Category: Uncategorized

The Closed Train

“Let’s tell ghost stories!” Cody giggled, seeing in his mind the shadow of a dark pine tree waving on the folds of a tent, a wolf hungrily peering his nose into the smells.

“Quiet, boy.” Snapped the old man, swiveling his head from side to side, clutching his bag to his chest.

“Calm down, Seymour.” Said his wife Helen. “We’ll be out soon enough. There’s no need to be so tense, and besides, you’ll wake his poor mother. Woman looks like she hasn’t slept in months.”

To this Seymour grunted, and pulled his belongings tighter to his chest. He sat with six people in an otherwise empty subway car. How this group found itself accumulated on the motionless Brown line headed towards Quincy/Wellspring in Chicago could only be attributed to what reporters were labeling “Bizarre Weather Patterns” across the country. Following the recent trend in hurricanes and super storms along the East Coast, the Midwest was playing host to a variety of unprecedented natural disasters. At 10:06p.m. on this particular Monday night a mild but nevertheless undeniable earthquake had rumbled through the metropolis, scaring the city’s government into a crisis situation and halting all forms of above ground public transportation. Any passengers on lines riding above ground, such as the seven strangers on this Brown line, were being told to wait until inspection of the tracks was clear before they could commence moving again.

The assortment was comprised of seven people; Seymour and Helen, husband and wife of thirty-three years, were travelling home after dinner with their daughter and recent son-in-law. Cody, age ten, had boarded the train with his mother after waiting in the hotel lobby where she worked as the interim manager. This was a ritual in which he participated three days a week, after getting out of school and his tutoring program, until his mother finished her shift. They were now headed home to their 1 bedroom apartment. Sitting across from Cody and his mother sat two young men, in either their last years of teenage life or onto their early twenties, one reading and one wearing headphones. They both had the words “Loyola University” displayed somewhere on their clothing. Completing the company was a middle aged woman wearing dark, tight fitting clothing who divided her time between eating her greasy dinner (fried chicken and French fries) and muttering audibly about her fellow passengers.

The continuous silence lay heavy in the subway car’s stillness. Every few minutes the CTA official’s voice croaked through the distorted speaker, informing the passengers of any non-progress. Just as his voice was once again pleading with folks to “Stay seated, we’ll be out of this mess shortly,” the sliding door on the right hand side issued a piercing screech, and began to roll open, coming to a halt with a deafening clang. The travelers glanced at one another, shivering in the February wind that rushed into the subway car. One of the college students, Dwayne, took a look at his partner, and then got up to shut the door. After a few unsuccessful attempts, he decided sit with his back to the door, keeping it closed. His companion, Terence, smiled at Dwayne’s selflessness. Still, through all of this, nobody spoke.

Then the CTA’s voice filled the void, “Ok fellas, we have word that it will be about another 40 minutes until the track is clear. It’s looked promising so far. I suggest you all sit tight and help each other out where possible. If you have any food you want to share, that would be greatly appreciated I’m sure.”

There was an uproar. Cody playfully screamed, “We’re all going to die!” and then ran to the farthest seat from his mother, giggling in his fantasy and turning his head to see if anyone else enjoyed his joke. His mother sighed deeply, pulled out a sleeve of crackers and offered them to the group. Immediately on her right sat Seymour, who sneered at the meager contribution and spat, “I don’t need your charity, woman. No need to be giving up the boy’s entire dinner, anyway.”

Helen, who had taken out her knitting, whacked her husband with one of her needles. “Thank you dear” she said to the boy’s mother, taking the crackers and passing them forward. “Your child is a delight, just a delight.”

The crackers were offered to the woman whose face was buried in her cardboard box of fast food. Instead of accepting them, however, she merely raised her eyes and muttered to her processed chicken, “God damn train ride. I can’t handle it no more, God help me I can’t handle this no more.”

Helen responded by placing the crackers on the vacant seat beside her. There ensued more silence.

Dwayne lifted his head off his folded arms and grinned at his cohort. “Hey Billie, will you spell me?” he asked.

Terence blinked, and then caught on. He smiled widely, and replied, “A little more north, eh?” At this, the two men switched places.

“Cody! Come down from there!” Cried his mother, as soon as she noticed the boy heave himself onto the luggage rack above the seats.

“Absolutely no parenting skills.” Grumbled Seymour. “Father’s probably dead. Or a drunk. These city families have no manners.”

“But moooom,” pleaded Cody. “Look how far I can see out of the window! It looks like the ground is shaking, woah this is cool.”

