solipsism for sisyphus

'this is the revolutionary outfit'

2008-08-05T15:41:00.007-04:00

The street-hunting fashionistas at 'The Sartorialist' blog seem to be snubbing quality responses to their posts based on...what? Is there an elite group of commentators respected for their wishy-washy opinions and unrivaled formality? I thought I'd document my rather punchy comments that never made it to the coveted spots down below frequent pictures of the middle-aged Milanese. Underneath a photo of a woman wearing head-to-toe American Apparel, I commented that American Apparel might be acceptable, were it not for the despicable man currently heading this "sweat-shop free" company, who requests sexual favors from his female employees. Apparently, social consciousness and 'The Sartorialist' are not friends. Plus, the hem of the skirt looked like the handiwork of a contestant from Project Runway.

A couple days later, in response to a pink sequined mess, I posted a less political and just-plain-hilarious comment that didn't make the cut. It read: "A carefully selected accessory (BELT IT!) could have saved her from looking like Oksana Bauil." Funny, right? 'The Sartorialist' didn't seem to think so, but whatever...I'm not bitter. It's not my fault that 1) not everyone can have the innate fashion sense that I and Edith Beale (pictured below) share and 2) blogs can now edit comments, thus censoring a medium one would think was pretty free from censure.

boozy and the banshees

2008-08-01T11:32:00.006-04:00

Frantic banshee woman:

"Do you fax things here? I just had a huge fight with FedEx Kinkos. I am trying to buy a house, and I missed the 11am deadline for faxing over these papers. FedEx was having problems with their fax machine, and they wouldn't refund my money; I paid $12! They gave me a twenty minute extension for the house. How much is it to fax?"

Me, calmly:

"$2 per page for the first five and $1 per page for each page after that."

Frantic banshee woman:

"That's too much. I'll have to go somewhere else. Do you know where else I can fax?"

Maybe it's just me, but doesn't it seem like her priorities are a little backwards? You're given a 20 minute extension for the purchase of a home, yet suddenly price is going to force you to wander around looking for another location that offers fax services. I can only assume that she was too busy downing a bottle of cheap vodka and beating her children to make the deadline in the first place.

i hate birthdays...

2008-07-28T17:54:00.006-04:00

...and with any luck, this will be the last...because I will have miraculously discovered how to thwart aging, not because I plan on dying within the next twelve months. You are so morbid!

I'm appalled at your morose fascination...or am I?

he said, with a closed-mouth snicker

2008-07-25T15:40:00.009-04:00

Sometimes, I have a spare moment to think. When I do, it results in precious gems of intellect to be collected and studied. On one particular occasion--a walk to Dunkin' Donuts for my regular medium french vanilla iced coffee with cream and sugar--I decided that I wish to be remembered for this quote:

"Males under the age of 45 are all imbeciles, but what they lack in intellect, they make up for in attractiveness and the possession of a particularly excitable (and exciting) body part."

Nicholas Peruzzi, 1984-

Oscar Wilde would congratulate my wit and agree, after inspection of the troves of not unfortunate-looking Cro-Magnons I encounter banging at copy machines each day, that the male specie is endangered.

vagaytion

2008-07-24T12:28:00.011-04:00

In preparation for a week in Provincetown, Dan and I have been mulling over wardrobe options and themes. With the inability to choose any one genre for inspiration (or make decisions at all ever), we're basically going to attempt to embody a summer of wealth: French Riviera, 60's yacht clubs, all things nautical, and subtle Americana. I know what you're thinking, and yes, this much thought absolutely must go into sartorial choices for a week in Provincetown at a gay couple-owned B&B with rooms themed for major Shakespearean works. We're staying in the 'As You Like It' room, thus our style will be as we like it; our vaGAYtion will look something like this...

or this...

or this..

or this...

or this...

or this...

There will most likely be some sort of pre-planning runway montage in our 1 bedroom apartment, photos included!

oratory

2008-07-22T10:45:00.002-04:00

Bumbling brazenly, stumbling lazily;
Incoordinate motion seeks periphery
amidst the legality of banality.

Sheltering, seemingly, sweltering dreamily;
Staid focus lacks a certain quality,
when given immunity.

Shiftily seeking unwavering speaking;
Clarity deserves a franchise,
merchandising for the wise.

having the time of your life

2008-07-20T10:10:00.002-04:00

If you don't think this is the best movie you've ever seen, you have no soul.

the stranger

2008-07-17T11:49:00.005-04:00

3 BEDROOMS / 2 BATHS

TO BE BUILT BY MV BUILDERS ON THIS SITE

ROBERT MOGER, OWNER

Above you will find, word for word, what a man with tousled gray hair, a gash on his hand that may still have been bleeding, and a wild look in his eye kindly asked me to write on a giant board for him. Last I knew, The UPS Store did not offer "sign writing" as a service, but I obliged, mostly out of terror. The conversation began with talk of a frustrating one hour wait at Home Depot for this wooden board and quickly spiralled into mentally unstable demands; every marker stroke met with "Is that going to be ok? Can I see the marker?" He proceeded to go over each line with a palsied hand, rendering my perfect print bulky and awkward. Fortunately, his phone rang, keeping him occupied for the writing of the last line. He then handed me three dollars, hesitantly asking if I was unable to accept it "like the Children's Hospital" and staggered out the door, repeating "Thank you" the whole way. Probably the strangest exchange in my days at UPS.

bro-ing and nothingness: an essay on phenomenological ontology

2008-07-15T14:27:00.006-04:00

Since my life is relatively uninteresting, allow me to share some philosophical questions that have to do, more or less, with the lives of fascinating friends. First: consider a scrappy young woman with a propensity for gin and a penchant for righting wrongs with her fist. Said young woman was provoked by a young man of questionable character (and consciousness), who refused to share his (now personally unneeded) beer stash, and who, much later, was revealed to be deaf. While beating up the handicapped is generally frowned upon, I have to assume that, at this point in the young man's life, he has managed to correct his hearing problem with aids and should know better than to act like a drunk asshole. The question, though, is whether or not the young lady's reaction was inappropriate, considering the culture behind alcohol-related violence. Would this have unintentionally involved her friends, forcing them to come to her defense simply because she is a woman? Is it unfair that men are typically treated much more harshly for physically retaliating to a woman's violence? I have never been involved in any physical altercation in this way and would love a little insight.

