Monday, January 29, 2007
Tock Tick
My friend Tim's musical Tock Tick is opening at the Prospect Theater on February 5. The enticing blurb promises dragons, seagulls, and interstellar gondoliers, among other things. I am very much looking forward to this show.
Friday, January 26, 2007
Vancouver
M & I went to Seattle and Vancouver earlier this month. Here's a bit about Vancouver.
Vancouver is awash with construction cranes and gleaming green glass set before a ring of snowy mountains. The city is preparing for the 2010 Olympics, and it seems a city of pretty surfaces and fashionable people.
Our first day we wandered to touristy Gas Town (the closest approximation to an "old town" and hardly a central part of the city or dense mess of winding streets), and from there right into skid row. At the "steam clock", the major Gas Town landmark, a glassy-eyed man offered us a silver chain in exchange for food. As we moved along, there was a conflux of bearded hobos, gaunt prostitutes, men sleeping in the street; needle exchange and detox centers, shelters for women, and shelters for children . Payle$$ Meats sat beside Mission Possible. Balconies on a halfway house advertised nouns of encouragement: hope, faith, strength, courage.
This concentration of the needy struck us as odd, perhaps because the needy of New York are more diffuse and spread out, and perhaps more hidden. Here they seem to converge in one area, in stark contrast to the high-end gloss of the rest of downtown-- the joggers in Stanley Park, the highrises along Coal Harbour and in the West End, the yuppies of Yale Town. The rawness of skid row, I'm told, is older than the prospering sheen of the rest of the city. The institutions (the shelters, soup lines, etc.) are also relatively new.
We walked a good deal that first day, happy to end our wandering with martinis atop the Empire Landmark Hotel, slowly rotating over twinkling Vancouver. We admitted relief at not having been approached all afternoon. Later M. pondered the differences between the homeless in NYC subways and the homeless in Vancouver and other cities, hypothesizing that the relationship the homeless have with the subways here are unique and not present in other mass transit systems. We didn't take the Sky Train (though really it's more of a commuter rail) so we couldn't test the hypothesis.
The next day we were sore and achy and relied on the car. Abundant Granville Market (lunch: bratwurst and designer soda), foggy snow-crusted Kitsilano Beach (just lovely), and the UBC campus, separated from the city by a small forest. UBC was a bit of a disappointment; I enjoyed the small Belkin art gallery, warm and abuzz over a show opening, but we found the design of the campus odd-- parallel malls and apparently no welcoming central area. In the dark of the Thunderbird Arena, M. gave me my first driving lesson; I meant to go in circles and instead drove figure eights.
We finished our trip Saturday morning, with dim sum at Pink Pearl, touted as best dim sum in Vancouver. We were gluttonous fiends, feasting on all manner of shrimp, pork, taro, bean curd, and red bean paste-filled dumplings, in all manner of sticky and glutinous or crunchy wrappings. Two pots of tea and two bursting bellies later, were back on the road to Seattle, one last chance to gasp at cool snow-covered conifers, gauzy lakes, and violent mountain peaks.
Despite numerous comparisons to New York (Kitsilano=Park Slope; Mount Pleasant=Ditmas Park), the ecology and the landscape is wholly unique, and gives the place air of something fresh and vibrant. I can't imagine becoming complacent about those surroundings, but I suppose anything is possible.
Vancouver is awash with construction cranes and gleaming green glass set before a ring of snowy mountains. The city is preparing for the 2010 Olympics, and it seems a city of pretty surfaces and fashionable people.
Our first day we wandered to touristy Gas Town (the closest approximation to an "old town" and hardly a central part of the city or dense mess of winding streets), and from there right into skid row. At the "steam clock", the major Gas Town landmark, a glassy-eyed man offered us a silver chain in exchange for food. As we moved along, there was a conflux of bearded hobos, gaunt prostitutes, men sleeping in the street; needle exchange and detox centers, shelters for women, and shelters for children . Payle$$ Meats sat beside Mission Possible. Balconies on a halfway house advertised nouns of encouragement: hope, faith, strength, courage.
