Dude. That’s totally a bad and sort of weird pun/play on words for a post title. Oh, well. The snow outside is all sparkly and inspiring introspection, my work-week is done, and while I’m feeling a little drained, it’s OK. There’s knitting and reading to do, Netflix en route, and a few possible weekend plans. It’s not bad.

The post title just popped into my head because I was listening to this song in the car, and remembered that the last time something reduced me to tears (other than my own internal crap) it was this song. I watched “Dancer in the Dark” over the weekend - somewhat universally acknowledged to be a horribly depressing movie, and a decent one - and that got me a little choked up, but not teary. There was no lingering sadness.

There might be something wrong with me.

So here’s the song - “Cycling Trivialities” by José González, complete with lyrics, though you have to hear it to get the full effect:

Too blind to know your best
Hurrying through the forks without regrets
Different now, every step feels like a mile
All the lights seem to flash and pass you by

So how’s it gonna be
When it all comes down you’re cycling trivialities

Don’t know which way to turn
Every trifle becoming big concerns
All this time you were chasing dreams,
without knowing what you wanted them to mean

So how’s it gonna be
When it all comes down you’re cycling trivialities
So how’s it gonna be
When it all comes down you’re cycling trivialities

Who cares in a hundred years from now
All the small steps, all your shitty clouds
Who cares in a hundred years from now
Who’ll remember all the players
Who’ll remember all the clowns

So how’s it gonna be
When it all comes down you’re cycling trivialities

So what does this really mean
When it all comes down you’re cycling trivialities
Cycling trivialities
Cycling trivialities

Since my personal library holdings recently crossed the 1,000 book threshold, I decided that it might be time to slow down the acquisition of new books and re-read some of the good ones that I haven’t touched in a while.*

I decided to start this re-reading with Paul Auster’s Moon Palace. I vividly remembered the beginning and had (as it turns out) a good grasp on the general story, though I’d forgotten some of the finer details. On the basis of this very positive recollection (and my enjoyment of Paul Auster’s work as a whole) I got it for a friend for Christmas since I thought he’d really enjoy it, too.

And having re-read it, two good things have happened. One, I enjoyed it tremendously this time around as well and, two, I’ll have it fresh in my mind if there is book discussion to be had. I even have Post-it® note flags marking certain sections of the book, two of which I will share here, with some set-up but not too much exposition.

The main character has found employment with a cranky, blind, paraplegic man; he works as his companion, reading to him, pushing his wheelchair around the Upper West Side of Manhattan, etc. One of his tasks is to describe their surroundings as accurately as possible while they walk. At this point in the story, he’s realized how difficult this task is:

Instead of doing it merely to discharge an obligation, I began to consider it as a spiritual exercise, a process of training myself to look at the world as if I were discovering it for the first time. What do you see? And if you see, how do you put it into words? The world enters us through our eyes, but we cannot make sense of it until it descends into our mouths. I began to appreciate how great that distance was, to understand how far a thing must travel in order to get from the one place to the other. In actual terms, it was no more than two or three inches, but considering how many accidents and losses could occur along the way, it might just as well have been a journey from the earth to the moon.

Then there’s a sort of story within a story - a narrative that the protagonist hears from another character. He’s just mentioned that the circumstances of their respective stories are similar, and that he understands the other man better than he perhaps thought he could/would:

… my situation had been far less desperate than his. When a man feels he has come to the end of his rope, it is perfectly natural that he should want to scream. The air bunches in his lungs, and he cannot breathe unless he pushes it out of him, unless he howls it forth with all his strength. Otherwise, he will choke on his own breath, the very sky will smother him.

It’s always gratifying to me to come across words or thoughts in a book that I can truly understand. Both of these bits fit the bill. I have struggled with the inadequacy of words for describing certain things and thought about how our individual perceptions of objects or feelings can never be accurately communicated to another person; we’re only ever talking in approximations since your vision of “robin’s egg blue” is going to be different from what I see in my mind’s eye. Even if we’re both looking at the same exact color swatch, there’s no way to tell that we’re perceiving that color the same way. The same goes for getting the description back out to someone.