Second: consider a proper young woman of the creative and well-bred variety. Would it be totally inappropriate for her to pursue a relationship with a man most might describe as a "dude" or "bro?" His poor fashion sense, relatively simple-minded outlook, and enjoyment of sports seemingly have no place in the life of a lady known for literary insight, impeccable style, and adoration for thin, arty, and bespectacled Amherst graduates, however, it seems the intellectual stimulus necessary for the woman's general happiness might be adequately fulfilled by friends and a career. This "dude" might be the perfect financial supporter for those with creative folly, though money is merely the beginning of his potential offerings: the ability to let loose around him, the obvious "throw-down" factor these boys normally possess in the bedroom, and the fun of slowly molding his behavior for the better. The questions then become, "Will the embarrassment simply be insufferable?" and "When attempting to help him become a gentleman, how far can you go before he feels inadequate and frustrated?"

Important life questions everyone must ponder in pursuit of a master's in duderonomy. That, or, I need something actually interesting to happen to me.

why don't you evah call ya mutha?

2008-07-09T16:18:00.007-04:00

Comments like "I'm very disappointed in you" and "When can I expect to hear from you?" are normally reserved for occasions such as dinner with grandma or weekends at mom's, especially if either of these ladies practice in the Judeo-Christian tradition. It came as quite a surprise to hear similarly guilt-laden and dripping-so-much-with-sarcasm-you-get-drenched phrases out of someone who can barely speak English.

The UPS Store that I work for has a particularly disadvantageous location just around the corner from an English Language School. I suffer through one stuttered conversation after another, usually ending in huffy misunderstanding. Today, a young gentleman (of an ethnic origin I shall leave unknown so as to avoid stereotype) demanded various retributions for his apparently lost package. It was as clear as day that the recipient simply needed to find the location of the leasing office for his apartment complex in order to retrieve the package. Despite the problem's easy solution, this gentleman still managed to cut down my boss, me, and the customer service representative he had on hold with "I'm very disappointed in you" and "This will determine whether or not I ship with UPS in the future."

It was a level of guilt not even Grandma Peruzzi could imagine, as she holds her wooden spoon and shouts over a Manhattan, gold crucifix dangling from her neck. What are they teaching the students at these English language schools? Are they subjected to hours of Will & Grace and Everybody Loves Raymond, inevitably teaching them that parental guilt pervades American society? Also, I didn't realize that a sub par knowledge of English warranted speaking to others as only their mothers are allowed to speak to them. The only solution is clearly a cage match: Judeo-Christian Mothers vs. English Language School students. I think we all know who has the upper hand.

the customer's always right

2008-07-08T13:54:00.003-04:00

As my customer service career comes to a welcome close, I feel the need to reassess all the foibles of the profession, perhaps to understand how I went this long without attempting suicide with an elaborate set up involving bubble wrap dispensers. A small incident occurred this afternoon that assuaged any complicated hang-ups I may have been harbouring, and it's all thanks to one of my frequent special guests--you guessed it!--crazy trust-fund, thick make-up, hobbit lady.

Beads of sweat glistened on her inhumanly colored forehead as she set down three shopping bags from the Boston College bookstore (the woman owns more paraphernalia than a proud alumni father) and began to explain, once again, that she has too much homework. She completed her weekly scratchy, scrawly fax quicker than usual, but had to go digging around in her cavernous purse for ten more cents in order to settle up. A line developed behind her, but I continued to smile and nod in her general direction in response to whatever she may have been mumbling over the faint honk of the marching band music sounding from her headphones. She finally left, and I was able to help the next customer, who commented: "You're very nice. Most people aren't."

It was as if my years of servitude suddenly paid off; I have probably been brightening days left and right, giving a tiny speck of respectability to retail (the latter portion could be speculation). Her comment nearly moved me to tears, which is why this line of work is no longer for me--an oversensitive, hyper-analytical sweetheart with a cheery demeanor that shouldn't be wasted on the 90% of my customers who come in demanding services that don't exist at prices that can't exist. Farewell, customer service. You taught me lessons I never wanted to learn.

speakeasier

2008-07-07T10:11:00.006-04:00

It was hardly my intention to have this blog develop into a sort of "why Boston sucks" forum, but one post on that sordid subject, and it just spiralled out of control thereafter. While I'm on the subject: it seems the secret speakeasy trend has been totally overlooked by all of Boston's greedy restaurateurs. Unfortunately, vegetarian lesbians are allowed to run rampant here, causing organic, cage-free, and other politically correct food-word restaurants to sprout up like Starbucks locations, thus neglecting the wealth of cuisine and beverage to be gained from the speakeasy movement.

The only bars I seem to sample whilst visiting NYC are those sporting a Prohibition-era vibe and incredibly difficult entrance; my friend and I had to call the day of our reservation at one particular location at 3pm and 3pm only, then make an awkward telephone call to the other side of a red British phone booth nestled in the back of a seedy hot dog restaurant. The gimmick is hardly the reason to don your finest flapper dress--it's the cocktails! With the re-introduction of absinthe and creme-de-violette in the US, cocktail culture has seen a resurgence. Bartenders are now artists with the most palatable palette. My favorites thus far have been cucumber-infused gin & tonics (so refreshing!) and the aviation cocktail: gin, lemon, and creme-de-violette, which gives it the scent of Spree candies and the taste of heaven.

