bi-polar express.

December 23, 2012

This first statement is a LOL because a lot of people have been hopping on my hubris express lately because I wrote a post about the speculation surrounding Mariska Hargitay’s sexuality. Basically anyone who’s searched for “Maria Bello Gay” has ended up on my blog. So…welcome I guess? Whatever, they’re both babes. *sleazy wink*

Master%20yin%20yang

Lately I’ve been experiencing something really odd. I’ve become the emotional personification of a yin-yang. Which, I can’t really complain about per say, as it’s been a dream of mine to experience some sort of internal equilibrium– but this feels severely out of whack.

Last Friday, before being able to process the shooting, I had a coffee date with my dance teacher of ten years. I’ve been helping her out with a lot of creative projects lately. We had gotten together initially to discuss what we wanted to do, which dissolved into a conversation about life in general, and it was really lovely. (Then again, having company when I get coffee is usually a welcome distraction.) The weather was crazy that day– and after leaving the coffee shop, I got caught in the biggest sun shower I’ve ever seen.

Now that I think about it, my last few months have been a sun shower. How can such a thing exist I wonder? That day, it was bright as could be, but simultaneously rain poured from the sky and onto my glasses. I crept down the hill to my house listening to Martial Solal, which filled my bones with such joy; but then I remembered the children, and the families in Connecticut, and my best friend’s own family who had just lost someone very dear to them.

It was strange.

I wanted so much to be able to fully enjoy my day, but my heart ached immeasurably for everyone who’d been affected by the weeks tragedies. How was this possible? I hadn’t fully surrendered to dispair, (after all, there were still many good things about life) but it remained an inescapable presence. I wanted to press those feelings down into my body and deal with them later– like when I normally deal with things; all at once. It may sound unproductive, but normally I’m able to feel overwhelmingly positive or negative. It comes in waves, as it always has; but I’m usually able to parcel through such emotional intensity without it causing much trouble. This time was extremely different. I’ve never felt GREAT! and TERRIBLE! at the same time.

This last week I’ve been thinking about it a lot. Sun showers, dead children, Christmas, heavy jazz that may or may not turn me into a mess of tears. I just can’t fathom all things being simultaneously fantastic and awful at the same time.

How do people do that?

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mournography.

December 22, 2012

This is how Dolly Parton makes her money. 
I imagine.
The little redheaded girl,
whose parents asked for
donations to the animal shelter.
She, I hope– is laying on the grass
with Cindy watching clouds
drift by
and it’s sunny forever.

20 kids pick out shapes together,
and they may not know what peace is–

but their bones feel good.

Believe it, baby.

December 14, 2012

The other day I watched a movie called Straightheads. Someone posted a more, erm, shall I say explicit screencap (than the one below) on tumblr, and I was intrigued. tumblr_meybazKbdD1rmkqdqo1_1280

Gillian Anderson & gratuitous nudity? SIGN. ME. UP.

What I wasn’t expecting, is that when they said “gratuitous” they really fucking meant it. (No pun intended…) The entire movie just did. not. work. The plot, (on a night out, her and her stand-in beau get attacked after running into car trouble; and spend the rest of the movie trying to get revenge) had potential. When you read a logline like that, it’s like: “Yeah, hey, I would probably invest a little money into this project.”

Let’s start from the beginning, shall we? I’m not going to make this an excruciatingly long review; because since half the movie is like “HI. I’M GILLIAN ANDERSON, I’M ALSO REALLY ATTRACTIVE LET ME TAKE MY CLOTHES OFF FOR NO REASON” I can’t hate on it *too* much. With that said, I have a pretty clear picture of who was behind this film: a dude, likely in his 30’s, who was using the plot for some sort of sick wish fulfillment he had in his twenties to tap some really hot, reasonably older ass.

It was difficult to sit through the part where she got sexually assaulted, because it just felt like it came out of nowhere. Just like her deciding randomly to take a guy she’s just met, who’s HALF HER AGE, to a party in the middle of east-jesus-fucking-nowhere. Lest I mention, she comes onto him, again, out of nowhere, and they have sex in the woods, oh yes: the movie has been on for 15 minutes at this point. This entire movie just felt really forced. Nothing was happening for any flipping reason, the end was really abrupt, I didn’t really understand how they came to find a house, in the same woods as their “attacker” completely by accident, WHEN THEY BOTH LIVE IN THE GODDAMNED CITY. The house apparently belonged to Gillian’s character’s mother? Fuck. I have no idea.

I felt like I was watching an ill executed thesis film. I kept thinking about the crew, and the director, and shooting days and all of those shenanigans. Why? Because it was painful enough having to sit through the movie. I just thought I would top off the masochism with the thought of the director, addressing the entire cast and crew being like: “I think we really have something here, guys.” Or like, “Today we’re going to do the scene where you guys totally just fuck the living daylights out of each other.” Or like, “I got us some Pizzas for lunch  today.”

That always gets me when I watch a terrible movie. Knowing someone, at some point, believed that making it was a good idea. It just boggles my fucking mind.

The worst set I’ve ever been on was the first time I’d heard the “I think we’ve got something great, you guys” thing. It was a night shoot in the middle of Park Slope, and I’d been designated to captain team fire watch. (AKA make sure none of the shit gets stolen.) I went up to the apartment to get a cup of coffee during a duty tradeoff, when I hear the director be like: “Ok, so like, he’s gonna roll her a fat blunt, and TELL THEM TO MAKE EYE CONTACT AFTER THEY FUCKING CUM.” The director was shouting, at the AD, THROUGH A WALKIE, because the room was too small to fit everyone. and just. NO. JESUS NO. THE SCRIPT WAS SO TERRIBLE I WAS TEMPTED TO LIGHT IT ON FIRE IN FRONT OF HIS FACE AND THEN PEE ON IT TO PUT OUT THE FLAME. AND HE HAS THE GALL TO YELL AT THESE TWO, POOR YOUNG ACTORS ABOUT BLUNTS AND CUMMING AND I SWEAR TO GOD I WANTED TO KILL EVERYONE.

Pardon me, I forgot: they totally “had something really great”.

I don’t get it. I’ve seen so many great, and so many horrible films. I just can’t get over the fact that it took a multitude of people to believe in both in order for them to get made. Hm.

eyeknow.

December 5, 2012

It recently occurred to me I’ve been thinking in pictures a lot lately. (Pardon my redundancy…) Just cacophonies of strangely juxtaposed half thoughts. I’ve been debating tattoos, listening to Lawrence Welk remixes (my Simoment for this week), and trying unsuccessfully to break bad habits. Here’s what’s been on my mind lately:

skypess1.5 tumblr_m6sqjzDsUQ1r0s9gio1_1280 vlcsnap-2012-02-01-05h45m16s225 Elle%20Fanning%20-%20phoebe%20in%20wonderland tumblr_m6yud4asHz1rwnbtco1_1280 ReduxII1032 lauramcphee-young-woman-on-the-balcony-1950s

 

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girl noise4

Can’t explain it aside from deep sighs and the perpetual Miles Davis Sunday.

Such is life…