All Hallow's Eve

A Merry All Hallow's Eve. I'm not sure as to the identity of this child in this picture (I'm sure that's what he intended) but he looks to be having fun. This may be the best fun he's had all night because he looks as though he's about to fall face first into the pavement. After which the parents will take him home, where he'll keep a pile of Candy-Corn in his hand just long enough to let the blood and tears drip from his face onto the candy before putting it in his mouth.

Better luck next year, kid.



Moving forward, Charlie Brown needs new friends, they're all assholes. No, Charlie Brown needs a new town to live in. I'm not sure if this is Charles Schulz's view of Saint Paul but if it is, he had a rough child hood. What kind of neighbors not only give STONES to Charlie for Halloween, they THROW it at him... Mayhaps there is a lost episode of The Peanuts where we realize why everyone treats Charlie this way. And we would see the previously unaired made-for-television movie and as the resolution comes to an end we, the nation, give a collective "OH", realizing Lucy is justified in delivering said pain via footballs.



My friends and I also went to Perkins at 1AM this morning/evening (?) and I ate a piece of Pumpkin Pie for the first time, I had no idea what I was missing out on. This only made me think of how I will, sometime down the road, open a diner in the southern-most point of the United States and call it "Florida Keys Lime Pie"... More on this later. Architectual blueprints are on their way.

Long Day's Journey Into Night

Here's an monologue spoken by the character of Edmond from the play Long Day's Journey Into Night, by Eugene Oneill. I'll be reciting this tomorrow in class. Wish me luck.

You've just told me some high spots in your memories. Want to hear mine? They're all connected with the sea.

Here's one. When I was on the Squarehead square rigger, bound for Buenos Aires. Full moon in the trades. The old hooker driving 14 knots. I lay on the bowsprit, facing astern, with the water foaming into spume under me. Every mast with sail white in the moonlight - towering high above me. I became drunk with the beauty and singing rhythm of it - and for a second I lost myself, actually lost my life. I was set free! I dissolved into the sea, became white sails and flying spray - became beauty and rhythm, became moonlight and the ship and the high dim-starred sky. I belonged, without past or future, within peace and unity and a wild joy, within something greater than my own life, or the life of man, to Life itself! To God if you want to put it that way.

Then another time, on the American line, when I was lookout in the crow's nest on the dawn watch. A calm sea that time. Only a lazy ground swell and a slow drousy roll of the ship. The passengers asleep and none of the crew in sight. No sound of man. Black smoke pouring from the funnels behind and beneath me. Dreaming, not keeping lookout, feeling alone, and above, and apart, watching the dawn creep like a painted dream over the sky and sea which slept together.

Then the moment of ecstatic freedom came. The peace, the end of the quest, the last harbor, the joy of belonging to a fulfillment beyond men's lousy, greedy fears and hopes and dreams! And several other times in my life, when I was swimming far out, or lying alone on the beach, I have had the same experience. Became the sun, the hot sand, green seaweed anchored to a rock, swaying in the tide. Like a saint's vision of beatitude. Like the veil of things as they seem drawn back by an unseen hand. For a second you see - and seeing the secret, are the secret. For a second there is meaning! Then the hand lets the veil fall and you are alone, lost in the fog again, stumbling on toward no where, for no good reason!

it was a great mistake, my being born a man. I would have been much more successful as a seagull or fish. As it is, I will always be a stranger who never feels at home, who does not want and is not really wanted, who can never belong, who must always be a little in love with death.

Push the Envelope

I was thinking to myself today, wondering the meaning of the phrase 'To Push the Envelope'.

Any personal risk resulting from action is usually referred to as pushing the envelope. Considering this, when the phrase is mentioned I naturally think to myself that to push the envelope means to force the flap away from the sticky residue holding it shut. So if we can safely assume this, might we also assume that whatever is inside the envelope itself, contents tangible or otherwise, might be something similar to Pandora's Box?

Perhaps it's safe to assume that the ultimate risk would be actually Opening the Envelope.

