Hey
I think I met you other day and
I don’t know why I sent this off
But you seemed to get all I was talking of.
And Hey
Nice to hear from you again
We talked before, I know
But I’ve got a song that I wanted to show…
You seem like a person I could
While away the hours talking to
Without the boredom or the silence
And I’m sure you know it too.
Hi again
The books you sent were I liked
Did you think the movies were alright?
Is there anything for you to show me today?
And hey
I’m bored of people too
Not that I don’t love them but
We have nothing in common, unlike…
You seem like a person I could
While away the hours talking to
Without the boredom or the silence
And I’m sure you know it too.
We don’t agree on everything
But what a bore that’d be
I need people like you around me
To talk like you and I am now
Just for one reason though,
To just confirm I’m not alone
With you two I’m not
With you two I’m not.
Thursday, 30 June 2011
Sunday, 19 June 2011
One Low, One High.
“Thinking back, if it wasn’t for your grandmother and the church, I wouldn’t be the man I am, or where I am, today…”
Adam lapsed into thoughtful silence, fiddled with his dressing gown and, after a minute, he continued, “… I don’t think I’d have survived long in that world I found myself in. It was fifty years ago that she found me, literally in a gutter, and she spoke to me. More than that, she listened. She helped me up and took me into her church, her home and her life. She was a great woman. Just know your grandmother was as close to a perfect human being as you could be.”
He coughed almost without breath before reiterating his point. “No one’s perfect, no, but you’re gran… she was close. Never cross, never wanted to see anyone unhappy. You’ll remember that? She’d leave the room if I ever came close to raising my voice to either of you.” At this, Adam smiled. “She took me in to that church and I did not know what to do with myself. “Me? Religion?” I thought. We never got on in my childhood. That’s something I regret, truly.”
“I still remember the next day, after Sar… you’re grandmother, took me in. I’d slept on an army bed in a near empty shelter, only thing beside me was the empty wallet I was found with and a small, red Bible. I started to look through ‘til I found the words that said “Without faith, it is impossible to please God” and there was another, another verse.” His voice excited now he was in his element, for a second.
“ “… love covers over all wrongs” and I knew, I knew kids, that I had done wrong. When I was introduced to the minister that afternoon he told me, just before my departure that “God loves us all Adam,” that’s what he said. I remembered that above all. I returned on the Sunday, and I never strayed from that routine. No, I never did.”
Again came the old man’s nostalgic silence, but no one interrupted. “That church.” He said before pausing again. “It took me round the world and I never saw a more beautiful thing than the human spirit everyone in it had to keep it going. And it took me some wonderful places, so it did.” Gathering some strength from this thought, he continued. “We travelled to Africa, and built a school in the name of the one and only God, but not to please him, no, not ever. To house those poor street urchins, they needed it, we had the means. It would have been horrible not to.”
Drawing on his final breath he said, “Stick with God. Stick with the church. Things look bad a lot in this life, I know they do more than most, but if you lose faith in our God, he can’t help you. He wont. Do not stray children.”
With that Adam saw light. This is how he always thought it would end…
Malik delicately closed the Qur’an and, although shaking profusely, managed the journey across his dark living room. Lifting his arms was a challenge in itself, and the large text they held made reaching the high shelf almost impossible. But, as he always had in the past, he struggled the shelf, placed the book, surprisingly gracefully upon it, and covered it in a thin sheet of silk. He then, suddenly, found himself devoid of energy so that his walk back to his plump brown armchair seemed to last twice his seventy-three year lifespan.
That life span, he thought, which had seen him do so much. Childhood, well his memories of that were fixed and the same as all others he knew as a child. There was school and there was Mosque. It’s strange to remember the trivialities of childhood, in that all he ever wanted was to be out of those buildings, which he then progressed to spend the remainder of his life occupying. Even if to lecture was just something he seemed to have stumbled into, a degree led to a masters, and a doctorate, and then a job at the University. It was never planned. Nor was most his life.
As for Mosque, well his attitude took a little longer to come round to on that front, but by the age of fourteen he was riveted by the scripture readings and the prayer. Muhammad, chapter 47 verses 1 to 3 to be precise. He read these in their original tongue, of which he was fluent, he remembered and something clicked. He saw the dancing poetry of the words make their way from one side of the page and all to spell out one word. Salvation. He knew this before, he’d been taught of religious right and wrong, but he had discovered this, on his own. This was his pocket of knowledge to keep him faithful and Allah appeased. He remembered that moment once again as his moment of salvation. Of purity. Of enlightenment.
