In Diegesis

Ve-egetable, ve-egetable,

you’re all I eat these days.

Y’know you are what you eat –

that metaphor is clear and neat –

so you know what I’m talking ’bout.

I’m talking about lethargy;

I’m talking about all of the moments;

I’m talking about you and me.

I don’t like to think, don’t like to think of dead animals,

wasted perception, and do they see beauty?

But I am doing nothing, I’m doing nothing,

but eating my vegetables, insuring my innocence.

I’ve seen Seven Samurai (twice), I know that fighters don’t win,

but I’ve got to protect that innocence, at least before I swirl into sin,

at least before I have my babies, ’cause Larkin’s coastal shelf is deepinin’,

and I am getting busy

busy forgiving my mom and dad for just being.

Y’know you’ve got to just let them be

and then then then you’ll see

there’s no such thing as innocence; y’know it’s what we make it to be.

Gotta lose your virginity, gotta make real your divinity;

y’know you can’t live in the abstract, that that that’s a fact,

so chew on what you’re chewin’ on, believe in what you believe in.

It’s the only thing anyone can do, and when yr belief makes you

so blue, then try try try to change, cuz if you don’t,

then we know what you are.

Kill yourself.

Kill yourself.

Hey.

Kill yourself.

Hey! okay, okay…

Kill yourself -

it’s what you don’t want me to tell you -

kill yourself -

it’s what you don’t want me to say -

kill yourself -

but, come on now, i’ve nothing to sell you -

kill yourself -

oh, y’know, all I want is to play -

kill yourself -

unh. HEY! hehehe, uh huh -

kill yourself -

what on Earth were you expecting -

kill yourself -

don’t you know that it’s impossible to change -

kill yourself.

Kill yourself.

Oh, no, no, no no no no -

Kill yourself.

Okay okay okay okay okay okay -

Kill yourself.

You were walking up to me, expecting

What? Advice. Pfffffff, gimme a break -

Kill yourself.

So you don’t want to consume, you don’t want to take -

Kill yourself -

there’s nothing you can do, nothing you can do, nothing you can -

kill yourself -

you wanna know what could be good?? Are you sure?

You really want to know or would you just rather -

kill yourself -

sleep; you better just stay in bed, son -

kill yourself -

but that’s not coming from me, i didn’t say that,

i have nothing to say -

kill yourself -

nothiiiiiiiiiiiiinnnnnnnnnnnnnnnggggggggggggggg -

kill yourself -

to say what’s on my mind, I could do that if you wanted -

kill yourself -

’cause that’s what I always do, what you want -

kill yourself -

but you, you, you, yes, you want something else -

kill yourself -

you want me to sing, to sing, to sing, to say -

kill yourself -

what’s in my heart. well, well, -

kill yourself -

come on, it’s ineffable, y’know, that mystical place -

kill yourself -

but if you wanted, you could look into my face -

kill -

feel my cold, dead cheeks. Do you feel your warmth? -

kill your -

is that what it takes? Is that what I have to do -

kill your -

for you. to feel. alive.

kill your -

Then I want you to know before I go -

kill your -

you’re asking a lot of me. I want you to love to know -

kill your -

I want you to know that I’m a lover -

kill your -

I was just born that way, Sis, -

kill your -

and that’s why i’m doing this. It’s ’cause -

kill -

I’m so fuckin’ special. Like you. Okay,

okay okay okay okay, Okay!

I’LL KILL MYSEEEEEEEEEEEEEEELLLLLLFFFFFFFF

I’M KILLIN’ MYSEEEEEEEEEEEEEEELLLLLLFFFFFFFF

I feel my flesh on my bones

bleeding onto the stone (ground)

I feel myself

tearing

my body to hell,

because I’m too reasonable, I’m too good, y’see,

because I would never, ever, ever kill anybody else but me,

and so if that’s what it takes to create harmony

in your ears, in your eyes, in your transient eternity,

then I’ll do it, son, if it gets you into heaven,

if you STOP!

acting like a damn fool, livin’ by the ego’s rule,

and, and, and, and, and, and, and, and

KILLIN’ YOURSEEEEEEEEEEEELLLLLLLLFFFFF

STOP KILLIN’ YOURSEEEEEEEEEEEEELLLLLLLLFFFFFFF

STOP KILLIN’ YOURSEEEEEEEEEEEEELLLLLLLLLLFFFFFFFFF

Killin’ your -

ooooooooooooooooooohhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh -

SELF! oh, oh, oh,

oh, SELF! uh huh,

uh huh, self.

yours.

mine.

ours, hey!