The Darjeeling Limited

Another bold film from the auteur Wes Anderson. The part people love and loathe about Wes Anderson is that you're sure what to expect in his films before even going. He disregards any and every directing tool. Even still, ignoring all laws of film, he manages to churn out a "rare masterpiece" nearly every time. His latest, The Darjeeling Limited, is no exception, and is his most flawless to date.

In Darjeeling, you see a side of Wes you hadn't seen before, he literally trusts his loyal following to have already seen the prelude of a short film (Hotel Chevalier) and to understand the main players he includes in his productions (Bill Murray). And assuming that his followers watch these, Darjeeling continues as a story without interruption. The best part of it all is that should a young cinephile two, say three decades down the road, decide to pick up this Wes Anderson film, it will still make complete sense dispite missing a part of the puzzle (Chevalier).

Darjeeling Limited begins as Peter Whitman (Adrien Brody) runs along other hopeful passengers of the said Indian train (albeit faster) and after throwing his luggage on board, climbs on to join his brothers Jack (Jason Schwartzman, who also adds his first writing credit to his resume) and Francis (Owen Wilson) on a "Spiritual Journey" conceived by the latter after a year of their absence following their father's death. In the following days/weeks we follow the brother's on the excursion with a destination only Francis is aware of.

Adrien Brody serves as the best addition to Wes Anderson's list of players since Jason Schwartzman, considering how much he had to prove coming in with a backdrop in strictly dramatic films. Jason Schwartzman returns in a more mature character since Rushmore, and Wilson as his most neurotic yet. Even when it seems that Anderson is losing his focus in the plot (as he has in the past) assume that he is always building the story in it's entirety.

On every level in The Darjeeling Limited you will find Anderson at his best here, with equal ammounts comedy, drama and strict storytelling. As usual, if you're not a fan of his past films you may find the same here, but it's not a guarantee I'll make if only because it seems that this is a film that may appeal to a broader audience, and possibly widen that cult appeal that's been constantly growing since Bottle Rocket.

Autumnal

I want to make a record of this before time passes.

Upon meeting someone new, a love interest, for the sake of the story, it's not uncommon for the individual to ask that you tell something about yourself. I always have a few prompt responses in my hand of cards ready: the fact that I love the airport, or that I am by any and all means a cinephile. But the one I most like to share is that my favorite season (if I'm warranted to call it that) is the three week period during what you'll tag as 'Fall' each year. It's actually the last stretch of summer to the weeks leading up to Halloween that I enjoy most. When the leaves turn color and not one is missing from a tree but there seems to be an equal amount pushed against the curbs, risiding in the middle of the road and yards.

The three week period of fall that you might recognize by granting it's appearance to any number of home computer's default desktop picture, or the video cover of When Harry Met Sally. It's in these three weeks that you'll find your last fine round of golf, the same period when driving aimlessly seems to be the best idea you've had yet this year. When you actually step out into a bed of grass, the aforementioned leaves scattered, covering any lawn, bedecked in a smell that can only be associated with this very same three week stretch.

I'm saddened only because it's coming to it's end. More leaves are on the ground than above and it will be this way for a long, long time no doubt.

The Conception

This is how it begins.

The story moves forward. It's only the prelude to this book so naturally you're lead to believe the story has just begun. In reality, I am 20 years old and you enter, during one of three acts (hopefully the first) to a dark theatre. The audience is all but pleased you decided to shed an unnecessary light down the aisle, paling only before it reaches the stage.

What a shame.

I sit here, my own light shed upon this sequence of words you'll soon forget, but alas, you take a seat. Squinting from the final row to my packed house. The Opening Night of a new production, my government surname plastered across the marquee outside, the lightbulbs bordering the sign serve as the only heat source in the cold town of Pig's Eye. The sign, no doubt, has a few letters backwards or angled incorrectly given the countless subtitles: a pen name, another, monikers, etcetera. One of the said subtitles that likely found the ability to draw you in now has you confused as to who is the main character in such a production.

Time will tell. This is only how it begins.