Persistent Strands

Oh, so, like, I'm 1/3 in to Against the Day. Unfuckinbelievable. I finished Dally's section where the lil gal goes from the wild West with a stopover in Chicago to New York in search of the momma that, well, left her. Dally does find her momma, Erlys, both characters gorgeously named by the way, who is now hooked up with a magician family, the Zombini's. This section is pretty short, a blackjack of pages, but well, yeah, shows many winning parts, natural 21's - to overplay my unremarkable analogy. These aren't the highlights, just some stuff that I guess I don't mind starting from that point on.

Dally had imagined once that if she ever found Erlys again, she'd just forget how to breath or something. But having gathered into the family chaos with little or no fuss, so, like some amiable stranger, she was only looking for chances to scrutinize them both - Erlys when it didn't seem she was looking, and then herself in one of the mirrors that stood or hung everywhere in these rooms - for signs of similarity.

Nice, huh? Just hints of deep embedded heartbreak. A kind of action you'd expect, you might even say, "no duh," but it's done up in a nice, long sentences. Then.

Even without theatrical shoes on. Erlys was taller than Luca Zombini, and kept her fair hair in a Psyche knot, out of which the less governable tresses continued, with the day, to escape. Dally, reckoning that the way a woman, in her continuum of Tidiness, deals with hair-irregularity can provide a clue to some other self she might be keeping less available, found, somewhat to her relief, that Erlys more often than not would go entire waking days without bother from the stray undulations, though she was known to blow away as needed the more persistent strands that got in her line of vision.

I want to write like that! Or 1/2 like that. Or once 1/2 like that. A lil further down.

Not Bria. Not even when she started working as Bria's knife-throwing dummy would Dally give that much trust away to her. She noted the girl's look of indifference when her father addressed her as "bella," though that never kept him from saying it. He was clearly enraptured with all of his children, from the most obvious future criminal to the most radiant saint.

"Don't mistake me for one of these Neapolitan spaghetti-benders," Nunzi in a fair impression of his father, "I come from Friuli, in the north. We are an Alpine people."

"Goat-fuckers," clarified Cici. "They eat donkey salami up there, it's like Austria, with gestures."

I admit that is my idea of laughs. I am generally attracted to low culture. More stuff happens, then.

A silence, grave and unnatural, had crept over the lengthy apartment, as if to suggest, without a Zombini in earshot, that this would be the perfect moment to come out in a fierce and long-held whisper, "I was only a little baby -how could you just leave like that?"

You know what, again, a confrontation you kinda expect, so it is not like it is revolutionary. But then again, I don't know, through all that preceded it, it does earn that payoff. On a personal level, it is Dally, a person, a character, stating plainly something that coyness or fear another might, particularly in real everyday life, execute indirectly or just keep recessed. Mom responds.

A kind of smile, almost thankful. "Wondering when that'd come up."

So it goes. More stuff follows but the section closes.

But wouldn't you know it, before she could work up much more of a head of steam, the subgods of theatrical timing that seemed to rule this house decided about then to put into the situation after all, and here came Nunzi and Cici in matching white sharkskin suits, practicing Hindoo shuffles and French drops, cheerfully oblivious to the fury and consternation in the room, and full of the latest news about the sailing. And there Dally and Erlys would have to leave things for a while. In fact, the chore level being what it was, till they were on board the Stupendica and well out to sea.

And there it was. I like it better than The Pirates of Penzance.1

You know who died, and the same who that I hardly recalling reading anything from except after his death notice an essay? Updike. If that was it, that essay of Ted Williams last at bat, I'm okay with it.

I wonder on the horrible thing to say, where that ranks.

What I watched recently that I really like is the Swede movie Let the Right One In. I l-uv Lina Leandersson.2 An atypical vampire picture, Right One In is modest in scale and scope, but not, particularly, its imagery. Not scary (I was looking forward to squealing like a lil girl) but otherwise very sticky on the brain. I'm trying to get my reader mitts on the Lindqvist source novel, maybe via Amazon, maybe a local bookseller, whichever is cheaper, that's how it normally works, because the novel is suppose to be decent and has takes on things the movie either did not develop much or at all.

The problem with Amazon, if the point is to go the cheapo route, is that it's cost effective only if it meets the free delivery threshold, which requires a higher overall purchase. Not much of a problem as I am not adverse to further stocking my, it seems to be, not exhaustible to read pile. Still, it is picking the appropriate books or other Amazonian merchandise(s).3 I don't mind a Chomsky polemic, as I have not read anything from him. Manufacturing Consent seems like the classic of his canon, or at least has something more/different to say other than his, and this isn't a knock, anti-Americanism. I assume. Alternatively or additionally, I am piqued by Gomorrah, the Italian mafia book by Saviano, because I want to see the to be released soon Matteo Garrone movie version of the book. Matteo, an up and coming sensation that I had no clue who he is until just recently.