This concentration of the needy struck us as odd, perhaps because the needy of New York are more diffuse and spread out, and perhaps more hidden. Here they seem to converge in one area, in stark contrast to the high-end gloss of the rest of downtown-- the joggers in Stanley Park, the highrises along Coal Harbour and in the West End, the yuppies of Yale Town. The rawness of skid row, I'm told, is older than the prospering sheen of the rest of the city. The institutions (the shelters, soup lines, etc.) are also relatively new.
We walked a good deal that first day, happy to end our wandering with martinis atop the Empire Landmark Hotel, slowly rotating over twinkling Vancouver. We admitted relief at not having been approached all afternoon. Later M. pondered the differences between the homeless in NYC subways and the homeless in Vancouver and other cities, hypothesizing that the relationship the homeless have with the subways here are unique and not present in other mass transit systems. We didn't take the Sky Train (though really it's more of a commuter rail) so we couldn't test the hypothesis.
The next day we were sore and achy and relied on the car. Abundant Granville Market (lunch: bratwurst and designer soda), foggy snow-crusted Kitsilano Beach (just lovely), and the UBC campus, separated from the city by a small forest. UBC was a bit of a disappointment; I enjoyed the small Belkin art gallery, warm and abuzz over a show opening, but we found the design of the campus odd-- parallel malls and apparently no welcoming central area. In the dark of the Thunderbird Arena, M. gave me my first driving lesson; I meant to go in circles and instead drove figure eights.
We finished our trip Saturday morning, with dim sum at Pink Pearl, touted as best dim sum in Vancouver. We were gluttonous fiends, feasting on all manner of shrimp, pork, taro, bean curd, and red bean paste-filled dumplings, in all manner of sticky and glutinous or crunchy wrappings. Two pots of tea and two bursting bellies later, were back on the road to Seattle, one last chance to gasp at cool snow-covered conifers, gauzy lakes, and violent mountain peaks.
Despite numerous comparisons to New York (Kitsilano=Park Slope; Mount Pleasant=Ditmas Park), the ecology and the landscape is wholly unique, and gives the place air of something fresh and vibrant. I can't imagine becoming complacent about those surroundings, but I suppose anything is possible.
Monday, January 22, 2007
Tuesday, January 16, 2007
Narcissus and Goldmund
A Reading Experience
I picked it off my parents' bookshelf. It was yellow and brittle, and the cover, designed by Milton Glaser, showed the blue profile of a shrewd-looking man, with red light falling on his nose and chin and where the whites of his eyes should have been. Someone had written "Ghost Motorcycle" on the title page, sideways.
I didn't know anything about the book-- the story, the setting, when Hesse had written it. Mostly I was intrigued by "ghost motorcycle" and what compelled some long ago reader to write those words on the inside of this book that now sat on my parents' shelf. It surely wasn't my mother or father--not their handwritings, not their idiosyncrasies.
I had only read one other book by Hesse, Siddhartha, but it didn't leave much of an impression on me. I was a distracted high school senior at the time, ready to leave the country. And the cover of this book gave away nothing-- the back copy was just piles of praise for Hesse. So I just dug in, as it should be.
I began reading Narcissus and Goldmund and was immediately engrossed by the medieval world and the innocent, young Goldmund. I enjoyed watching his internal evolution, though I found his teacher/friend Narcissus irritating (not that there is anything wrong with an unlikable character). Hesse writes philosophical novels and I bristled against his pitting art against philosophy, feeling against thought (can't art be logical? asked M when I told him about the book). The epiphanies at the end seemed to me forced, didactic, more rhetoric than human experience. But not entirely groundless, of course. Just needlessly simplified to make a point (methinks). I won't say whether art or philosophy wins, in case you plan on reading the book, but I don't think that would ruin the experience either way.
