Existential Star Wars

Tip of the hat to Tyler for the pointer. This is wicked good!

Happy or Interested?

“Are you happy?” – asks the interlocutor as my eyes are feasting on a sea of green, tilled land, and vineyards. My mind is elsewhere but my eyes are enjoying the scenery at hand.
“What do you mean by happy?” - I ask as I’m leisurely drinking the Venti Passion Tea Lemonade we picked up about 20 miles down the road.
I then added that for some reason I’ve been on the receiving end of a lot of existential questions of this nature this year. Come to think of it, I'm amused by the versatility of answers depending on who asks and when.

We left the ‘happy talk’ at that as dinner was being served and I don’t generally find smoked salmon to be the most suitable choice for existential talk. Smoked salmon says: ‘light, fleeting, easy-but-forgettable fun.’ Beef, on the other hand, would have been a different story. I could have picked beef bourguignon, but I didn't. The interlocutor did. Maybe that's why he asked the question. Beef tends to beg for a different kind of substance and I lacked the inclination needed to process it. I had the salmon, instead. On the drive back I got to thinking about “are-you-happy?”-type questions.

To me, ‘happy’, has always spelled presence of movement, productive change, you know, the opposite of boredom. Agito ergo sum. I believe that. It's got all the buy-in a phrase could ever have. A lack of motion would be a lack of comfort, i.e., a lack of happiness. Some are comfortable moving others feel better in a sedentary fashion. I always felt at home in the company of the former. Ironically, quite often I’m on the receiving end of such movement-obliterating statements as: “just stay put for a minute. Don’t move for a bit. Let’s just stay here a while, isn’t this nice?” Statements of this nature make me feel the opposite of 'satisfied'. They make me feel restless.

Instead of asking, “are you happy?”, one needs perhaps to consider: “are you interested?” Interestedness spells motion, change, problem-solving, eventfulness, you know, things of interest. Without new problems to solve and new avenues to explore, what use is this thing, anyway?

"Ask me the question again", I ask.
“Are you happy?”
“I’m interested much of the time. It could be different but it’s not. Interestedness might lead to more promising changes. So, ja, I’m interested, I guess. Don’t you just love Julian Casablancas’ voice, by the way?”
“The Strokes are cool, yup. So, when was the last time you were this, you know, interested?”
Without thinking much at all and almost in an automaton-like fashion, I say: May 1, 2009.
“Why May 1, 2009?”
“I don’t know. I just was. It was the night I saw Franz Ferdinand in concert. Alex Kapranos, the lead singer, had some beautiful, red patent leather shoes on and I had a smaller number of worries on my mind than usual that particular night. I wanted those shoes. I didn’t want for much those days with the exception of those red shoes.”

I remember the day with such clarity not because I have a good memory (very often I don't) but because I’m a music lover. I journal my life by way of music. My love for and interest in music is unchanging regardless of all else. I can look at the thousands of tracks I have on the iPod and I can unequivocally say what the tracks represents, memory-wise. I even have a playlist that says ‘interested/happy.’ It’s the one playlist that gets edited religiously. I play it daily and with loyalty in the car. But I digress again. I guess that's what things we love tend to do to us. They force us to digress and make everything be about them. Right. I digress.

We have another 150 miles to cover and I reckon existential topics are as good a choice as any when it comes to filling time when covering distance.

I generally don't ask a lot of questions. I prefer to divine answers without being inquisitive. This time, I ask the same question, however. What else is there to do, anyway? It's a long, long drive.

“So, are you happy? People usually ask existential questions when they’re trying to sort stuff out themselves first.”

“I’m happy when I want for nothing. You know, the usual Spiel.”

I feel my forehead wrinkling. To me, not wanting for anything is equal to not having much to live for. Not wanting for anything makes me anxious. It's got to be something I need to want, be it red shoes or whatever. I say, “I’d have a hard time with that, you know, the not-wanting-for-anything thing. I’d feel unable to move and, uhm….” And I got interrupted.
“…yes, I know, the movement thing. It’s just that a lack of movement, even for a short spell, is what happy would mean to me.”

And there’s that.

