The blog is upside down

Someone turned my blog upside down, or inside out, or maybe just turned it around, because it doesn't look the same. This blog has been my outlet from the basement. The outlet from where I spent so much time, rarely venturing out, living a pleasant, quiet, thoughtful life. I stayed in the basement, reading, leaving to bike, or eat. Sure, I occasionaly went to the city, or the bar, or the store, or blocksucker, but mainly, I just thought and blogged and read in the basement. Well, I'm not in the basement anymore, and there is no one in the basement to put what comes out of there onto the internet. So now, all you have is me - not exactly scribbs, but more of, what scribbs changed into, or even, what scribbs used to be before he went into the basement. Now I am still in a basement, but its not my basement. Actually, the basement doesn't have internet, not yet, fucking slow ass cable company, so I'm in the maxey lab. No, not maxey pad. Maxey lab. The point is, I don't know what to tell you, too much has happened, too much of nothing, and I can't tell you what it all is, and probably, you don't care. I'm in a new place, that is old, seeing the old people, who all look new. The LTLF isn't here, but she will be soon. All I want to do is jam, but no one here knows my songs... Maybe I'll be back, maybe I won't. Getting internet will help a lot, but that won't happen for a couple weeks. For now, take it easy, and keep reading. I've started The Mill on the Floss, by Georg Eliot. I'm also reading the world, but the words are too big to understand.

Gardening

People have been bitching about The Success Blog. Well, they are just going to have to keep bitching because this blog is for me, not you, and if you don't like it, then you just must not be smart enough to understand how brilliant it is. Or, you could just go see something more brilliant, like Garden State, which I saw tonight, and made me happy to be in love. Zach Braff is still the man...and I am still the reddleman. Until next time, keep on with your bitching, but don't ride in that goofy motorcycle sidecar.

The Reddleman

This post is about the reddleman, and it starts out slow; but--as is so with life--hard work and a bit of luck will hopefully churn out a worthwhile ending. The reddleman has come to me from Thomas Hardy, and from him, through me, he comes to you:

When he drew nearer he perceived it to be a spring van, ordinary in shape, but singular in colour, this being a lurid red. The driver walked beside it; and, like his van, he was completely red. One dye of that tincture covered his clothes, the cap upon his head, his boots, his face, and his hands. He was not temporarily overlaid with the colour; it permeated him.
The old man knew the meaning of this. The traveler with the cart was a reddleman--a person whose vocation it was to supply farmers with redding for their sheep. He was one of a class rapidly becoming extinct in Wessex, filling at present in the rural world the place which, during the last century, the dodo occupied in the world of animals. He is a curious, interesting, and nearly perished link between obsolete forms of life and those which generally prevail.

This is the reddleman.

During the course of Return of the Native, the reddleman is in constant motion, yet, he is unquestionably the most constant of the characters in the novel. He is a traveler and a wanderer by trade, homeless by choice. Nevertheless, he is a good man, with good morals, good intentions, good loves, and a good head. He sells reddle because he chooses to, and as soon as he chooses not to, he will cease to sell reddle and put his skills to another trade. He loves a woman, and remains in love with her throughout the novel - as he courts her, as she refuses him, as she marries another, and finally again, as she, once a widow, marries him. His love is not one of lust or greed; his allegiance is to her. His goal - her happiness. His actions - selfless. The reddleman is free. He travels where he wishes, he does what he wishes. He doesn't let other people's ideas and judgments limit his possibilities. He walks his own path, and finds it well. Parents sometimes tell their children that if they do not mind their elders, the reddleman will come to get them while they sleep, but this reddleman, despite his devilish appearance, harbors nothing at all to fear and brings nothing but help to anyone he can. The reddleman is good, admirable, strong, and smart.

Can I be like the reddleman?

But wait. There is more. The reddleman ceases to sell reddle. He becomes, slowly, white, once again. His reddle fades, but does his freedom fade with it? Can he remain the reddleman that I so admire without selling reddle? He has changed greatly, it would seem, he tells me, "You mustn't judge by folks in general...Still I dont know much what feelings are now-a-days. I have got so mixed up with business of one sort and t'other that my soft sentiments are gone off in vapor like. Yes, I am given up body and soul to the making of money. Money is all my dream." No reddleman, how wicked! But, he teases. Yes, the reddleman has dawned clean white, and fine clothes, and has endeavored to take up an "honorable" profession which yields great income, but has he truly changed? No. He has not. He tell me, "What a man has been he may be again." I think I know what he means.