When I was in an early part of the novel, I asked my mother whether she had read it and she said once, in Romanian. A powerful book, she said, but she wouldn't read it again. At the time I hadn't reached the powerful parts (they are there)-- lust, love, and most important, the relationship we have with death and the creation of art. I would echo my mother's estimation. The book is most definitely worth a read, and not just for the sex and death, though they are the main players and the plague is one of the most haunting characters. But it is not going on my list of books to reread. I never found out what "ghost motorcycle" had to do with anything in the book (maybe nothing, maybe some odd mechanism for remembering a grocery list). Perhaps it was some connection only that reader and his or her experience could make with the book. That connection, that meeting of ideas between reader and writer, should be a relatively unique one. Perhaps that is what ultimately irritates me about didactic fiction, that I feel I'm being told what to think, what conclusions to make, rather than leading me to further thinking and my own conclusions. Ah well.
I picked it off my parents' bookshelf. It was yellow and brittle, and the cover, designed by Milton Glaser, showed the blue profile of a shrewd-looking man, with red light falling on his nose and chin and where the whites of his eyes should have been. Someone had written "Ghost Motorcycle" on the title page, sideways.
I didn't know anything about the book-- the story, the setting, when Hesse had written it. Mostly I was intrigued by "ghost motorcycle" and what compelled some long ago reader to write those words on the inside of this book that now sat on my parents' shelf. It surely wasn't my mother or father--not their handwritings, not their idiosyncrasies.
I had only read one other book by Hesse, Siddhartha, but it didn't leave much of an impression on me. I was a distracted high school senior at the time, ready to leave the country. And the cover of this book gave away nothing-- the back copy was just piles of praise for Hesse. So I just dug in, as it should be.
I began reading Narcissus and Goldmund and was immediately engrossed by the medieval world and the innocent, young Goldmund. I enjoyed watching his internal evolution, though I found his teacher/friend Narcissus irritating (not that there is anything wrong with an unlikable character). Hesse writes philosophical novels and I bristled against his pitting art against philosophy, feeling against thought (can't art be logical? asked M when I told him about the book). The epiphanies at the end seemed to me forced, didactic, more rhetoric than human experience. But not entirely groundless, of course. Just needlessly simplified to make a point (methinks). I won't say whether art or philosophy wins, in case you plan on reading the book, but I don't think that would ruin the experience either way.
When I was in an early part of the novel, I asked my mother whether she had read it and she said once, in Romanian. A powerful book, she said, but she wouldn't read it again. At the time I hadn't reached the powerful parts (they are there)-- lust, love, and most important, the relationship we have with death and the creation of art. I would echo my mother's estimation. The book is most definitely worth a read, and not just for the sex and death, though they are the main players and the plague is one of the most haunting characters. But it is not going on my list of books to reread. I never found out what "ghost motorcycle" had to do with anything in the book (maybe nothing, maybe some odd mechanism for remembering a grocery list). Perhaps it was some connection only that reader and his or her experience could make with the book. That connection, that meeting of ideas between reader and writer, should be a relatively unique one. Perhaps that is what ultimately irritates me about didactic fiction, that I feel I'm being told what to think, what conclusions to make, rather than leading me to further thinking and my own conclusions. Ah well.
Sunday, January 07, 2007
Focus
Whew! Things are getting pretty busy around here. I'm finishing my master's thesis. Vaguely and very broadly, it's related to politeness, but that's all I should say at this juncture. I'm applying for writers' residencies for the summer, and the deadlines are soon after the thesis deadline, so that should be interesting. As a result, I may not be able to post as frequently as before (which I know is not so often, but I prefer a little restraint anyhow).
M. & I are off to Seattle and Vancouver next week, for a much-needed change of scenery. Hope to give an update on that when I get back, as well as jot down some thoughts on Hesse's Narcissus and Goldmund, which I finished last week. I may go through fiction withdrawal next semester, as I'm moving into my last leg of grad school. But hopefully I'll continue to make room for everything!
