" . . . carried forth and scattered and carried forth again. Everything uncoupled from it's shoring. Unsupported in the ashen air. Sustained by a breath, trembling and brief." ~ Cormac McCarthy
Sita is a goddess separated from her beloved Lord and husband Rama. Nina is an animator whose husband moves to India, then dumps her by e-mail. Three hilarious shadow puppets narrate both ancient tragedy and modern comedy in this beautifully animated interpretation of the Indian epic Ramayana. Set to the 1920’s jazz vocals of Annette Hanshaw, Sita Sings the Blues earns its tagline as “The Greatest Break-Up Story Ever Told.”
I would have to agree. Unfortunately, I cannot seem to get the music of Annette Hanshaw out of my head. Not necessarily a bad thing.
In other news, you aren't what you eat. Nope. YOU are what you stockpile in your freezer.
Perhaps what my blog is missing is a unifying theme. Perhaps I need to start over and decide exactly what it is that I can articulate like no one else. What is my IT factor? What is IT? For a time I entertained many with a peculiar sensitivity to the cultural prevalence of "The Giant Panda." Unfortunately, I cannot find humor in the Panda as I once did. Equal parts over kill and gradual numbness. What a tragic animal. What a tool! Quite literally, a diplomatic tool. Endangered, Caged. If you asked a Giant Panda Bear, I bet he'd tell you he feels very small and exploited.
What's giant about a panda? Perhaps his heart? Perhaps his compassion for other pandas? Perhaps his peaceful union with the bamboo trees and the politicos of China? Or maybe the only thing "giant" about a panda is that familiar sense of failure?
Let's take a walk through an exotic poppy field. For what appears to be miles, poppy flowers are in bloom. A quiet buzz of pollenating insects stir in the steady breeze. The flowers ebb and flow like small waves. AND THERE YOU ARE! You emit peace from your pores and take in the fragrant air. Nothing could stop you from feeling deep abiding joy. Not even that considerably large heroin factory whose militant workers protect and cultivate the poppy field. NO. You are soaking in sunshine and when an alarm sounds on the plantation, you simply lie down amid the flowers. This region is wraught with territorial wars between competing drug cartels. As bazookas begin to blaze overhead, you find a pleasant sensitivity between your body and the shattering rumble of the earth beneath you. The delicate vibration lulls you to sleep. And you dream about fluffy bunnies and pecan pie with Cool Whip.
Distant places, places I've never even been, are shouting my name on top of a mountain in Uzbekistan. I fear I'm not alone. Numerous friends have expressed similar desires to get the hell outta dodge. Dinner conversations frequently derailed by grand ideas to portage canoes in the BWCA or visit friends abroad. Then the disturbing realization that this conversation is not best served with over-priced beer and gourmet organic food. Traveling can be cheap, but it takes a sturdy financial commitment nonetheless. I was less than surprised when an ambitious traveling itinerary designed over FujiYa sushi demanded this grounding observation.
Yet, a new and inspiring cure for the travel bug enlightened my raw-fish eating friends. IMAGINATION VACATIONS. As tour guide, I took five people on an adventure through a hot, humid jungle brimming with life and peril and primitive peoples practicing drug-induced rituals. There was a man-eating jaguar and little marmosets stalking in the trees. YOU SHOULD HAVE BEEN THERE.
To celebrate this new form of adventure-travel, I would be pleased to take YOU on an imagination vacation. ANYTIME. ANYWHERE. ANYHOW. This just might inspire a revolution in the tourism-industry. Don't complain or ask questions or you can go home! Just shut-up, close your eyes, and get ready. More to come . . .
Listening ~ Delta Spirit's Ode to Sunshine Album is off the hook.
Reading ~ Coetzee to abandoned bunny rabbits(a.k.a. Bro-nnies Robberts)
Ambitious children are merely fools. Did you know that upon arrival back on Earth astronauts can hardly walk? Yuppers. Floating in zero gravity is splendid up until your legs are so atrophied you must resort to a wheel chair. Honestly kids, being an astronaut is comparable to child birth: magnificent, profound, inspiring but a big puddley mess of astronaut. None of this is meant to discourage the aeronautic pursuits of people everywhere; rather, I think it is important we face the harsh reality that (I'm sorry but) everyone can't be an astronaut.
Got it?
What if Barack Obama had decided to be an astronaut? The hope of millions: gone. The pioneer of a historic campaign: down-trodden, defeated. It is a proven fact that I think most cynics in America are simply somber woman and man-childs refusing to accept a world in which outer space is out of reach.
On a different note: my coworker talks to herself like one talks to a puppy. "I'm just a little FedEx girl today."
