Tuesday, January 26, 2010
Tuesday, January 12, 2010
Maroon Banshee Song
Oh my gosh.
I am currently making plans to stay in bed all day.
ALL DAY.
Here is why:
It is approximately 8:30 am, and we wake up to what at first sounds like a loud bird cry that suddenly quits. Then it squeals out again, this time sounding much more like a woman being any of the following in varying combinations:
-assaulted
-chased
-beaten
-systematically deprived of her loved ones
-slowly run over
I instantly look over at Aaron, who's also awake at this point and say
"Is that a woman? What is going on? Oh my gosh."
"Yeah. That's a screaming woman. Umm...what...." his eyes are sleepy and yet huge.
"Here then, dutiful Raul, is that moment you often hear, or read about," says my fuzzy 8:30 am interior monologue. "Are you going to be the neighbor who does NOTHING?"
Absolutely not.
I look ridiculous, wearing a button up shirt along with my little red soccer shorts, nothing on my feet, phone in-hand and meandering down the wet sidewalk. I pass the house next door where I stop to see a middle-aged couple loading their underdressed--almost entirely naked--child into their van, carrying him sideways like a burdensome piece of luggage. He is approximately 3 years of age, lucid though oddly quiet, especially considering his shifting orientation.
It's 8:35 am and this does not quite compute.
"Is everything okay out here?" I ask.
"Umm. yes, It's fine." The father says, though I read this as,
"Okay..Okay. Phew. That's a relief. 'Cause you know, that sounded like a woman SCREAMING. A DYING WOMAN..." Now, my intention here was to explain, rather than to criticize, as if to say,
I turn around and head home, finally remembering that, while still a relatively new installation, we actually now live next door to a day care center. Of course we do.
I am now on the porch, still barefoot and now locked out of the house, fumbling to call Aaron to let me in, though I stall when I first hear and then see the Maroon Mother pass along our front fence, her tightly cropped grey hair bouncing along.
"She is about to cry!" I think, and upon shutting the door she not only cries, but has a visibly impassioned fit of hysterical bawling, striking the steering wheel and placing her face into her hands. screaming.
Oh dear lord. It's only tuesday people!
I am currently making plans to stay in bed all day.
ALL DAY.
Here is why:
It is approximately 8:30 am, and we wake up to what at first sounds like a loud bird cry that suddenly quits. Then it squeals out again, this time sounding much more like a woman being any of the following in varying combinations:
-assaulted
-chased
-beaten
-systematically deprived of her loved ones
-slowly run over
I instantly look over at Aaron, who's also awake at this point and say
"Is that a woman? What is going on? Oh my gosh."
"Yeah. That's a screaming woman. Umm...what...." his eyes are sleepy and yet huge.
"Here then, dutiful Raul, is that moment you often hear, or read about," says my fuzzy 8:30 am interior monologue. "Are you going to be the neighbor who does NOTHING?"
Absolutely not.
I look ridiculous, wearing a button up shirt along with my little red soccer shorts, nothing on my feet, phone in-hand and meandering down the wet sidewalk. I pass the house next door where I stop to see a middle-aged couple loading their underdressed--almost entirely naked--child into their van, carrying him sideways like a burdensome piece of luggage. He is approximately 3 years of age, lucid though oddly quiet, especially considering his shifting orientation.
It's 8:35 am and this does not quite compute.
"Is everything okay out here?" I ask.
"Umm. yes, It's fine." The father says, though I read this as,
"I want coffee. And a plane ticket, I wonder what time I should swing by the cleaners beforehand." and this confuses me.
Why are these people so calmly loading their naked son into a van when a woman is being audibly waterboarded in a garage nearby!? Then it dawns on me.
Why are these people so calmly loading their naked son into a van when a woman is being audibly waterboarded in a garage nearby!? Then it dawns on me.
"Oh...umm, was there a...who? Was that your kid...a moment ago?"
"Yes, that was...our child."
For me, in this moment, it's a strange scene--the very kind of scene that makes perfect sense at 4:40 pm after lunch and a coffee, but at 8:30 in the frazzled morning ends up looking more like a tragically bizarre kind of suburban pieta, or maybe worse. Where are they taking that small child? Is it dying? Are they responsible? Are they REALLY it's parents? Are they? hmmmmm...