It’s frustrating but wonderful at the same time; it’s a bit of semiotics. We’d like to think we understand one another or the people with whom we “click” or consider to be close to us, but on the most fundamental level, we never truly can because words are only signs—broad representations of ideas and thoughts. We can only ever approximate. I think the effort, though, is what forges relationships - how much time and energy we are willing to put into the attempt to bridge that gap.

And the screaming thing? I get it. For me, if often comes down to the choice between a scream or hysterical crying. I usually opt for the latter (suburbia is not hot on primal scream therapy), but the sensation is the same. Yes, the air bunches in my lungs and I feel like I’ll choke on my own breath if I don’t get it the hell out of me.

So. A good book. I might officially be on a Paul Auster kick after this because I can re-read “Book of Illusions”, “Mr. Vertigo” or “The New York Trilogy.” Yippee!

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* Mind you, that didn’t stop me from ordering a used copy of “Slayer Slang: A Buffy the Vampire Slayer Lexicon”. The book’s premise is that “television heroine Buffy, the Vampire Slayer, has been an unlikely source of language change. In his book [the author] tells how this unconventional teen challenged linguistic taboos and introduced new words and phrases in nearly every show.” Furthemore, on PBS’s “Do You Speak American?” website, they featured the following excerpt:

Buffy has introduced new slang terms and phrases in nearly every episode, many of them formed in the usual ways, some of them at the crest of new formative tendencies… Besides contributing items to the slang lexicon, slayer slang intensifies current formative practices in slang: it glories in them, certainly, but it also constitutes, by exaggerating them, a critique of those practices. For instance, the writers acknowledge that slang increasingly trades on references to popular culture by shifting proper names into other parts of speech, both verbs and adjectives. Thus Xander asks in Puppet Show (5 May 1997), “Does anyone feel like we’ve been Keyser Sozed?” after the character in The Usual Suspects when he means ‘tricked, manipulated’. Afraid that Halloween will get out of hand, Xander remarks in Halloween (27 October 1997), “Halloween quiet? I figured it would have been a big ole vamp Scareapolooza,” from the alternative rock festival Lollapalooza; similarly he argues in The Wish (8 December 1998), “Look, you wanna do Guiltapalooza, fine, but I’m done with that.”

(No, this is not a post about yogurt. Though I am having some right now, after midnight, since I didn’t eat much today. I failed to notice, however, that the yogurt I selected was not only “probiotic” but also “light”, so it’s quite nasty as it contains aspartame. I cannot abide artificial sweeteners. Truly. The taste, the aftertaste. Gah.)

One of the benefits of living so close to Manhattan is that there are so many cool cultural things going on relatively close by. Sadly, I haven’t really been taking advantage of too many of these cultural events and things since they’re usually more enjoyable with company (you know, so you can be all pompous, superior and smarmy in a nice exclusive group of 2 or 3 people) and not everyone is up for a spur-of-the-moment jaunt into NYC to look at paintings or whatever.

But I got to enjoy some culture today, yes indeed. My company provides all employees with a “culture card” at the beginning of every calendar year which entitles us to free admission and discounts at several great museums in the major metro areas where we have offices - New York and San Francisco, for starters. My friend from work told me about the movie screenings at MoMA (Museum of Modern Art) for which we also get free admission. So this afternoon, after a series of text messages, I met up with her and her boyfriend and we went off to MoMA to check out the new exhibits and catch this evening’s screening.

Currently, the special exhibit in the main atrium is sculpture by Martin Puryear. It’s pretty amazing stuff. I’ll post some pictures (thumbnails) below since a link to the exhibition page will probably go dead once the exhibit is over (on January 14). From left to right, you see “Ad Astra”, “Greed’s Trophy” and “Desire.”

I especially enjoyed his artist’s statement. I wrote down a portion in my Moleskine reporter’s notebook (small, purse size) but just found the whole thing on the site:

“But coherence is not the same as resolution.” I love that.

