Tuesday, June 28, 2016

"I'm getting things sorted out." "Screw you. Goodbye, Alice."

Friday the 13th 2, 3, and 4 represent an epic run that, in storytime, encompasses what, no more than two weeks?  Jason watches one day, kills the next.  He starts with Alice, then the cop, and on and on, from spot to spot, even thought dead and escaping the hospital, which doesn't even make him lose a whole day before getting more kills.  Just an epic continual run, with the letting of Alice's blood beginning an onslaught of murder, that through three films, just kept going forward relentlessly.

"This is Jake.  From State Farm."

And Alice, the girl with the unspecified troubles, letting it out in her art.  She started the whole mess by having the gall to survive the first film, but, she gets hers.  Yes, she does.  Then Jason has a spot of tea as her corpse loses its lifeheat.  This much defies formula, but there had to be an excuse to introduce Jason, which I would have had an organized but fruitless search for Alice conducted by Jason, with him finding her in a later film.

Again, someone said revenge is better imagined than realized.  Jason, sitting in his shack in the woods, disagreed, and thought revenge, a campaign of murder, was just the thing to set him to rights.

But, at the outset, a franchise that helped establish the slasher formula throws a monkeywrench and through the lines delivered by Amy Steele, actively ponders the what and why of Jason, and she does so as a DOOMSAYER and the VIRGINAL SURVIVOR.

Sunday, June 26, 2016

Worriers, come out and play-yay.

Color me unphased.

Obama has been talking crumbling infrastructure for eight years, yet he pats himself on the back about the Affordable Care Act.  They want new revenue streams and new programs, while letting the old responsibilities languish, such as schools and roads.

They should not have joined the EU in the first place.  Just my two cents, which, with trade such as it is, would be a king's ransom in the seat of the empire.

I've had other things on my heart, recently, like a new book and some thought of religious doctrine.  The two subjects are not wholly separate, by the way.  This is turmoil, in a sense, but also good for me, because I always come out the other side better than before.

Cursed is a man that will not learn his lessons.

The Quebe sisters are just great.  Love that sound and the fiddle interplay.  Just had to tell you that.  Meanwhile Taylor talking about "in your wildest dreams".  Who is fooling who, honey?

I should also take a minute to tell the reader how important he/she is to me.  That much has not changed, no matter what current events blow around in the ether.  It's me and you against the world, as always.

Thursday, June 16, 2016

The Opera of the Unseemly(a reflection on exploitation cinema)

Within the opera of the unseemly-the sublime and the cheap engineering of a fever dream, there is something of a cadence, a cyrcadian rhythm to the whole bit, that the doors of nightmare open for a good peek, then we go back to the contrived story, not just to immediately fling the doors of that nightmare right open and make the entire remainder of the film but a dull but sated afterglow, but to build and sustain tension throughout the piece, with little hopes and anxieties and spikes of turmoil: however we got a proper appetizing shot of the illicit in the beginning, if for no other reasons, just to get the works off on the good foot.

In the one-off scene, we are immediately brought to the point of the uncomfortably erotic, wanting to hide ourselves under pillows or blankets or even a pet cat-whatever is conveniently nearby-to deny that we are enjoying the debasement of another, precious and wretched defilement, precious and wretched at once, putting some element of the victim on a pyre as to destroy it, destroy a piece of them, some element like dignity even while worshipping and exalting in their presence, their discomfort and exposure.

I think of I Spit On Your Grave-that work of dignity and prestige-fake penetration and endless minutes of footage of the rapists disrobing themselves, how we become almost at one with the victim, like we have married her, come through the mess before and even built a relationship at some point during endless feigned rapings in which she lies lethargic-but we are not lethargic, oh no; we have blood going through unfamiliar pathways, hidden caveman things becoming excited through rushing blood and the tingle of innervation.

That it is uncomfortable is that sleepaway moment that beckons so many: wanting and simultaneously not wanting, curious but afraid, as we as viewers are uncomfortable in several bodily spots-I think of the stomach-yet we cannot look away, even if our malaise drives us to vomit all over the living room in front of the still running moviefilm.

Am I coming towards a rapist lurking somewhere within?