It was that verse which had chosen his degree course, and in all, the course he pursued in life. Malik mulled this over as he sank even deeper into his armchair. I am old man, he thought, and I’m tired. The film reel in his head skipped a few frames until his mind found him staring at the twenty-four year old picture of himself, giving tours of his Mosque to groups of young teenagers, on a school outing. After the initial tour a young boy, his name was Trevor, shyly slipped away from the school party he was with to clumsily ask Malik, “Sir, how is it I go about joining here?”
He never saw that boy again after that day, but it stuck with him. A part of him wanted to believe that his talk had shown at least one boy a truer path. It may not have been true, but the thought comforted him.
By this point, Malik felt almost as though he’d been asleep for hours and the dawning that from this sleep he would not wake washed over him. Not a sudden dawning, but as the sun rises. It was a slow, anticipated dawning. It was peaceful.
Adam lapsed into thoughtful silence, fiddled with his dressing gown and, after a minute, he continued, “… I don’t think I’d have survived long in that world I found myself in. It was fifty years ago that she found me, literally in a gutter, and she spoke to me. More than that, she listened. She helped me up and took me into her church, her home and her life. She was a great woman. Just know your grandmother was as close to a perfect human being as you could be.”
He coughed almost without breath before reiterating his point. “No one’s perfect, no, but you’re gran… she was close. Never cross, never wanted to see anyone unhappy. You’ll remember that? She’d leave the room if I ever came close to raising my voice to either of you.” At this, Adam smiled. “She took me in to that church and I did not know what to do with myself. “Me? Religion?” I thought. We never got on in my childhood. That’s something I regret, truly.”
“I still remember the next day, after Sar… you’re grandmother, took me in. I’d slept on an army bed in a near empty shelter, only thing beside me was the empty wallet I was found with and a small, red Bible. I started to look through ‘til I found the words that said “Without faith, it is impossible to please God” and there was another, another verse.” His voice excited now he was in his element, for a second.
“ “… love covers over all wrongs” and I knew, I knew kids, that I had done wrong. When I was introduced to the minister that afternoon he told me, just before my departure that “God loves us all Adam,” that’s what he said. I remembered that above all. I returned on the Sunday, and I never strayed from that routine. No, I never did.”
Again came the old man’s nostalgic silence, but no one interrupted. “That church.” He said before pausing again. “It took me round the world and I never saw a more beautiful thing than the human spirit everyone in it had to keep it going. And it took me some wonderful places, so it did.” Gathering some strength from this thought, he continued. “We travelled to Africa, and built a school in the name of the one and only God, but not to please him, no, not ever. To house those poor street urchins, they needed it, we had the means. It would have been horrible not to.”
Drawing on his final breath he said, “Stick with God. Stick with the church. Things look bad a lot in this life, I know they do more than most, but if you lose faith in our God, he can’t help you. He wont. Do not stray children.”
With that Adam saw light. This is how he always thought it would end…
****
“1. In the name of Allah, the Gracious and the Merciful.
2. Those who disbelieve and hinder men from the way of Allah - He renders their work vain.
3. But as for those who believe and do righteous deeds and believe in that which was revealed to Muhammad, He removes from them their sin and sets right their affairs.” (Muhammad 47:1-3)
2. Those who disbelieve and hinder men from the way of Allah - He renders their work vain.
3. But as for those who believe and do righteous deeds and believe in that which was revealed to Muhammad, He removes from them their sin and sets right their affairs.” (Muhammad 47:1-3)
Malik delicately closed the Qur’an and, although shaking profusely, managed the journey across his dark living room. Lifting his arms was a challenge in itself, and the large text they held made reaching the high shelf almost impossible. But, as he always had in the past, he struggled the shelf, placed the book, surprisingly gracefully upon it, and covered it in a thin sheet of silk. He then, suddenly, found himself devoid of energy so that his walk back to his plump brown armchair seemed to last twice his seventy-three year lifespan.