At this, Dwayne stood up and went to the window. He peered down at the steel pillars supporting the tracks. “Ter, the train’s stopped right above the river. He’s sort of right, it does look like the pillars are shaking.” He pointed out.

“It’s alright, this earthquake isn’t enough to knock us off.” Terence assured him. “Spell me, Billie?”

“Hmmm, a little more north indeed.”

As Dwayne crossed the car to switch places with his partner the group heard a deep rumble, growing substantially noisier by the second. It reached a paramount level as the sides of the car began to rattle ominously, growing into strong vibrations and shaking the seats under the innocent passengers. It grew stronger; Cody was hanging onto the rack with a look of profound fear, until a terribly violent shake ended the barrage, tilted the subway car off its side and toppled the small boy onto the floor. The ringing sound of steel rattling steel was instantly replaced by the tumultuous screams of the riders as the train righted itself. Cody’s mother shrieked and rushed to her son’s side. Cody was howling in pain, cradling his left wrist. The others contributed to the noise.

“God help me, I don’t deserve this. Someone need to let me out here. Boy’s gonna kill us all if those damn earthquake don’t. God damn earthquake in Chicago!” The woman in dark clothing screamed loudest.

“Look at these ghetto kids! No discipline. Boy could have died! No common sense whatsoever.”

“Here how can I help? Tell me what to do dear. Oh my, what a tragedy. Oh poor child, poor child. What do you need from me?”

“Cody, shh hunny. It’s ok, let me see your wrist. This is why you listen to me when I tell you to do something.”

“Mooooooom! Owww it hurts it hurts!”

“Shut up! Shut up shut up shut up! All of you!”

Dwayne’s voice triumphed over the disarray. It seemed as though the structure’s seizure had severely dislodged the subway’s door, forcing Dwayne to exert double the energy into keeping it shut. He first addressed Seymour, “Sir. You need to stop with these comments. We can all hear them and they are blatantly disrespectful. I’m sorry you’re stuck on a train with black people, really, but you need to shut your mouth. The same goes for you, ma’am.” He said, gesturing at the woman eating her dinner. “I know this is frustrating, but we’re all trapped and want to get out just as much as you do. Now, how bad did you fall, buddy? Is anything broken?”

Cody stopped his wailing and peered up at Dwayne. He shook his head and sat against his mother.

Dwayne sighed and said exhaustedly, “Billie, will you spell me?” The two switched positions.

The woman put down her box of food and smoothed out her pants before she spoke. “I apologize. I should not have been screaming like that, it’s just I’ve had a horribly long day and I’m unbelievably tired. I take this line from one end to the other and spend enough time on subways as is. My name is Carole. Thank you for holding that door. Look,” she added, after her speech disintegrated into the hush. “See across the window, there, at that other subway! People are holding signs against the glass!” She scrambled onto the seat across from her and cupped her hands around her eyes. Cody jumped up beside her and copied her hand position.

Carole turned excitedly to the company, “Come look! They say, ‘Help is coming. Within 20 min. Stay Strong.’”

Ten minutes passed, and the mood comfortably changed. Cody continued to wave and give thumbs up to the passengers in the neighboring subway.

“Billie?”

Ten more minutes passed. A new note appeared. “Just a bit longer. Help is coming”

“Excuse me, sirs” Helen asked Dwayne and Terence politely. “Why do you keep calling each other Billie?”

Terence laughed. “It’s from a story called The Open Boat. We’re reading it in one of our classes. It’s about a group of men lost at sea.”

Helen nodded. “I thought as much.” Then she paused, and added, “Let’s hope we don’t meet the same end as those–”

She was interrupted by a gigantic crash. Everybody on the train screamed as they looked across the window. The subway next to them had collapsed as the pillars supporting the tracks folded like dominoes. The enormous metal centipede splashed onto the roads and into the river, crashing into buildings and spraying debris and pandemonium everywhere. Their own subway began to shake, louder and more forceful than before, as Cody’s mother clutched her son to her chest, crying at the top of her lungs. Carole had slipped off her seat onto her knees, sobbing in a desperate prayer. Helen looked about frantically, searching for someone to help, and after finding nobody, snatched up her knitting in trembling hands. Terence and Dwayne stood up and embraced in a tight caress. “I love you.” They whispered. Seymour watched, and seconds before the end of his life, hollered to nobody in particular, “I’m Sorry!” The subway fell to the earth in a cacophony of splintered metal, grinding noise and forgotten souls. Help never came.

A lot has happened in the past year: students have come and gone, landmark restaurants and stores snuffed out, butt scandals passed over social media and other such occurrences of utmost importance. But one thing that has remained alive amidst these tumultuous times is the TENET artist collective’s ability to put out a zine (almost) every month since their beginning last January.