What does the reddleman mean?

The reddleman tells me this, just as he tells the woman he has loved this, after her times of difficulty, after she has gained a baby and lost a husband, and would now, once more, make a perfect bride for the reddleman. He has made these changes because, while he does not care what society things, he cares for society, and society's thought is not so easy to bend as one's pursuits, which are, and ought to be, flexible, fresh, and changing. The reddleman ceases to sell reddle because it just wouldn't do to be unable to touch his bride on her wedding day for fear of smearing her wedding gown with red ochre. It simply wouldn't do for a child to be reared by a thoroughly red father. And primarily, it just wouldn't do for a family’s house to be made inside of a reddle-van. So, the reddleman takes up another trade. Yes, he has 'devoted himself to making money', but his devotion is not to money, but to love. One can hardly think that he will seek more money than such as his other devotion requires; and, because she is such a woman who, like the reddleman, lives most merrily when living modestly, the requirement is unlikely to be much. The reddleman teaches us that we are our own and do not belong to a profession. Rather, our profession belongs to us, or, at least, is one which we may possess for as long as it suits us.

Can I be a reddleman?

This may all be a bit obtuse, and, to be honest, if it is a bit difficult to follow and extract my meaning, it is because I am not entirely sure what meaning I am meaning to follow. But, something tells me there may be something the reddleman can teach me.

I am the reddleman.

A few days ago, I decided to put aside intentions of mainstream success, financial security, and the promise of something I could quite likely manage at reasonably well for something I am afraid of, both because I worry that I cannot do what it demands and because failure seems so easy and so costly. Today, NW asked me if I was still thinking about law school. I told him no. I told him I didn't want to be the person that would turn me into. But is that fair? Is that true? The reddleman is the reddleman, reddle or no. Can I not be the reddleman too, regardless of the which direction I head? Is this an option I should discount? Or is every option one worth considering? A few days ago, I was ready to put everything into learning English literature and then teaching it, and that is a commitment made without a great deal of confidence at all in my ability to succeed in such a calling. Today, I am reconsidering going to law school. I don't know why. My only comfort is that I think, if I remember him, the reddleman's lesson is that there is no trade that is inescapable, and no professional who cannot put himself above his profession. Does the reddleman deceive me? Am I deceiving myself? I promised a worthwhile ending, and hopefully, I won't disappoint, but, you will have to wait for that ending, because I don't know where it is, nor when it will come. I am without the reddleman's constancy, and I am without his confidence, but I may share a bit of his situation, I imagine that we all do.

Where is the reddleman?

I am lost. I can't very well hide it at this point, all I can do is call for help. So, from Postal Service:

Will someone please call a surgeon,
you can crack my ribs and repair this broken heart,
that you're deserting
for better company.

The "must surely be better than the last post" post

Yes, the last post sucked. And yes, Villette still sucks. But today, a new, supreme level of suck is awarded to The Denver Post. I hope you agree.

Way back when, before all this presidential nonsense and stealing of Bradbury's titles, our buddy Michael Moore made a movie about a school shooting. But, it wasn't really about the school shooting, it was more about guns. But, it wasn't really about guns either, because it was most about fear. It was about fear and the media. And to that extent, it wasn't so dissimilar from his latest debacles. I don't want to talk politics though, this post is about the Post, so MM's ideas on the media more appropriately fit my bill. His point, more or less, was that the mainstream medias focus on violence and gore and tragedy in the news fosters an atmosphere of fear which plagues America and drives us to handgun ownership, and then, to handgun use, because we are constantly afraid of everyone else in our world. I'll leave you to judge my summary as accurate or not, and frankly, it doesn't matter, this post isn't about MM, it's about the Post.

This morning in the Post, I saw this article on the front page, with the big front page photo. Blah blah, more homicide criminals are getting away, blah blah. Typical fear-inducing shit. I didn't really get upset until I opened up to 6A, where the story continued, and found myself confronted with a massive inset. Taking up more or less the entire page was a two part graphic. On top, there was a street map of the city, with 61 numbered circles scattered about on it. The 61 circles represented the 61 homicides that have occurred in Denver since January 1st. About half the circles were dark, representing "cleared" homicides, whose cases have been closed, while the other half where white, representing homicides which were still under investigation. Then, below the map, and taking about twice as much space, was a very neat and orderly chart. The chart had 4 columns. In the far left was the light or dark numbered circle which corresponded to a similar circle on the map. Following it were columns labeled, "Date", "Weapon", and "Synopsis". For example, circle 1 is followed by:

1.(dark) Jan. 1 Handgun Victim shot after argument.

