I am jumping off this sinking ship.
This blog has degenerated into a big, goopy mess. It's been a good run, but it's time for a fresh start.
I have relocated here to a more coherent blog focused on real writing, rather than a mish-mash of under-cooked, substance-inspired ravings.
Cheerio.
12.9.09
25.7.09
a psychosocial study of Hipsters and Nerds
I love this column in Vanity Fair, it's so playful:
BUT, "an overgrown man-child and his precious collection can become a closed-loop co-dependency that functions as a moat."
I will attest to this after my own star-crossed misadventure with one monomanic film-buff.
“Male record collectors seek mastery over a body of music, almost always as a way of establishing a masculine identity,” Krin Gabbard argues in his psychosocial study “Hipsters and Nerds.”...“The collector makes conscious and unconscious connections to the masculine codes in the music, but he also works at acquiring a commanding knowledge that can be carefully deployed in the right surroundings.”These boys are not at all misguided. Dropping the right musical references has been known to make many a well-cultured girl swoon.
BUT, "an overgrown man-child and his precious collection can become a closed-loop co-dependency that functions as a moat."
I will attest to this after my own star-crossed misadventure with one monomanic film-buff.
6.7.09
17.6.09
3.6.09
holes in both of my shoes
Inspiration drought.
I was a good writer until this year.
My "mentor", Dr Jack Ross, held my writing in reasonable regard. My columns in Satellite elicited visceral responses. In 2007 I came second-equal as a columnist at the ASPAs.
The praise and commendations have taken their toll.
I just can't write while considering what other people might be expecting to read.
Jack Ross always said that a writer must consider their audience.
But if I consider having an audience I know I will never write another short story again.
So I won't say that learning to write like a journalist has ruined my talent.
It happened when I started caring about you fucks.
I was a good writer until this year.
My "mentor", Dr Jack Ross, held my writing in reasonable regard. My columns in Satellite elicited visceral responses. In 2007 I came second-equal as a columnist at the ASPAs.
The praise and commendations have taken their toll.
I just can't write while considering what other people might be expecting to read.
Jack Ross always said that a writer must consider their audience.
But if I consider having an audience I know I will never write another short story again.
So I won't say that learning to write like a journalist has ruined my talent.
It happened when I started caring about you fucks.
back from plato's cave
I went to a small exhibition called Hold at the St Paul St gallery today. It featured work by six artists including my friend Clinton Cardozo, a graphic designer and photographer.
I confess I was not blown away by most of what was on display, except for one photograph by Clint. It was provocative in its simplicity - a photo of a guy with a sort of gag over his mouth. The sharpness and clarity of it was particularly impressive as it was a large print. It sold for $1400 (if I remember correctly).
example of Clint's work
What I got most out of the exhibition was what Clint said to us after. Mike wanted to know what the image "meant". But it seems like the whole point of it was to get him to ask that question.
Good photography, according to Clint, makes you ask questions. This applies to movies, literature, and even journalism. This is why fashion and glamour photography is often dull and lifeless - it answers all the questions for you and doesn't incite you to ask any.
Mike just rang to pitch some ideas to me about a concept he's working on for a 90-second film. We got talking about Kafka, and how we are inspired by him. And we realised that Kafka raises lots of questions...
Why are his protagonists the only ones who seem befuddled by the fuckery of the system they are living in? Why is it so sinister that Josef K in The Trial is the only one who is enraged by bumbling bureaucrats, and K. in The Castle the only one feeling the full extent of fear, frustration and alienation of not being able to access the "authorities" who rule his life?
It seems that when people are given the opportunity to insert their own philosophical narrative onto a work of art, that art then becomes significant in some way.
So I'm thinking maybe this is why I have been failing in my recent attempts at writing (literature, not journalism). I am trying to provide answers without realising the worth of provoking questions. Things will be banal, bland and insipid if they don't move you ask the most fundamental question - why?
I confess I was not blown away by most of what was on display, except for one photograph by Clint. It was provocative in its simplicity - a photo of a guy with a sort of gag over his mouth. The sharpness and clarity of it was particularly impressive as it was a large print. It sold for $1400 (if I remember correctly).
example of Clint's workGood photography, according to Clint, makes you ask questions. This applies to movies, literature, and even journalism. This is why fashion and glamour photography is often dull and lifeless - it answers all the questions for you and doesn't incite you to ask any.
Mike just rang to pitch some ideas to me about a concept he's working on for a 90-second film. We got talking about Kafka, and how we are inspired by him. And we realised that Kafka raises lots of questions...
Why are his protagonists the only ones who seem befuddled by the fuckery of the system they are living in? Why is it so sinister that Josef K in The Trial is the only one who is enraged by bumbling bureaucrats, and K. in The Castle the only one feeling the full extent of fear, frustration and alienation of not being able to access the "authorities" who rule his life?
It seems that when people are given the opportunity to insert their own philosophical narrative onto a work of art, that art then becomes significant in some way.
So I'm thinking maybe this is why I have been failing in my recent attempts at writing (literature, not journalism). I am trying to provide answers without realising the worth of provoking questions. Things will be banal, bland and insipid if they don't move you ask the most fundamental question - why?
31.5.09
dys-, mal-, my-
we are falling out of my head!
foto: by me (from cathy's birthday, I quite like how they look so real and confident in their reality - nothing perplexing or absurdist about this reproduction of visible light-waves. (I am making myself sick)
P(x)= "x is a human" and Q(x) = "x is cathy"
if ∃ is the 'existential quantifier' then (∃x)(P(x) and Q(x))
(did I do that correctly?)
cotton brain
furry eyes
dry mouth
lethargy
aversion to light
bruxism
chapped lips
swollen throat
"The only horrible thing in the world is ennui, Dorian. That is the one sin for which there is no forgiveness."- Oscar Wilde
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