Monday, June 13, 2016

Screenplay: Under the Sun(chapter four)

"So I returned, and considered all the oppressions that are done under the sun: and behold the tears of such as were oppressed, and they had no comforter; and on the side of their oppressors there was power; but they had no comforter."
(on "I returned" CUT TO: Terrapin Square, bustling)
(on "under the sun" CUT TO: sun shot w/artifacts, w/sickly avian caw)

CUE CU on Azalea screaming.  Her face fills the screen.  Her eyes are ablaze with hatred, her mouth open, her teeth showing like animal fangs.  Gone is her former beauty.

"Wherefore I praised the dead which are already dead more than the living which are yet alive."

CLOSE ON Sarah laughing, in slow-motion, as if in conversation with Narrator, her looking straight on, as if from Narrator's POV.  Her face is happy, bringing remembrance of former happiness, that though they were young and their relationship undeveloped, Sarah and the Narrator were geniunely happy.

"Yea, better is he than both they, which hath not yet been, who hath not seen the evil work that is done under the sun."
(on "under the sun" CUT TO: sun shot w/artifacts, soundtrack sting)

FULL on Narrator from inside POV, standing in doorway of unlit room, his back to us, while he faces without, his attention focused without.  He and the doorway are all reflective, meditative bits, that he considers the without while none of what he sees touches him.

"Again, I considered all travail, and every right work, that for this a man is envied of his neighbor.  This is also vanity and vexation of spirit."
(on "vexation" CUT TO: bitter face)

FULL on Narrator picking at a fruit plant in a closed courtyard.  The fruit plant is big, almost the height of the narrator, but not quite, so it is a youngling compared to his other plants on his first estate.  We see the scale of his operation has disminished to the level of a mere hobby.

"The fool foldeth his hands together,and eateth his own flesh.  Better is an handful with quietness, than both the hand full with travail and vexation of spirit."
(on "vexation" CUT TO: bitter face)

MEDIUM on Azalea, dressed well, at a big dining table, at the head, while SERVANTS work around her.  The  face of Azalea is empty, like an appliance when out of use.  On the table is a floral arrangement.  She seems austere and commanding, important while the shapes of SERVANTS move this way and that around her and before her, putting things on table.

MEDIUM on Floral Arrangement, sitting stationary, center-mass amidst dinner table.

"Then I returned, and I saw vanity under the sun."
(on "returned" cue long on terrapin square)
(on "under the sun" cue sun shot w/artifacts)

CUE on Azalea screaming (again).  Repetition is requisite for flavor.

"There is one alone, and there is not a second; yea, he hath neither child nor brother: yet there is no end of all his labour; neither is his eye satisfied with riches; neither saith he, For whom do I labour, and bereave my soul of good?   This also is vanity, yea, it is a sore travail."

FULL on CHILD 1 throwing a stone absently into distance.  We see the arc of the stone as it travels, and then bounces along the ground.

TIGHT on stone rolling to a stop in the dirt.  We might wonder if the words of the Narrator roll a stop in the bleak blankness of the open exposed dirt of the dooryard.

"Two are better than one; because they have a good reward for their labor.   For if they fall, the one will lift up his fellow: but woe to him that is alone when he falleth; for he hath not another to help him up."

MEDIUM on Narrator and Child 1 tending the flower plants in his otherwise bleak courtyard.  Their backs are turned to us, with their attention drawn to the plant, which is just slightly visible between the father and son.

"Again, if two lie together, then they ave heat: but how can one be warm alone?  And if one prevail against him, two shall withstand him; and a threefold cord is not quickly broken."

MEDIUM, Narrator in focus in fg, lying on his side in bed, regarding the empty room with a thoughtful face(this is because he is a thoughtful man, with a face that seems caught in the alert state of minding his own train of thought).  In the background, behind him, lying face-up on the bed is Azalea.  She is austere and prim, poised, even in slumber.

"Better is a poor and a wise child than an old and foolish king, who will no more be admonished.  For out of prison he cometh to reign; whereas also he that is born in his kingdom becometh poor."

CLOSE on CHILD regarding ground.  It should be apparent now that he has grown, either by a hairdo or the size of his clothing.

CLOSE OVERHEAD POV on Child's rocks and circle.  There are more rocks, showing that the atom is more complicated, with rocks about the middle scattered and rocks on the line of the circle.  Gone is the simplicity of the hydrogen atom.