Luckily, I chanced upon one bar in Boston experimenting with these new ingredients, as well as old favorites. 'Deep Ellum' looks like a dive from the outside, but is quite nice inside and boasts a cocktail menu to rival any secret speakeasy in NYC. Of course, without the exclusivity and showiness, 'Deep Ellum' pales in comparison to New York's 'PDT,' 'Back Room,' and 'Hotel Delmano.' Yet again, Boston achieves a unanimous 'almost.'

________________________

Aviation Cocktail:

1 1/2 oz. gin

1/2 oz. lemon juice

1/2 oz. creme-de-violette

1 tsp. maraschino liqueur

amber waves of vom

2008-07-03T09:24:00.003-04:00

Last night, I got food poisoning from the Sicilian slices at my favorite pizza place. Is there no justice? Pepperoni is not nearly as enjoyable when eaten in reverse. This case of F.P. is also outrageously debilitating--it took approximately 20 minutes to type these few sentences--which is making me feel less-than-independent on this, the Eve of July 4Th. Boston may very well be the death of me...the death of me (said in a quivering whisper).

terror train, part II

2008-07-02T16:16:00.003-04:00

Last week, three people were struck and killed by MBTA trains in three days. Then, a C-line operator was caught asleep at the wheel. Really? On a related note, I will be drafting my will over the course of the next week, so I suggest remaining in my good graces before I'm plowed over by a negligently driven train, which should be in a week or so.

a regular rodney dangerfield

2008-07-02T09:29:00.002-04:00

Tell this one at parties:

You: "Ask me why I'm such a talented comedian."
Unsuspecting Victim: "Why are you such a...?"
You (interrupting): "TIMING!"

T.M.I.

2008-07-01T13:17:00.007-04:00

I learned from an early age that I have the kind of face which encourages strangers to disclose their deep-seated fears and aspirations. In customer service, this "gift" often causes full-blown psychoanalytic sessions over seemingly simple transactions. Today, a frequent customer of mine sarcastically responded to "How are you?" with "Oh just lovely," and then proceeded to grocery-list the assignments she'd just been given in her class. First of all, I only required a one-word answer to my insincerely polite question. Second of all, this woman is a squat hobbit who wears brightly patterned moo moos, mismatched jewelry of the extraordinarily large variety, headbands to tie back her frizzy nest, and lipstick with no particular boundaries (see above photo). I love bold fashions, unless it's obviously unintentional; this woman may or may not have severe psychological disorders fueling her wardrobe choices. Today, rather than write a seven page fax to her lawyer in illegible serial-killer script, like she usually does, she sent out some trust fund related documents (now it all makes sense). Afterward, she fussed for a while, with musical theatre blaring out of her headphones and jewelry jangling a beat to match the Gershwin, then finally spilled it: "I'm just so upset about all that work. I mean, I went to prep school, and I've never encountered anything like that. The professor is normally a psychotherapist, so where is her real psychotherapist's empathy? I'm going to see my psychotherapist now, so that'll be good." Mind you, this is not an uncommon monologue; I'm her best friend.

On a totally unrelated note, in so far as it only has to do with another customer; I overheard the most repugnant cell phone conversation, which should have been had in the privacy of the woman's own home. Let's just say that the phrase, "She got herself into this mess because she likes dick so much," was uttered more than once.

an unfortunate coincidence

2008-06-30T09:37:00.000-04:00

I will be starting a new job as one of two general managers for Boston's first trendy cupcake cafe, "Sweet." I did not realize, however, that, by mentioning its name and location, I may have been leading people to believe that I will be managing at "Sweet-n-Nasty," the erotic bakeshop on the other corner of Commonwealth and Massachusetts Avenues. The unfortunate coincidence eluded me until a friend justifiably requested clarification. "Sweet," not "Sweet-n-Nasty"; delightful, not gross; me, not some pierced and tattooed goth chick.

P.S. stop by and try our sweet cuppin' cakes!

best day ever

2008-06-24T09:28:00.000-04:00

When I graduated college, I was terrified that the few people who had made it a not-so-horrible experience would have nothing in common with me once they moved on to new cities, new jobs, and new experiences. A series of visits has worked hard to refute this possibility of awkward silence, culminating in what the only other college friend I have left in Boston called, the 'BEST DAY EVER!'

The day began on the beach, knocking back too-warm champagne from a Nalgene bottle, discussing America's food crisis--hoping in some narrow way to solve the problem with our discussion and the adoption of an expensive farm membership. After our Socratic session ended in a sea of complacent middle-classiness, we accepted our losses and looked forward to the Sangria we'd share hours later. Now, with skin crisped to perfection and egos properly alcoholically lubricated, we moved on to Harvard Square, where a number of local bands were to be performing outdoors to celebrate the Solstice (in lieu of virgin sacrifices, I suppose). We met up with one of my more recent friends and my boyfriend for a store opening and a dinner, even though my beach-going college friend and I agreed that world's colliding always seemed apocalyptic to us; two people who know me in two different ways in one room would certainly cause destruction.

Everyone had a delightful time, though, relating plenty of stories intended for common enjoyment. We were met by two more of my college friends, just in town from Chicago, to enjoy more drinks at my apartment and, obviously, watch Muriel's Wedding (we had been obsessing over Abba's 'Take a Chance on Me' during any time spent in a car). Maybe it was the Swedish disco and maybe it was the obscene amount of alcohol, but it seemed like college all over again (with better clothes and more money)--like nothing ever changed between my friends and me. It was reassuring and festive--the perfect way to begin the Summer without slaughtering a goat.

latoya is no longer employed at this location

2008-06-20T12:49:00.000-04:00

I had finally settled in at work, anxious to check my e-mail and gaze hungrily at my plummeting bank account balance, when the phone rang, interrupting these very important plans. This is the exact conversation:

Official-sounding woman: "Do you have someone named Latoya working there?"
Me: "Latoya don't work here no' mo'."