Finger Eleven's "Paralyzer” came on my ‘interested/happy’ playlist.

“I want to make you move
Because you’re standing still.”

I chuckle.

"Ha. Do I know or do I know my music, dude? And I don't really like much else from Finger Eleven. Good song."

I continue to smile, look outside the window and try to journal the experience by way of the song and playlist: Finger Eleven, short trip, sunny, 62F, red Toms shoes, vineyards. Done.

Happiness is hard to discuss because it's so often subject-dependent. Frequently, I find, those who need to know the degree of your happiness are those who indirectly want to know how much they're perhaps responsible for said thing. The question isn't just a generic one, i.e., "are you, generally speaking, in a happy state?" It's usually of a tendetious nature. Are you happy here? Happy doing this and that? Happy with me?

Are you happy?
I'm interested. Nonchalance is hard to stomach. The times I feel nonchalant are the times I feel I try extra hard to change things up. Nonchalance breeds a lack of fecundity and creativity. And I could never pull the latter off very well. To paraphrase Patrick O'Henry, give me interestedness or give me, well, you know, whatever. Who cares. It's all about the former, anyway.

And, I suppose, eating ice cream while driving might just be as close to 'happy' as one should get. Tolerable quotidianity is no easy feat, I've found. Take it, while you can, ice cream and all.

Do You Like the Piece?

It's been a week since I was surrounded by a whole lot of art. I wrote a bit about it on the flight back but then stopped thinking about it all together once I landed as my daily life took the driver's seat. However, I was reminded of the experience last night while quickly discussing art reception with a sort-of-new friend.

The sentence that stood out from the exchange was: "The artist should be able to take it. Criticism, that is."
Artists, de natura, are social commentators and social commentary is bound to attract multiple forms and kinds of criticism/reaction, otherwise it’s not effective. In another life and at a different time, I’d be inclined to fully agree with this. About a week ago, however, I didn’t. Artists perform other functions in life as well, one of them being entertainment that is not necessarily didactic in nature. I realize that the following statement might be a tad scandalous but art has as much value when it doesn't inspire a desire to change and 'teach' as when it does.

It can get tiresome to be taught all the time. Life lessons and art lessons and lesson this and lesson that. Oy weh! That’s too much. Sometimes people just want to be entertained and therein lies the value of the arts. I mean, escapism is not an easy feat. Feeding people's escapist tendencies is, more often than not, a huge service. Huge. Sometimes, after all, all the audience member wants is the chance to escape for a short spell and if the artist can provide an arena for escapism then, voila, mission accomplished.

"So, what do you make of it?" asks the tall, dark-haired painter.
"It's making me sleepy," I say.
I don't think he likes my words. To an insomniac, however, things that have a soporific effect are usually a very good thing. To the artist, apparently, not so much.

“Yes, it’s perhaps hard to, uhm, ‘understand it,’” he says at which point I really want to make some jokey comment about condescension but I’m too tired, jet-lagged, and generally uninterested in the exchange.

I look around for my party. I want to go to dinner and my eyes are wicked tired. Plus, my glasses were forgotten on the bed and my eyes are itching. “Friggin’ dessert”, I think to myself. Can't see worth a lick. Grh!

“So, you don’t like it then, I take it?” Asks the artist one more time.
In a fashion that seemed to ooze a bit of antagonism, I say: “Honestly, I tend to talk about life when seeing a piece of art that speaks to me and I tend to talk about art when doing life. I suppose I’ll end up talking about this piece a few days from now as I discuss bike routes in my neck of the woods, you know?"
“I don’t follow,” says he.

What I meant was I like to discuss the arts without appointments. But this piece is not making me think of anything in particular or make any sort of connections to things. I feel no need to speak as I look at it and that, to me, speaks well of the piece itself. If one leads a highly verbal life generally, feeling no compulsion to speak is a welcome change. The artist doesn't seem to like silence, however. The expectation seems to be that, when at a venue, one needs to 'discuss the work.' 'Why is silence always getting a bad rap?' I think to myself. Hmm.

