I literally laughed out loud when I read that part of Tom's journal.
Dopey. Having sex. With a penguin.
Priceless.
What would Snow White have said?
Will and Tom, and their relationship altogether, made me think about a good friend of mine. She is an identical twin who grew up in her sister's shadow in every way possible. Nothing she ever did compared to her sister's long list of achievements and accolades. She was forever runner up, even though she was born a minute earlier.
I could never imagine having a twin, nor do I think the world would have been ready for something like that in 1981. I was trouble enough without a mirror image of my psychotic self.
Having a twin does come in handy, no doubt. The girl to whom I'm referring is actually getting married in a few months. Any normal girl would try on her dresses and choose her favorite, you know, the one she has dreamed about her entire life. Well, my friend is a special case.
When she goes this weekend to look for a wedding gown, her twin sister is actually wearing the dresses for her, so she can have a better view of what she'll look like walking down the aisle.
Tom, by giving his life for the sake of his brother, and practically saving his brother's marriage, did everything short of trying on gowns for him.
That pervert probably would have.
Wednesday, November 19, 2008
If Walls Could Talk
I am a child of the 1990's; I remember when KTU was new to the airwaves, when wearing t-shirts with cartoon characters in baggy clothes (from front and back) was cool, and when there was still some signs of order in this crazy world.
I know that sounds pessimistic, but after working with middle schoolers since 8:00 this morning, it happens. Am I alone? I'm sure someone else must remember when, if you were running at full speed down the hallway and a teacher opened their door and yelled stop running, you would. I'm sure someone must recall a time when you went to church on Sunday because if you didn't, someone would be disappointed. Anyone. And that mattered.
In House of Leaves, as the relationship between the Navidson's deteriorated, and in turn, an expansive void appeared, a culture defined by its loss of morality came to mind. I was there when it appeared, and now I'm suffering the consequences: their children. For Navidson, Zampano, and everyone else who tried to figure out the reason for the nothingness that occupied those dark, immeasurable hallways, we as a culture must also look for answers.
When will respect be "in" again?
When will it be "cool" to listen to a teacher when they ask you to do something?
When can I wear my t-shirt again? You know, the one with Bugs Bunny and Elmer Fudd in baggy jeans and gold chains?
I know that sounds pessimistic, but after working with middle schoolers since 8:00 this morning, it happens. Am I alone? I'm sure someone else must remember when, if you were running at full speed down the hallway and a teacher opened their door and yelled stop running, you would. I'm sure someone must recall a time when you went to church on Sunday because if you didn't, someone would be disappointed. Anyone. And that mattered.
In House of Leaves, as the relationship between the Navidson's deteriorated, and in turn, an expansive void appeared, a culture defined by its loss of morality came to mind. I was there when it appeared, and now I'm suffering the consequences: their children. For Navidson, Zampano, and everyone else who tried to figure out the reason for the nothingness that occupied those dark, immeasurable hallways, we as a culture must also look for answers.
When will respect be "in" again?
When will it be "cool" to listen to a teacher when they ask you to do something?
When can I wear my t-shirt again? You know, the one with Bugs Bunny and Elmer Fudd in baggy jeans and gold chains?
Avoidance at all costs
For three years, I've been asking myself the same questions on my way home from work/school: What am having for dinner? Do I have homework? What's on TV tonight? Is there enough wine in the apartment?
Four weeks ago, after much thought, I decided to make a conscious effort to cease all drinking during the work week. Why?
I was a wino. A lush. A poor man's Amy Winehouse, decidely not in rehab.
I was wasted. I was boxed. I was my liver's arch nemesis.
I was trashed, I was twisted, I was one martini short of Karen Walker.
But, why?
Avoidance.
I started drinking every night three years ago when I moved into my first apartment. My first night there I became close friends with the man who owned the liquor store on the corner. To be honest, I'm not sure if that relationship could be defined as friendship, considering the only thing he knew about me was that I liked when he had gallon bottles of Carlo Rossi Sangria in stock.
So recently, when I viewed my progress over the past three years in every aspect of my life, I realized that, while in my coulded state of mashed-grape euphoria, I was a loser. I am still making shit money; I still have little idea of what i'd like to do with my life, or at least haven't made many moves to clearly define it, anyway; I'm still a child at heart, in all the wrong ways.