Thank you to the popular song, "Shaniqua don't live here no' mo'," for infiltrating my mind in such a way as to cause this wildly inappropriate (and probably racially insensitive) response. Fact: Latoya did work here for about one second, until after I complained that her loudness was distracting. Now, Latoya don't work here no' mo'.

make it a double

2008-06-19T13:46:00.000-04:00

Last Sunday, I waited anxiously for my friend to arrive to accompany me to a Pride function downtown. While I was waiting, I consumed two absinthe cocktails, mopped the floors in my apartment, and listened to Macy Gray's first album, On How Life Is. Jealous? What I thought was a particularly enjoyable Sunday morning (I began drinking somewhere between 11am and noon) and silly little look into my ridiculous habits has become a dire representation of my spiral into alcoholism, at least, so says Caroline Knapp, author of Drinking: A Love Story.

Probably intended for actual AA members, this memoir seemed out of my own psycho-social reach--representing the range of human emotion and trauma through beer goggles. The problem with the book becomes its ease of penetration; anyone reading this novel could easily step away from it thinking, "My name is Nick, and I am an alcoholic," though with his or her own name inserted in place of "Nick," of course. It did not help matters that her life paralleled mine: middle class up-bringing, liberal arts education, hope to succeed as a writer. She does bring up some interesting points regarding popular views of drinking, though. She notes that drinking seems to be a writer's territory, with notable creative minds all suffering from some form of alcoholism or addiction. She also mentions nuanced takes on masculinity and drinking--an exercise in brotherhood for men, yet unappealing and dangerous for women. Most interesting to me, though, were her thoughts on sophistication and alcoholic libations. She always saw her father sit down after a long day at work with his elegant gin martini; it was an adult thing, she thought. I've always felt that drinking brought with it a certain air of sophistication and sense that I'd finally grown up. Plus, as a frequent host, how was I to deny that alcoholic beverages are more of a classy conversation piece than Iced Tea, unless, of course, it is of the Long Island variety?

Unfortunately, the extent to which Ms. Knapp takes her drinking is downplayed by all of her philosophical insights, which had me sucking down Sangria in a pool of tears the night I got halfway through the book. I think I've finally come to my senses, realizing that the way I drink is controlled and sophisticated. For a writer, I'm sadly well-adjusted and sensible with regards to addictions, quitting smoking after realizing that it just made me sick and curbing my drinking when I decided that having money for just a few expensive bottles of champagne was far more enjoyable than getting plastered nightly.

Alcohol plays such a big part in society today, that it is hard for anyone to justify not going to AA. It's all incredibly personal, though, and if I want to enjoy two cocktails whilst listening to 90's classics, then, by God, I'm going to do it!

use your words

2008-06-17T13:02:00.000-04:00

It's so unfortunate when thirty-somethings catch on to popular speech trends three years after they've been declared officially dead. For instance, over the past few days, I have heard a woman refer to her purchase of cardboard moving boxes as "Terrif" and another, slightly younger woman use "Perf" to describe her satisfaction with my answers both on the phone and in person. She even said it aloud to herself, then giggled, as if totally pleased with her adoption of this funky new trend. I obnoxiously inserted "perforated" into my own processing of her comment to amuse myself out of the possibility of tears.

Some of you may remember the rampant use of this text and instant message infused speech and how irritating it became when attempting to have an intelligent conversation. A friend of mine even wrote an essay for publication satirizing these "Unnes Abbreev's," as we liked to call them. We used these words only in jest, intending to criticize the modern need for such quick verbal exchanges. I thought I had finally moved outside the realm of half-speech, until it spread further, and in a totally unironic way. I can no longer jocularly say to someone "BRB" as I exit a room with the intention to return shortly; it just seems like I fully intended the abbreviation. My only hope is that the ironic understanding of this absurd speech pattern makes it to the appropriate populations in three years. That would be fab.

the city of almost

2008-06-16T16:12:00.001-04:00

At the risk of seeming judgemental and snobbish, I'd like to offer some musings concerning the state of fashion, careers, and the general appeal of Boston, Massachusetts. Highly respected for its academia, Boston is where people go to 'get learned'; I, myself, assumed that the only place for a North easterner to go for college was Boston--certainly no other city would prove credible in the working world. As it turns out, I never wanted to be a member of the working world, and there are colleges in other places just as reputable as those packed densely into the city in which I now currently reside, fearing a total lack of connections if dislocated from the place I 'got learned.'

At the block party that marks the close of Boston's annual GLBTQ(and any other letter you want to throw in there) Pride festival, I became painfully aware of my lack of interest in Boston and its inhabitants. I am not by any means making such gross over generalizations as to the nature of every single person in the city; luckily I have made friends with the more fashion forward go-getters, who, as it were, also despise the city they are currently forced to call home due to any number of unavoidable situations. Of all 200 or so block party-goers, it seemed no one was informed of the death of the torn-apart boot cut jean, Adidas sandal, or skin-tight, label-screaming t-shirt. I was strangely disappointed by the subculture known for its particularly sharp sense of style. It was refreshing to have someone, who was the only other well-dressed attendee, complement my desert boots and teal jeans (yeah, that's right...teal). I don't know why everyone in Boston insists on dressing like it's 2001, especially since most people would be acceptably dressed sans one poorly chosen item. I found myself frequently whispering to my friend, "Almost."

My friend and I applied our "almost" theory to Boston in general. It seems that once you are at the top of your particular field, be it finance, publishing, or academia, there is no where else to go but out. Most people are staying in Boston just long enough to become established and then moving on to other cities, where the industry of their choice is booming. For instance, I will be finishing a publishing program in Boston, but moving to New York to utilize my skills and interests to their fullest, rather than having them slowly exhausted on sub-par publications and businesses.