I could have talked about my desire to be silent but I have no desire/drive to do so. Plus, it’s so hot there. My body’s having a hard time adjusting. You see, it rains a lot in the Pacific Northwest and I’m still a bit weirded out by the fact that I’m wearing a tank top, flip-flops, and shorts in the dessert while just a few hours prior I had boots and a raincoat on.

I don’t really do postmodern art all that much. Not even modern. Picasso, for instance, tends to make me nervous. By nature, I tend to be into Caravaggio. Even El Greco is okay. Just because I seem to get something, doesn't mean that I'm into it. I mean I get Judd Apatow.
De gustibus non est disputandum, after all. You can't choose what you like after all. Alas, it chooses you first.

“But you do Modern Theory though, right?” asks the artist in what I’m interpreting was a mild form of shock.
“I do,” I say, “but I’m not married to it. The whole thing is quite non-committal, you know? I’m kind of having fun with it now even though we were quite serious at some point a while back.”

I then tell him in an effort to finish the exchange kindly, "I like that I want to be silent as I look at it. In this regard alone, your work delivers. C'est tout."

I could have provided more context but I didn’t. I tend to be polite, very polite, after I've eaten. Pre-dinner, however, every zinger my brain has access to will want to come out and play. I was looking forward to some Southwestern cuisine as I was only in town for a day. And that somehow trumped all else. My brain’s simple that way. I’m in too truthful a mood when I’m hungry. And if I haven’t masticated anything for hours, the answer I’ll provide to any question will be the rawest, least processed, hence, truest.

Arthur: A Review and Comment on Class

After making my friend watch El Orfanato with me the other night, I thought it fitting to suggest that we watch something lighter the next night. Incidentally, I wanted to review El Orfanato but I'm still a bit too spooked to even write a paragraph on it. All I can say at this point is that it is brilliantly written and equally brilliantly played and realized. Man, was it chilling! Whew!



So, I wanted to see the new cinematic version of Arthur because I've always found the premise of the film to be of interest. Arthur comes from a privileged background. He has all the material things he can ever want but he does not have any familial warmth and/or social attachments of actual value.

I expected more from Peter Baynham and Steve Gordon, the writers of Arthur. Alas, I got much less than I thought I would. For the most part, watching Arthur was, simply put, uncomfortable. We had to stay till the end, however, because well, dinner was not till two hours later and the movie theater was as a good a place to wait as any, I suppose. Plus, we needed something to discuss over dinner and a bad movie can come in handy sometimes. Food somehow tastes better when commenting on artistic inferiority.

Arthur's only redeeming quality was Russell Brand which, since he is Arthur, should have helped ease the pain a bit. Alas, it didn't. No performer is good enough to sustain an inferior work. There's no cure for a less-than-mediocre script, whether Russell Brand does a hunky-dory job or not.

And won't a director out there please cast Greta Gerwig right? Few actors have her kind of range and it's, unfortunately, not being shown well and/or sufficiently. As Naomi, Gerwig was less likable than even Liza Minelli in the original Arthur. That's how badly cast I thought she was. I mean, doesn't Woody Allen have any upcoming projects he could cast her in? But I digress.

What's fundamentally wrong with this film is its cheap portrayal of the notion of class privilege. Arthur stands to inherit a billion dollar fortune. He is told he'll face a life without it if he doesn't comply with the family's wishes and marry someone else with access to wealth (who, incidentally, represents the nouveau riche).

Arthur is not keen on leading a life without access to excess. After all, it's all he knows even though he seems to abhor much of it. The film could have dug in deeper and explored the concept of upward mobility and what potentially informs it. It could have shown better and more clearly the social ramifications of privilege and how it informs self-marginalization and a lack of need to want to grow and stretch. Unfortunately, all the film does is show what cash flow looks like by way of showcasing all sorts of toys and uber-expensive distractions.

What this film does best is reduce the so-called rich and privileged to a kind of cliché that would make even Dickens blush. People with access to wealth are just overall unlikable and bitter much like Great Expectations' Miss Havisham. Common folk, or 'normal people', as the film attempts to portray by way of Naomi and her posse, are endowed with clear sight. They see things for how/what they are and they do life with reserved pride and inspired by moderation, and, most importantly dignity. It is precisely this kind of reduction that I find revolting. Not having things is equated with virtue. Having things stands for vice in all of its forms and shapes. Come again?!