Or, there is number 10, a special Valentines day homicide.

10.(dark) Feb. 14 Lamp/Hands Victim beaten to death during an altercation.

Then, of course, there are the light circles, like number 27.

27. (light) April 25 Bludgeon/cutting tool Victim beaten and stabbed, then set on fire.

61 of these delightful rows, in beautiful, spread out, roomy, attractively glory occupied page 6A of the August 10th 2004 Denver Post, begging to be read, to be absorbed, to be shocked and wondered at. This, certainly, is journalism at its finest. 61 top stories, all put into one, with a graphic so I can see which numbers happened closest where I live, or where I work. Easy to read, easy to see, easy to understand. The perfect layout, to be sure.

Then, I thought more, and I began to see all of the wonderful things I could do with such an article! With ease I can county which weapons lead to a faster resolution of the case, and which have left police stumped. Which "synopses" are the most difficult for the police to sort out? Where ought I commit my homicide on the map? It is clear that some areas lead to arrests while others lead to mysteries. Surely I would rather be the latter. So many uses.

But so many fears! So many people killed? It is a miracle it has not been me! I should be more safe. Look at all the handguns used! I should have one, what else will prevent me from becoming like number 40?

40. (Light) June 17 Handgun Victim shot for no known reason.

How terrible! There are so many things to fear! According to this alone, there are 31 killers out there running the streets right now! They will surely come to kill me.

It's an imperfect world we live in, and there will always be darkness. I cannot make these homicides go away. We can all try, but they will never completely disappear. I thought for a moment about why this is so offensive, after all, I only just watched a movie about a prostitute serial killer, and recommended it as a great movie, though not a greatly enjoyable one. Is there a difference between that and this? Both are depictions of real events. Both make me feel uneasy, both show me things which probably make me afraid. But, I think, there is a difference. Where both subjects are dark, the film's outlook, presentation, and mood, are similarly dark, sad, and frustrated while the presentation of the Post's article is no different than if they had been listing dates and places for te fair. There was no depth to this chart. No thought. There was no understanding. There were no people. Only numbers, light or dark, dates, weapons, and synopses.

Bronte is a Hussy

What have I been doing lately? Why have posts been so sparse? What will come of this post? Will it be a frivolous piece about some other odd movie I have seen, a worried, frightened, and uncomfortable post about my own life, or perhaps a new piece of work, a new song, or rhyme, or some other slight frivolty? As to the first, yes, it will likely include some mention of a recently viewed film. To the second, no, for now, my fears are somewhat lessoned, my faith somewhat restored, and my love still constant. And as for the third, perhaps a new bit of rock, I will only do as much as to direct you back here, from whence you can find a new recording if it suits you. Now, if the reader finds that my tone in this post has become unpalatable, perhaps too flitty, too pretentious, or too forced, my only advice is to weather the storm, as I am, until I finish my marathon reading of Villette. There is something in Bronte that strongly disagrees with me, and I would not be at all surprised if it finds similar discord with you. Nevertheless, it must be born, and I will do my best to bear it well.

A few nights past, I finally managed to work up the courage to watch Monster. I was not shocked, nor surprised, but, sadly, only affirmed in my expectation that watching a film in which so beautiful a woman is made to look so ugly could hardly be not both un-enjoyable and unsettling. Nevertheless, if Charlize Theron's performance can be measured by how thoroughly she replaced any glimmer of the self she has shown in other films with the persona of Aileen Wuornos, her performance was clearly one of brilliance. Due in large part to that, but also simply to the power of the true story which the movie follows as well as solid filmmaking, the movie was indeed moving, powerful, and engaging, if not pleasurable. Once all is said and done, I just want Charlize to be hot again.