For the most part, I am a pleased customer of Blockbuster's Total Access Mail Movie Rentals. My only complaint is a product of my own indecision. I often queue up movies or documentaries I think I would watch, only to find I am not "in the mood" day after day. Such was the case with Man On Wire, a documentary about Frenchman Philip Petit's orchestration of an illegal tight-rope walk between the Twin Towers. I had mentioned the movie to my friends and roommates numerous times, but received uninspired reponses. Now, I realize that their disinterest was merely disbelief. I too hardly began to fathom the enormity of Petit's defiant tight-rope walk. Last night, the mood dawned on me.
Impossible. Unbelievable. Fascinating. Petit is a testament to the power of sheer belief and his talent is something to be revered. Immediately after his death-defying act, New Yorkers had one burning question, "Why?" It's comical, really. To an unconvinced audience Petit explained, he crossed the towers because he could . . . and so it goes.
It got me to thinking, belief alone is like outer space, math, love or any of those things that just get bigger and bigger, multiplying into incomprehensible, infinite possibility. In a similar line of thinking, I recalled something a friend had told me about the survivors of a plane crash in the cold, barren mountains who trekked out of their rotten predicament. My friend said that when asked if the survivors thought they were going to die, the consensus among them was a clear and simple NO. Believe it or not.
Below I have attached a brief g-chat discussion I had this morning with a graduate student at the University of Minnesota. Lately, discourse on economic conditions is plagued by verbosity and technical hogwash. In particular, the manner in which Americans articulate market forces in metaphor conveys our ego-centric and individualistic econo-culture. Does the "invisible-hand" guiding free-markets belong to every man? Steve Jobs? Jesus Christ, himself? Does "the hand" have opposable thumbs? Judging by the dexterity of this hand, I'll say YES.
The personification of market forces in America stands in stark contrast to the article we discussed this morning. You will quickly recognize that the metaphor used to describe our current economic downturn is a "financial tsunami." They observe "economic peaks and troughs" and recognize the "cycle" of it all. In short, Westerners imagine the invisible hand of an individual while Easterners view the economy as a force of nature. Thus began an enlightening and poetic g-chat:
me: the economy is just a huge metaphor for chinese people
phil.miner: I wonder if that is healthier
me: probably . . . just another obscurity of market forces
phil.miner: invisible hands and eastern metaphors.
me: force of nature or man hand
phil.miner: if that isn't a nice example of eastern vs. western thinking I don't know what is
me: agreed
phil.miner: would also make a nice little essay. I'll leave it up to you to write that up.
me: minimum word count?
phil.miner: as many or as few as it takes . . . perhaps a haiku
me: forget english, i would prefer to speak only haiku. i would gladly live among people who only spoke in haikus . . . for a year
phil.miner: ditto
Why am I so broke? An invisible man hand or force of nature?
me:
Your Haiku enlights my busted existence bro let's go get sushi
phil.miner:
The question becomes can invisible man hands make use of chopsticks?
me:
And, will panda tears taste sweet like candied ginger or sour like soy sauce?
phil.miner:
Eating just bamboo probably makes their tears taste like salty pulp
me: Astrological Annuities in China Will extinct Pandas
phil.miner:
Wait, are you saying ghost panda hands will soon guide the economy?
me:
A panda gentry has unfinished business and defaulting loans
If Wholly Mammoth Balls didn't communicate this well enough, put plainly, it is absurdly cold in Minnesota today. Tomorrow promises to be even colder. For the first time this year, I am regretting my impractical approach to transportation in Minneapolis. Even die-hard winter bikers are pedaling in disbelief. That is, of course, if they can maintain concentration. Though not clinically proven, I'm fairly certain the biting wind induces an arctic strain of ADD.
On a brighter note, the shining sun creates an optical illusion of warmth. Yet, seeing is not believing. Not today. Today, believing is believing and I believe Minnesota is God's Cold Minty Toothpaste. Like the kind of toothpaste so potent, its fumes sting your eyes. The kind that makes you want to switch brands and that kills small birds. The kind that operates by reminding you of all the cavities you've neglected.
At any rate, I was sent an awesome video this afternoon. I'm not sure what more to say then: LOOK! Honestly, who doesn't enjoy an elaborate display of eclectic stop-motion paper crafts?
And while on the subject of paper crafts, this weekend the annual Art Shanty Project commences on the icy surface of Medicine Lake. "A Paper Shanty" is one of numerous themed ice houses imagined, proposed, funded then constructed by artists including my coworker and soul sister Claudette et al. Kudos to her team and all the other Minnesotans that find inspiration in such a desolate season.