In another gallery, there were etchings by Lucian Freud, a section on contemporary Latin American art, and then their regular photography collection which is always nice to see - some Diane Arbus, etc. We also checked out “Multiplex: Directions in Art, 1970 to Now” - some more modern modern art. I think MoMA has been getting some flack over the last few years for not showcasing much contemporary or postmodern art and clinging to “modern art”: art produced between 1870 and 1970. I was born in 1978; 1970 is still modern in my book. However, anything that requires us to talk about the 19th century is not as modern as we’d like to see, I think. The Multiplex exhibit had some truly interesting pieces, but also some that make it far too easy to make fun of PoMo/contemporary art, e.g. a TV running a video that was quite honestly what you’d see if you played a damaged blank VHS tape. A black screen with occasional bursts of “static.” And that was it.

Perhaps if I’d stood there long enough, something would’ve appeared to me from within the white noise of it, or I would’ve ended up meditating on how the black yet staticky screen represents the emptiness and downfall of the modern visual media (TV, film) — or at least invented something to say so I wouldn’t have to admit that I really thought it was “meh.” I guess I’m not as cultured as I thought.

Then it was time for the screening. There are three theatres in MoMa. They don’t allow food or drink, and they don’t sell any either (n.b.) The movie they were screening tonight was “Fahrenheit 451″ directed by Francois Truffaut, based on the book by Ray Bradbury. I’d seen it before, but it was a long time ago, so I just remembered the plot and that there was a scene on a bridge of some sort and some running.

While there were some moments that elicited laughter simply because of their dated technology (SFX-wise), it was still relevant to the audience. There were murmurs during parts that were overt commentaries on Communism/Socialism, and bitter laughter when the critical eye of the camera was focused on the culture’s obsession with television and media… which seems all the more creepy given the popularity of reality TV and people buying larger and larger television sets (the wall screens in the movie are quite similar).

There’s a great scene where Montag’s wife is watching the government programming and is excited because she’s been selected to be an “actress” on a popular program. She sits down in front of the TV screen and the actors on her TV speak to one another, then turn pointedly to the camera and ask her (by name) what she thinks of a question they’re debating (about a guest list for a dinner party). She can’t muster a response (overwhelmed at her “fame”); they pause their conversation long enough for a response and then tell her she’s absolutely right (despite her sputtering silence/lack of response).

Has you ever run into anyone in real life who is a total champion of a “character” on a reality TV show and will get into arguments with other people about whose contestant is more worthy of winning (particularly in reality TV that does not involve audience voting via 800-number or SMS)? It’s not exactly the same thing, but in terms of pointless emotional investment in completely banal matters, and false interaction with the media, it’s pretty damn close.

Welcome to aught eight.

I’m planning on making the next 365 days a period of time in which I will accomplish some of the things I’ve been hoping to accomplish for the last 730-1095 days. I’m not talking about making resolutions, mind you; they don’t work (”only about a quarter of us actually stick with our resolutions for more than a week or two” - so they say). I just think that I will finally see the fruits of my labor and more results from the groundwork I’ve laid out over the last year or so (or even just the last few months).

Author Neil Gaiman posted a nice (if a bit sentimental for my tastes at this very moment) new year’s wish on his blog. I am pasting it here:

May your coming year be filled with magic and dreams and good madness. I hope you read some fine books and kiss someone who thinks you’re wonderful, and don’t forget to make some art — write or draw or build or sing or live as only you can. And I hope, somewhere in the next year, you surprise yourself.

I’m all over the books, art and perhaps even the madness; I would very much like to surprise myself. I can’t really speak to the rest as it’s not stuff I have control over. It will be an interesting year, I suppose. My 30th birthday is only 3 months away and while I’m trying not to assign too much importance to it (it’s a number like any other… no more important than 29 or 26 or 23, except that it ends in a zero) it’s going to be difficult. People do like to make a bigger deal of it than required. I’ve had a few friends turn 30 recently (or who will be turning 30 soon) and I haven’t made and don’t intend to make a huge deal out of it - more so than any other birthday, anyway. That’s the key, I think.

Perhaps that’s my overall theme for this year - keeping things in perspective.

But here’s a list of 100 things we didn’t know last year, courtesy of the BBC. It includes fun things like:

3. Adding milk to tea negates the health-giving effects of a hot brew.
31. There is mobile phone reception from the summit of Mount Everest.
67. The brain can turn down its ability to see in order to listen to complex sounds like music.
92. Zsa Zsa Gabor is related to Paris Hilton. (It just amuses me that this made the list).