Misc.

for those of you who read “goin’”, i’m cooking dinner! I’M COOKING LIFE-PERPETUATION (and i’m gonna eat it eat it eat it)!!!!! y’should be proud of me – i am.

i’m goin’ crazy.

aye um go in craze e.

i’m goin’ crazy.

it doesn’t come from

anywhere at all, but it goes on and

on and me with it too, we’re lovers now.

me and goin’, hehehe, yes yes. i’m goin’ crazy.

i’m too tired to cook any food, too hungry to sleep,

and y’know it doesn’t come from anywhere, just

happens, and that’s that, so i’m goin’ crazy.

i swear to god i didn’t will the teevee on,

but it’s on now and that’s nice, it’s nice

nice nice, yes yes yes. keeps me company,

which is nice, but my sanity worries, y’know;

i’m worried i won’t see my baby

before i head off into all that crazy crazy.

she’s gotta know, i think, she oughta know,

i think, before i go go go, hehehehehe.

i remember some things, y’know, but

they’re faaaaaaaaaaadin’ away, hey hey,

i’m goin’ crazy, but you know that already,

y’know? washin’ dishes is something to do

do do da doo wop da doo wop who ought,

whose cop pops ‘n’ tops my hop hop hop,

i can’t jump all that high, y’know? wasn’t born

like that, i’m no be ball player, i ‘member

that much, i do..

i’m goin’…

i chopped an onion, yes, it’s there,

all chopped up, and the teevzzzzzz on,

sounds bound, bouncing up and down

like happy waves all ’round my particle

mass. this is – it is it is it is it is it

is it is it is

it is it is it

really, really is – happening. i’m goin’

to cook this onion, i’m goin’ to cook it cook it

cook it and…

and…

then it’ll be cooked,

and that’s that. goodness, i’m tired.

i was goin’ student, i remember now, but

you can’t do that, there’s no such thing as

“goin’ student”, there’s only goin’ artist or goin’

doctor or goin’ lawyer. i was goin’ student,

i thought, until the doctor told me i was goin’

crazy crazy. i remember i remember i remember

i was sad a moment, just a moment. now

i’m just goin’ crazy; doctor said it doesn’t

come from anywhere, not anywhere,

nothin’ i can do about it, he said,

nothin’ i can do. nope. he got lucky,

he’s a doctor, no such thing as a crazy doctor,

just can’t happen, nope nope nope.

i’m a crazy and i come from nowhere,

no womb known to man, no immaculate conception neither,

as they say, so it goes it goes it -

i’m just goin’ goin’ goin’ goin’ goin’

goin’

goin’ goin’ goin’

gooooooooo -  oes, gosh.

huh:

////:

///:

//:

/:

.

i nearly started crying right there. i nearly did. dunno why. don’t remember why at all.

i wonder where that came from.

i do i do

i do…

oh well, life goes on, they say,

hehehe.

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I just watched Magnolia again and I’m feeling lucid, alive, and nostalgic. Here’s some Tolstoy, from “On Art” for old times’ (and new times’) sake:

“What then is artistic (and scientific) creation?

Artistic (and also scientific) creation is such mental activity as brings dimly perceived feelings (or thoughts) to such a degree of clearness that these feelings (or thoughts) are transmitted to other people.

The process of ‘creation’ – one common to all men and therefore known to each of us by inner experience – occurs as follows: a man surmises or dimly feels something that is perfectly new to him, which he has never heard of from anybody. This something new impresses him, and in ordinary conversation he points out to others what he perceives, and to his surprise finds that what is apparent to him is quite unseen by them. They do not see or do not feel what he tells them of. This isolation, discord, disunion from others, at first disturbs him, and verifying his own perception the man tries in different ways to communicate to others what he has seen, felt, or understood; but these others still do not understand what he communicates to them, or do not understand it as he understands or feels it. And the man begins to be troubled by a doubt as to whether he imagines and dimly feels something that does not really exist, or whether others do not see and do not feel something that does exist. And to solve this doubt he directs his whole strength to the tasking of making his discovery so clear that there cannot be the smallest doubt, either for himself or for other people, as to the existence of that which he perceives; and as soon as this elucidation is completed and the man himself no longer doubts the existence of what he has seen, understood, or felt, others at once see, understand, and feel as he does, and it is this effort to make clear and indubitable to himself and to others what both to others and to him had been dim and obscure, that is the source from which flows the production of man’s spiritual activity in general, or what we call works of art — which widen man’s horizon and oblige him to see what had not been perceived before.”