I'd like to thank Phil for asking me the important and fateful question: "Do you like Lykke Li?" Turns out, YES, I do Phil. Lykke Li, a native Swede, may be the greatest thing since Coordinated Capitalism. In her homeland's honor, I thank Sweden as well. In particular, I am fond of this blogotheque take-away show of "Dance, Dance, Dance" performed live on the streets of San Francisco:
As it seems, the new important and fateful question is, "Who's interested in seeing Lykke Li at the Varsity on Sunday, February 8th?" Maybe breakfast buffet at Loring Pasta Bar and pretend we're college students all afternoon ? . . . just an idea. We'll pull at our hair in cafes and exclaim things like, "Med School is so stressful" or "Eureka! X equals infinity minus continuously compounding pi" while reading unrelated pop-fiction. Takers? Maybe I need to coax you more:
In honoring the few people who read my blog, I dedicate this one to you Bulletproof Vest. If my predictions are right, you will continue to read my blog this year despite the variable quality of its content. With that said, keep reading if you care anything about the future and what it holds for ME and maybe YOU (not specifically you, Jen).
Personally, I foresee myself attending George Clinton & Parliament Funkadelic next Monday at First Avenue. Of course, YOU should too if only to hear his timeless and timely funk hit "Chocolate City." Barack Obama is no Ali, but he is "Gainin' on Ya!" in a very real way.
As usual, this February will isolate every person born on a leap year. Many of these people will try desperately to pretend its cool to have a leap year birthday. They may even try to throw a party comparable to New Year's insofar as the single most important moment is the stroke of midnight. Ultimately, this moment will pass and they'll continue on deploring their forgotten and novel existence.
March should prove especially trying for Christians in 2009. They will wander the weeks wondering why Christ would resurrect in April. Devout Catholics and preachy Evangelists will mistakenly use the Lord's name in vain. A Christian offensive will spark new controversy over how many days it takes for Christs heart to begin beating in the tomb. On the other side of the spectrum, glass-half-full Protestants will be pleased to discover they have a few weeks extra evil-doing, pan-handling and general debauchery before reminded that Christ died for their sins
April showers will likely bring May flowers. June deflowers will bring a boom of 2010 babies. July will give Obamanation a chance to celebrate its same old diversity with renewed perspective. Aw sheeee-yut meihn. I would continue, but I'm realizing upon second reading of my 2009 review that this might all be a little premature.
I forgot to mention that I am certainly attending Andrew Bird's live concert in April at the State Theater. If you haven't seen this guy live you are missing a link in the unceasing chain of events that makes music better, and better, and better, and better. One of the better, if not best, live shows I've ever seen was Andrew Bird's performance at the Guthrie. This guy makes music you can sit, enjoy and be dazzled by. Bedazzled.
Got to get back to the grind.
Listening ~ Love Lockdown by Kanye West and Little Bird by The Weepies
It is 2009. What a year it has been! I had a day off yesterday. Boy was that great. I got to sleep in. I had my mom's car. That was so convenient! What a great year it has been. Favorite song of the year: Spoon's "Don't Make Me a Target." I was listening to it over and over yesterday, like even when I was driving home from a New Years Party. I hear that song in my sleep, man. And then last night I was watching Toy Story. That shit is delightful. Definitely my top pick for 2009. It feels a bit unsettling when everyone turns on Woody, but the nostalgia alone is intoxicating . . . in a good way.
From the way things are going, it seems Egg Nog is the drink of 2009. Seems like it's everywhere you go. What has two thumbs and loves that sweet noggy nectar? Do I even have to explain myself?
Since the new year started off, I have been feeling great. My hopes are high for this one. A new year brings new challenges, but shit son, I haven't encountered one. This may be the easiest year ever. I was a bit shocked to see how many stores were closed this year. With the economy going sour, I feared for the worst. However, my buddy explained the stores are only closed for the holiday. In my opinion, this whole year has felt like a holiday.
My favorite part of this year was when I was hanging out with Joe and he said "2009: what, what?" Maybe it was how he said it, like a shout out. Like "What 2009? What are you trying to be?" I think that was when it really sank in. Then I said back something like, "2009 in da Hizz-nouse! 2009 in da Hizzy-now-bizz-lowse." Joe knew it too. I could tell the way he looked at me. Those eyes were 2009 eyes. Those eyes were NOW eyes. Then I said, "I'm Joe's eyes in 2009, Fuck 2008!" After that he looked confused.
Honestly, it's easy to get confused in the buzz of a year. I feel like 2009 is flying by already. I've hardly had the chance to really appreciate everything the year delivered. Time is as precious as stone and stolid as a robot. Change is always coming but you can't change the fact that 2009 has treated us well. This one's for you 2009, and your insatiable appetite for Egg Nog.
