Watching "Yojimbo"

I really have no attention span anymore.

"Idiot! Gamblers make peace to get ready for a bigger fight."

The coffin-maker's face is closed. A closed box. The faces in this movie!

Other stuff I really like about Yojimbo:

1. The whole "like his name, he is [noun or quality x]; but underneath, he is really [something you might not expect from noun or quality x]" formulation.

2. The sliding panels in the old man's restaurant and what they allow to be seen vs. keep hidden.

3. The rain.

"Ghosts? They make me feel just great!"

Today: a series of quotidian fiascos

I was trying to think of how best to sum up the day so far, and the title of this post is what I came up with.

Imagined conversations

Barista: Would you like espresso in your coffee?

Me: UH, would you like a KISS. On the MOUTH. By which I mean I WOULD. Um. I'm very sorry.
~scuttles away~

Based. On true. Events.



- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone

the new year, stranglers, etc.

Since the Kensington Strangler started exhibiting his knack for murdering young girls a few weeks ago, my mother has consistently reminded me to watch out for him. As if leaving the apartment to commune with other humans wasn’t difficult enough, now I fight a vague but nagging awareness that the ghoulish character and I are like two points on a map of Philadelphia, fluctuating in relative distance but always fairly close to one another.

The hesitation I feel about going out alone--even to meet up with people--is best categorized as inertia. Generally I’m the type that enjoys staying in. But it’s a bit tough even when I want to venture outside.

I’m writing this on a train, en route to a dinner with two friends. It took way more coaxing than it should’ve to get out the door.
---------

The above is from a few nights ago. I had to quit writing because the train approached my stop, and the moment to finish the thought is now passed. But I was going to say something about my unexpected exhilaration at traveling alone through the guts of this city and how I'm going to live my life more. Together with the recent move and a chance to relax at last, everything added up to optimism. I felt anchored in myself and this place.

And now it's New Year's Eve, the cliche juncture to make claims like this, but. I think it's gonna be a good year.

If you're reading this: happy new year, y'all! Raise your glasses (and/or the corners of your lips) to new beginnings. Let's make it good.

Love,
J

The world is a weird place

Exhibit A: Koran written in Saddam's blood

Exhibit B: King Henry IV's preserved head

Discovered at work, Jan Toorop's "The Three Brides":

No two ways around it

Walking home from work just now I saw three identical blond sorority girls dressed as...Mexicans? Woven ponchos, giant sombreros, false mustaches. They were hanging out on the sidewalk in front of their house. A guy they knew approached and they all yelled "ARRIBA ARRIBA, UNDELAY," etc. at him.

Uh, what?

writing in the moment exercises

I'm pretty pleased with the way these came out:

1. I enjoy the way the bristles of the electronic brush shudder against my teeth and the loud buzzing of the advanced craft currently mapping out my molars. Despite my unfounded conviction that a toothbrush with batteries is more powerful than the old-fashioned model, out of habit I press much harder than I need to. I don’t floss. It’s one of my most shameful secrets. Although I know it’s probably bullshit, I tell myself that if I brush with conviction I’ll fool even the most astute dentist. I pay particular attention to the teeth cowering in the pockets of my cheeks—those fools, always thinking they’ll escape notice! As I merrily bring the brush around to the front, I ponder the thinness of the teeth I present to society when compared with those burly bastards on the sides that do all the work. There’s gotta be a metaphor there, I pontificate, something about the proletariat. I snort with laughter, which prompts Lena to shout, “What’s funny?” She’s in the kitchen, doesn’t know I’m occupied. Annoyed at having to explain myself in the midst of this—the most intimate of all possible moments—I exact meaningless revenge. I yell a response in swampy-mouthed near-gibberish:

“NOSHING IS REARY FURNIE, BRURSHING MAH TEESH.”

I turn the tap on. Before cupping cold water in my hands I do a quick mirror check to see how much toothpaste is escaping my mouth. An old boyfriend and I used to brush our teeth together, and he was always disgusted when a few drops of blue dribbled down my lips. After hearing from him again and again that I was using too much paste, that I was brushing all wrong, it’s something I’m self-conscious about—even when alone. Tonight there’s only one drop, which is excusable. I wipe it off and stare into the mirror for a moment. Rinse, and spit.


2. Today—as on many previous days and many sure to come—I am convinced that I have found the perfect two songs for editing a manuscript to. The first is Lady Gaga’s “Beautiful, Dirty, Rich,” and the second is the Ramones’ “The KKK Took My Baby Away.” I’m listening to them on repeat and editing the longest project that’s ever been given me. The work is tedium in itself. If the work were a guy that you met on the street, he would be the stereotype of an accountant personified—a dull, unwrinkled charcoal shirt, plain black slacks and glasses. The kind that speaks when spoken to and can only talk about taxes. That’s the kind of boring work this is.

Before I started listening to music at my desk I was miserable. With a rhythm behind the hundreds of pages I scroll through—changing chapter numbers, deleting tab stops, formatting headings—eventually time ceases to exist and I attain an almost Zen thoughtlessness where it’s just me and the text, me and the text.

I encounter an obnoxious phrase. He’s staying capitalized for no discernible reason. We dance. I’m wearing out my repertoire trying to seduce him, but nothing short of deleting and retyping seems to work. I’m a lost cause now. I whisper, “aw c’mooooooooon,” no longer aware of the coworkers who can hear me.

The editor-in-chief comes over. I’m blasting Lady Gaga and don’t hear him; my high heels, possessed, are doing a strange little shuffly-dance under my desk. He doesn’t knock. Instead he just says my name as loudly as he can. “GAH!” I yell, hitting turbulence on the runway back to reality. “I—I’m sorry.” I remove my headphones.

“Didn’t mean to startle you,” Frank says. All this is standard procedure. He hands me a set of contract requests and departs again.

--Julia Aaaarrrrrrrrrrrrr!