Despite its picturesque architecture, Boston always seems to be just behind everywhere else in most regards. Almost, Boston, almost.

e! true hollywood story: half-asian john cusack look-alike

2008-06-10T15:32:00.000-04:00

Kevin Ohi. Unless you are one of the enlightened denizens at Boston College who has discovered the school's practically non-existent queer theory program, that name is as much a mystery as the man behind it. Standing at a lanky and awkward 6 feet, this half-Asian John Cusack dreamboat seems to elude all the dreadful pigeonholes queer theory professors could accidentally lodge themselves into. His proclivity for 80's child stars, as evidenced by his collection of Corey Feldman t-shirts, and tendency to simultaneously horrify and delight his students with unlikely comparisons and quiet witticisms (he once compared the children from Botticelli paintings to boiled wontons) have made him somewhat of a BC celebrity. Although I graduated two years ago, I am still in contact with the enigmatic genius, which is a testament to his dedication to his students and probable propensity for young boys who flirt with him (I may or may not have punctuated his name with an exclamation point on every one of my papers for the two classes I took with him).

I mention this man now not just out of pure nostalgia, but also because his encouragement has made a huge impact on my success as a writer, as limited as it may be. Most recently, I was commissioned to write a weekly review on a television horror anthology called Fear, Itself for a website I regularly contribute to, Cinescare.com. All my previous work for the website has been unpaid, but it seems my persistence has gained enough respect in the Cinescare office for me to be offered $30 for four reviews--meager, I know. Although I might as well write the reviews for free, being paid at all for something I've written seems to justify labeling myself a "free-lance writer." Before, it was just a way to glide through family parties and awkward introductions without sounding like a degree-wasting imbecile, but now it's nearly the truth! I could not have accomplished this half-success were it not for the wide-open subject matter of the final paper for Kevin Ohi's queer theory course. It was a stunning meditation on the protection of the potentially queer child in the 80's vampire flick, The Lost Boys (coincidentally, starring both Corey Haim and Corey Feldman). The editors at the website loved the essay, and I've been churning out reviews of absurd horror films ever since.

To those who are already disciples of Mr. Kevin Ohi (you know who you are): his book, Innocence and Rapture, which I am currently plunking awkwardly through, contains language of unparalleled perfection, and reading it makes you feel like you are sitting in his classroom once again, though the edits make everything seem much less panicked and strange. I also had the pleasure of sitting in on one of his lectures at Harvard; he discussed annunciation in the Almodovar film, Talk to Her. His answers during the question portion of the lecture were eloquent, yet humble, as he frequently finished statements with "but I could be totally wrong." Then, as he spoke of the future of the article he was reading, he said "I still have to add a section on Proust...obviously." A strange little man with a big and scary brain, Kevin Ohi remains mostly a mystery.

terror train

2008-06-06T11:01:00.000-04:00

Despite my best effort to maintain a high level of culture and class, my sarcastic urges have gotten the better of me; this blog needs a sprinkling of comedic self-indulgence. After a visit with a friend and fellow writer currently residing in NYC, it has become quite obvious that the only writing style meeting success and admiration these days is cheeky celebrity gossip designed to make us feel better about not being famous. Of course, no part of my personality allows me to become party to such a display, however, I would like to pique more interest in my writing with adorable anecdotes, sticky situations, and fantastic fiction (while maintaining my signature flagrant use of alliteration). That said, here's the first post for a revamped 'Solipsism for Sisyphus':

This morning at 8:20am, I commenced with my own daily Sisyphean task--relying on public transportation to get me to work by 9am. The train system in Boston was the first of its kind in the United States. Boston, due to its antiquity, is able to claim many such firsts. Unfortunately, quantity does not necessarily equal quality. In a city overflowing with over educated overachievers and top technical schools, such as MIT, one would assume we possess the tools necessary to build and organize an efficient and reliable form of public transportation that does not experience weekly derailments and minor fires. We don't. Recently, I have become quite reluctant to step onto the "T" (as it's called here in Boston), for fear of becoming its latest crash victim (this particular Spring has seen a record number of "incidents"). Rather than make the trip to the bike shop to have my bicycle--now replete with two flat tires and a bent frame caused by my own vehicular foible--put back in working condition, I take the chance on the T; I'm just that lazy.

Everything went off without a hitch this particular morning, until I made it to the stop where I switch from one green line train to the next. This train stop lies seemingly in the middle of the road--no awning, bench, or curb, even. The first train to arrive stops at the red light, but, taking advantage of a sick and sadistic ritual, keeps its doors fortified like an army barricade. Then, also rather ritualistically, an angry old Russian woman (of which there are millions in Brighton, most often recognized by their fur coats of unimaginable and unsettling colors) pleaded with the driver using an open palm bang on the door. The driver keeps her eyes straight ahead. I probably don't have to mention that it is pouring rain at this point and a small group of angry commuters has formed at the door, all wearing varying expressions of "what the hell?" The next train allowed passengers to board, and I made it to work with one minute to spare. Why do I live here, again?

increasing meaning, increase mean, mean crease, ease

2007-10-08T14:53:00.000-04:00

After finishing Gertrude Stein's Tender Buttons, much meaning eluded my literary radar--the "poem" required a more philosophical and etymological approach to written language than most novels and poems. While the words appear sonorously related and stylistically matched, it is unlikely that her intentions were purely aesthetic, as the work as a whole appears to make no sense. In 1914, Stein really did pioneer modernism, with this non-treatise treatise on the nature of words, punctuation, and prosody.

Divided into three parts, the work supposes (a word Stein favors) a coherent understanding of what may possibly be a home, if anything at all. The first section, titled "Objects," attempts to redefine a variety of mundane things, while the second section, titled "Food," describes those words associated with eating, and, since she describes them in somewhat longer paragraph form, one may understand the section as the substance or meat of the work. The somewhat scattered spatial relations of each object and food bit then finds a containment in the final section, "Rooms." Her meaning seems to expand as the work lengthens. Similarly, the recurring convention of building upon previous phrases to create a final "meaning" supports a possible philosophical base in the work. For example:

A no, a no since, a no since when, a no since when since, a no since when since a no since when since, a no since, a no since when since, a no since, a no, a no since a no since, a no since, a no since.