Oh, oh, last update! I've got another reading bubbling up. Will post the details later this month. It's at a place that recently featured ukuleles, raunchy Flemish poetry, and Ovid on a Celtic harp. Wee!
M. & I are off to Seattle and Vancouver next week, for a much-needed change of scenery. Hope to give an update on that when I get back, as well as jot down some thoughts on Hesse's Narcissus and Goldmund, which I finished last week. I may go through fiction withdrawal next semester, as I'm moving into my last leg of grad school. But hopefully I'll continue to make room for everything!
Oh, oh, last update! I've got another reading bubbling up. Will post the details later this month. It's at a place that recently featured ukuleles, raunchy Flemish poetry, and Ovid on a Celtic harp. Wee!
Wednesday, December 27, 2006
Readers' Choice
We're running our second Readers' Choice Awards over at 55 Words. Voting opened December 22 and will close January 20, 2007. It's been fun watching the votes come in-- take a look at the stories and send in your picks! Hooray for reading!
Saturday, December 16, 2006
Berlin
On the first night of Hannukah, the family Szilagyi saw Lou Reed's Berlin at St. Ann's Warehouse, which has been promoted as "an evening to press between the crumbling leaves of fall." Indeed, with DUMBO all foggy under the Manhattan Bridge, the slow polished melodies and gritty explosions seemed just right-- if only it hadn't been unseasonably warm. Members of the Brooklyn Youth Chorus performed as well and I was mildly surprised to see a youngin' from Spoke the Hub up there, singing "Sad Song". I had to wonder what little Timmy thought of the occasionally lurid lyrics (bad pun, I know, but my grandmother did think we were going to see "Lurid's Berlin"--wee!). After the quasi-rock opera finished, the adult performers came back for an encore. Lou et al. sang "Sweet Jane" and "Rock Minuet" and Antony sang something divine in between.
I also received "Kafka's Soup: A Complete History of World Literature in 14 Recipes" which has been a fun read so far. I'm looking forward to Clafoutis Grandmere a la Virginia Woolf.
I also received "Kafka's Soup: A Complete History of World Literature in 14 Recipes" which has been a fun read so far. I'm looking forward to Clafoutis Grandmere a la Virginia Woolf.
Sunday, December 10, 2006
Cover Story
A 55-word story from 55 Words is on the cover of the January 2007 issue of The Writer, as it "nicely sums up the appeal of flash fiction." How nice!
Friday, December 08, 2006
Eels & Feels
One of my very first publications was an academic essay published by Hotel in 2002, entitled "The Sexual Life of Agnes Matzerath in Gunter Grass's Tin Drum". They've now made this volume available online as a .pdf. I had wanted to append "Eels and Feels:" to the beginning of the title but opted for something more staid at the time. The essay is on pp.70-76 if you're into that sort of thing.
Wednesday, November 29, 2006
Luchadoras
The Center for Immigrant Families is hosting "Our Stories: Our Lives As Immigrant Women," a photography and storytelling exhibition at Carlito's Cafe, running November 19, 2006-January 19, 2007. The opening reception is this Saturday, December 2, 6-9 pm, promising music and food and it is free! I hope to get a peek at the exhibit once the stress of final papers ebbs.
In other news, the Dr. Chapbook launch was intimate and engaging. Dr. Rita Charon spoke of the power of narrative and how a literary approach to medicine can help doctors see from their patients' perspectives, and thus make them more empathetic and better doctors. After her talk, contributors to the zine read poetry and non-fiction, and then the odd duck read her short story "Very Big Furniture".
In other news, the Dr. Chapbook launch was intimate and engaging. Dr. Rita Charon spoke of the power of narrative and how a literary approach to medicine can help doctors see from their patients' perspectives, and thus make them more empathetic and better doctors. After her talk, contributors to the zine read poetry and non-fiction, and then the odd duck read her short story "Very Big Furniture".
