wednesday, May 11, 2016

Keeping Up



We had dinner at uncle's.  Steaming pots and warm bread.  Pans of meat and a pile of drinks in the corner.  Everything in its place; the function, preparation, of a loving uncle.  The men standing there, not saying much, just enjoying the moment, the togetherness, and the women hiding away in the kitchen, each playing home-maker, showing their plumage to the other females proudly.


Uncle had some life advice for his searching nephew.  You always take advice with a grain of salt, evaluating the remarks through your own prism.  But Uncle is a wise man, and well-meaning, so his words have a great weight with me.


I then, in a spare moment, check-in with the social media, location tag and so forth, as if I were a slug making a slime trail behind me.  I obviously look at the pictures first, because they catch the eye, and most are funny.  They tickle me.  The facebook memes.  Its good to be social, even if that means staring at the intimate thoughts and iteneraries of others on a computer screen as a I sit alone in my rooms.


But it's a joy to remain in the loop with friends, with all the pool party pics and rants about exes-all the sweet and the sour.  This is modern life, until the next big thing comes along, then we'll all pile aboard again on that new bandwagon.  The Betamax effect, maybe they could call it, or the HD-DVD bandwagon, in which all the lemmings have a like mind.

Sunday, May 8, 2016

Futnuckery Vocabulary Builder: Eschatology(word of the day, yesterday)

Eschatology(n): The study of the afterlife.

Imagine great machinery processing souls, in and out, in and out.  Baby in.  Old dude out.  The great cog in the mechanism turns once more and another baby lands in the world, splat, kicking and screaming.

Leaving the world in the form of a spirit then might be like stepping up to an express checkout lane, what with so many dying every second across the globe.  The smallest amount of time possible is spent then in processing the new death, in the interest of economy and to keep pace with ever-increasing numbers.

There will always be at least one penny in the run improperly struck, with an askew rim and a dizzy, doubled president in side relief.

The system will have anomalies, like Neo and Trinity(I'm joking here).  And The One(Jesus).

Having never seen a ghost, I have nevertheless been told tales of all kinds regarding ghosts, spirits, and manifestations of persons departed.  I'm not peeing on the beliefs of other people, but stating emphatically that at this point I do not believe in ghosts; however I have acknowledge that a passing may occasionally not go by the natural order, like a peanut falling from the hopper onto the factory floor in the great Factory of Life.

A drive with a ghost:

A song.  Always a song, narrator driving along, picks up a hitch-hiker.  Maybe the hitcher bums a smoke from the driver.  But always, just before he exits the vehicle, he gives a clue to his identity.

"That was Hank Williams, or Dale Earnhardt, what I gived a ride down the road.  At least I helped his lost soul along a far piece", a rustic might think.

The ghost then just needed a boost from A to B.  Like an Uber customer.  Except dead.  And famous.  And not offering any gas money.

And Nashville chunked the story into a song, and people found it meaningful, in some way, somehow, despite logic, despite knowing that famous person is lost.  And some songwriter and singer have then cashed-in on the name of the famous and dead person referred to.

"That was Ronnie Milsap.  That was Beaufort Pusser.  That was Merle Haggard.  That was Jerry Clower."  A lost soul on a highway, according to Nashville, that the befamed are somehow greater, larger, and even in reality unhappy, and die to become searching and unhappy ghosts.  

"Oh, how do I spend all the filthy money?"  Success a burden?  On the weak-minded among us.  Face it people: we elevate some broken, barely-functional people. We then hound them, severely fracturing any chance for a celebrity to know a regular life.  I think of Mike Tyson fixing his soul, becoming a better man, but a worse boxer.  I think of Heath Ledger and the pills.  Phillip Seymour Hoffman and the pills.  Johnny Depp and the goats.

Like the scene in Tim Burton's Batman, in which Batman and the Joker argue about which of the two made the other, that each had forced the hand of the other, influencing through violence.  Though the Joker's plight was sort of well-earned punishment, while Bruce Wayne was traumatized by the turd Napier during the commission of a crime.  But it's emotional wrought Hollyweird crap in the course of a lack of consequences and rules-the villian and the masked revenger arguing motive.

Tuesday, May 3, 2016

Ripping on Caravaggio.(throwing shade in chiaroscuro)



He had an audience of wealthy dukes and dutchess'es across old Italy.  The wanted pictures of John the Baptist and he cranked them out in abundance, mostly with a shirtless John.  Other bible scenes were painted but usually with a dramatically sexual connotation.  That was his blending, putting together various elements to makes a piece that spoke to all within an audience, even if the wealthy patron had to hide the somewhat-pornographic painting in secluded room, rather than hanging it where all could see.


His most famous work, highlights his edging on the reprehensible, a nude adolescent as Cupid.  I'm offended by it, yet I laugh at it.  When I initially found this one, I had to text it to my friends as a joke. "Dinner at uncle's" I said, as a multi-tiered joke.  But maybe the wealthy patrons yearned also for a sexual element in their work, and particularly then, the wealthy woman was the appreciator, more so than the lord of the manor.  But here I make conjectures that excuse over-sexed visions, that Caravaggio would be in the adult entertainment industry if he were working now, painting nude vixens with tattoos, and maybe, ala Frank Frazetta, fantastical images of warrior maidens and brute men and vicious beasts.

But his sense of drama intermingled with his sexuality, causing some sort of titilation.  Ooh baby.