For me, in this moment, it's a strange scene--the very kind of scene that makes perfect sense at 4:40 pm after lunch and a coffee, but at 8:30 in the frazzled morning ends up looking more like a tragically bizarre kind of suburban pieta, or maybe worse. Where are they taking that small child? Is it dying? Are they responsible? Are they REALLY it's parents? Are they? hmmmmm...
But it slowly comes together: the mother and child, she, adorned in a respectable maroon office frock, the young one...as stated before, not, were in the subsiding tides of a tsunami sized tantrum. The father found no recourse but to stand idly by, a possible buffer between the banshee child and the inevitable inquiring neighbor or neighbors.
But of course, what do I look like to them?
The maroon clad mother finishes entombing her child in the matching van and, while the rest of my faculties have finally arrived at the reality of the past 5 minutes, the area of my brain that houses basic tact had clearly stayed in bed, blissfully unaware.
The maroon clad mother finishes entombing her child in the matching van and, while the rest of my faculties have finally arrived at the reality of the past 5 minutes, the area of my brain that houses basic tact had clearly stayed in bed, blissfully unaware.
"Okay..Okay. Phew. That's a relief. 'Cause you know, that sounded like a woman SCREAMING. A DYING WOMAN..." Now, my intention here was to explain, rather than to criticize, as if to say,
"Now listen for just a moment, good family, this here is why I am traipsing about barefoot in little red shorts, collecting the morning mist while frantically clutching a phone,"
not,
"Dear god in heaven, how on earth do you manage to get that kid to do anything but attack things and gather meat?"
The father seemed to think I implied the latter sentiment, lowering his head slightly before saying, "Nope. It's just our child."
I turn around and head home, finally remembering that, while still a relatively new installation, we actually now live next door to a day care center. Of course we do.
I am now on the porch, still barefoot and now locked out of the house, fumbling to call Aaron to let me in, though I stall when I first hear and then see the Maroon Mother pass along our front fence, her tightly cropped grey hair bouncing along.
Did she just make a noise? I wonder.
Again: "blulahoo."
Yes, she definitely blubbered, this time as she climbed into a second family vehicle, a likewise Maroon hatchback Something or Other, parked directly in front of the house.
"She is about to cry!" I think, and upon shutting the door she not only cries, but has a visibly impassioned fit of hysterical bawling, striking the steering wheel and placing her face into her hands. screaming.
Oh dear lord. It's only tuesday people!
Is? Is this my fault? What did I do wrong? My intention as I raced out of my house as though it were on fire, was to save a possibly dying and/or dismembered woman. Instead I find myself upsetting the sensibly dressed mother of a possibly autistic child.
"Aaron, I am locked out. Please let me in."
The morning is capped off with him opening the front door and me scrambling into the warm and sane living room. On a side note, though I have promised not to divulge much in the way of details, I will say that Aaron's on-the-fly choice of cover barely surpassed my own it terms of the inappropriate/ridiculous, and I half wish that he had followed me out into the cold morning air, just to accentuate.
"Aaron, I am locked out. Please let me in."
The morning is capped off with him opening the front door and me scrambling into the warm and sane living room. On a side note, though I have promised not to divulge much in the way of details, I will say that Aaron's on-the-fly choice of cover barely surpassed my own it terms of the inappropriate/ridiculous, and I half wish that he had followed me out into the cold morning air, just to accentuate.
Leaving the woman to strangle the remaining of her vehicle's interior, we returned to bed.
Maroon Banshee Song
Oh my gosh.
I am currently making plans to stay in bed all day.
ALL DAY.
Here is why:
It is approximately 8:30 am, and we wake up to what at first sounds like a loud bird cry that suddenly quits. Then it squeals out again, this time sounding much more like a woman being any of the following in varying combinations:
-assaulted
-chased
-beaten
-systematically deprived of her loved ones
-slowly run over
I instantly look over at Aaron, who's also awake at this point and say
"Is that a woman? What is going on? Oh my gosh."
"Yeah. That's a screaming woman. Umm...what...." his eyes are sleepy and yet huge.