Sunday, November 19, 2006
Google Me
Last night I went to the closing event for the New York Literary Translation Festival. A whole slew of poets read one to two poems each, which kept the evening nice and varied. Probably the best reading of the night was given by Saviana Stanescu, who read her poem "Google Me!" from her book of poetry of the same name. A hilarious poem, and given her background in the theater, one of the most boisterously and vibrantly performed. Another highlight was José Eugenio Sanchez Garza, one of the six writers representing the International Writing Program at the University of Iowa. He read his poem "Happiness Is a Warm Gun" in the original Spanish. Despite my deficiency in Spanish, his animated performance transmitted the gist and I don't think I was the only Spanish-deficient audience member that enjoyed his reading.
Speaking of readings, I plan on reading a short story of mine at the launch of Dr. Chapbook, a new lit/arts zine at Columbia's postbac premed program. That'll be tomorrow at 7:30, if you find yourself in the vicinity.
Speaking of readings, I plan on reading a short story of mine at the launch of Dr. Chapbook, a new lit/arts zine at Columbia's postbac premed program. That'll be tomorrow at 7:30, if you find yourself in the vicinity.
Saturday, November 11, 2006
Literary Events
The New York Literary Translation Festival is next week, November 16-18. It will feature readings by Romanian and American writers, translation workshops, panel discussions on translation and publishing, and a closing night party with Romanian gypsy music at the Cornelia Street Cafe. I hope to get out to one or two events.
In other news, I went to the launch party for Collectanea's third issue, which has NYC theme. Highlights of the reading included ruminations on Norman Mailer's obituary, insane uncles, and Lou Gehrig. The issue should be online sometime soon, and will feature a documentary film short that I believe has some psychogeographic NY-theme. I'm looking forward to it.
In other news, I went to the launch party for Collectanea's third issue, which has NYC theme. Highlights of the reading included ruminations on Norman Mailer's obituary, insane uncles, and Lou Gehrig. The issue should be online sometime soon, and will feature a documentary film short that I believe has some psychogeographic NY-theme. I'm looking forward to it.
Thursday, November 09, 2006
Floradita
A little vignette, a sort-of-review.
We went to Floradita, a Cuban diner on 125th St. The waiter had a pompadour, the counter top was a large shiny U. We sat in platformed section, looking down. An old man, fierce-eyed and dressed as a sea captain, stood by the door with his hands clasped behind him, a self-elected security guard. We ordered corditas, faintly scented of rum. I ordered the soup of the day, caldo gallego, white bean soup. I wasn't very hungry and expected something small, and the waiter's pursed lips and approving nod indicated otherwise. A hefty dish of white beans, potatoes, and maybe three types of fatty pork. Pork fat, I had always been told, makes everything good. Together we finished the soup and the waiter smiled at the empty plate. Go if you get a chance.
We went to Floradita, a Cuban diner on 125th St. The waiter had a pompadour, the counter top was a large shiny U. We sat in platformed section, looking down. An old man, fierce-eyed and dressed as a sea captain, stood by the door with his hands clasped behind him, a self-elected security guard. We ordered corditas, faintly scented of rum. I ordered the soup of the day, caldo gallego, white bean soup. I wasn't very hungry and expected something small, and the waiter's pursed lips and approving nod indicated otherwise. A hefty dish of white beans, potatoes, and maybe three types of fatty pork. Pork fat, I had always been told, makes everything good. Together we finished the soup and the waiter smiled at the empty plate. Go if you get a chance.
Thursday, November 02, 2006
Lillies
I saw The Tiger Lillies last night, at St. Ann's Warehouse. Overall, it was a very fun show, chockfull of the macabre and grimace-laced chuckles. The slow songs (done in a low, gravelly voice) were disappointing, but the more upbeat pieces sung in falsetto got the crowd stamping their feet. After, the S.O. and I danced on DUMBO's cobblestones all the way back to the F train.
In other news, there's a fresh batch of stories up on 55 Words, and if you missed October's goodies, you can always check the archive. Fun!