For that matter, I would like to see the Manufacturing Consent documentary, directed by Mark Achbar and Peter Wintonick, as well. Achbar's co-directed The Corporation was impressive. So, in a sense, breaking the twenty five bucks barrier would not be a huge problem. I may also wanna pick up Lucrecia Martel's debut movie, La Cienaga. Argentinean Lucrecia, she hot. I may wait too, Martel's rep has, just has, to earn a retro treatment sometime soon.

Okay, I'm okay with leaving Updike as I found him, somewhere else. Complaints possibly arise from astute reader(s) here who spot, among other things, the relish in which I pilfer from him and his Hub Fans Bid Kid Adieu, like "and there it was" or "gods do not answer letters." Um, stop being so astute, for goodness sake. Another money excerpt, bandied occasionally around by serious-minded to(/through their sure descent) vapid/obsolete sports personalities: "For me, Williams is the classic ballplayer of the game on a hot August weekday, before a small crowd, when the only thing at stake is the tissue-thin difference between a thing done well and a thing done ill."

I'll say "and there it was" is cool and everything - someone making notice of that phrase was the driving impetus for my reading the essay after all - but fitting it for William's final swing of his final at bat and the resulting, you couldn't write it up better, home run that has to be a misfire. It just seems axiomatic in the great game of baseball which is defined by failure (the boring standard, screwing up 7 out of 10 is celebrated with a multi million dollar contract), that phrase for sure was meant to describe a strikeout or something, something to make an out or end the match. And seems contrary to what one feels in the fan stands and contrary to the natural assumption of fan's expectation. It is a great phrase, but as used, I have to wonder what and how it magnifies in context.

The Brooklyn Academy of Art movie people will soon be offering a review of the works of Carl Theodor Dreyer. It is their turn apparently as Dreyer's works routinely, deservingly frequent, is screened by movie-minded institutions. I am psyched nonetheless as I love pretty much every Dreyer flick I have seen, all its glorious boredom too, and still have several key works - he only have a handful of full length feature - to see. Before that, BAM will visit, as way to celebrate Gomorrah's release, Garrone's career thus far. I hope this Italian upstart is decent, and for Italia's sake, the new waving lasts.

Playing around locally right now, I hope to see Medicine for Melancholy, Barry Jenkins debut directorial effort. I really do not have a good memory of all the shit I catch in the theater but I cannot remember the last American movie I saw, let alone like halfway. The American movie industry is consistently the shittiest, so maybe I'm deluding myself in these downtrending days to buy american. If Frozen River is still around somewhere, I will be tempted to check out Courtney Hunt's own debut directing job too. Black 'Cisco hipsters, upstate bottom rung mommies, buy American! - I don't want to masquerade as an elitist and say it cannot belong in a stimulating package.

Before I go on, one fantasy I have is that when I write my screenplay - haha, okay if - one scene I definitely may have is shooting a couple of steps back to show the secondary cameras, fill lights, backdrops, sound people, grips, and gaffers milling about, etc. It's not exactly original as Brook's Blazing Saddles kinda faked it for his infamous climatic sequence, and Kiarostami kinda does it with his mystical closing credits to Taste of Cherry, and de Oliveira kinda does it with his (I wouldn't mind to say a nod or comment on theater's intersection with cinema) opening and closing credits to Benilde or the Virgin Mother. Prankster wonder boy Haneke imbues Cache with that kind of tone, the director on high pulling the strings situated in the forefront. And probably a bunch of other directors and movie that I have and have not seen. But I have not seen it quite done like my plan, definitely not in the hipster meta posing the rage these days, but played straight, still recording the scene just pulled back enough to expose the moviemaking apparatus. Okay, if you ask why, I remind, dial down that astutity. Otherwise, structure, medium, et cetera are just stuff that I find sexy, as well as fertile sources for, um, something.

I swear, listening to the opening and several inter-dispersed music patches in Los Campesinos! Documented Minor Emotional Breakdown #1, among other songs, I swear it sounds American or Canadian. Thank goodness for Pavement or Broken Social Scene.4 Or is it a damning indictment on the sad state of pop music? On the flipside, I have been seriously getting down with Why? and their new-ish (depends how you date a March 08 release) full length work, titled Alopecia. Listened to it a bit when I first downloaded (via iTunes) it, but it is on hefty rotation now. "Stalker my whole style / And if I get caught / I'll deny, deny, deny." Loves it. And Jolie Holland well done The Living and the Dead too. I'm tempted to hear what Margot and the Nuclear So So's' Animal or Not Animal have on tap. Or crackling, seance inflected vocalist Joanna Newsom? Or wait for her next new album release, the one the diehards will accuse her of being a sellout? Though the only thing added with that is - as indictment goes - my musical taste is Wonder fucking white breed. You say the world is Joseph coat colored? - not through my headphones.