I can relate to Johnny Truant. I see why he lived the life he did, full of boozing, promiscuity, and drugs. After his distressing childhood, he created a life for himself devoid of responsibility, a world I can relate to. It's a fun life; a sad life really, and therefore, I had to make a change.
I am proud of Johnny for ending his substance abuse so that he could remember the small details that make life worth living; the details that help everything make sense.
I hope he would be proud of me.
Four weeks ago, after much thought, I decided to make a conscious effort to cease all drinking during the work week. Why?
I was a wino. A lush. A poor man's Amy Winehouse, decidely not in rehab.
I was wasted. I was boxed. I was my liver's arch nemesis.
I was trashed, I was twisted, I was one martini short of Karen Walker.
But, why?
Avoidance.
I started drinking every night three years ago when I moved into my first apartment. My first night there I became close friends with the man who owned the liquor store on the corner. To be honest, I'm not sure if that relationship could be defined as friendship, considering the only thing he knew about me was that I liked when he had gallon bottles of Carlo Rossi Sangria in stock.
So recently, when I viewed my progress over the past three years in every aspect of my life, I realized that, while in my coulded state of mashed-grape euphoria, I was a loser. I am still making shit money; I still have little idea of what i'd like to do with my life, or at least haven't made many moves to clearly define it, anyway; I'm still a child at heart, in all the wrong ways.
I can relate to Johnny Truant. I see why he lived the life he did, full of boozing, promiscuity, and drugs. After his distressing childhood, he created a life for himself devoid of responsibility, a world I can relate to. It's a fun life; a sad life really, and therefore, I had to make a change.
I am proud of Johnny for ending his substance abuse so that he could remember the small details that make life worth living; the details that help everything make sense.
I hope he would be proud of me.
Wednesday, November 12, 2008
Skip It
The only parts of the novel I skipped, and I'm being completely honest, were the long lists of references and the scientific garble that appeared a small number times throughout the novel.
For the most part, part of my difficulty reading the book was that there seemed to be so much more to read than the page appeared to contain. I am usually a ridiculously fast reader - no such luck with this bad boy. It took me hours to read less than 35 pages. NEVER IN MY LIFE! It was beyond frustrating!
Terence tried to find every opportunity he could to read The House of Leaves. From the outset, the book intrigued him, as he quickly flipped through it on the elevator ride upstairs after purchasing it in the bookstore. After reading the back of the text, Terence though for sure, he'd enjoy the book as much , if not more, as he had the others read during his final semester at St. Francis College. That night after class, while impatiently expecting the R train, he finally dove head first into the readings and was immediately concerned. Was this going to be one of those books that doesn't really have meaning but makes you think it does until the very end when you come up empty?
After shaking off such pessimistic thoughts, he started to realize that although it wasn't an easy book to read, he found it surprisingly interesting. At that point, anyway. As he read, Terence began to realize that the analysis of the film, without the footnotes provided by Truant, was reminiscent of an academic paper, a thesis almost, and that sat well with him. When he felt compelled, however, to read the footnotes in courier, he became confuse, discouraged, and annoyed. Why is Truant such a mess?, he thought, while forcing himself to read on. The answer never really came. And that didn't sit well with Terence.
Before he knew it, Wednesday rolled around and the reading had only gotten more difficult. There were fifty pages left to read, and trying to make sense of it all was a painstaking process that Terence almost didn't have time for. "Onward!", he reminded himself, but to no avail, he repeatedly found himself rereading passages that had irked him before, and no change, they did once again. Please God, he thought, please strike lightening on this book and make it disappear! But you do appreciate the book, don't you, the little angel on his shoulder said. YES! Unfortunately I do! But that still doesn't make it any easier, he replied.
For the most part, part of my difficulty reading the book was that there seemed to be so much more to read than the page appeared to contain. I am usually a ridiculously fast reader - no such luck with this bad boy. It took me hours to read less than 35 pages. NEVER IN MY LIFE! It was beyond frustrating!
