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When you’re sick, easy things become hard. Simple things develop the complexity of string theory, and feel oh so very trivial at the same time.

Such is the case with this sick student and his homework. Here’s an old pome that describes how I feel about it and also doesn’t at all:

 

Homework Song

After Mark Levine

 

Henri. Look. It’s morning.

You watch me scramble: clock from my ear, sand

from my pocket. I am a mirror, a two-way

lazy susan. I spin on my nose and walk

in circles. I am a lens, I am convex. I magnify, concentrate

light rays like old friends, I pull their hairs

through the head of a pin, one at a time. You left,

 

Henri, how could you, my nose full of tobacco

and lint. I live just south of you. My voice is all funny.

I am the Way and the Truth: I lick your shoes and you

don’t know I’m here.

I also sing and dance, very slowly. When I see

a stop sign, I tie my limbs together. It’s easy for Henri,

 

the rabbit taught him, out of the box. But me? I

ain’t Jack. I scratch my feet with a hammer, my soles

are too thick. I talk to plants about the weather.

I smell like television. They don’t trust me,

I seem to have it all together. I am ceramic

that hasn’t been fired yet. I’m this close to finding out.

We find out when we break. I run around telling folks

to have a seat. I bisect myself, whistle, cough

up tortilla chips at the crowd’s feet. Give ‘em just

what they want: salsa

all over the place. But now I know

I prefer chervil to cilantro, I am Jacque I say

 

bonjour, I am not a pen. I am dry. I can’t stand still. Itch

my head til it burns. I shed my fur in the summer. I am the 8-ball

on the lip of the corn hole. I am black and white. I am an easy win.

The light approaches and I become the earth. I spin

on my axis, elongate into an oval, careen.

 

Henri says I am a gutter.

I think I’m just the distal toe.

He crawls into the fridge, and I

Take the low rack of the oven.

Starting off on a shot of the waters that are troubled by a ships path, The Master is a film that is as enigmatic and atmospheric as its opening sequence. Freddy, barely peeks his head above the barrier of the ship, like a turtle peeking out into the world that we do not see, with tired and withered eyes that profess a sense of boredom. Or much more?

At first I refrained from writing about this film because I feared the inevitable; my words will do this film no justice. However, given that I try to make my blog posts as impulsive as possible, instead of an approach that is calculated, I said fuck it, and now here I am, typing away on a Saturday night trying to rack my mind for things to say. Honestly, this entire paragraph has been written because I am stalling for my mind as it attempts to get online. I refuse to stop typing. Silly.

Interestingly, this film, shot on 65mm, this masterpiece, has some influences from a film called Baraka, a non-narrative documentary that is also shot on 65. The opening sequence of Baraka has a scene where we see a monkey high in the mountains resting in a natural hot spring, slowly lulling off to sleep. This very scene mirrors Joaquin’s first appearance in The Master. In fact, Paul Thomas Anderson told Joaquin about Baraka and that specific scene. (2:05)

(Another interesting influence is John Huston’s wartime documentary “Let There Be Light” check it out.)

I find this interesting, because Joaquin’s character (Freddy) is arguably devolved – a monkey in a homo-sapiens world. Whereas on the other side, Philip Seymour Hoffman’s character, has a God complex of sorts, believing himself to be beyond human temptations and primal urges. But Paul Thomas Anderson, in his clever way of exploring polar opposites by entering into the in-between point between the duality that persists throughout the film, suggests that even Hoffman (or Lancaster Dodd) is no more a God than Freddy is civilized.

Given this kind of in-depth and intricate character study, it is no wonder that an author like Thomas Pynchon approved of a script written by Paul Thomas Anderson (the script for Inherent Vice). But back to the master.

The film is, “technically speaking”, a very boring film. The entire movie is just people talking and all the characters kind of just end up where they began. But the gorgeous cinematography and the excellent, nuanced, and poignant acting by Joaquin Phoenix, Philip Seymour Hoffman, and Amy Adams get the viewer sucked in. You always seem to come back for more. There is something here, there is something here.

By now, I have seen this film at least five times. I dare not go into depth regarding what I think the film is actually about. So I will end it here by providing a trailer to entice those who do not like to read. Also I will say, I must say, I feel like I ruined the film for those who have not seen it. I shouldn’t have written this. And if you are one of those people who refrain from divining into these sorts of films because you are afraid to be considered “pretentious” to you I say, this film is not pretentious, it is beautiful, and also, who fucking cares?

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fJ1O1vb9AUU

Everyone needs to find their own way to escape themselves and see the world as something more than just a place to live. Sometimes it’s a person, sometimes it’s a story, and sometimes it’s a particular place. For me, one of the places is the Detroit Institute of Art. Seeing all the art and the various times and places they come from helps me to connect with the world and see all the beauty and ugliness within it. This world is more than just me, it is a society of millions of people with billions of ideas and never ending possibilities. I find it truly beautiful to see all the diverse artwork in a single place. This where I can truly find the world outside of myself.

I had a very powerful moment in the DIA the last time I visited. I went to my favorite exhibit, the Islamic Art collection. I love this part of the museum because the exuberance and detail that they put into their masterpieces. My favorite display is this absolutely gorgeous Qur’an with colored pages and flecks of gold. I find it stunningly beautiful. This piece is my favorite part of the entire DIA, it is what I think of first when I think of the DIA. This is what connects me to the rest of the world. Through this Qur’an, I see the history of mankind, our struggles, our triumphs, and the incredible beauty that we try to infuse in our everyday lives. This was an incredibly powerful moment for me. It’s a little embarrassing, but I was honestly on the verge of tears. The recent tragedy at Chapel Hill did not help in this matter either. Through this incredibly art, I saw the beauty that mankind can make, but I was also reminded of the horrors that we inflict. I was no longer myself at this point; I was part of a collective of minds that survived until today.