That life span, he thought, which had seen him do so much. Childhood, well his memories of that were fixed and the same as all others he knew as a child. There was school and there was Mosque. It’s strange to remember the trivialities of childhood, in that all he ever wanted was to be out of those buildings, which he then progressed to spend the remainder of his life occupying. Even if to lecture was just something he seemed to have stumbled into, a degree led to a masters, and a doctorate, and then a job at the University. It was never planned. Nor was most his life.
As for Mosque, well his attitude took a little longer to come round to on that front, but by the age of fourteen he was riveted by the scripture readings and the prayer. Muhammad, chapter 47 verses 1 to 3 to be precise. He read these in their original tongue, of which he was fluent, he remembered and something clicked. He saw the dancing poetry of the words make their way from one side of the page and all to spell out one word. Salvation. He knew this before, he’d been taught of religious right and wrong, but he had discovered this, on his own. This was his pocket of knowledge to keep him faithful and Allah appeased. He remembered that moment once again as his moment of salvation. Of purity. Of enlightenment.
It was that verse which had chosen his degree course, and in all, the course he pursued in life. Malik mulled this over as he sank even deeper into his armchair. I am old man, he thought, and I’m tired. The film reel in his head skipped a few frames until his mind found him staring at the twenty-four year old picture of himself, giving tours of his Mosque to groups of young teenagers, on a school outing. After the initial tour a young boy, his name was Trevor, shyly slipped away from the school party he was with to clumsily ask Malik, “Sir, how is it I go about joining here?”
He never saw that boy again after that day, but it stuck with him. A part of him wanted to believe that his talk had shown at least one boy a truer path. It may not have been true, but the thought comforted him.
By this point, Malik felt almost as though he’d been asleep for hours and the dawning that from this sleep he would not wake washed over him. Not a sudden dawning, but as the sun rises. It was a slow, anticipated dawning. It was peaceful.
Friday, 27 May 2011
Looking For Alaska by John Green
...she had proved to me that it was worth it to leave behind minor life
for grander maybes, and now she was gone,
and with her my faith in perhaps.
Looking for Alaska was John Green's debut novel and after being given a copy by a close friend I have just finished reading it not 3 hours ago. Adult in dialogue, in content but child-like in humour (I must say, sitting in a room on my own and laughing out loud was for once justified.) and beautiful in description.
Miles Halter moves into his dorm - in the Alabama boarding school of Culver Creek - and within half an hour of this has a) met his first real friend and b) met the first girl he'd ever love. This may not sound like the kind of book you'd expect to be as close to the bone as it is. Another in the long line of "Coming-of-age" books/films which I have read/watched. This does it no discredit, as it's also one of the best. Not due to a twisting narrative, or even a believable one, but Green's characterization, and encapsulation of the feelings felt by people of that age. They're lack of or, impressive articulation, to the angst driven benders that fuel every teenager's late nights, loud music and torn vocal chords/heart strings. And it shows this from the viewpoint of a young man not used to the deep emotions he's beginning to feel. Something a lot of the audience the book is aimed at can relate to, I'm sure.
As I've said, the story-line to this book is nothing to write home about in anyway. I noticed it's film rights were quickly sold to Paramount Pictures after it's book release. They have done nothing with it in the last 6 years, and for this I am eternally grateful, as Green's writing and characterization made this book what it was to me. In film form it has no interest at all.
Another of Green's achievements is definitely his ability to hit a perfect audience. I feel bad to admit that I can be slightly pigeon-holed into a group of people for certain things, but the truth is, I can. This is shown mainly in the character's speech - mainly Colonel (Mile's roommate and an his true companion for the duration of the book) and Alaska herself (Not only the love interest of the story, but really the story itself.) It shows intelligence that I look for in my friends and the articulation I see in them too. Basically I liked these character's for the same reason I like my friends, their unfaltering ability to say something interesting.
I must say I did thoroughly enjoy this book, it connected well with me and I felt for most of the characters - and I believe I related to the correct ones as well. If it's something you're interested in, buy a copy, and if you've read it and enjoyed it some other titles I'd recommend are; Black Swan Green by David Mitchell, Submarine by Joe Dunthorne or Catcher in the Rye by J. D. Salinger.
After all this time, it still seems to me like straight and fast is the only way out
- but I chose the labyrinth. The labyrinth blows, but I chose it.