"Here then, dutiful Raul, is that moment you often hear, or read about," says my fuzzy 8:30 am interior monologue. "Are you going to be the neighbor who does NOTHING?"
Absolutely not.
I look ridiculous, wearing a button up shirt along with my little red soccer shorts, nothing on my feet, phone in-hand and meandering down the wet sidewalk. I pass the house next door where I stop to see a middle-aged couple loading their underdressed--almost entirely naked--child into their van, carrying him sideways like a burdensome piece of luggage. He is approximately 3 years of age, lucid though oddly quiet, especially considering his shifting orientation.
It's 8:35 am and this does not quite compute.
"Is everything okay out here?" I ask.
"Umm. yes, It's fine." The father says, though I read this as,
"Okay..Okay. Phew. That's a relief. 'Cause you know, that sounded like a woman SCREAMING. A DYING WOMAN..." Now, my intention here was to explain, rather than to criticize, as if to say,
I turn around and head home, finally remembering that, while still a relatively new installation, we actually now live next door to a day care center. Of course we do.
I am now on the porch, still barefoot and now locked out of the house, fumbling to call Aaron to let me in, though I stall when I first hear and then see the Maroon Mother pass along our front fence, her tightly cropped grey hair bouncing along.
"She is about to cry!" I think, and upon shutting the door she not only cries, but has a visibly impassioned fit of hysterical bawling, striking the steering wheel and placing her face into her hands. screaming.
Oh dear lord. It's only tuesday people!
I am currently making plans to stay in bed all day.
ALL DAY.
Here is why:
It is approximately 8:30 am, and we wake up to what at first sounds like a loud bird cry that suddenly quits. Then it squeals out again, this time sounding much more like a woman being any of the following in varying combinations:
-assaulted
-chased
-beaten
-systematically deprived of her loved ones
-slowly run over
I instantly look over at Aaron, who's also awake at this point and say
"Is that a woman? What is going on? Oh my gosh."
"Yeah. That's a screaming woman. Umm...what...." his eyes are sleepy and yet huge.
"Here then, dutiful Raul, is that moment you often hear, or read about," says my fuzzy 8:30 am interior monologue. "Are you going to be the neighbor who does NOTHING?"
Absolutely not.
I look ridiculous, wearing a button up shirt along with my little red soccer shorts, nothing on my feet, phone in-hand and meandering down the wet sidewalk. I pass the house next door where I stop to see a middle-aged couple loading their underdressed--almost entirely naked--child into their van, carrying him sideways like a burdensome piece of luggage. He is approximately 3 years of age, lucid though oddly quiet, especially considering his shifting orientation.
It's 8:35 am and this does not quite compute.
"Is everything okay out here?" I ask.
"Umm. yes, It's fine." The father says, though I read this as,
"I want coffee. And a plane ticket, I wonder what time I should swing by the cleaners beforehand." and this confuses me.
Why are these people so calmly loading their naked son into a van when a woman is being audibly waterboarded in a garage nearby!? Then it dawns on me.
Why are these people so calmly loading their naked son into a van when a woman is being audibly waterboarded in a garage nearby!? Then it dawns on me.
"Oh...umm, was there a...who? Was that your kid...a moment ago?"
"Yes, that was...our child."
For me, in this moment, it's a strange scene--the very kind of scene that makes perfect sense at 4:40 pm after lunch and a coffee, but at 8:30 in the frazzled morning ends up looking more like a tragically bizarre kind of suburban pieta, or maybe worse. Where are they taking that small child? Is it dying? Are they responsible? Are they REALLY it's parents? Are they? hmmmmm...
For me, in this moment, it's a strange scene--the very kind of scene that makes perfect sense at 4:40 pm after lunch and a coffee, but at 8:30 in the frazzled morning ends up looking more like a tragically bizarre kind of suburban pieta, or maybe worse. Where are they taking that small child? Is it dying? Are they responsible? Are they REALLY it's parents? Are they? hmmmmm...
But it slowly comes together: the mother and child, she, adorned in a respectable maroon office frock, the young one...as stated before, not, were in the subsiding tides of a tsunami sized tantrum. The father found no recourse but to stand idly by, a possible buffer between the banshee child and the inevitable inquiring neighbor or neighbors.