LONG on Azalea, in full party dress, in center of a crowded gathering in the Narrator's dining room.  Even amidst the merriment of her guests, she cannot hide her stern countenance.

"I considered all the living which walk under the sun, with the second child that shall stand up in his stead."
(on "under the sun" CUT TO: sun shot w/artifacts)

MEDIUM on Pregnant Azalea standing beside a worn wooden post in the evening.   She looks uneasy, unpleasant, and generally not nice by the set of her face.  By now we have seen her many times, but never yet in quite a pleasant way.

"There is no end of all the people, even of all that have been before them: they also that come after shall not rejoice in him.  Surely this is also vanity and vexation of spirit."

CUE Azalea screaming.  In repetitions, meanings are jumbled and jostled constantly.
(on "vexation" CUT TO: bitter face)
CUE Azalea screaming again(after BITTER FACE)

Heavy Metal Weekend: A Reflection

I'm talking to you.

"What's that knocking on my door: hiphop, house blend or hardcore?"

Some people just want to while away the weekend.  Who could ask for more, but to unwind after a dismal week of shovelling french fries?

Look at the Rachel Maddow-type standing there like she is unaffected by goings-on.

Its just now getting good.

A little programmed rest and relaxation, or maybe just some binge watching.  With the "show hole", or mid-season psychosis, where the world melts away and all there is the show.  There is a world out there, people.

Now.  I'm not trying to make you mad. Though usually when someone says "I'm not trying to make you mad, but...", usually you're about to hear something you don't want to hear.

The audience is unreceptive-only wanting their pre-conceived notions re-enforced by the droning from the screen.  But this is not what I offer.  I risk wasting wise words on an unwilling audience, to "cast my pearls before swine", with my words being pearls and you all being the swine.  You don't have to stay that way.  I love you and consider you a friend.  You are important to me.

But sometimes don't you just feel like you're talking to people in a different language, that the words aren't sinking in?

I'll keep talking and you read on.  Like the above woman, I speak not for one minute or two minutes or even three minutes, though the task seems gargantuan.  I speak for three minutes and forty-seven seconds, just to make sure I've gotten the point across.

My hope is your deliverance, that you are delivered and redeemed even as I am delivered and redeemed, because we all need that.  No?

Rescue or deliverance can take many forms and vary in degrees.  But you should burst from your box and hold your hands up, feeling the air, feeling and relishing your freedom.

Anyway, it was a good weekend, Tater.  I watched some, read some, wrote some and thought a bit.  Thought about you and me and all of them out there that needs something more in our lives, if only we were receptive.

Thursday, June 9, 2016

A Day In The Life/With Gratitude to Henri

I awaken to FM Top 40.  Radio.  I take to Sirius/XM 60's and 70's revues to begin the day on a more productive note.  The tunes are like old friends, comforting like a blanket, even sometimes beckoning me to dance along with the musicians.

I dig the oldies.  Ferry Cross the Mersey and such.

Carmelita and I take to the books for study and mental refreshment.  She likes my vocal impression of Sancho Panza, and she giggles into a delicate hand.  I quote the Bible on Facebook, while posting cribbed photos on my blog.

Upon returning alone to my rooms, I am overcome by a profound emptiness.  I think of gazing into an old stone draw well, into its darkness, with a peak of reflection at the bottom in the waters, showing me my own blank, featureless expression.

You give what you get, it is said, and if that much is true, I am in for a world of disappointments.

Friedrich Nietzsche said something about gazing into the abyss and the abyss gazing back into the observer, and I take that emptiness does reflect, and even sometimes propigate, like an aggressive disease.

Wednesday, June 8, 2016

The ChopStop Inaugural Edition: The Run To All-Star Break 2016

They made Fredi the goat.  Maybe he can get a job at a petting zoo.

I yearn for not only a top-performing team, but stability in leadership, therefore, I hope not only for the success of Snitker, but a long tenure.

Still missing Shelby Miller.  I bet he asked to get out of such a dismal situation last year, tho.  But also, I'm still missing Medlen and Hudson and Hanson and Sheets.  I get attached to those dudes.  During their stays in the ATL, I hanged my hopes on them, if only for a few hours a day.

