Enormous Girth
Well, enrolled or not, I'm attending the classes I'm trying to petition. This way I won't fall any further behind than I already am, but, more to the point, I'm happier in classes that actually challenge me rather than teach me things I have been tought eight times before. Watching films I've seen eight times before. Being told that Bergman and Lynch are great filmmakers... eight times before...
Just the same, it's good to be in challenging classes. I've been working exceedingly hard, and it occurs to me: am I just slacking off more than I should be, or does everyone work this hard in college? I really have no frame of reference, as my college friends are few and frequently imaginary, and my non-college friends... well... never went to college. I have trouble finding reliable sources on this matter.
Tired. Very tired. Just finished writing a paper reviewing Mulholland Drive mimicing the style of James Agee. Reading Agee's reviews really gives me hope about what my possible future could be with a degree in Film Study. I know a degree in Film Production is out of the question for me as far as any security I could derive from it (mental... stemming from the promise of job, that is) and Film Studies doesn't seem like much of a better choice, but scholasticism is a more demanding field, one that has set openings and recognizes talent rather than luck, persistance, and the knack of schmoozing. Oh, how I hate schmoozing. Thank God for my producers, whoever they are, that spare me the dismal task of schmoozing. If I never have to engage in schmoozing, indeed, if I never have to speak aloud the word "schmooze," I will die happily. At least in this aspect of life.
Having steered clear of Riverside being a completely other issue.
Which reminds me, I meant to include this Indelible. I know I've mentioned my feelings on this a few times, but I feel that this particular sentiment bears repeating.
IF I NEVER HAVE TO LIVE IN RIVERSIDE, AND CAN STAY OUT OF THAT GOD-FORSAKEN WASTELAND AS MUCH AS POSSIBLE, I WILL DIE HAPPY.
Lord how I dislike that place. I won't harp on it any longer... but sheesh. Riverside.
Sunday practice went well, especially considering it was one week following war, and the House is normally used to lazing about for a month or so on their excuses, having pizza-party debriefings and showing off minor abrasions. A good number of people showed up at the park (more than showed up at war, to be fair) and plenty of good fighting was to be had.
As a rule, I'm against the "training" sessions we are made to endure, not for any difficulty, but for the intense boredom I experience during them. However, after some prefunctory formation drills, we fell into two-man gauntlets and round-robin bridge mock-up battles that did nothing but test our skill as fighters and our stamina as humans. In one good run, I killed every member of the house in a row, I believe, and was finally killed by Ioan when I couldn't raise my arms to block his wrap. It was a great day, and, despite my banged-up forearm (see "abrasions" above) I felt fantastic afterward. Nothing makes one feel more alive than pretending to kill others.
Except perhaps actually killing others. I've never tried it.
On the subject of "more alive," I've been considering the concept of accepted unreality, how in the world of moving pictures and nano-sound-bytes and every little fake, convoluted ideal thrust upon us by society, we are no longer living in a world of reality, but rather are forging lives and living days that we ourselves feel detached from. At time physically, but for the most part emotionally and mentally detached from the world around us, the world we inahbit, the world we have built up to protect us. It is in instances of injury and disaster that this world is made to crumble and, though it may be frightening to us, it is the closest to real existence, without practice and the cultivation of fantasy-suppression, we can hope to get.
Get in a car accident. Get in a car accident so that afterward you are exposed to the air outside. A window is broken or a part of the seams in the doors has bent agape. Few things feel more real than a car accident. You're alive after a car accident. Even if you're only alive a little bit.
Lynch is actually starting to fester in a marinade of respect in my head. It worries me.
Just the same, it's good to be in challenging classes. I've been working exceedingly hard, and it occurs to me: am I just slacking off more than I should be, or does everyone work this hard in college? I really have no frame of reference, as my college friends are few and frequently imaginary, and my non-college friends... well... never went to college. I have trouble finding reliable sources on this matter.
Tired. Very tired. Just finished writing a paper reviewing Mulholland Drive mimicing the style of James Agee. Reading Agee's reviews really gives me hope about what my possible future could be with a degree in Film Study. I know a degree in Film Production is out of the question for me as far as any security I could derive from it (mental... stemming from the promise of job, that is) and Film Studies doesn't seem like much of a better choice, but scholasticism is a more demanding field, one that has set openings and recognizes talent rather than luck, persistance, and the knack of schmoozing. Oh, how I hate schmoozing. Thank God for my producers, whoever they are, that spare me the dismal task of schmoozing. If I never have to engage in schmoozing, indeed, if I never have to speak aloud the word "schmooze," I will die happily. At least in this aspect of life.
Having steered clear of Riverside being a completely other issue.
Which reminds me, I meant to include this Indelible. I know I've mentioned my feelings on this a few times, but I feel that this particular sentiment bears repeating.
IF I NEVER HAVE TO LIVE IN RIVERSIDE, AND CAN STAY OUT OF THAT GOD-FORSAKEN WASTELAND AS MUCH AS POSSIBLE, I WILL DIE HAPPY.
Lord how I dislike that place. I won't harp on it any longer... but sheesh. Riverside.
Sunday practice went well, especially considering it was one week following war, and the House is normally used to lazing about for a month or so on their excuses, having pizza-party debriefings and showing off minor abrasions. A good number of people showed up at the park (more than showed up at war, to be fair) and plenty of good fighting was to be had.
As a rule, I'm against the "training" sessions we are made to endure, not for any difficulty, but for the intense boredom I experience during them. However, after some prefunctory formation drills, we fell into two-man gauntlets and round-robin bridge mock-up battles that did nothing but test our skill as fighters and our stamina as humans. In one good run, I killed every member of the house in a row, I believe, and was finally killed by Ioan when I couldn't raise my arms to block his wrap. It was a great day, and, despite my banged-up forearm (see "abrasions" above) I felt fantastic afterward. Nothing makes one feel more alive than pretending to kill others.
Except perhaps actually killing others. I've never tried it.
On the subject of "more alive," I've been considering the concept of accepted unreality, how in the world of moving pictures and nano-sound-bytes and every little fake, convoluted ideal thrust upon us by society, we are no longer living in a world of reality, but rather are forging lives and living days that we ourselves feel detached from. At time physically, but for the most part emotionally and mentally detached from the world around us, the world we inahbit, the world we have built up to protect us. It is in instances of injury and disaster that this world is made to crumble and, though it may be frightening to us, it is the closest to real existence, without practice and the cultivation of fantasy-suppression, we can hope to get.
Get in a car accident. Get in a car accident so that afterward you are exposed to the air outside. A window is broken or a part of the seams in the doors has bent agape. Few things feel more real than a car accident. You're alive after a car accident. Even if you're only alive a little bit.
Lynch is actually starting to fester in a marinade of respect in my head. It worries me.
posted by DeadLanguage at 2:10 AM
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