But of course, what do I look like to them?
The maroon clad mother finishes entombing her child in the matching van and, while the rest of my faculties have finally arrived at the reality of the past 5 minutes, the area of my brain that houses basic tact had clearly stayed in bed, blissfully unaware.
The maroon clad mother finishes entombing her child in the matching van and, while the rest of my faculties have finally arrived at the reality of the past 5 minutes, the area of my brain that houses basic tact had clearly stayed in bed, blissfully unaware.
"Okay..Okay. Phew. That's a relief. 'Cause you know, that sounded like a woman SCREAMING. A DYING WOMAN..." Now, my intention here was to explain, rather than to criticize, as if to say,
"Now listen for just a moment, good family, this here is why I am traipsing about barefoot in little red shorts, collecting the morning mist while frantically clutching a phone,"
not,
"Dear god in heaven, how on earth do you manage to get that kid to do anything but attack things and gather meat?"
The father seemed to think I implied the latter sentiment, lowering his head slightly before saying, "Nope. It's just our child."
I turn around and head home, finally remembering that, while still a relatively new installation, we actually now live next door to a day care center. Of course we do.
I am now on the porch, still barefoot and now locked out of the house, fumbling to call Aaron to let me in, though I stall when I first hear and then see the Maroon Mother pass along our front fence, her tightly cropped grey hair bouncing along.
Did she just make a noise? I wonder.
Again: "blulahoo."
Yes, she definitely blubbered, this time as she climbed into a second family vehicle, a likewise Maroon hatchback Something or Other, parked directly in front of the house.
"She is about to cry!" I think, and upon shutting the door she not only cries, but has a visibly impassioned fit of hysterical bawling, striking the steering wheel and placing her face into her hands. screaming.
Oh dear lord. It's only tuesday people!
Is? Is this my fault? What did I do wrong? My intention as I raced out of my house as though it were on fire, was to save a possibly dying and/or dismembered woman. Instead I find myself upsetting the sensibly dressed mother of a possibly autistic child.
"Aaron, I am locked out. Please let me in."
The morning is capped off with him opening the front door and me scrambling into the warm and sane living room. On a side note, though I have promised not to divulge much in the way of details, I will say that Aaron's on-the-fly choice of cover barely surpassed my own it terms of the inappropriate/ridiculous, and I half wish that he had followed me out into the cold morning air, just to accentuate.
"Aaron, I am locked out. Please let me in."
The morning is capped off with him opening the front door and me scrambling into the warm and sane living room. On a side note, though I have promised not to divulge much in the way of details, I will say that Aaron's on-the-fly choice of cover barely surpassed my own it terms of the inappropriate/ridiculous, and I half wish that he had followed me out into the cold morning air, just to accentuate.
Leaving the woman to strangle the remaining of her vehicle's interior, we returned to bed.
Thursday, December 03, 2009
Stop time and watch:
Two Weeks - Grizzly Bear from Gabe Askew on Vimeo.
This is worth posting everywhere, let alone spending the six minutes it takes to watch it twice. Beautiful.
Wednesday, December 02, 2009
Man, I have listened to this Radiohead song for years.
It's a good one:
Help me get back to your arms
Cheap sex and sad films
Help me get where I belong
I think you're crazy, maybe
I think you're crazy, maybe
Stop sending letters
Letters always get burned
It's not like the movies
They fed us on little white lies
I think you're crazy, maybe
I think you're crazy, maybe
I will see you in the next life
Sunday, November 29, 2009
Not so fast there young one...
It's been a little bit since I have posted anything of note. I am not quite sure what to write, but I feel like I should say SOMETHING. So I will start with this:
Today in the print lab I was working on my poster, and another student came in--a senior who shall remain nameless--and pointed out that one of my poster mock ups was on the counter. I had accidentally left it behind days before, apparently.
"Is this yours? Somebody said this was yours."
"Yeah, that's mine. Thanks."
"Oh. Why are you saying thank you, I didn't say it was good."
...oh jesus.