Tuesday, 10 May 2011
Maybe.
Consider the man sitting on the doorstep of the bank, in early November, on a cold, wet Friday evening. He’s wearing a fairly expensive suit, it’s raining, and approximately six o’clock. I feel like that man.
He possibly went to post an envelope with money to be transferred to his wife - probably ex-wife’s - account. Imagine if, while doing this his phone and his wallet, his house and car keys dropped slowly into the deposit box, and cannot be reached. He was probably on his way home from work to the flat he‘d lived in for a short time since the separation from his wife. He would soon discover his situation to be hopeless, and in doing so, give up. This is the point where he sits down on the steps leading up to the bank. Only slightly out of the rain. As he sat, he might have witnessed a young man - possibly nineteen, or twenty - wander by on his phone. The boy would talk animatedly to a friend on the other end of the line, while sucking on a cigarette like a child with a dummy. An uncharacteristic smile would appear across the face of this stranded man. He’s not a sad man, just sorry for his own situation.
The smile wouldn’t last as long as hope should. A young couple might walk by, intoxicated by love. He’d watch them slowly gander by his spot on the stairs; every so often, they would stop. He’d whisper something in her ear, she’d smile in a shy, modest way, and they’d kiss. The man watching from the stairs would feel emptiness synonymous with loneliness in the pit of his stomach. At the point where they were out of sight, he’d possibly be more alone than before.
The next vision to walk by the man and his step could be old, ragged, and might stop on the bottom step, to sit down near the man wearing a frown at the top. An old man wearing a tattered suit, deep-set eyes and a cold, hard frown, perhaps? The old man would look up at this stranger and smile.
Maybe.
Maybe not.
And me? I feel like a man on a top step.
He possibly went to post an envelope with money to be transferred to his wife - probably ex-wife’s - account. Imagine if, while doing this his phone and his wallet, his house and car keys dropped slowly into the deposit box, and cannot be reached. He was probably on his way home from work to the flat he‘d lived in for a short time since the separation from his wife. He would soon discover his situation to be hopeless, and in doing so, give up. This is the point where he sits down on the steps leading up to the bank. Only slightly out of the rain. As he sat, he might have witnessed a young man - possibly nineteen, or twenty - wander by on his phone. The boy would talk animatedly to a friend on the other end of the line, while sucking on a cigarette like a child with a dummy. An uncharacteristic smile would appear across the face of this stranded man. He’s not a sad man, just sorry for his own situation.
The smile wouldn’t last as long as hope should. A young couple might walk by, intoxicated by love. He’d watch them slowly gander by his spot on the stairs; every so often, they would stop. He’d whisper something in her ear, she’d smile in a shy, modest way, and they’d kiss. The man watching from the stairs would feel emptiness synonymous with loneliness in the pit of his stomach. At the point where they were out of sight, he’d possibly be more alone than before.
The next vision to walk by the man and his step could be old, ragged, and might stop on the bottom step, to sit down near the man wearing a frown at the top. An old man wearing a tattered suit, deep-set eyes and a cold, hard frown, perhaps? The old man would look up at this stranger and smile.
Maybe.
Maybe not.
And me? I feel like a man on a top step.
Monday, 2 May 2011
Flight
Tilt the seat back and loosen the tie.
Fourth departure of a month barely past it’s fifteenth day. I wish I could change this sickly, iodine coloured shirt, but must keep the missus happy when she got up so early to see me off. Still too early for me. I’ll close my eyes now.
Tables up and seat backs upright.
The aeroplane lost touch with the concrete below to take it’s runway up to the clouds,. Too scary a thought. An hour of self preparation at the Weatherspoons and I still feel sick to my stomache. I trust the red wine to send me to a much needed sleep.
Scared looks and eyes close to tears.
To see a child like the revives black nostalgia. I was the same on my first flight, except I probably cried. I don’t remember. Never good at comfort, I wrapped one arm around my son and again felt the pang that his lost mother would have done a better job than my own.
Sepia tones and bright, white lights
A week of this ultra-violet heaven to come, sometimes overseas jobs - and relationships - can have their advantages. Visits to the equator every two months, and less hassle around the house. When he comes home - on that rare occasion - he’s actually pleased to see me.
A blank pad and torn out hair.