[Spoiler Alert]

The performances in Fritz Lang’s “M” (1931) are constructed in such a way (by the actors, however unconsciously) and arranged in such a way (by the director, very consciously) so as to shape, mold, skew the viewer’s sense of morality; in other words, “M” creates within itself its own spectrum of humanity. Through the performances and their aesthetic portrayal, the story progresses in a manner which is, at times, aggressively and starkly deterministic, at other times, heartbreakingly empathetic.

First off, there is no one protagonist to consume the viewers’ sympathies. The film observes the ordeals of an entire town as it struggles with the fact that one of its members is a child rapist and murderer. We watch concerned mothers, playful children, overly zealous, protective neighbors, stolid- police, bloodthirsty criminals, all united by the great vacuous abyss of hurt that has opened up in their society. We do not (until the end) watch, however, that hurt directly. The film is comprised mostly of reactions with some straying towards the occasional depiction of antecedent: we are allowed to see, on occasion, the criminal’s attempts, both futile and successful, at luring the youth. Indeed, these various narrative strands of the causal murderer and the reactionary society provide a striking harmony, at times synchronous and at other times wildly out of tune.

For there to be synchronous harmony at all between scenes of cause and reaction, already there is an implied spiritual parallel between the performed persona of the murderer and those reacting to the murders, the main difference being that the former is morally disgusting in concentrate; the latter is moral reprehensibility diffused through the many. Thus, nearly all the characters share in some degree of negative moral responsibility, and the performances reflect that. The murderer Hans Beckert, played by Peter Lorre, seems filled with a disconnected, but nonetheless determined, resolve, which he later admits to stem from a feeling of helpless immoral propulsion – he’s fleeing from himself as Bad begets Bad all around him, so to speak. Lorre’s every facial intonation is pitch-perfect, but how I could ever suppose to know perfect in a depiction of such foreign human activity is beyond me; he owns the role in more ways than one. Regardless, his expressionistic faces evoke a sort of eternal, basic anguish that by the end, it’s difficult not to find his conviction wholly credible.

Meanwhile, the behaviors of the townsfolk reflect confused, terrified ignorance, which ends up being so widespread it manifests itself as inane pride, particularly in the unification of the criminals. Within the upper ranks of the criminal underworld, Beckert is seen as a threat to business stability and consumer support and must therefore be eliminated. Where and how does that sort of prudential maxim, at heart, turn into something which could only be considered more sinister than what is simply prudential? It’s difficult to say, but there’s no doubting that when the man known in criminal circles as Safecracker explodes in a furious, self-righteous tirade about how Beckert must be “obliterated” without trial, he has adopted a persona infected with more murderous than prudential intent. His composure is sure, his posture straight, his face forward, body covered in the armor of leather gloves, and seriously says that his charges of three counts of manslaughter were “irrelevant” to him being a leader of the prosecution at this informal trial; this is a man surely profiting from hurt, confused, inanely united pride.

Lang directs all this with a keen sense of politics and personality, insofar as we see how the wills of some persons or quite crucially, organizations, affect and dictate the behaviors of external persons or organizations. For instance, in a police raid of a local nightclub, we see just above the upper-halves of the bar patrons the police chief descending down the stairs ahead of them. “Now,” he says, “stop this childishness.” Another step, and only his neck and head remain above the tipsies’ torsos. He informs them the raid is inevitable, without reason. Another step, and we can hardly see him through all the “children”; he’s using his advantage of political power to push them back towards and past the camera, like a child with muscles. Such is an example of disharmony between two sects of the masses, where the interest of one oppresses the interest of another. For poetry’s sake, I believe it’s worth mentioning that insofar as this type of social alcohol consumption presupposes the will to have a good time, the police view these people as escapists in ignorant denial of the responsibility all members of the community have in this crisis. Serves ‘em right to be invaded, oppressed. Lang’s blocking perfectly captures this inane power imbalance, revealing the childishness in both groups.

This ebbing continuum of will-power against will-power weaves and flows between various political opposites: cops and criminals, neighbors and strangers and strangers and neighbors, the rapist and a child. This river flows until it turns into a waterfall of offended ego fury, as represented by the bloodthirsty criminals and the common will. Fortunately, the waterfall is limited in power, only so elevated, and lets out into a beautiful sea of Platonic reason, as represented by Beckertt’s state-appointed lawyer, who is played with such inspiring aplomb (deep bellow; pointing, stern arms) I cried watching it. Go humanity, Go reason, Screw “an eye for an eye“. This is the note the film ends on; the police get the criminal they were searching for, but not before the victims tally high and the town’s wounded ego fully expresses its sincere lament. Reasoned humanity prevails harmoniously; tragic death and hurt nonetheless linger wild and chaotic.