********************
Terence tried to find every opportunity he could to read The House of Leaves. From the outset, the book intrigued him, as he quickly flipped through it on the elevator ride upstairs after purchasing it in the bookstore. After reading the back of the text, Terence though for sure, he'd enjoy the book as much , if not more, as he had the others read during his final semester at St. Francis College. That night after class, while impatiently expecting the R train, he finally dove head first into the readings and was immediately concerned. Was this going to be one of those books that doesn't really have meaning but makes you think it does until the very end when you come up empty?
After shaking off such pessimistic thoughts, he started to realize that although it wasn't an easy book to read, he found it surprisingly interesting. At that point, anyway. As he read, Terence began to realize that the analysis of the film, without the footnotes provided by Truant, was reminiscent of an academic paper, a thesis almost, and that sat well with him. When he felt compelled, however, to read the footnotes in courier, he became confuse, discouraged, and annoyed. Why is Truant such a mess?, he thought, while forcing himself to read on. The answer never really came. And that didn't sit well with Terence.
Before he knew it, Wednesday rolled around and the reading had only gotten more difficult. There were fifty pages left to read, and trying to make sense of it all was a painstaking process that Terence almost didn't have time for. "Onward!", he reminded himself, but to no avail, he repeatedly found himself rereading passages that had irked him before, and no change, they did once again. Please God, he thought, please strike lightening on this book and make it disappear! But you do appreciate the book, don't you, the little angel on his shoulder said. YES! Unfortunately I do! But that still doesn't make it any easier, he replied.
When a house is not a house
For the Navidson's, their house was a sort of new beginning; time away from modeling for Karen, the children could have a grounded home life with both parents present, and Tom, could see to all matters familial, for once and for all. When they returned form vacation, the change in the house triggered a change in them, or a return perhaps, to a place they were before the move; distance again separating the two partners as it had before. This time however, the distance lie behind a door that apparently appeared from nowhere, a dark void like that in the relationship between Karen and Tom.
What lies behind the door at this point is one thing: a secret. Is there a being behind the door, growling in the darkness? Will it eventually attack those who enter the dark space? Or is the space a metaphor for the darkness inside, the beast within, another biblical reference to join the many in the novel. Secrets are no stranger to the inhabitants of that house: Was Karen truly unfaithful? We witness a moment of weakness when a kiss is exchanged in the house while Tom is preoccupied. Is it true that Navidson is a closeted homosexual, as suggested in a footnote early in the novel? There is certainly no evidence of this accusation, but is an interesting angle none the less.
I wish I could decipher more about the hidden meaning behind the book. The truth is there's so much happening at once that it makes it difficult for me to narrow it all down. I'm hoping in the second half of the novel the secrets are revealed and there is some closure to such an open-ended piece of literature.
What lies behind the door at this point is one thing: a secret. Is there a being behind the door, growling in the darkness? Will it eventually attack those who enter the dark space? Or is the space a metaphor for the darkness inside, the beast within, another biblical reference to join the many in the novel. Secrets are no stranger to the inhabitants of that house: Was Karen truly unfaithful? We witness a moment of weakness when a kiss is exchanged in the house while Tom is preoccupied. Is it true that Navidson is a closeted homosexual, as suggested in a footnote early in the novel? There is certainly no evidence of this accusation, but is an interesting angle none the less.
I wish I could decipher more about the hidden meaning behind the book. The truth is there's so much happening at once that it makes it difficult for me to narrow it all down. I'm hoping in the second half of the novel the secrets are revealed and there is some closure to such an open-ended piece of literature.
Character Sketch
Karen Green
- Former model
- Practical to a fault
- Gatherer
Video
Page 64: "Finally, Navidson stops in front of an entrance much larger than the rest. It arcs above his head and yawns into an undisturbed blackness. His flashlight finds the floor but no walls, and for the first time, no ceiling. Only now do we begin to see how big Navidson's house really is.
As with the optical illusion posted above, what appears to be one dimensional, when manipulated properly, takes on an entirely new appearance.
House
Pg. 119, Footnote: "Aside from the practical aspect of fishing line,- a readily available and cheap way to map progress through that complicated maze-there are obvious mythological resonances. Minos's daughter, Ariadne, supplied Theseus with a thread that he used to escape the labyrinth. Thread has repeatedly served as a metaphor for an umbilical cord, for life, and for destiny.