As words develop connotations sideways as time goes on, so do her reinterpretations of words, but not without the possibility of becoming stripped once again. In addition, the placement of particular syllables and punctuation marks can vary the meaning indefinitely. Thus, history has its own language, increasingly connotative and eventually destructive. Unfortunately, Tender Buttons seems somewhat impenetrable upon first glance, and even second glance lends only tiny glimpses into Stein's mind--a mind that was trying to first say something rather than please anyone with artistry, however, one cannot deny her masterful use of sound to elicit some sort of pleasure from the reader. It is a work to be studied rather than enjoyed, perhaps, but that's modernism. Like a cubist painting, she comes at a subject from all angles, creating a synesthetic mess on the surface, with a particularly strong matrix of ideology underground.

the floating chapter

2007-09-18T16:29:00.000-04:00

This chapter does not yet know where it wants to rest itself in my novel, but it had to be written, as the event that inspired it sparked an ever-growing snowball of ideas from this point on. The boy in the story will begin to write letters to someone who has not even left the town he lives in, and will start to unfold much more of the philosophical ideals behind the work. Writing is going well recently, and I hope to be at the halfway point within the month, though we all know that's a bit ambitious.

Chapter ?

In anticipation of a spatial separation from his sexy saviour, Little Tom set out to find suitable paper and ink for a letter writing campaign to rival those of military wives. That morning, he had matched his attire to his attitude with sleek slacks, a clean and well-fitted white T-shirt (if he dresses too out of the ordinary, the diner club slowly axes his sharp-dressed axis until he is left with a hollowed shell of insecurity, which justifies his minor, neatened-up swerve from the agreed upon "uniform"), his signature bandanna, today of the fuchsia variety, dark aviator sunglasses, despite the hidden sun, and a copper-colored motorcycle jacket that used to belong to his grandfather (Really Big Tom, as it were--the jacket is much too big for Little Tom's slim frame). He exudes unexpected confidence, like a newly-trained conductor stepping aboard a train for his first trip. He adopts an effortless strut and begins to warble uncontrollably the chorus from The Cure's Close to Me:

I've waited hours for this
I've made myself so sick
I wish I'd stayed asleep today
I never thought this day would end
I never thought tonight could ever be
This close to me

His smooth stride allows him to pass most of the pedestrians who seemingly began their journeys much before Tom decided to write letters. He appears to stand tall above the errand-running hobbits of St. Augustine, fussing about in their woolly pockets for meter change and car keys.

It has been about ten minutes since Tom has lapped anyone, and, as he comes up and over a hill, he sees an elderly couple, who seem to have appeared magically, raised out of the pavement in their marble coats and stony feathered hats; Tom previously believed himself to be at the front of today's march downtown. The couple drifts apart without realizing, continuing a conversation at the same volume at which they began it when they were walking side by side. They do not seem to be clearing space for their fast-approaching marathon competitor, for they remain completely oblivious to any situations or conditions outside their bubbled conversation. They carry identical shopping bags, filled to a point at which Tom cannot peek over the brims to identify any of their carefully chosen goods. Their conversation continues unobstructed by physical difficulties: the noises of some minor construction, passing vehicles, a passing boy with a proclivity for pop vocals. Tom skirts around the right side of the older gentleman to avoid coming between the couple, even though the space now between them could accommodate two twin Toms. He has not been able to identify the topic of their conversation, as their voices are muddled and directionless, though his imagination has filled in the space around the few words he has overheard. While parallel with the couple, he hears the man mumble inaudibly followed quickly by the woman’s response of a defiant, almost irritated sweetness: "But I wrote a lovely note."

At first, he is reminded of his mission—stationary for the purpose of self-important written communication, perhaps merely a means of securing his own creative fame, or leaving something behind for someone to find and read in some time when his work may be of some value. Little Tom’s first reaction always seems to be one of self-involvement, though this reaction is swiftly replaced by one of existential importance, as he grasps tightly to an inflection or word choice that may alter how he views the situation and the modern world. In this case, the urgency with which the old woman spoke fills him with pathos; something went wrong and the woman is unable to process a proper understanding. Her response, with its particularly slight sweetness, suggests an internal conflict with which she is unable to come to terms, despite her projection of superficial normalcy. When did we begin burying our feelings? What was she talking about?

After a lengthy lamentation and meditation on the nature of the projected self, Little Tom punches himself in the arm to jump start the next stage of reaction—or, at least reinterpret the first stage through a new lens—the melancholic stage, which revives Tom’s temporarily stifled malaise...

citizen cynic

2007-09-14T09:46:00.000-04:00

As another installment of the "Big Screen Classics" program at The Coolidge Corner Theatre, Citizen Kane (1941) played this past Monday on the largest screen I could have hoped might facilitate my virgin Kane experience-surely as the film was intended to be viewed. The film has been heralded as the best film of all time on countless lists and by countless critics. Being a natural skeptic, I delayed my own viewing indefinitely. The opportunity came up to see it at the theatre, and I cannot deny that I was extremely excited; I am no stranger to hype, of course. The film turned out to be incredible, as I had both hoped and feared. I didn't want to sit through two hours of a film nightmare, but I also didn't want to be forced to cede to critics and 'best of' lists. I swallowed my cynical pride and raved afterwards. What was particularly memorable was the sense of humor employed in the dialogue--fresh and self-aware. Humor is ever evolving, so I was quite surprised to hear an entire audience laugh at 70 year old jokes. Already knowing the answer to the film's woven mystery, I was able to pay close attention to signifiers and cinematographic hints at the film's dramatic and telling conclusion. By being placed so often in direct light, forcing other characters into his shadow, Kane came across as strong and independent, but somehow fatally self-conscious; he also appeared in shadow at moments of shame or difficulty (his affair is found out by his political opponent, and most of the scene includes Mr. Kane in the dark). Welles used lighting and situational irony in a way that makes it feel like he invented these conventions. He created a wonderfully personal and psychological story of complex emotions and human interaction. In the scene in which his second wife leaves him, one is able to locate that same feeling of hopelessness with another person's actions that she feels, and also that same sense of hopelessness with oneself that Kane must possess. Staggeringly complete and artfully composed, the film will continue to prove cynics wrong throughout the history of film.