In other news, there's a fresh batch of stories up on 55 Words, and if you missed October's goodies, you can always check the archive. Fun!
Wednesday, November 01, 2006
Snippet from a longer thing
The weekend passed slowly, with the Saturday morning walk in the woods (with singing, of course), afternoon game of snooker, and dinner with the Grumleys in the nearby chalet. The Grumleys had two boys and a girl, a yapping terrier named Frances and a rasping parrot named General Attawalpa. Frances, when nervous and especially yappy, usually aggravated General Attawalpa, whose previous owners had taught him to say “Sucks to yer assmar.”
Mr. Grumley, a specialist in Peruvian archaeology at the local university, and Mrs. Grumley, a retired ballerina, took their family on weekend trips about as often as the Pieters. The parents usually had post-dinner ruminations while the children ran off to play, usually right about when Mr. Grumley extracted the pipe tobacco from his left pocket. Mother and Father Pieters generally took Mr. Grumley’s occasional dinner table lectures with good humor, as they were usually truncated by Mrs.Grumley’s inquiries about the development of the Pieters children in comparison to the Grumley children, and often, what that loud ruckus in the rumpus room was.
“Oh yes,” crooned Mother Pieters with earnest eyes, “Our Booboo is the head of his class. He will be a great biologist one day.”
“How nice,” said Mrs. Grumley. “Our Daniel wants to be a cardiologist and our George is an impressive athlete.”
“Now, now, dear,” said Mr. Grumley, puffing on his pipe, “Let’s not brag so much, or the greatness of our children might turn them to stone.” Mrs. Grumley giggled.
“He’s referring to Inka myth, you see,” said Mrs. Grumley.
“We know,” droned the Pieters.
From the rumpus room came a great crash, followed by silence. The four parents rushed in, saw Zanzibar standing on a toppled bookcase, hands on hips, pigtails awry. The three other children stood in one corner of the room, stunned.
“Oh ho ho ho,” laughed Mr. Grumley. “Trying to scale the Andes?”
Zanzibar blew here hair out of her face. “No,” she said, furrowing her brow. “I knocked over the bookcase, Bucko.”
“Now, Zanzi, why can’t you be a good girl for once? Go into the parlor, and wait for us there,” said Mother Pieters. Zanzibar fumed and stomped out of the room. The men re-erected the bookcase, and everyone helped re-shelve.
The littlest Grumley, with large green eyes and cinnamon curls, took her thumb out of her mouth. “Zanzibaw is scehwee,” she whispered to her mother. Mrs. Grumley nodded to her child, clucked her tongue in admiration at her three-year-old’s remarkable astuteness.
Mr. Grumley, a specialist in Peruvian archaeology at the local university, and Mrs. Grumley, a retired ballerina, took their family on weekend trips about as often as the Pieters. The parents usually had post-dinner ruminations while the children ran off to play, usually right about when Mr. Grumley extracted the pipe tobacco from his left pocket. Mother and Father Pieters generally took Mr. Grumley’s occasional dinner table lectures with good humor, as they were usually truncated by Mrs.Grumley’s inquiries about the development of the Pieters children in comparison to the Grumley children, and often, what that loud ruckus in the rumpus room was.
“Oh yes,” crooned Mother Pieters with earnest eyes, “Our Booboo is the head of his class. He will be a great biologist one day.”
“How nice,” said Mrs. Grumley. “Our Daniel wants to be a cardiologist and our George is an impressive athlete.”
“Now, now, dear,” said Mr. Grumley, puffing on his pipe, “Let’s not brag so much, or the greatness of our children might turn them to stone.” Mrs. Grumley giggled.
“He’s referring to Inka myth, you see,” said Mrs. Grumley.
“We know,” droned the Pieters.
From the rumpus room came a great crash, followed by silence. The four parents rushed in, saw Zanzibar standing on a toppled bookcase, hands on hips, pigtails awry. The three other children stood in one corner of the room, stunned.