Wednesday, November 5, 2008
A Picture's Worth a Thousand Words. Or is it?
I was shocked. I was disgusted. But I couldn't look away. Was it a wax figure in that bag, a Halloween decoration of sorts? When I realized that this young woman was really giving a thumbs up in front of a dead body, I was horrified. I thought about how many wakes I had been to. I remembered the smell of death masked by cheap flowers arranged in various shapes reflecting the hobbies and interests of the stiff.
A friend of mine, when posing for a picture, is known for naturally making squinty eyes right before the flash goes off. On a whim a few years ago, by adding the peace sign, she was a Japanese tourist, and has been known to make that pose in one out of three pictures since. It's funny to everyone who sees it because of the obvious association one makes with tourists in general. Then I thought of someone, who for all purposes is a tourist, used by the American government to "investigate" the probable causes of death to our Middle Eastern opposition.
In the Times article it fascinated me how the muscles in one's face can give deeper insight into the emotions that are taking place. I never thought about the complex system our bodies use to express our thoughts. It's pretty amazing.
A friend of mine, when posing for a picture, is known for naturally making squinty eyes right before the flash goes off. On a whim a few years ago, by adding the peace sign, she was a Japanese tourist, and has been known to make that pose in one out of three pictures since. It's funny to everyone who sees it because of the obvious association one makes with tourists in general. Then I thought of someone, who for all purposes is a tourist, used by the American government to "investigate" the probable causes of death to our Middle Eastern opposition.
In the Times article it fascinated me how the muscles in one's face can give deeper insight into the emotions that are taking place. I never thought about the complex system our bodies use to express our thoughts. It's pretty amazing.
Thoughts on Graffiti...
As a kid, I remember growing up in a middle class family on a middle-class block in Sunset Park, Brooklyn. Mostly Irish, many Hispanic, and a few Asians families lived harmoniously and up kept our street, a joint effort. In the summer of seventh grade, a few of my middle class friends wanted to tap into a culture that was alien to our own; a graffiti culture with its roots in lower class neighborhoods and claws taking a hold on Hip-Hop. I remember racking my brain for a tag name: something that summed up my personality but could also give a nerdy, effeminate Irish kid some street cred. I decided upon Do-Do, like the bird. They were known to be a little off-center, as was I. It was also easy to write in bubble letters, something I was pretty terrible at.
Together, my friends and I would walk around the corner of our street and "tag-up" on the brick walls of the sweat-shops that lined the abandoned block. Truth be told, having a father who was patrolling the area in his police car was quite a deterrent, and therefore, my tag-up was more of a tag and run. I chuckle as I think of how I'd react today to see myself, an Alfalfa lookalike at the time, running from the authorities.
I didn't fit into the culture, I knew that. When I read "Bombing Brooklyn...", I, for the first time, opened up to the acceptance of the expression/outcry that graffiti provides certain groups of people. (the paper was super-enjoyable, a great read!) What struck me as interesting was how graffiti as a paycheck-producing art form has replaced the tagging up I once tried to do.
Whenever I have the opportunity to walk past the house I once lived in, no longer my parents' property, I'm amused by what an amateur I was. Who in their right mind would right "Do-Do" on their own house? Yep, that'd be me. Just don't tell my mom.
Together, my friends and I would walk around the corner of our street and "tag-up" on the brick walls of the sweat-shops that lined the abandoned block. Truth be told, having a father who was patrolling the area in his police car was quite a deterrent, and therefore, my tag-up was more of a tag and run. I chuckle as I think of how I'd react today to see myself, an Alfalfa lookalike at the time, running from the authorities.
I didn't fit into the culture, I knew that. When I read "Bombing Brooklyn...", I, for the first time, opened up to the acceptance of the expression/outcry that graffiti provides certain groups of people. (the paper was super-enjoyable, a great read!) What struck me as interesting was how graffiti as a paycheck-producing art form has replaced the tagging up I once tried to do.
Whenever I have the opportunity to walk past the house I once lived in, no longer my parents' property, I'm amused by what an amateur I was. Who in their right mind would right "Do-Do" on their own house? Yep, that'd be me. Just don't tell my mom.
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