HOWEVER, the show is getting good.  Folty has surprised after a few dismal starts, and Blair has shown flashes of brilliance.  It's really something to watch, these young pitchers maturing.

Mallex Smith seems to have gotten over his Freshman jitters and become quite the competent ball player.

Looking ahead to the Redemption of Olivera, and yes, I know I'm way early on this, but I like a good redemption story(hell, I lived one!).

Tuesday, June 7, 2016

I done told you one time.

You were warned years back about my writing.  You read.  But you didn't believe.

I'm subverting so much of what you know about writing, forcing you to either throw the book down in frustration or read on and learn something.

Sex is still a point of interest.  Sex as a subject can be accessed in words in a variety of ways, but I warn you that what seems like sex in my writing, might be something different.

Agreed.  On that we are on the same page, but cathartic shows of pleasure are not my bag, but rather a sore whimper from the quietude under the porch, a gleat of despair.

I'm operating from another place.

This is all a design.

You will see differently after reading my work.

Now excuse me, while I kiss the sky.  And finish my supply of gourmet ramen.

I sound so deadpan about all of this, but in truth what I feel is placid, smooth as a glass of water sitting on a table.

The banality of Abaddon1215.

Monday, June 6, 2016

Screenplay: Under The Sun Chapter Three

"To every thing there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven."

Opposite POV, LONG on housefront, NARRATOR on steps, child playing, crouching in dirt, tree in corner of shot.

"A time to be born, and a time to die; a time to plant, and a time to pluck up that which is planted;"

MEDIUM ON Child, focused on play on ground.

OVERHEAD ON Child playing marbles, the play field.  He shoots the rocks out until there is a shooter in the middle and one on the circle line, mimicking what modern science tells us to be a hydrogen atom.

"a time to kill, and a time to heal; a time to break down, and a time to build up;"

The stone on the line is knocked out by the child, destroying the hydrogen atom by dispersing it's lone electron.

  "a time to weep, and a time to laugh; a time to mourn and a time to dance;"

MEDIUM on Narrator tilling field behind a massive, slow moving ox.  The dusty soil, when turned is dark, appearing more fertile by his efforts.

  "a time to cast away stones, and a time to gather stones together; a time to embrace, and a time to refrain from embracing;"

LONG ON Child wandering away towards brush, camera pov from house side, as if going out into the world alone, and as if searching, but in his inexperience, not even knowing what he is searching for.

"a time to get, and a time to lose; a time to keep, and a time to cast away;"

MEDIUM ANGLE on Narrator sitting on his steps, contemplative.

"a time to rend, and a time to sew; a time to keep silence, and a time to speak;"

LONG on Narrator broadcasting seeds around tilled field.  He does this slowly, as if lacking enthusiasm or tired.  His face could forecast either eventuality.

"a time to love, and a time to hate; a time of war, and a time of peace."

MEDIUM on Narrator and Friend talking and cajolling joyfully.  The smile of the narrator seems geniune and happy, but still worn down by his troubles, like a diseased man enjoying temporary relief from his ailment.  By this point in the story, his hair has been lightening to gray and his bitter face emphasized, but he should have become more worn, skin beaten and aged prematurely by weather, time, and the sun.  Along also is the notion that he has earned by his own sweat his increase, that he has performed profitable work for his farm while the slaves tended his house.

"I have seen the travail, which God hath given to the sons of men to be exercised in it.  He hath made everything beautiful in his time: also he hath set the world in their heart, so that no an can find out the work that God maketh from the beginning to the end."

MEDIUM on Child, cloaked, sitting, removing chunks of bread from a sandwich, throwing the bread pieces to birds, who, after a BEAT, approach nervously and eat the jump away before taking flight.

INTERCUT CU on Child's face, occupied in the task of breaking the bread, eyes watching the birds, but it is a matter of debate as to whether he is really watching them or absorbed in what he is doing physically.  In the absence of sentiment in the eyes in an unguarded moment is an implied apathy toward the matter focused upon.

"I know there is no good in them, but for a man to rejoice, and to do good in his life.  And also that every man should eat and drink, and enjoy the good of all his labour, it is the gift of God."

LONG(Centered, Rear POV) on Narrator, walking into his house, at a moderate pace.   At first he dominates our field of vision, then he shrinks slightly with the smidgeon of distance covered to his front door, then he disappears inside, in the unlit confines of his home.