"Um. I was saying thank you for pointing out that it was mine--for setting it out/finding it for me...I was not saying, 'thank you in advance for complimenting me on my poster.' I was saying thank you for letting me know that I had left it behind."
Read my lips, ass. Thank you for making me think you were looking out for one your classmates. But in retrospect, I should be thanking you for giving me a moment of clarity:
Sometimes I can't help but feel that my teeth are nothing more than a rusting cage.
I will say that this person's opinion of my design was very much not negative in the end--though that only informs the point:
What in the hell is going on!? I live in a crazy world of sharp...things! Stares, words, instruments and spiky brains. Huge spikey brains that house itty bitty defensive creatures.
Perhaps it was a clear miscommunication. Maybe I am reading too much into it...
Sometimes I really wonder though if I belong in this place, and under so much pressure, and under such pressure from scrutinizing stations that just don't seem to get it. Or. OR.
they GET IT so much that there is no remainder; no room for tact, or for any of the humanistic qualities that I have grown accustomed to in years walking around in a world still branded with some measure of emotion and unarmed, unloaded remarks. Where "Thank you" means "I appreciate," not "I am looking to steal your approval."
I mean, sure, any given endeavor is filled with individuals vying to argue their brilliance...take any lit class that's come before: Hands and verbosity filled the air. But there was something far less corrupt-seeming about it. Shit, delivering pizzas was downright zen compared to some of the stuff I have seen and heard over the last two months.
It's a shame I need my mouth and ears to get by here:
I was subsequently informed that this person had been informed (it's ridiculous how stupid this already sounds) that I don't really listen to what anyone says in regards to critique.
I spent approximately two days worth of work altering my poster...in response to critique.
At this point, I invite you to roll your eyes and save me from this 3 inch pool of minutia. Seriously. I feel like I need a backhand loaded with enough perspective to create a domino effects of bouncing heads.
sigh.
This is all so exhausting. And I am probably sighing the privileged sigh, what with Job living only a few doors down so to speak. That being said, I can't help but really wonder if it's worth it and it's a question I can't for the world figure out. Is it even worth asking? Shit.
Shit?
I should really sit down and sketch out a Mind Map that begs to illustrate whether or not sitting down sketching Mind Maps for a living is going to get anyone anywhere in the end. It's probably a pretty flat landscape after all.
But.
Maybe I know what the answer is.
It's a design fundamental beaten into us on an almost daily basis:
so what?
So what?
SO What?
The answer is a question.
You are about to graduate. So what?
He is pretty talented. So what?
Look at that mounting job. It's crap. So what?
That person's not going to make it in the professional world, and you are. So what?
She has a story to tell? So what?
You have a degree. So what?
You just trimmed the fat of emotion off of your brain. Having a rough week. Said goodbye.
So what?
He is over it.
So what?
You have an AWESOME portfolio, with AWESOME layouts.
You have a slick reel and nice pants and sharp heels.
He has 20 years of professional work under your belt.
You make products shine and stars fall to their knees.
So what?
You are 19 years old. So what?
You are feeling put out by the administration. So what?
You are 24, 25, 26, 27, 28, 29, 30, 31, 32, 33 years old.
So.
What?
What does that get you?
You have an edge. So what?
You think I thanked you in advance for inflating my ego.
so what?
You know what it's like. SO WHAT?
They make fancy, pretty, sleeky, shiny, neat, wow-filled things.
SO what.
And that wasn't even a question.
Because it's not a question.
It's a frame of mind. Because if you really knew the answer. You wouldn't be here.
What ARE you going to do about it?
Oh. Wait. You mean you DO know the answer?
Well then come over here and whisper it into that crack in the wall, because if anybody hears what you have to say, you know exactly how I, they--everybody, nobody, the black air that surrounds the finishing line--would respond.
So.
What.
Friday, November 06, 2009
The Admirable Admiral's Academy for Seafaring Youth
The Admirable Admiral's Sea-l of Approval
It has been sometime since I last updated, and have in the interim been astoundingly busy in school. Because of Cornish's attempts at my life, I have emerged with a lot of great stuff for my reel/portfolio. I have one animation, Orpheus, that is shaping up to be one of the best things I have done so far, among a bunch of other type in motion style pieces--an old style informative piece on Rockwell for example. The latest piece to be filmed is the Admirable Admiral's Academy for Seafaring Youth: A short, two-minute animation mixing watercolor assets/environments and live action--eventually I would like to use mostly stop motion when I have the time, but for now, After Effects is a friend indeed.