Hey, if this interests anyone reading this, leave a comment – I want to know what you think: is there really such a thing as malicious evil or are all reasonable humans who we might call evil actually just ignorant, misguided or deeply confused? Here’s Plato, from the Meno:

Meno: Well, I think, Socrates, that as the poet says, virtue is “to rejoice in things beautiful and be capable of them.” And that, I claim, is virtue: desire for beautiful things and ability to attain them.

Socrates: Do you say that desire for beautiful things is to desire good things?

Meno: Yes, of course.

Socrates: Then do some men desire evils, and others goods? Does it not seem to you, my friend, that all men desire goods?

Meno: No, it doesn’t.

Socrates: Some desire evils?

Meno: Yes.

Socrates: Supposing the evils to be goods, you mean, or recognizing that they are evils and still desiring them?

Meno: Both, I think.

Socrates: You think, Meno, that anyone recognizes evils to be evils and still desires them?

Meno: Certainly.

Socrates: What do you mean by “desire”? Desire to possess?

Meno: Why, yes, of course.

Socrates: Believing that evils benefit, or recognizing that evils harm, those who possess them?

Meno: Some believe evils benefit, others recognize that they harm.

Socrates: Does it seem to you that those who believe that evils benefit recognize evils to be evils?

Meno: No, I certainly don’t think that.

Socrates: Then it is clear that these people, who do not recognize evils for what they are, do not desire evils; rather, they desire things they suppose to be good, though in fact those things are evil. Hence, these people, not recognizing evils to be evils, and supposing them to be goods, really desire goods. Not so?

Meno: Yes, very likely it is.

Socrates: Now what about those who, as you claim, desire evils believing that evils harm their possessor. Surely they recognize they will be harmed by them?

Meno: They must.

Socrates: Don’t they suppose that people who are harmed are made wretched to the degree they are harmed.

Meno: Again, they must.

Socrates: And aren’t the wretched unhappy?

Meno: I should think so.

Socrates: Now, does anyone wish to be wretched and unhappy?

Meno: I think not, Socrates.

Socrates: Then nobody wishes for evils, Meno, unless he wishes to be in that condition. For what else is it to be wretched, than to desire evils and get them?

[Interesting side-note: I was talking with my friend, Steven, once a while before rereading this; we were discussing anger and judgement. I mentioned (my girlfriend) Erica and how she can get very judgemental of Ronald Reagan. I said to Steven that I didn't think Reagan (or anyone else, ever, just about) was evil, but rather, incredibly misguided. Steven said he agreed with me for the most part, with the exception of Dick Cheney and perhaps a select few others.]

Friends’ music mixes mystic

mysteries, fixing listless histories

wistfully. mister president, tell this to me plzzzzzz,

do you really love the sea,

and could we ever

really be

free

of fearing fees,

as free as we please to

see us swimming in golden sunbeams,

me? a photon afloat in the wave of glowing eternity, could I really, really

believe in such a thing to feel around me and

be? buoyancy willing,

Hopefully.

Whither does exiled Chaos roam

like awesome stars outside

our perception, this galaxy?

Poor, solemn Randomness,

how terrified you must be

of this human life and our cruel interpretations

and judgements of what must be. Best to

sulk around that tragic existence, the only real friend

you might ever have, Death.

And always remember, Chaos,

not to dance the idle lethargic

for too long; for though you hurt Me

all the time, you nonetheless and allthemore make Me

smile (…and the Universe smiles…)

and indeed, you are the only thing that has ever,

ever caused Anyone to laugh laugh

laugh so joyous

(because life is like war with its ever-

propelling impetus towards tragic suicide;

we look at infant death syndrome, miscarriages,

and think, why am I alive? Why am I here

while my  Brothers and Sisters die die DIE!

Why, ha-hahaha-ha-hahaha-ha, why?

Goodness gracious, hehe-

-hehe!, just look at

Yourself.)