Three hours on a flight and not a word on the page. A show to play tonight. Guess it’ll be another night of going through the motions. The last year hasn’t brought any change, nor any innovation. A dry spell I’d normally be able to build a set around, but not this year. Feels like I’ve just been asleep.
Home and Healthy food await.
The last term was soul destroying. An hour or so, and cold beer to finish this flight, then a car to pick me up when I land. The thought itself makes me smile. A smile strengthened by the green streaming through the white outside the window.
A splutter and a sudden jolt.
The beep of the sign above my head telling me to strap myself in. A change of course as the wing tilts and we descend. When there’s no correction to the fall and we find ourselves upside down, more than one scream echoed down the plane. The plane then turns to one, single scream.
“I’m sorry, we’re going down,
Brace yourselves for impact.”
Came a tearful voice from the roof, now, below us.
Ashley! Oh, god. I want you here, I do. I love you, I really do.
Fourth departure of a month barely past it’s fifteenth day. I wish I could change this sickly, iodine coloured shirt, but must keep the missus happy when she got up so early to see me off. Still too early for me. I’ll close my eyes now.
Tables up and seat backs upright.
The aeroplane lost touch with the concrete below to take it’s runway up to the clouds,. Too scary a thought. An hour of self preparation at the Weatherspoons and I still feel sick to my stomache. I trust the red wine to send me to a much needed sleep.
Scared looks and eyes close to tears.
To see a child like the revives black nostalgia. I was the same on my first flight, except I probably cried. I don’t remember. Never good at comfort, I wrapped one arm around my son and again felt the pang that his lost mother would have done a better job than my own.
Sepia tones and bright, white lights
A week of this ultra-violet heaven to come, sometimes overseas jobs - and relationships - can have their advantages. Visits to the equator every two months, and less hassle around the house. When he comes home - on that rare occasion - he’s actually pleased to see me.
A blank pad and torn out hair.
Three hours on a flight and not a word on the page. A show to play tonight. Guess it’ll be another night of going through the motions. The last year hasn’t brought any change, nor any innovation. A dry spell I’d normally be able to build a set around, but not this year. Feels like I’ve just been asleep.
Home and Healthy food await.
The last term was soul destroying. An hour or so, and cold beer to finish this flight, then a car to pick me up when I land. The thought itself makes me smile. A smile strengthened by the green streaming through the white outside the window.
A splutter and a sudden jolt.
The beep of the sign above my head telling me to strap myself in. A change of course as the wing tilts and we descend. When there’s no correction to the fall and we find ourselves upside down, more than one scream echoed down the plane. The plane then turns to one, single scream.
“I’m sorry, we’re going down,
Brace yourselves for impact.”
Came a tearful voice from the roof, now, below us.
Ashley! Oh, god. I want you here, I do. I love you, I really do.
Cold Weather
Sherlock Holmes #2 moves to Portland, Oregon. Cold Weather tells the story of Doug, a failed student of forensic science, who moves back home with no qualifications, but maintains his keen investigative mind. To make a point straight away, this isn't about a modern day Sherlock Holmes, with a brilliant, but troubled mind - that film's been done to death. This film follows the relationships of a group of people, caught up in an unpleasant situation. "Done to Death" comes to mind again, but this film has a fantastic banality to it. Every action, and all dialogue is realistic, no dark overtones, or too bright happy comedic moments.
The film stood up due to the main, straight faced, actors. For when the comedy comes, it's genuinely funny, for me anyway. It comes, not from set pieces, but from common "chit-chat" and will actually make you laugh. Aaron Katz (writer and director) must get a lot of credit for this, but - mainly - Cris Lankenau and Raul Castillo as the comedic heart of the film deliver their lines to perfection. No doubt.
Katz, although a great writer of dialogue, needs to cut back on his transition shots. A lot seemed fairly lengthy and - overall - pointless. I enjoyed his direction in several scenes - he conveyed the slow pace of life, but also Doug's happiness in it very well - I just feel he felt he needed to do a lot more than was necissary. An assumption, I think is unfounded.