Through this art, I was able to leave myself. I think this is a necessary for every person to experience and be able to return to. It is incredibly helpful to leave yourself and see the world outside of your personal struggles. So find the thing that makes you see the world and not just its parts.

The Qur’an: http://www.dia.org/object-info/edae52d5-4d47-4321-be4a-e99ee48f0f10.aspx?position=53

Summer,

My nearest, dearest friend. It really has been a long time. Do you recall that time I laid on my front lawn beneath the maple tree with my headphones holding my head like two hands positioning my face to the sky–your sky?

I do, I remember. I remember the swell of that song in my ears. I remember the way he sung my favorite lyrics:

I’m getting lost in your curls
I’m drawing pictures on your skin, so soft it twirls
I like your looks when you get mean
I know I shouldn’t say so but when you claw me like a cat
I’m beaming

Your warm wind’s fingers ruffled the grass like my hair, and my hair like the swaying grass. I didn’t have sunglasses to block your rays–do you recall how you shined on my face and warmed my freckled cheeks? I closed my eyes and breathed the moist air you breathed on me.

I remember feeling the ground shivering a little when my friend’s old, gold, Chrysler pulled into my driveway. I opened my eyes to your unbroken sky and took in the clarity of the day at the same moment Bluish by Animal Collective fizzled to its end. I remember thinking that I couldn’t think of a better word to describe that day, your sky, my mood, my life in those few utopic months–bluish. Do you remember how we got up and slid into the passenger seat?

I remember the way you climbed in with me and blew my hair back as we drove. I remember the way you made the world seem like it existed only in primary colors–pure and saturated during those months. It felt like you had placed a soft, warm filter over those long days. I remember the way you made me feel and the way you brought everyone together. Only four months stand between us now. I look forward to our reunion–to rekindling our nineteen-year romance.

I look forward to laying in the grass in my parent’s yard, to drives in that old Chrysler, to focusing my eyes so hard on the sky that I believe I can see microscopic debris falling down on me, to swims in the warm lake water, to breezes that soften our skin, and your sun’s soft kisses that ignite our cheeks and foreheads.

Come soon, come in your entirety.

all my love,

Cait

“…there whenever your car won’t start…Marvin’s Auto Parts… ”

The final note of the jingle lingered in the air as thousands of television screens across the city popped with the reappearance of local morning news. The news anchors were dressed in crisp suits, and their bright smiles flashed a shade of white only the harshest of chemicals could fake. Mothers and fathers sipped coffee and children fought for the maple syrup, their yellow teeth hidden behind tight lips as their eyes fixated on the day’s news report.

“The latest news developing today comes from NASA scientists, who say that a meteoric collision has sent a great ball of fire and rock our way. Experts say we have less than one hour until this meteor, who the general public has fondly named Steve, makes contact with the Earth and threatens the future of the human race.” The male anchor squinted at his notes sheet through the thick black rims of his glasses, trying to remember whether or not he had even read the news report this story came from.

“Well, Rich, looks like everyone should invest in a pair of sunglasses,” said the female anchor by his side. Adults everywhere peeked out their windows at the cloudless sky as she started on the next piece of news. “A girl in the Midwest was filled with embarrassment after mistakenly emailing her professor a love note written to her favorite fictional character. Sharon Nichols had apparently been trying to send in the final paper for her sociology class when she attached the wrong file. When the story went viral, Trey McCallister, who plays the lovelorn character on TV, caught wind of the story and tweeted at Sharon, saying ‘@SharonXLovesXAlfie You’re a star student in my eyes! (;’

“Now here for a panel discussion on whether or not Sharon should receive a passing grade in her class is social media specialist Sophie Walters, Jayneville Community College professor Andrew Davis, and our very own meteorologist, Jason Jeffries,” said the anchor, shuffling her papers absently before turning to the panelists. “Let’s start with you, Sophie. Should Sharon get credit for her effort?”

“Well, you know, in the age of social media, I think we need to look differently at the ways we define success,” began Sophie, “Did she fail to complete the prompt by turning in this love note? Sure. But did you see that tweet she got from Trey McCallister? It takes fans hundreds of copied tweets flooding his feed just to get an angry reply from him, and she secured a winky face! This girl is going places.”

“Listen, I don’t care whether or not some dude with windswept hair tweeted her back,” cut in college professor Andrew Davis, his eyebrows swooping down in frustration, “chances are her professor doesn’t use twitter and has no concern for the number of followers she gained from this little blunder. What is important here is the content of the love letter. I’ve never seen such a moving piece of prose in my thirty years of teaching.”

“Ah, yes the love letter,” said the news anchor, “she posted it online for people who follow her blog to see. Do you think it was a quality piece of writing?”

“I do! Any professor who doesn’t see the raw talent in this girl’s work is blind, end of story. You’ve got to give her an A,” Professor Andrews said as he banged his fist on the table.

“Excuse me, but while this is all rather, um, interesting, don’t you think we should be talking about how the world could very well end any minute?”

The meteorologist had finally found the nerve to speak up in what was becoming the most bizarre and pointless conversation he had ever been thrown into. The debate fell to silence as the rest of the panel stared at him with bewilderment and disbelief. After fifteen seconds of radio silence, the news anchor finally piped up.

“Ahem, well. I’m not really even sure why we asked you to join us. Meteorology isn’t even a real science. Anyways, back to what you were saying, Sophie -”

“What, of course it-”

Every television in the city turned to black as the power grid went down. Citizens throughout the city ran to their windows, gazed at the red sky, and thought, would I have given her an A?