Jul. 25th, 2010

kellista: (Default)
Does anyone know if there's a definitive source for the image of "the film director", with monocle, jodhpurs, riding crop? I believe they're also depicted carrying a megaphone and wearing a beret sometimes. I've heard names like Otto Preminger, Fritz Lang, and Erich von Stroheim, but none of their Wikipedia articles mention their manner of dress more than in passing. There has to be some place that this stereotype got its start, but I can't find it. Maybe it's a creation of a cartoonist/caricaturist, but I'm not even sure how to start researching down that path.
kellista: (Default)
The pointless juxtaposition witch awoke at my bedside, she said:

"Look, I wouldn't deny that by all accounts I'm a difficult witch, one who has oft distanced herself from the most respectable of colleagues, but, even so, even they know that if I am rarely convincing I am often correct. You take that for as much as you think it is worth."

I try not to be afraid to admit that there are normative conventions around 'writing' that I pretty much respect. If fifteen years of Der Interveben has taught me anything it is probably the virtue of restraint - it's an obvious truism that there are a lot of precious snowflakes out there with enough important things to express, why add? I have a hard time focussing on what's relevant or interesting, you know, and I vacillate between valuing such unstructured spewing and clamming up completely. There's a part of me that cannot discern between crafting reports of events and crafting stories, rendering information or rendering experience and emotion. I think this is different from the distinction between form and content, which I am perfectly happy to cautiously exploit. So it is this, in the end, "I want to be more like you."

Would you rather have written Alice in Wonderland or the entire Encyclopaedia Britannica?

I tend to be much less austere than I would like, clinging tight to the well-worn alloy of the ladder of
abstraction even the buliders tiny undocumented dots in the seats of their cranes

acts of active procrastination, that's all,
lazy but frenetic dress rehearsals for the remote ignition of fires
the sort of soft data collection i fantasize about is thought records and activity schedules, you know, i
believe
we but exchange, as our years increase, the romance of fiction for the more thrilling romance of fact; then again, sometimes i feel like it was just the furniture that was poorly arranged.

--

A boring speculation, like analog communication, neither recent nor abstract - how to translate this into syntax and semantics and form without losing the most important of the information.

How little the best things were about language. I was mesmerized by the person in front of me and the social norms regulating our interaction. It muted me more than once. There was, I was soon sad to learn, no such thing as non-behaviour and my stunned silence was signed, sealed, delivered. most importantly delivered.

Even rapture was reported to be of five grades - minor, momentary, showering, uplifting, and pervading. It's of course not that there doesn't exist continuity uniqueness integrity heredity mutation evolution...enhancing the most important of the information?

Give up, come away from your problems and into this unknown, with me?

--

The witch smiled, but in a way that wasn't only happy, and said, "You sound just like Mom."
"What do you mean I sound just like my mother?"
"She used to say things like that."
"Like what?"
"Oh, like, 'nothing is so-and-so'. Or 'everything is so-and-so'. Or 'obviously'." She laughed. "She was always very black-or-white."
"What's 'black-or-white'? What's wrong with definitivity?"
She had a faraway look in her eyes. "Mom sometimes missed the forest for the trees."
"What forest?"
"Nothing."
kellista: (Default)
She felt sorry for herself for a variety of reasons that centred on how cliched and alone she felt until the feeling rendered her the world's critical observer judging faults. The anxiety was deep, uric, calcifying in most major muscle groups, and there did come a point where she thought, "is this what I doing to him?"

More salient a fact remained: to her, the range of emotional experience was pretty cool.

Her sexual fling for her feelings existed precisely because they had the power to overwhelm her. Her conversational self, who he thought she was, disappeared in the heat of passion or excitement or jealousy or sorrow. Does this remind him what a tenuous hold he has on himself in the first place? "Baby, baby, baby, you know I am 99.999 per cent On Guard and can wield my intellect and critical judgment with the best of them, right? Analysis? Philosophy degree? Am I Making Sense?"

The Thing You Know Is.

She Thinks It Can (Must) Be Both. "Rather than letting disappointment turn into anxiety or self-pity," the Witch says, "learn to see the disappointment clearly while restraining the (mental) action. Stay with the original feeling longer."

"You can wait."

"It's a fucking birthright," she says, angry, tired, and twirling her hair. "Relax your judgments of feelings - why so serious? Why is everyone so serious?"

--


"It makes me feel weird because she's gone. And it also makes me feel unspecial." "That's the last thing that this Witch would want. You know you're the most special thing to me, don't you?" "I guess so." "the most."

She petted my head for a while and her fingers went behind my ear to that place that's almost never touched.
kellista: (Default)
concrete/abstract
being/doing

He liked fish and chips. She took me to the woods. We looked at the whole life of this thing including the suffering and named the highlights, trying not to idealize. Frankly, though, the world of bereavement is a world of intuition, symbolism, and ritual.

We were living the stages with depth.

In this place to gently cope we were mutuality embodied, seriously, for realz. "I love and respect you immensely, always," "Thank you for being my friend." It was all right to be vulnerable. We could cry together. The mutuality was us forcing to admit that neither of us had any control over the reality that something we love has died.

What i really mean to say is.


hy·poc·o·rism
–noun

1. a pet name.
2. the practice of using a pet name.
3. the use of forms of speech imitative of baby talk, esp. by an adult.


Complicated grief responses almost always are a function of intensity and timing. There is a clinical problem of becoming "identified" with the grief. In this situation, mourners are reluctant to release the grief because grieving has been integrated as part of their identity. Reporting in the journal NeuroImage (May 10, 2008), scientists suggest that complicated grief activates neurons in the reward centers of the brain, possibly giving these memories addiction-like properties. The authors found activity in the nucleus accumbens, a region of the brain most commonly associated with reward. It is one that has also been shown to play a role in social attachment, such as sibling and maternal affiliation.
kellista: (Default)
Okay, so what's the difference between being afraid and being anxious? Of being sad and hopeless and being depressed? Of having well-defined preferences and having "selective eating disorder"? Seriously, though, if we really are going to frame everything in terms of the subjective distress of ourselves and the people around us, that's just me well fucked, innit? Well, maybe I want to surround myself with the distressed as I defiantly and determinedly age. I guess there'll be time to acknowledge some laughable meaninglessnesses together.
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