At the beginning of this post, the reader surely assumed that some explanation or excuse for such sparse posts was on the way, and, as of yet, that thirst remained unquenched. Do not accuse me of misdirection and falsity, however, for the explanation and excuse is on it's way. I made a decision - or, not so much made a decision, but have come to a conclusion - or, not so much came to a conclusion as had a realization - as to what I should like to do with the next several years of the life, if all my wishes were granted. I've done some research, and a bit of thinking, and have set my sights on Graduate study after all. No law school, no work, no tech school, no China - well, maybe China, if my first intentions fail. No, I think I should be most content if I could secure a place as a doctoral student in a well-known and respected English Literature graduate program. The realization that if I can manage to be accepted into a reasonably reputable program, finances are likely, and in some cases, guaranteed to take care of themselves, in addition to the finally clear belief that I truly do want to spend the rest of my life in school, learning and teaching, have been heavy influences in this quest. I suppose, that in hindsight, such a path has been that which I have truly wished to follow since before I even began High School, and perhaps, all the other things I have contemplated have been mere distractions, enticing me with their ease, their wealth, and variety.

The point is, with this newfound direction comes newfound pressure. And reader, let me assure you, shit is hitting the fan. In the coming weeks, I need to read about a thousand pages of Victorian Lit, read a similar amount of 20th century American Lit, read a lesser amount of Medieval Lit, and decide upon, begin to research, and prepare a proposal for a Thesis which will need to be finished by September 20th. On top of that, I will need to find such programs as I want to be in and will possibly accept me as well as some that will want to accept me and I will possibly want to be in. Finally, I will have to switch gears from my very light studying for the LSAT, for which I was both excited and confident, to more vigorous studying for the GRE, but mainly, the GRE subject test in Literature, which seems surprisingly daunting, particularly given my inability to remember names for the life of me. Even more sickening that all of this, however, is that I am blogging about it, and surely, the reader would not give even a shilling for such dry and worthless commentary. Thus, I change direction to focus on a different, and similarly uninteresting aspect of myself.

I am a concept person, not a fact person. I remember ideas, explanations, moods, stories, whatnot, all fine. But names, numbers, dates, facts, titles, words, and any other manner of thing that I can't reason out, escapes me entirely. My mind is one chopstick short of an efficient utensil for retaining such knowledge. If I can stab the thing at hand, and pierce it's surface and thereby obtain a grip of its inner workings, I may manage to pick it up. But if I must rely on scooping and gleaning and thus, remembering, I am quite a failure.

While I am in the neighborhood of failures, I cannot help but mention Villette, which is yet more painful that Jane Eyre, and has had the awful effect of affecting my writing and making it as you have seen it. The entire matter leaves a bitter taste in my mouth and I can think of no suitable alternative than to simply put an end to the silly matter at once by thus concluding the most Victorian, and the most awful post ever. For such writing I will earn naught but a firm reprimand and the loss of what few readers my modest work presently has. Nevertheless, I take my wages to my pillow, will pass the night counting them.

Scribbs Doesn't Know

So pretty much all I've been doing lately is reading Villette and watching movies. It's an odd way to go through life, and as, for some reason, I get ever tireder and begin to take so many naps that the day and night blend into one Bronte-drenched sleepstate, I feel a bit as though I myself am going through one of those Victorian era fever-stages that, when I finally awake from it, unable to remember the past several months, my life will have changed, and Part the Second will have begun.

Tonight's flick was Eurotrip. I wanted Say Anything, but it wasn't there, and I still can't work up the courage to see Monster. Thus, my night was filled with mediocre writing, mediocre acting, mediocre entertainment, and a lot of boobs. Now, to be fair, it had it's moments, and actually, it had quite a few of them, and they were quite funny, and, on the other side of things, the boobs, while plentiful, weren't that plentiful, and it was certainly no Mulholland Drive, which I still can't make heads or tails, beyond the fact that I'm certain there were two chicks goin' at it during the coarse of the otherwise incredibly confusing plot. Anyway, the point is, the most brilliant performance was that of none other than Matt Damon, whose role, though quite limited, rocked. You go Matt, that second bourne movie wasn't anything to sing and dance about, but you'll find glory again soon enough, im sure.