return to the void

2007-08-31T15:34:00.000-04:00

"Alas and alack for Alaric and his lass!" (p. 212)

This line of prose is evidence of what can be achieved with written language. This line, which comes late in A Void, is quite poignant and deliberate in its delivery--a smack on the head, really. With its rampant use of a vowel other than "e," it is a reminder of the mysterious omissions in the novel, as well as of the creations that can occur despite these omissions. On a quest to find the meaning behind Anton Vowl's disappearance and enigmatic pre-vanish diary entries, the characters in the novel all make sly references to things that are missing and to outlandish plot lines giving way to beauty or understanding. Perec knows what he's doing, and his proclivity for wordplay allows him to do it without it seeming trite. Just read the line over and over: the A's, the similarity in sounds between completely different words--lyrical. I'm almost to the end, and I'm sure a doozy of a climax awaits.

a gimmick not to 'a void'

2007-08-24T12:52:00.000-04:00

I am currently reading A Void by Georges Perec, the cover of which claims that the novel contains not a single "e." A gimmick, perhaps, but the novel in no way wanes in brilliance because of this restriction. Coincidentally, my fear concerning the poem-as-title issue with my novel was what drew me to this work. Translated from the French, it is a miracle in itself that the novel in English still contains no e's. The intricate wordplay of the author becomes more of a protagonist in the novel than its actual protagonist, which might be why Perec chose to name him Anton Vowl. His name is itself a play on the missing vowel, and when he mysteriously disappears, so is his plotline. I have found myself most in awe of how gripping the novel has become. Knowing ahead of time that there are no e's, I have been reading much more carefully than usual to perhaps catch Perec in a lie. No slip-ups as of yet, and I doubt there will be, but it is still interesting that he has forced his reader to pay such close attention to each word with one small omission. In paying close attention, I have noticed that, yes, the author is forced to describe, rather than simply say some common words (e.g. "auditory canal" rather than "ear), which lends to its artistry. It is a convention which I find myself enabling at times in my writing because it is 1) aesthetically pleasing and 2) humorous, if only due to its absurdity. In general, the novel is a pleasurable aesthetic experience as well as a good way to prep for the GRE verbal section! While literary conventions like "poem-as-title" and "lack-of-letter" are superficially gimmicky, they may lend a significant entry into the world of wordplay, which is severely lacking since novels started to be written more like movie scripts.

ghost of corporate present

2007-08-17T14:47:00.000-04:00

Because most of my day is spent scrolling through my ipod for retail suitable selections, I thought I might include a brief discussion of the literary merit of a few of my favorite family-appropriate singer/songwriters. Since my boss simply starts his windows media player loop of 60's hippy classics, like Bob Dylan, Willie Nelson, Joan Baez, et. al, I tend to break sharply from that sort of retail friendly to my very own modern type. First, I often rely on the silly, yet gorgeous styling of Regina Spektor (I am only starting with her because her warm voice is currently the one steaming up the store). The lyrics of her songs are delivered with an urgency that suggests autobiography, but her songs are most often vignettes of other people's lives, rather than personal tragedies. Immediately silly-sounding, her songs run the risk of being discredited as affected and artificial, however, her lyrics paint vivid pictures of plot-less plots and are quite smart and humorous given their vagueness. My favorite song of hers is "Ghost of Corporate Future," which describes a bleak future for those of us doomed to soulless occupations (oddly fitting given my current location). Instead of relying on trite images of businessmen at their mid-life crises, she invokes unexpected situations in which a man might come to find he's "never made [his] wife moan." She suggests breaking from the norm to "cut your own hair, cause that can be so funny...it always grows back. Hair grows even after you're dead." Regina recognizes the importance of being silly and reminds us of the gravity of taking anything, like hair, for instance, too seriously. When you die, you can't spend $150 on a designer haircut! She avoids self-importance, which enhances her stylistic delivery and believability as an artist, nothing more. I also believe she is the most stunningly and classically beautiful living woman, but how does one not fall in love with a girl playing a chair as an instrument?

Next on the list is Joanna Newsom. While I found her first album incredibly irritating and childish, her second album, Ys, has turned my feelings completely around. Her voice sounds much more mature, and while the lyrics are still infused with the same simple beauty and literal brilliance as those of her first album, the song type (elaborate 10-15 minute allegorical stories) works much better with this style. She does things with words that only seasoned and gifted poets can do. Take, for example, the different uses of "bear" and "bare" in the fairy tale-ish "Monkey and Bear"; she uses these words just often enough to maintain quiet wordplay and in ways that are effective and beautiful sounding. The beauty of her lyrics, of course, is the most overwhelming aspect of any listen to Ys. She is certainly an "acquired taste," as my boss commented after I had her harping in the background at work one day, but one worth acquiring. Plus, she loves alliteration just as much as I do: "well, what is this scrap of sassafras, eh Sisyphus?"