Today I slapped a man in Acting 101. We were playing an innocent game of charades, basically; everyone wrote a situation onto a piece of paper and two volunteers would pick one at random and improvise accordingly. I wrote “two people cooking in a small kitchen”, but it was never selected.  Jeff Wilkins wrote “A man touching a woman’s breast. if 2 guys, then one was just touching the other’s girlfriend’s breast.” Jeff Wilkins is a naturally good-looking, wonderfully curly-haired West-Coast surfer turned East-Coast skater film student. He’s always making jokes and smiling, which is fortunate for him, because he has a very white and proportionate smile. He and his friend, Owen (who seems to be pretty chill and gentle-natured),  selected his own situation and put it back, I assume for Jeff’s novelty’s sake (they ended up acting out a scene where they are out of place at a party; the professor then threw in ex-girlfriends, to which Jeff commented how Owen’s ex had “nice…breasts”, and on and on and on until invented persona was saturated with awkwardness).

I volunteered next with a kid named Evan (I had volunteered at the same time as Jeff and Owen as well, but I timidly let friendship unite). Evan gestured for me to pick a piece of paper (out of Jeff’s hat, which the teacher had borrowed), so I did. I read Jeff’s chicken-scratch pretty quickly, because I’m well used to my own, but it took Evan a moment to decipher it. I read aloud “man” and “woman” when I noticed Evan couldn’t read it; the class laughed. Evan is very good-looking as well: taller, broad-shouldered, symmetrical face, good color, could probably bench press at least my weight. When the professor noted our initial confusion over the handwriting and nature of the scene, he suggested picking out another one, but Evan insisted it would be fine. “A challenge,” he said. I forget how it was decided that I would be the adulterated, but it was.

I should have talked to him. We should have had an outline. We were just Ian and Evan; as Ian, I could have said, “How do you want to do this?” I could have said, “I was thinking about physical violence, would that be okay? No? Well, how do you want to talk then?” But no one had predesigned their improvs beforehand, and in reality, these thoughts didn’t occur to me until afterwards.

I called him “Scott” (my father’s name). My voice was squeaking a smidge, my eyes were thinly caked with moisture. “What the fuck…” I murmured. He looked back at me blankly, unsure what to say. I reared my hand back and slapped him across the face, not gently. Not bitch-smack. But a slap. Then I grabbed his shirt and threw him against the wall. “You fuc- assho-” and then the professor was between us. I was still acting, still outside myself. The professor told us to sit back down after our first and only try. Everyone else had done their situations twice.

After that, the professor deliberated with the volunteers on how to approach the scenes before beginning. He mentioned something about us staying after class, and I turned around in my chair and asked Evan if I had hurt him; he said “Nah.” “We’re cool, all’s good?” “Yeah, no problem.”

The next fifteen minutes were the worst. I thought to myself, how could I hit someone? How could I let myself do that? I was acting, yeah, but not even fucking sincerely, because that is NOT how I would react if someone was touching Erica’s breast. I don’t know what I would do, but I wouldn’t get violent. I’d ask Erica if she loved the person or if she felt happy well before I ever got violent – but there was no girlfriend to talk to in the scene. It wasn’t complete, and I wasn’t supposed to just be me – or was I?

Fuck this professor for spewing all this bullshit about determinism and motivation. Life is about reason and empathy and decency and love, not choosing the path of least resistance, not all ego-glorification. What was I thinking?!  I latched onto some foreign, violent abstraction – something I know from seeing other people in real life, in movies, not something I’ve observed in my own behavior.

What am I going to say? I’m sorry, what’s this guy’s name? Is it really Scott? I’m sorry, Scott, Professor; I was just reacting how…ugh. Maybe I can’t act. I can’t let my tempered instincts dictate my judgments and if that is what I need to do to act, then fuck it – I’ll drop this class. I could leave right now, drop this class today, and only have 6 classes instead of 7.

You just don’t want to apologize, you’re terrified of responsibility, especially the responsibility of actions performed with ENCOURAGED, DELIBERATE INSINCERITY. I’m not going to drop. I can pass this class. I’ll stick around after class and say,

“Hey, sorry about that, Evan. Again.”

“It’s cool, man.”

And then he thanked the professor for breaking it up and the professor told the two of us an anecdote about accidentally making a guy go limp on the set of Law & Order and the director being all pissed off, and I’m not really sure what the point of the story was – but afterwards, I felt kind of okay leaving, as though a little subjective validation, however seemingly inane, is all I really needed.

Right outside the exit doors of UCross, there was Jeff and Owen, skateboards waiting obediently by their feet, talking with Evan, who had a cigarette in his mouth and his back to the doors I was emerging from. “Peace, guys,” I said. “See you,” they all said in unison, without hardly looking at me. And we all liked it that way.