The truth is, however, that there is more going on in my life than movies and Victorian novels. There is love. And recently, my love has gone on a eurotrip of her own, and, quite frankly, I wish I was eurotriping with her, for a number of reasons. Sure, I would love to see new places, do new things, and meet new people, not to mention how I could stand to make a few of the dollars she is making over there (hers is an all-expenses paid eurotrip, plus wages for work), but really, I wish I was there so I could be with her. Again, there are a million reasons I want to be with her, but I can't deny that among them is a desire fed by jealousy, worry, fear, and anxiety. It's not exactly that I'm worried that Matt Damon will soon be singing about all the things Scribbs doesn't know. I trust her, and I think, and hope, that that trust is well placed. The thing is, when that certain thing that the person you're in love with is gone, it's just not a good feeling - and the farther away they go, the worse the feeling gets. I feel helpless, alone, and vulnerable, sitting here, at my computer, while she is drunk, dancing, meeting people, and flirting. Am I wrong to feel uncomfortable? Am I wrong to be jealous of some European guy who is out to get his kicks by dancing with and buying drinks for my girl? Am I being too possessive? Should I just kick back and relax and not worry?

Well, maybe I should. And, to be honest, I've been doing my best. And when she calls, and tells me things that make the whole world seem a shade brighter, it's easy to do. It's easy to say to myself, self, it's gonna be ok, you are in love with a beautiful girl, and she loves you back, and soon, she will be in your arms, and then, you wll be back in control of your world, and you can make sure nothing happens to her. But then, things go awry. Maybe I'm being too picky, too sensitive, and too overprotective, but there are some things that I don't like to hear, particularly when half of my life, half of me, is a bazillion miles away. Among those things are emails that assure me of her appearing "unavailable" to other guys because she spends all of her time with one - a real nice one, or phone calls of drunken dancing which had to be interrupted by a friend, or being told that I'm still missed, but not as much. Is that enough for me to be hurt? I can tell you, it is. Should it be? Scribbs doesn't know. I read the letter she wrote before she left, after putting the home-made puzzle pieces upon which she wrote it back together, and it melts me. It melts me to tears. But then, I read other things, and seem so cold, and my response is cold, because as quickly as she can melt me, I am frozen again twice as fast. Do I have a right to complain? Do I have a right to respond to cold with cold? Must my response always be to continue with the epic, and seemingly un-winnable battle that is to make her know how much she is to me? I want to be a teacher, but is that piece of knowledge one which I will be forever unable to impart? I know it, for myself. But for whatever, reason, my lecture, though endlessly repeated seems never to be absorbed. Is this my failing? It surely must be, yet again, Scribbs doesn't know.

In the end, I will endure whatever coldness comes, as weather - but, can this weather never be changed? I will endure because to me, it is worth it. A million cold emails could never overpower the warmth of a puzzle-letter. And one smile is worth a thousand frowns. Nevertheless, I wish I didn't have these fears and worries, just as I wish I could impart the seriousness, the sincerity, and indeed, the severity, of my love. But, as for what to do, Scribbs doesn't know.

Rockin' with the Cusacks

Everyone knows the Cusacks are the shit, and if they don't, they should. From John back in High Fidelity and Pushing Tin all the way up to Joan in School of Rock, the two kids have been throwing down for quite a while. My latest two Cusak moments have been in the recent Grisham flick, Runaway Jury, which proved to be solidly stimulating, if not earthshattering, and a re-aquaintance with Grosse Pointe Blank, which, if I might say so, is simply one of the more brilliant films ever made. John plays hitman, Joan plays hitman's secretary. What more does a movie need?

I've been doing more than just watching Cusack movies lately though. I finally finished Great Expectations, and to be honest, I had expected greater. Well, no, that's not quite accurate. I could expect no greater from the work, Dickens is a genious, it always shows, and the book was great. Nevertheless, the ending, perfect as it may be, left me feeling a bit empty, and a bit down. I was sad, and I don't like being sad. My remedy for that situation brings me back to the Cusacks, which I've already covered. In any case, I've now started Villette, another Victorian barn-burner by none other than the ugliest Bronte sister, Charlotte. All this reading and riding is getting in the way of blogging, which has also taken a back seat to rocking, which is at once envigorating and devastating. I propose that the only solution is to watch more Cusack movies, so I see Say Anything in my near future. The only other solution is for you lazy bums to speak up and holla back. Just because I'm writing to an audience of none doesn't mean I should have to feel that way. For now, in a manner only a bit like John in GPB, I slip back into bed with nought but a lumpy pillow, a baseball bat for any manner of crawling pest, and Charlotte.