Lastly, of this particular retail environment genre, the artist who has been with me the longest is Nick Drake. Leaving the world with only three full-length albums before his tragic suicide at the age of 26, I often worried that I might tire of the same songs without the possibility of anything but rarely satisfying posthumous releases. The three albums, however, have proved themselves fresh upon each listen, with Blakean lyrics and subtle, yet intricate classical melodies. His soft voice is the only that might evoke such peculiar feelings of simultaneous melancholia and love. Although a friend of mine once commented that "no matter how loud you play Nick Drake, he is still whispering," I find his voice quite fitting and expressive. "At the Chime of a City Clock" is my favorite song of his, and perhaps it is just for the beauty of the title itself. The line, "For a stone in a tin can is wealth to a city man who leaves his armour down" exemplifies his masterful use of very simple images to create a series of epigrams in each brilliantly composed song. Music rarely moves me in the way his does, and now that I am halfway through his biography, I find myself even closer to the lyrics and sounds, thus running the risk of crying on customers.

shameless plug

2007-08-16T09:29:00.000-04:00

In analyzing other works, I'd most like to develop my incorporation of striking elements of style, subject, and substance into my own works. Where are we without new thoughts, or at least, new interpretations of thoughts. It seems so much has already been said, though, which is why I've focused my attention on how to say it. Now for a shameless plug:

Waiting still behind the androgyne, laughing
'Disgusting, what they've done to the place,' he/she s(l)ays,
smacking his/her lips unknowingly.
From the smoky sinews emerges a nymph, myth's lost mistress of time,
to greet the androgyne--
kisses of a long lost loved one set adrift by the inconvenience of travel.
My entire world is this meeting.
I fail to notice my table is ready, for I am
sated completely by a single strand of auburn hair
misplaced across the smooth landscape of a sexless beauty.

The above is the working title for my first novel. Much deliberation was involved in the decision to use a poem as a title, and, in the end, it seemed to fit my intentions and philosophies, while inherently elevating the meaning in the novel. Granted, the only time I've seen this work before was for Fiona Apple with her When the pawn... album; I found myself fascinated by her boldness, but still worried that it could be gimmicky. After listening to the album, I found the title quite fitting, as I'm hoping will occur upon reading my complete novel, which meditates on the state of artistic creation in an overly censored social climate. Gender, much like art, has been a battle ground of social mores, and, in some cases, laws, which is why I chose to represent an image of androgyny within the title. The meaning will most likely vary amongst individual readings, but my intention is not to question ideas and morals as much as it is to question artistry itself. I will occasionally be posting small passages from my novel and possibly from other pieces, since I would most like to reveal the paths of creative development, rather than simply blurt non-stop ramblings of the critical variety, even though criticizing is a pastime in itself.

choreographically speaking...

2007-08-14T11:53:00.000-04:00

Last night, I attended the "Big Screen Classics" viewing of West Side Story (1961) at The Coolidge Corner Theatre in Brookline. I have not seen the film since I was quite young, and was surprised by some of the wacky theatrical and cinematographic elements brought to this Manhattan streets adaptation of William Shakespeare's Romeo & Juliet. The plot is basically the same as that of R&J, of course, but WSS seems to introduce new, modern elements of colonization, narcissism and, for me, the importance of choreography. The choreography in the film acts as the linguistic playfulness might in any novel--delighting a viewer/reader despite the possibility of disagreement with the subject matter. As in Nabokov's Lolita, where one might moralize and subsequently disdain the main character, Humbert Humbert, for his lecherous pedophilia, one might do the same with Tony and Maria's cross-cultural love affair (at least, during the time the play was originally conceived). Most troubling might be the inability of Maria to "feel pretty" without reference to someone (Tony) appreciating her beauty. She thus remains subjugated as woman and minority, since her narcissism only springs from that which gave her the means (symbolically, The United States), thus confusing personal identity with one that is shared between two distinct entities. The most impactful cut in the film was the transition from Maria's first scene to the dance at the gymnasium; she spins madly from an incandescent spectrum into a silhouette of red (all while wearing a white dress that is seemingly symbolic of her innocence). It is perhaps the first time the film leaps out of its conventionality, shocking the viewer into noticing the colors first for their beauty and secondly for their significance. The dance, of course, is where Maria's teenage innocence is first challenged by her hormones--white to red, pure poverty to corrupted semi-poverty. The most memorable scenes throughout the remainder of the film are always beautifully choreographed dance numbers, which I believe to be proof that plot takes a back seat to aesthetics and enjoyability. Interracial couples are still somewhat taboo, unfortunately, and without the distraction of song and dance, one might not be so easily tricked into supporting something he or she may not inherently support. Choreography distracts us all the time, especially in film. Take, for example, the perfect tempo of action which parallels the soundtrack in the '80s film, Clue. The film is essentially a commentary on communism and capitalism, greed, and murder--touchy subjects treated so lightly. Thus, trying to find the right way to express something is, above all, the most important facet of creation (for me, at least), especially when attempting to support subversiveness. Again, another reason I adore alliteration.

introduction

2007-08-13T16:44:00.001-04:00

As this small cove of internet space will exist predominantly for literary thought, discussion, and scrutiny, I have decided to begin by explaining the meaning of the blog's title. I will not insult the intelligence and/or ability to use Wikipedia of those who have chanced upon this blog (as you have done so by some search combination of quite unlikely terms), which is why a mere gloss of the terms 'solipsism' and 'Sisyphus' should suffice. According to Webster.com, 'solipsism' is defined as a theory holding that the self can know nothing but its own modifications, and that the self is the only existent thing; also : extreme egocentrism. Most important to understanding my use of 'Sisyphus,' then, is to understand it in terms of the 'Sisyphean task': a task which proves inevitably futile, just as the punishment of Sisyphus to continue to push a large rock up a steep hill, even though the rock will always escape him as it nears the top. Essentially, egocentrism for those with the means, but no end. Of course, the blog will not be all about me, as 'egocentrism' might suggest, but about the human's (more specifically, the artist's) search for a sense of self amidst the general malaise of today's society and culture. This literature-based blog will not neglect those other facets of culture, such as history, philosophy, visual art, and, most importantly (for this particular blog, at least) film. It is at the point where all of these lines of thought meet that one can develop and understand oneself as a product (and producer) of a particular culture. One of the greatest wordsmiths of the twentieth century, Vladimir Nabokov, pictured here in his early 20's, may serve as spokesperson for this blog and those who choose to address its topics in their own lives. His masterful use of language to emphasize the importance of aesthetics over social stigmas has proved a continual source of personal inspiration, and will hopefully inspire others who find themselves in a similar head space as the rock-dropping narcissist. Also, the title is an ode to my abrasive appreciation for alliteration--consider yourself warned.