An adult discussion of class is needed in society. Class differences do exist. Quite clearly they do. So, why aren't they discussed more and in greater detail in an effort to understand what informs the very fabric of our society? Arthur could have done some of it. Instead, it falls flat. It resorts to a cheap parody of class and all we're given are carbohydrates that make us tired and dizzy afterwards. Arthur's shenanigans, even though Brand is almost adorable in them, are not enough to even mildly entertain one. After all of that sugar intake, I was in the market for some protein. And, thankfully, dinner provided a much better finish for the day.

The film could have shown the complexities of what it means to have access to wealth when living in the most culturally relevant metropolis of the world, i.e., New York City. People of Arthur's ilk are depicted as impossible to understand because apparently by virtue of their monetary privilege and wealth they are totally denuded of every ounce of humanity i.e., relatablity.

And, of course, Naomi, who represents the opposite of money and social status is somehow the best appreciator of things quintessentially New York. She truly gets Central Park. She gets art. She feels things that privileged, rich morons never could because, naturally, privilege gives one nothing more than the equivalent to a massive lobotomy.

The original trailer from the 1981 Dudley Moore version is here:

Going to the Theater and a Visitation a-la-Brecht

This weekend I went to the theater.

I was asked to see George Bernard Shaw's The Philanderer. I'm usually not much of a Shaw fan and it makes sense why. In life, there's Brecht people and Shaw people.

It was the first time in a while that I was going to the theater as I'm finicky about play productions. Again, I'm into Brecht, so who can blame me? I wrote a satire-informed thing on him a while back, well ok, 'thing' is maybe not the word for it. Let's call it what it is, a study that took a year to write.

Something happens to art appreciation when much concentrated time is spent on one single topic. It becomes nigh impossible to be a passive appreciator of it, the art at hand. Plays are good and dandy. Brecht plays, on the other hand, are a homework assignment. They demand a kind of presence that needs to be not only informed but also reactive. Verfremdungseffekt. Alienation effect. Man, the former used to swim in my mouth so often.

So, after spending a boatload of time with Brecht's 'Verfremdungseffekt' it stands to reason that my subsequent theater experiences would be a bit different. Just a tad.

During intermission I'm asked how I like it.

Confession. I have a hard time with direct questions with the verb 'like' in them. I feel discomfort, resentment even, when I'm asked them as it feels like I have to commit to the interlocutor for a good number of minutes after I'm asked the question. And I'm finicky about time when I'm at an art venue.

I don't know, at times, how to answer these open-ended questions especially when I know I have a very limited amount of time and I have much to say. Instead, I get tongue-tied, purse my lips, feel my eyes moving about quickly as if they're trying to locate words, and say a generic, yes-punctuated: "Yes, interesting. Yes'

Then I'm asked what I make of the director's interpretation of Shaw's play. I don't know what to say specifically at this point. Where's economy of speech when you friggin' need it?! There's much I could say but I feel like saying nothing. I'd rather talk about the audience's sartorial choices instead. To be polite and in an effort to buy some time till the second part resumes, I do what makes me feel comfortable and in my element. I talk about music.
"What about that new Death Cab for Cutie album, Codes and Keys? It's coming at such a good time as I think I've been listening to The Limousines and The Strokes a bit much lately. I've been craving Ben Gibbard's voice."
And what do you know, the lights grow dim and intermission is over. Phew.

As the play resumes, and George Bernard Shaw's commentary on sociality, assumed social contractual obligations, and gender penetrantes my mind and I find myself getting into some kind of head space that's making me feel detached from everyone and everything. Alienated is perhaps a more suitable word. 'Now, I'm getting into this', I think to myself. Yes. My good pal Brecht is coming to the rescue. You can never take Brecht out of one, I suppose.

While I think that I could perhaps go to the theater like everyone else and occupy myself with such things as what pumps to wear with my dress and whether a clutch is better than a purse, I know that in actuality I'm more bound to be one of those individuals who after the experience will want to pay a visit to Brecht and bust open a Mother Courage or a Caucasian Chalk Circle later at home while HBO's Mildred Pierce plays in the background and rain is serving as the soundtrack de nuit.