"I know that, whatsoever God doeth, it shall be for ever: nothing can be put to it, nor any thing taken from it: and God doeth it, that men should fear before him."

MEDIUM on Narrator picking fruits, weary, busy, reaping a good harvest.

MEDIUM on Slaves working orchard with Narrator.  He has many full baskets of fruit.   The orchard is alive with activity, as the fruits are harvested.

"That which hath been is now; and that which is to be hath already been; and God requireth that which is past."

LONG Interior foyer POV on open door, dust blowing across the sandy ground of the dooryard, desolate-the opposite of the fecund, bustling orchard.

"I said in mine heart, God shall judge the righteous and the wicked: for there is a time there for every purpose and for every work."

CU on hand picking fruit.  The hand removes the fruit leaving the dangling stem from the tree as our center of vision.

"I said in mine heart concerning the estate of the sons of men, that God might manifest them, and that they might see that they themselves are beasts.  For that which befalleth the sons of men befalleth beasts; even one thing befalleth them: as the one dieth, so dieth the other; yea, they have all one breath; so that a man hath no preeminence above a beast: for all is vanity.  All go unto one place; all are of the dust, and all turn to dust again."

MEDIUM on a big gathering of people in the house, a party, perhaps for our purposes a celebration of the harvest.  People in all colors of tunics gather about under torchlight, nibbling on items and drinking.  They talk and talk, and laugh-some shaking, convulsing in the jubilation of whatever is said.

CU on Stern Face of Narrator, from the corner, watching his guests, at an understanding, but not necessarily approving or reproaching them, but certainly not participating.

"Wherefore I perceive that there is nothing better, than that a man should rejoice in his own works; for that is his portion: for who shall bring him to see what shall be after him?"

MEDIUM on Azalea, a woman of about 40, very pretty, presentable, like a fancy bouquet of flowers on the table of a wealthy family.  Her face is stern, set, belying that all her charm is in her appearance.  She stares seriously to the right of our POV.

Saturday, June 4, 2016

The shadetree man tunes it.

Before the build I pressured washed the whole thing and a Prius fell out of the grill.  I recycled the old tires as planters.  I gave the old well-used factory radio to a needy black family.

I thought of putting an aquarium in the interior, somehow between the seats, but I have trouble keeping fish alive.  I'm more a rolled-in-cornmeal kind of dude.

I put a Peyton Manning paint scheme on the camper shell as a commercial tie-in.  Flashed the ecu and installed hi-flo injectors.  Bolted on boards and bed rails.

Discount store light kit.  The glowing strings they call lights.  Now when I cut Broad Street, people will look at the truck and think it's E.T.'s parents come back again.

Installed a Pioneer CD player from 1996 and a woofer cab in the back seat: a presswood cabinet covered in cheap black shortloop.

Dale Jr-branded wheels.  Tasteful.  Exclusive.

We let that Jonathan guy paint the cylinder heads.  We gonna redo that before the final build.

Sh*t is ready to go off-pavement with a vengeance, almost.  I'm about to shop for some Smithfield and Hillshire Farms for the cooler.  Because I eat my all-pork breakfast beside a pond; understand?

Thursday, June 2, 2016

Quis: Part-time, party-time birthday clown


Eater of chocolates.  Devourer of beers.  Starer at teen girls.

His serape: a chair cover.  He has three cars in his yard, but neither of the three have wheels.  He has four kids.  Each of the four run around the house in underwear, and Quis doesn't know their names.  He does remember his pit bull's name though: Hambali.

You would think him an immigrant-one of the disreputable kind, but he had never in his life seen the sands of Mexico, though there was a spit of the Aztec in his veins.  Some people just never fit in anywhere, no matter where they go, even if he just sat there in the living room like a potted plant most of the time; he would be unhappy, and he would know, even if no one else realized his plight.

As a birthday clown, his balloon animals were always creepy, illiciting blank stares, then realizations, and everyone looking away, uneasy.  He would frequently fall asleep during engagements, even amidst the noise of restless children.

As a sleeping inebriate, his belly represents a climbing obstacle for the young ones, and to balance atop the beast is the height of prowess.  It has a subtle rise and fall with his horsebreaths, as he ruins air, draining the room of life-giving oxygen.