I know, I know; another post about this so-called artist group who still doesn’t really exist outside its target audience of art schoolers, English majors, vijjy enthusiasts, and the general hooligan population of Ann Arbor? Especially when this self-appointed spokesperson of sorts hasn’t shown his rambling face around these parts in a hot minute. But I maintain that you few people traversing these particular sidewalks and alleyways of the world wide webtown should know about this kind of stuff, nay - need to know about this stuff, about these people making drawings and words and ZINES and happenings right under your noses, and that its possible for anyone to do with a pen and a copy machine and a lot of time on their hands, or maybe just time to sacrifice (is sleep not for the weak?).

Yes! This is all gravity and bones because for the first time TENET has broken out of the living-room-turned-gallery-space method of past events in favor of entering the “real world” “art scene” by showing work and releasing zines in the North Quad space on State Street, the one with all the windows and tables and TVs and oddly shaped chairs and stools scattered around a huge projection screen. How did they manage to convert a space usually reserved for Powerpoint lectures and Acapella performances, you ask? Well there were zines hanging from a coatrack! all the past issues! mountainous drawings on tables! raw paintings leaned against walls! reflective sculpture on the floor! tasteful shower videos in the corner! there were readings by never-before-heard Teneteers, speaking words straight from the zine! there was almost a release of this music vijjy by the Tusks Band (technical difficulties being inevitable)! It was a new way to see the work of these obsessive image makers and word crafters, outside the comfort of their own friends’ homes!

The gallery show was followed up by a long and arduous march back to where the legend all began, at the Mundungus cave on South campus before returning to the new stomping ground of Kerrytown, onward to Sparkman’s Palace where Tusks and Wych Elm killed it (as usual) in the basement of low pipelined ceilings and brick walls, cement floors and columns that ring when you knock them – and here it was that the essence of these events reared its beautiful sweating head, the gallery show and zine release just a means to an end, important to those who’ve lived and grown within this vortex of creative expression over the past year but really the gem of experience being the potential for connection between people, the connection of TENET with the public, in TENET, through TENET but not solely about it and them, about all us hooligans roaming these Arboreal streets in dazes, all about the US, everyone, the innocent bystander becomes angsty ruckus maker, the introverted poet becomes proclaimer of words and feeling, and TENET ceases to be this small group of subterraneans meeting in basements and poring over mags talkin bullshit to each other at a mile minute – here everyone becomes TENET and TENET becomes everyone. I know, you know, we all know and feel what it is to connect other like-minded hooligans, for shenanigans, and it just keeps getting better.

We all know that Hollywood sometimes doesn’t produce the most original films, however, watching this documentary takes it to a whole new level.

Alejandro Jodorowsky, known for his comics such as “The Incal”, is a man who assembled great artistic talents such as Moebius, Orson Welles, and Salvador Dali to create the cinematic version of Frank Herbert’s “Dune”. This group of artists, which he calls his “Spiritual Warriors”, was gathered almost on a dime. For the most part, it was Jodorowsky’s passion for the project that got them to commit – a passion that can be seen throughout the film making the fact that this movie was never made all the more saddening.

Quite possibly the most ridiculous element of this snubbing is the fact that multiple ideas from the concept work and storyboard of this unmade film were scattered across Hollywood, resurfacing in well-known projects such as Star Wars and Alien.

For instance, the training scene with Luke Skywalker is ripped off a panel from the storyboard of Jodorowsky’s Dune and the Xenomorph from Alien was created by one of the artists working beneath Jodorowsky.

The Dune project later was passed on to David Lynch, we all know how that went.

I wish someone would at least take all this work and make an animation at least. But for now, I am glad that Jodorowsky decided to take his creative genius over to the world of comic books.

 

3D movies have sort of become the joke of the cinematic world. They are a clear economic tool that the company uses as a way to sell their tickets at a much higher price. The thing is, though, that 3D effects could be used to enhance the experience of a movie. It would be very easy to make the necessary changes in order to make this a true artistic form of expression. It has happened with other media and we can see examples of 3D’s powerful work today.

Let’s start off with some history. If we look at past examples, we can see that innovations like 3D can be very successful as an artistic medium. Film is a great example of this. It first started as a sideshow at carnivals, just for shallow entertainment. It remained that way until someone decided to make art out of it. We can also look to television as another example of this. Nobody thought that television would be anything more than a passing fad, but now we see that is clearly much more than that. We are currently in the middle of the second Golden Age of television and looks like it is only getting better from here.