I want it to be incredibly fun. Fun. Plain and simple.
Wish me luck.
Wednesday, August 19, 2009
Boweling
A few words on group activities:
Whenever it happens I die a little on the inside: A choice group of friends (but more often co-workers) manages to defy the odds and actually plan to assemble in one place--I imagine a bunch of silver marbles tenuously huddled on one of those tilty wooden labyrinths--the site is designated along with the decided activity.
Drumrollllll please!
Bowling.
(or, less frequently planned upon but similarly aggravating, Poo(l)...Bulliards...whatever).
I suppose my beef here isn't with league bowling, or organized bowling for "sport" (however, I tend to regard sporty activities as those that raise your heart rate past the level of Turtle, Food Coma Panda, or Grooming Cat, and bring it ever closer to that fat killing level of Lawnmower Rabbit), but maybe more with what you would call recreational bowling.
I am so disenchanted; though, I couldn't have ever been so seriously won over by anything so brilliant as advanced ball rolling. And while I have watched quizzically as all ten hopes and aspirations for an engaging evening have been dashed into their gutter resting place, I have done so with not much tear shedding.
Before I get into why I hate bowling so much, I might let you know that the first thing I do when arriving at any number of bowling allies in any number of the small or large cities I have ever been to is look for the arcade. It doesn't matter who I am with--it could be a Sufjan Steven's b-day bash hosted by the Pixies and catered by Brad Bird--the arcade is the first thing I look for and damn it if the results don't ever vary. Bowling alley arcades are like the Shriner's club wasteland of derelict electronic entertainment. If these dirty, sticky, hazy-screened machines could say anything more than "bleep," "boop," or "pyooom" I believe their words would speak volumes to the heart of anyone who has, or has had a grandparent left to shifty-eyed convalescent care.
Dusty and subject to grease misting.
Which brings me to my next point.
Bowling cuisine [sic] (there is no way to spell this phrase and have it be technically accurate.
99 percent of everything you can purchase and put in your mouth at 99.99 percent of the allies I have ever been to is
a) really not supporting your body's interest in lasting much longer than whatever it is you are eating can stay crispy.
b) a different shade of the same color...even things normally known as "lettuce."
c) persistent in coating everything within a 100 foot radius in its essence, and
1) seriously destined in part or residue to find its way into every little finger hole in the place.
This in turn takes us full circle to the filthy little lysol coated minutiae of the act itself, and how you had better make sure you don't get strong-armed into a bowl-o-rama fest on a warm, summery, sandal clad evening.
I don't know...am I being dramatic?
I feel ill at ease every time that blast of disinfectant spreads before me like an unjustifiably smug d-list magician's smoke screen. Those counter lurkers always act like they are doing you such favors, what with the backdrop cubby wall of tan and pleather offerings...but they can't fool me. I can see through their haze and into the past, for it is actually the present, it's all around me, and I know where that shoe has been. Not to mention its filthy stepbrother.
And then there are balls. Oh balls!! Frustrating balls. Oh Balls!: I am convinced bowling is why we say this. I don't believe I have ever been able to stick with the same ball through an entire game. They always manage to betray and disappoint with their various sizes, weights, their shifting hole width and distancing.
I will admit that I am the constant here, and that my hands may need adjustment, much as my form needs perfecting (ahem). And it is true that they can be as pretty and enticing as large candy sweet things, all shiny like for to eat and stuff. But damn the finger holes. Damn them damn them straight to rotten spot worm hole hell.
Yes those balls are pretty--yet I couldn't imagine a more horrifying end to your supermodel date than discovering that he or she indeed has three greasy sphincters on the back of his or her head. Go ahead, reach in for that sweet alley kiss. guh.
And me without my hand sanitizer. Always.
Honestly, the next time my friends manage to drag my ass to a bowling alley I am going to show up in a Purel soaked fire blanket.
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