Funny, I went back to check exactly where in the West Dally left from on her momma quest and that earlier section ended.

They had been in and out of each other's arms so often, she had no uneasiness with good-bye abrazos. Merle, who had a sense of the bets on the table here, knew he better not spook her now. Neither of them had ever had much interest in breaking each other's heart. In theory they both knew she had to move on, though all he wanted right now was to wait, even just another day. But he knew that feeling, and he guessed it would pass.

Sigh. That sure as heck does not straighten my flaccid self-confidence. Loose end roundup: Telluride, Colorado and Merle Rideout was the Dally-raising daddy.

Before finishing this ride. About Jolie Holland, until recently I had no clue that she sang or existed, yet she's fantastic. She has brilliant bluesy delivery. And her lyrics and phrasings trip out so that the poetry, rather than punctuated or line broke, unfurls from the one to the next, the emotions stretch and layer and topple upon each other. From one of my favorite songs from her cd, The Future, line breaks ignored.

Everything around here makes me sad, everything is part of the dreams that we had that will never be the way we wanted them to be when we dreamed these dreams that we had we wanted them to be the future that is now is not how we dreamed of the future with a house and a love that would ride into the future with my arms around you tight, etc.

Saddle time, Obama is the new elected top American cheese. Now what? I like to see, within the first year of the Administration:

• Retool DOMA, if not its obliteration, so minimally the federal government will not be complicit with the bigotry of same sex marriage ban. I know Obama is not the proximate cause of Prop 8's passage, but, as the change agent and leader he lay claims to be, then he certainly did not help.
  
• Drastic troop drawdown in Iraq.
  
• Drastic troop drawdown in Afghanistan, there's no credible reason for us to be there either. Unless you get kicks out of murdering civilians.
  
• Guantanomo detainees released or tried under courts in accordance with full due process rights. You can make what you will of the one year deadline for Guantanamo's closing. I personally do not have an opinion on the actual planned physical facility closing, aside from seeing the one year cutoff as a gross travesty versus any kind of actual relief. But, hey, I'm not easy to please.
  
• Increase spending on infrastructure (which includes grid, smart mass transit, and water projects) and alternative energy; boo to highways.
  
• Universal health care, of some sort, though I have to wonder whether the sham plan Obama touted during his campaign is a step back or a baby step to, like, a real health care plan. Yep, I am still harping on that.
  
• EFCA passage.5
  

I set these down under realistic expectations - or perhaps I should say not quite institutionalize-worthy delusions. I skip areas that I really want to see reform in, like penal system, that I know no one cares about. And hopscotch over education, environment, and the economy and such because I really know zilch about what should or should not be done except perhaps cheer when my favorite sties get more pork. And I suppose left out all the things that is slipping my mind this moment.

The year deadline affords Obama some time to get his sea legs underneath him and, for the most part, I do not need things to happen RIGHT NOW. In which case, if you thought Obama was a spineless suck because of the FISA reversal and his dodge on gay marriage and so forth, right now is hardly a rehab moment. I suppose I am referring to DOJ's recent toeing the State Secret privilege shield that was used so heinously in the Bush days.6 Not that the bad news you were waiting for were not already in full apparent force with certain Obama's appointments - not just the establishment retreads like Daschle but I mean torture fanboy John Brennan. I'll include Hillary Clinton in that grizzled Beltway mix, and would stick her toes under the fire as Iraq and Afghanistan (I would add Palestine, Pakistan and most of Africa too) are within her Secy of State sub-sphere of influence that needs substantial work. As for the non-investigation of the dark Bush years, only the delusional would double down for anything different.

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1. See (or google with) Marshall's Pretty Woman. That silly, bad joke is sadly the raison d'etre for this whole mess of words here.
2. Amazon won, doubly so as I gone way above the $25 mark. But all that matters now is the Amazon fairy is in transit.
3. Uh, pedophilia ranking, where? Don't worry, this isn't going to be a recurring rhetorical gimmick.
4. Yes, I called it right! Though Broken Social Scene is, like, totally redundant. They basically want to be Canada's Pavement, no?

5. Solidarity Forever, sing along to the chorus!

6. Here you go, and followed up. Oh snap!