We should try and make 3D have the same effects as television and movies. It’s a relatively new technology and we should learn to use it correctly. It could be a great tool for building atmosphere, a new way to present comedy, and a creative approach to producing scare. If we, as an audience start demanding this use of 3D, then I think we would all have a better time at the movies. It’s not like it has never been tested before either. This approach has worked in other films. Look at Avatar. While it may not be the best movie ever made, but its use of 3D is stunning. It created an amazing world that seemed real and tangible. We should start working towards. I want 3D to be art and I think a lot of people would agree with me.

Whenever someone refers me to a musician of any genre that they find “good,” I’m always hesitant to accept that what qualifies as “good” to them will be the same for me. Really, there are so many ways to connect with music and so many ways to judge it. Eminem for example can be perceived as a god of rap talent or as perpetuating the misogynistic theme of violence against women. When I first started expanding my appreciation of rap, I asked my friends what they liked about artists like 2Pac and Biggie because they didn’t quite fit into my understanding at the time of what constituted “good” rap. To me, good rap meant fast rap. Speed equated to talent, but I quickly found in these artists that a good understanding of rhythm and lyricism (both political and comedic) can often create a more profound effect than speed alone. I also realized that though Tech N9ne’s “Caribou Lou” was a great song to crank up and roll your windows down to, its lyrics contribute no substance whatsoever to the song. At the end of the day I was listening to a rapper list the recipe for a mixed drink over a really cool beat.

While different ways of evaluating value of music can open up many avenues for appreciating artistic talent, every person has their own taste and expectations. Something that has always been a crucial factor to me is lyricism. The more poetic and complex the lyrics, the more I get sucked in. I know I’ve talked about Marina and the Diamonds in the past, who began writing poetry and transferred her talents to songwriting and music production, but another master of lyric composition and one of my personal favorites is the band Say Anything. Judging solely from their sound, they fall right into the category of teen angst punk music. However, looking closely at the lyrics complicates their image by showing the band’s appreciation for poetry and profound understanding of the power of language. As a writer, I deeply admire the sentences they construct because many of them hit me on both an emotional and an intellectual level.

For example, from the song “Yellow Cat Slash Red Cat” off of their 2004 album …Is A Real Boy, lead singer Max Bemis spits the words rhythmically, almost as if to poetic meter:

Again, I watch my cousin Greg watch MTV inside his home.
He makes fun of the Hip-hop videos from the couch he rides alone.
Snug in the cushion of his cackling he forgets his looming doubts.
He has relied on this for years; you will not yank the carpet out.

The complexity of his sentence structures along with the obscured themes hidden deep beneath contemporary imagery emphasizes the complexity of adolescence and what it might really mean to be an “angsty teen.” By turning what could be crude or cliched imagery into poetics, he shows that this isn’t just some rant, rather it is a deeply thought out reflection on the grittier parts of life and how everyday scenarios (like an encounter between two cats or watching MTV) can factor into these issues that people think they understand.

Off of the same album (my personal favorite of their body of work), the song “The Futile” offers the same sort of combination of complicated language mingling with the raw emotion of the instrumentals and Bemis’ voice. In the opening of the song he starts:

Shit!
Nothing makes sense, so I won’t think about it. I’ll go with the ignorance.
Eat, sleep, fuck and flee; in four words, that’s me.
I am full of indifference.

I don’t want to clutter this post with direct quotation, but I think the lyrics often speak for themselves, reaching each listener on their own level of personal experience with the feelings that they are wrestling with throughout the song. The climactic moment of the song arguably comes to a head at a suicidal moment, though he never explicitly says he’s going to kill himself in explicit terms:

I’m eating rat poison for dinner.
Pull the cord from the phone. I am dining alone,
Tonight, rat poison for dinner.
Pull the cord from the phone. I am dining alone,
So goodnight.

Something about his use of totally non poetic words in these truly telling metaphorical and imagistic ways gives listeners a way of really rethinking and grappling with their own personal sense of these complex emotions. Everyone has felt anger, angst, frustration, maybe even suicidal at a point in their lives, but these tired and worn out adjectives are given fresh meaning by the syntactical feats of Say Anything. “So goodnight” can say so many other things than can a straightforward suicidal goodbye. Here, language is taking on the huge task of representing an arguably cliched theme for this genre of music and making it both personal and relatable at the same time.

This just scratches the surface of all of the things I love about this band. The way they use instrumentals to accompany these lyrics adds to the overall effect in a way that reading these lyrics on the web cannot convey.  At the end of the day, whatever way in which music speaks to you, finding ways of articulating and sharing this sense of “good” can open up a world of opportunities for others and yourself to experience music in a new way.