Jon Stewart's Farewell to Glenn Beck and Colbert's Friday

1) Glenn Beck is leaving Fox News? Oh, the inhumanity!
Who is he blaming this time, Soros and Santa Clause?
Here's Jon Stewart's awesome bit on it. Watch it here.


Tip of the hat to my good pal, Vipul for making me aware of this:

Assorted Links

One of my guilty pleasures on the internet is perusing the Sartorialist site. I've always been keen on the semiotics of fashion and few contemporary sites do justice to it the way this one does. I absolutely love this photograph as it shows a kind of 'body harmony' that is simply too poetic not to be lavished with attention.

The Strokes' new album Angles is a must-have. For those of you who crave new music these days, run to iTunes and get this puppy. Man, I had missed them. Some favorite tracks: "Taken for a Fool," "Two Kinds of Happiness," and "Gratisfaction." Read Spin's sort-of-ok-review here.

I quite enjoyed this. This is how the year 2000 looked in the imagination of Germans in the year 1900.

The Well-Being and Happiness Index in the US. A bit says: "In his book, Stumbling on Happiness, Harvard psychologist Daniel Gilbert notes that there are three great decisions in life that affect your happiness: “Where to live, what to do, and with whom to do it.” The second two have been examined in great depth; the third, up until now, not so much."
More here.

What Photos Teach

My relationship with photos is now the most clinical it's ever been. I rarely say 'regular' stuff now like, "where was this taken?," "Who's this in it?," "Where were you when this was taken?" I've lost interest in asking information-finding questions of this nature. And it's fine. I reckon we all graduate to that next level, at some point. I learn a lot of the business of photography on a daily basis. I've come to appreciate how difficult a medium it is and how hard its practitioners have to work for their work to reach as a final point as it needs to before showing.

I tend to say more and more things like, "the chiaro/scurro conflict is strong in this one" or "I'm not sure about the sepia tones in this one," and so forth.

Last night I apparently was in a mood. In my usual way I contradicted the statement by resorting to an oldie but goodie, "No, I'm not! What?!"
"You look like you're in a mood. Like here. He-he-he."

And then I smiled. Because I was shown a photograph of mine that was taken when I was three. I don't know which box it was taken out of but I reckon it was a box.

Apparently, I was mad at something that day. I was playing outside but my parents summoned me for family photos which, of course, I resented. Who wants to experience an interrupted game? Not me, that's for sure. When my play time is messed with, I throw fits. I threw a fit. For family photos, one does one thing as a rule of thumb: One smiles.
Yes, ok, consider this picture.
The quality is not good as it was not scanned right but I wanted to highlight the facial features. One can't hide emotion from the camera.
"Smile, sweetie, smile for the camera," Say the parents.
Apparently, I said, "No! Don't feel like it."
"Smile just for a second."
"No."
"Smile and you'll get gelato."
"No!!"
Ok, insert something akin to, "just take the friggin' picture." And it was taken. The face I picked for the picture corresponded with the emotion I was feeling: I was ticked off that I was taken away from the playground.

And I wasn't in a mood anymore. All because of being shown a picture of me when I was three, being in a mood over being removed from the playground against my will. Funny how a photograph can contain so much.

On Memory and “Moonwalking With Einstein: The Art and Science of Remembering Everything”

If you're into taking pictures as a way of documenting your life, you're not alone. Others do just that. If you're lucky to have people in your life who are photo-philes and who particularly like to take images of you, be thankful to them. They're helping document your own history.

Peculiarity is a basic to remembrance. This is the premise of Joshua Foer's new book Moonwalking With Einstein: The Art and Science of Remembering Everything which, by the way, is worthy of all the praise it's getting from the literati.

As the author points out: "Once upon a time people invested in their memories, they cultivated them. They studiously furnished their minds. They remembered. Today, of course, we've got books, and computers and smart phones to hold our memories for us. We've outsourced our memories to external devices. The result is that we no longer trust our memories."