Overall, I thought the film was a good watch, and certainly not a waste of time, nor money. The ending was very effective. It made me, immediately, think two distinct things. The first being, what a fitting way to finish such a film. I heard people disgruntled by the finale, but I personally thought it couldn't have been better. The second (and the best thing I can say about any film) was that I thought "Was that 90 minutes? Really?" I didn't at any point think I'd been in the cinema that long, and that's an incredible strength in a film such as this. It held me attention expertly. A fantastic new film, one of my favourites of the year thus far.
The film stood up due to the main, straight faced, actors. For when the comedy comes, it's genuinely funny, for me anyway. It comes, not from set pieces, but from common "chit-chat" and will actually make you laugh. Aaron Katz (writer and director) must get a lot of credit for this, but - mainly - Cris Lankenau and Raul Castillo as the comedic heart of the film deliver their lines to perfection. No doubt.
Katz, although a great writer of dialogue, needs to cut back on his transition shots. A lot seemed fairly lengthy and - overall - pointless. I enjoyed his direction in several scenes - he conveyed the slow pace of life, but also Doug's happiness in it very well - I just feel he felt he needed to do a lot more than was necissary. An assumption, I think is unfounded.
Overall, I thought the film was a good watch, and certainly not a waste of time, nor money. The ending was very effective. It made me, immediately, think two distinct things. The first being, what a fitting way to finish such a film. I heard people disgruntled by the finale, but I personally thought it couldn't have been better. The second (and the best thing I can say about any film) was that I thought "Was that 90 minutes? Really?" I didn't at any point think I'd been in the cinema that long, and that's an incredible strength in a film such as this. It held me attention expertly. A fantastic new film, one of my favourites of the year thus far.
Sunday, 1 May 2011
Instant Reaction - The Dreamers
The Dreamers is a Bernardo Bertolucci film (his most recent) which I finished watching about 30 minutes ago. I gave myself little time, so I only have a fairly face-value view of the film. I also, have only seen one other Bertolucci film (The Conformist) which I thoroughly enjoyed when I watched it around a year ago. The film tells of a incestuous french brother and sister who, upon befriending an American student, lure him into their all too appealing love nest and their fairly odd - to say the least - lifestyle.
The Dreamers shows signs of being related to The Conformist in style, which is expected when comparing two films by a very prolific and stylish director. More important than that, for me, were the themes of the film. These ranged from culture (something found to be "material" but is worshiped) to revolution/ideologies (which seemed to be thrown away far too easily). Two themes mirrored in the 2004 film The Edukators. The difference being the idea of revolution plays a bigger part than that of "Free Love" (which is also an important concept in The Dreamers). Having said all that I believe both are fantastic films in their own right, even if Hans Waingartner did find inspiration in Bertolucci's work.
The film is carried by Michael Pitt and Louis Garrel. Pitt's performance is amazing, and comfortable, in what must have been terribly uncomfortable scenes. Garrel's portrayal of the pretentious student is well noted and then in the body of the piece, his slightly jealous, slightly unbalanced brother is fantastic.
Overall, the film didn't make as much of a hit at me as The Edukators, but it said what it needed to say in a more coherent manner, and the production value was through the roof, in comparison. It feels as if both should have been made as one, because what lacks in one, is made up in the other ten-fold. I'll leave you with the trailer for The Dreamers, a film I would recommend:
The Dreamers shows signs of being related to The Conformist in style, which is expected when comparing two films by a very prolific and stylish director. More important than that, for me, were the themes of the film. These ranged from culture (something found to be "material" but is worshiped) to revolution/ideologies (which seemed to be thrown away far too easily). Two themes mirrored in the 2004 film The Edukators. The difference being the idea of revolution plays a bigger part than that of "Free Love" (which is also an important concept in The Dreamers). Having said all that I believe both are fantastic films in their own right, even if Hans Waingartner did find inspiration in Bertolucci's work.
The film is carried by Michael Pitt and Louis Garrel. Pitt's performance is amazing, and comfortable, in what must have been terribly uncomfortable scenes. Garrel's portrayal of the pretentious student is well noted and then in the body of the piece, his slightly jealous, slightly unbalanced brother is fantastic.
Overall, the film didn't make as much of a hit at me as The Edukators, but it said what it needed to say in a more coherent manner, and the production value was through the roof, in comparison. It feels as if both should have been made as one, because what lacks in one, is made up in the other ten-fold. I'll leave you with the trailer for The Dreamers, a film I would recommend:
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