“Oh ho ho ho,” laughed Mr. Grumley. “Trying to scale the Andes?”
Zanzibar blew here hair out of her face. “No,” she said, furrowing her brow. “I knocked over the bookcase, Bucko.”
“Now, Zanzi, why can’t you be a good girl for once? Go into the parlor, and wait for us there,” said Mother Pieters. Zanzibar fumed and stomped out of the room. The men re-erected the bookcase, and everyone helped re-shelve.
The littlest Grumley, with large green eyes and cinnamon curls, took her thumb out of her mouth. “Zanzibaw is scehwee,” she whispered to her mother. Mrs. Grumley nodded to her child, clucked her tongue in admiration at her three-year-old’s remarkable astuteness.
Crime Prevention Tips
"If you choose to wear your iPod, cell phone, or PDA clipped to your belt for all the world to see as some kind of 21st century status symbol, remember that may not be the best safety practice..." (from the 26th Precinct Community Affairs Unit, emphasis in the original)
...In other words, don't be an idiot.
...In other words, don't be an idiot.
Thursday, October 26, 2006
Transfer to Nowhere
In Second Language Acquisition (SLA) there are two types of transference: linguistic and cognitive. Linguistic means you can see the influence of the native language on the second language in the surface of the structure-- grammatical errors, etc. This is part of the "Transfer to Somewhere" hypothesis, that you can see the influence. "Transfer to Nowhere" is more interesting in that it is cognitive and you can't readily see the influence. That is, one could have a perfectly grammatical sentence but it still sounds "off" because a native speaker would most likely never produce a sentence that way-- that your native language shapes how you express your experience of the world. So off isn't necessarily off or odd, I think it could also be refreshingly different. It makes me think about writers working in their second/third/fourth/etc. languages. Did Nabokov transfer Russian onto French onto English? I guess he (and Conrad) might be exceptions because they were so able to manipulate English (and I'm guessing their other languages). But then again, I don't think the influence necessarily causes language to sound off (though in many cases it might, and it does get mixed in with the grammar issues), at least in the cases of talented language users/manipulators.
Sunday, October 15, 2006
The Last King of Scotland
I saw The Last King of Scotland this weekend. What can I say? It made me faint (literally!). I'm not sure it was just the gruesome scenes at the end, though those images did seem to be at the front of my mind at the time. Some reviews have criticized the fictional Dr. Garrigan that becomes Idi Amin's personal physician for being overly naive and blind to the atrocities going on around him for a longer stretch of time than is believable (though honestly time was not clearly marked in the story-- how long had he been in Amin's service before things went bad?). In any case, the film is definitely worth watching (weak of stomach forewarned). Forest Whitaker did a phenomenal job as a charming, paranoid, and horrifying monster. I also appreciated the clips of the real Amin at the end of the film; they seemed to add an important sense of truth, whether or not the viewer was already aware of who Amin was. That those atrocities were real, that atrocities are being committed right now in other parts of the world.
Thursday, October 12, 2006
Art & Words
An art book I was very (very) marginally involved with is finally coming out and there will be an exhibit of the work at the New York Open Center October 28-December 4. The opening reception is October 28. It will be a Hallowe'en Party, and costumes are encouraged. Fun!
Wednesday, October 04, 2006
Lost At the Aquarium
Eels slithered, sinewy, in the dark water of the dirty tank. Electric eels. Lala stared at them, watched them dance, mouth agape. Absently, she poked at her dry lips, twirled a soft curl. What made them electric, she wondered? She stood closer, pressed her nose to the glass, and smeared her little finger on the fog prints she created. Thought of Miss Janet in a hot pink leopard print leotard, teaching the electric slide in jazz/tap class.
The din of Mrs. Burger’s second grade class trickled away, but was easily replaced by new din. Lala looked at the information on the electric eel’s plaque. She read the words quickly, her eyeballs jumping from line to line, then looked back at the undulating animals.