I need time to remember stuff, the stuff that happens daily. I suppose I've said the following more than a few times as it's quoted back to me in a way that mirrors my usual syntax.
"How was your day?"
"Haven't had time to stare at the ceiling to remember it yet."

I tend to do that, stare at the ceiling. I got to thinking this morning when the habit started and it was back in childhood when I'd wake up at the crack of dawn and the only thing I could do was stare at my ceiling and wait till it was semi-okay for me to leave the room and go bug someone like a sibling who loved to sleep in.

As an adult, I find ceiling-staring time most helpful when it comes to filing my to-do lists, interpret the experiences I'm having in the week, make sense of what I'm reading, and so forth. Ceiling-staring time is also quiet time. I like the quiet of early mornings as it primarily helps me file my current memories and make sense of existence.

Foer's book channels that which most people are, de naturae, programmed to get: sexuality. One of the main points of the book is quite simple: that which helps improve one's mnemonic skills is our basic sensual drive. Few things are better to use when it comes to maximizing one's memory than resorting to erotic memories.

I get this. I often write about the deep effect music has on me and how I use it to journal my life experience. Some use pictures, others music, a few more words. The point is, regardless of which medium one employs, creativity serves primarily a memory-recording function. And if you'd like to read more on the topic while being thoroughly entertained as well as revisit your own sensual history, do give this book a chance. Man, is it ever well written!

Sense of Belonging and Spot of Sun

I took time off today. Fully off. I usually work on something else when I'm off. Today, however, I promised a day in the park and a day in the park was had. On bikes. It was sunny, warm, and pretty in the city. And especially so in the park.

I took my Havaianas off, yes, flip-flops, folks - gotta love Spring season! - lied down on the grass, put my shades on, closed my eyes, turned phones and speech off, fully off, and let the sun caress my skin. Apparently, I fell asleep in a matter of minutes and even snored. And I am not a napping kind. A snoring kind, yes, but I'm not bothered by that, because, naturally, I'm too asleep to notice. However, I despise sleep during the day. Always have. Today however, sleep was most welcome. I suppose I can blame my euphoria on the effect of the Spring sun. In the evening I asked if I looked 'tan' because, of course, a twelve-minute nap under the March sun would have the power to tan me. The answer was "Nah, you look the same as last night. Rested, though." "Ok", I say. "I'll take 'rested' any day."

As I was enjoying the sun outside with my eyes closed jut before I fell asleep I got to thinking about what it means to feel a sense of belonging. The night before over miso soup and sushi, I had a long conversation with a new friend of mine about that very topic. He asked me how I defined a 'sense of belonging.' I said, I defined it contextually. And, naturally, it varied. I can feel a sense of belonging when standing next to a stranger in line at Starbucks over in Memphis the way I frequently feel it when with the person I get best and gets me the best. I feel it at 5am when I stare at my bedroom ceiling for my routine 'thinking time' or when I'm riding my bike to the park chewing my favorite gum listening to what in certain company I refer to as 'crap light pop'.

After my sun therapy session today, I call him up and say, "you know that sense of belonging thing you asked me about last night? I got some more on Beach Ave. today. Come and meet up. There might be some left for you too." When you feel something good you should share it with those who're searching for it as well, no?

When most bring up questions of happiness definitions, I usually say, that I don't know much about that but I know a whole lot about defining moments of levity and contentedness. I could comment on that, sure.

Happiness is impossible to define. What contributes to this impossibility is the basic fact that it is highly subjective. The idea of happiness that person A has, could be my very idea of the third circle of inferno. Defining moments of bearable weight (i.e. levity) - I do find levity to be a bit of a schlep at times, actually, but that's another thought - is much easier. Moments can be confined to a certain space in time and they're doable linguistically. I might look at the same place on Beach Ave next time I'm out there and I might shower it with the kind of indifference I reserve for other things. Today, however, that is a place where I feel I belong.

And after the pleasantness of a small amount of time, I had to revert back to my usual patterns and suggest that we pay our respects to our Mecca, aka the Howard Schultz' church of Green Tea Lattes and Caramel Macchiatos.