“Did you just read that whole thing?” a strange woman asked, astonished. Lala didn’t want to hurt the lady’s feelings.
“No,” she said. This seemed to satisfy the adult. Lala looked around to find her classmates gone, the parent-volunteer having ushered them away—but when? How long had she been staring at the eels?
Lala walked toward the exit of the Eel House, picking her nose. She wiped her finger on the yarn around her neck, attached to a construction paper ID card. “LALA” it said in red glitter on glue globs. Her school, grade, and teacher neatly printed underneath in Mrs. Burger’s cautious hand.
Lala wandered from the dark building into the gray light outside. She squinted, and found the penguin habitat. The penguins seemed stuffed, standing so still on their plastic rocks, painted white to resemble ice and snow. Lala wondered if they were real. She peered closer. Finally, a penguin dove into the water, its awkward wings becoming graceful fins. Lala wanted to be graceful too. She gave herself a twirl, watching her skirt fly up, and skimmed her palms against the soft, ruffled denim.
She looked at the penguins again. One of them was stuffed. How lonely it must be, Lala thought. It was a very mild winter. Lala fidgeted in her wool tights.
She moved on, twirling her hair, and found the polar bears, great big lumps of whitish gray fur. They seemed to sleep, paws shielding their little black eyes from the harsh Coney Island light, the wrong type of salt wafting in from the Atlantic. Lala found them sadder than the penguins. One bear rolled on his back, paw out like an open palm. Then it rolled again, dragged itself up and dove into the water, its tired face becoming serene as a manatee.
Lala had enough. Where was her class? She was ready for lunch. The errant parent-volunteer, Chichi, had promised cupcakes. Lala had spied multicolored sprinkles. She considered consulting a security guard. But there they were, lining up at the gate to leave. She joined the end of the line. Mrs. Burger tapped her head, the last in the count. They filed onto the yellow bus with the squeaky green seats.
The din of Mrs. Burger’s second grade class trickled away, but was easily replaced by new din. Lala looked at the information on the electric eel’s plaque. She read the words quickly, her eyeballs jumping from line to line, then looked back at the undulating animals.
“Did you just read that whole thing?” a strange woman asked, astonished. Lala didn’t want to hurt the lady’s feelings.
“No,” she said. This seemed to satisfy the adult. Lala looked around to find her classmates gone, the parent-volunteer having ushered them away—but when? How long had she been staring at the eels?
Lala walked toward the exit of the Eel House, picking her nose. She wiped her finger on the yarn around her neck, attached to a construction paper ID card. “LALA” it said in red glitter on glue globs. Her school, grade, and teacher neatly printed underneath in Mrs. Burger’s cautious hand.
Lala wandered from the dark building into the gray light outside. She squinted, and found the penguin habitat. The penguins seemed stuffed, standing so still on their plastic rocks, painted white to resemble ice and snow. Lala wondered if they were real. She peered closer. Finally, a penguin dove into the water, its awkward wings becoming graceful fins. Lala wanted to be graceful too. She gave herself a twirl, watching her skirt fly up, and skimmed her palms against the soft, ruffled denim.
She looked at the penguins again. One of them was stuffed. How lonely it must be, Lala thought. It was a very mild winter. Lala fidgeted in her wool tights.
She moved on, twirling her hair, and found the polar bears, great big lumps of whitish gray fur. They seemed to sleep, paws shielding their little black eyes from the harsh Coney Island light, the wrong type of salt wafting in from the Atlantic. Lala found them sadder than the penguins. One bear rolled on his back, paw out like an open palm. Then it rolled again, dragged itself up and dove into the water, its tired face becoming serene as a manatee.
Lala had enough. Where was her class? She was ready for lunch. The errant parent-volunteer, Chichi, had promised cupcakes. Lala had spied multicolored sprinkles. She considered consulting a security guard. But there they were, lining up at the gate to leave. She joined the end of the line. Mrs. Burger tapped her head, the last in the count. They filed onto the yellow bus with the squeaky green seats.
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