I may make changes to it after I've lived with it for a while. I got it to the point where it delights me when I walk in my kitchen. That is good enough for now.

For the new year, I resolve to ask telemarketers dirty questions about what they are wearing.

Okay, maybe not.

Usually my only resolution is to not make any resolutions. This year, I do have one. More of a goal than a resolution:

In 2002, I will do my utmost to make my outer life match my inner life.

How's that for deep? Note to goal-makers: this is a bad goal because it is vague. Privately, I have the breakdown. I could give everyone the specifics, but it's not everyone's business.

Love to all for the coming new year. May we have peace, find joy, and get laid repeatedly.

I admit it: I'm a sucker for a good romance. Emphasis on good. As a rabid Angela Bassett (aka The Most Beautiful Woman on the Whole Freakin' Planet) fan, I'd meant to see How Stella Got Her Groove Back when it was in the theatre, but didn't get around to it. It slipped my mind until recently when I did a renter.

Stella is a sweet love story with a bend--the age difference between her and the love interest, Taye Diggs (yeah, he'll be getting a crush page eventually). The performances are understated and believable, and so is the story. Okay, it's predictable. Okay, it has a sappy ending. That's what you watch a love story for, isn't it?

I enjoyed it very much. If you're into the genre, and in the mood, I highly recommend Stella for a good romantic evening.

Neale has put wetlog back where it belongs--up front, and he's got a truly lovely design to go with.

I heart Neale.

Yeah, okay, the monospace font was getting on my nerves. That, and the color, are hard to read on an LCD monitor. Ryan mentioned it a while ago, so the change had been stewing.

Sorry I'm not being attentive. I'm finishing up (finally!) painting the kitchen. It's gorgeous. There will be pictures soon.

I've created a new category for home stuff. We'll see if I use it. Someday, I'll get browsing by category up. But not today, for TODAY I PAINT!

Love film? So does Acquarello. Strictly Film School is a lovingly designed and compiled site by an affirmed cineaste. It is a great place to start if you want to stretch your cinematic legs. I find myself going back to Acquarello again and again for thoughtful coverage of some of my favorite directors.

Film sites are not rare. Good ones, especially produced by a single individual, are.

After nearly ten years of dedicated service, Eightie the Eight Ball will be retiring. "I've enjoyed all your questions over the years," Eightie said tearfully, "but this is a young ball's job." Eightie's spokesman cites low fluid levels as the reason for this sudden departure.

Chosen to replace Eightie after an intense scouting process is Ballisch. While inexperienced, Ballisch's youthful vigour will bring new life to the office's fortune-telling duties. When asked for an interview, Ballisch said he was anxious to get right to work--so we asked him some questions for the new year:

• Ballisch, will I get me some sweet, sweet lovin' in 2002?
  Yes, definitely
  
• Woo! Okay, Ballisch, will I manage to paint my apartment in 2002?
  Outlook not so good
  
• Hmm. Last question: Ballisch, in 2002 will civilization crumble leaving humankind to eke out an existence in a post-apocalyptic, Mad-Max world?
  It is decidedly so

Shit! When did Stuy come back? Probably months ago, and I just wasn't poking around enough.

Missed you, missed you, missed you.

I was digging through my archives to see if I was this depressed last holiday season (I wasn't, I had a project to work on), when I found a good quote by a favorite person. I think it's worth posting again:

"People spend too much time finding other people to blame, too much energy finding excuses for not being what they are capable of being, and not enough energy putting themselves on the line, growing out of the past, and getting on with their lives."

--J. Michael Straczynski

It's been a while, but I was watching Batman Returns tonight and I decided it was time for a new crush:

In a MetaFilter thread from July, I learned that prior to WWII the Pledge of Allegiance (also known as the Bellamy Salute) was given with right arm stiffly extended. I expressed interest in seeing a picture of this, but at the time I didn't pursue it.

I just heard from someone else who was interested, and I decided to go looking.

This site held the prize. It is a creepy as I thought it might be:

(warning--the full size graphic is 129k)

Congratulations to Anna, who pulled

STRAIGHT A'S!!!

I was seated by an older woman of dignified appearance. "Oh no," she whispered when the troll threatened Frodo, "Oh, shit!" A mess of orcs can ruin anyone's dignity.

In Fellowship of the Ring, Peter Jackson takes the unfilmable and realizes it beautifully. I predict New Zealand will become overrun with tourists by next month. In summary:

What was right:

• Characters are filmed so lovingly you cannot help but ache for them.
  
• Vistas keep the overall scope of the film epic in nature, and slightly alien.
  
• Special effects are virtually seamless and serve only the plot. For the most part, you will not notice them because they are so firmly part of the movie, and do not scream: "Look at me! I'm a SPECIAL EFFECT!"
  
• Performances were flawless. Elijah Wood stole my heart.
  
• I've heard complaints about character development, but I have none. Some were left behind as a necessity, but central characters were fleshed out enough to satisfy me.
  

What was wrong:

• There were moments of cinematic incohesiveness. Two scenes were filmed in a dreamlike fashion, when they should not have been. The result was disorienting.
  
• Editing was far from perfect. There were at least two blatantly bad cuts, and several spots where pacing failed.
  
• Emotional ties between characters seemed artificial. It's been many years since the books were read to me, yet I remember this flaw in them as well, and it carries over to the movie.

All that said, in balance this was a remarkable movie. If you miss it, you are missing what will become a cultural landmark. If you can bear it, enjoy it with a crowd--it makes all the difference.

I could play with this for an hour or six. If you're new to Ze's genius, don't miss the rest of the site.

Alas, today is not Monkee Day. It is just a day. How anti-climactic.

Having decided I'm not skipping the holiday entirely (just mostly), today is shopping day. My list is exceedingly short, but it includes the most delightful humans in my life. It will make me happy to find things for them.

And yes Anna, if you're reading this, you're getting the septum piercing.

So what should be the last post of Monkees Day here at frytopia? I'm a Believer? Last Train to Clarksville? When you think about it, there's only one choice:

Here we come, walkin'
Down the street.
We get the funniest looks from
Ev'ry one we meet.
Hey, hey, we're the Monkees
And people say we monkey around.
But we're too busy singing
To put anybody down.

We go wherever we want to,
do what we like to do
We don't have time to get restless,
There's always something new.
Hey, hey, we're the Monkees
And people say we monkey around.
But we're too busy singing
To put anybody down.

We're just tryin' to be friendly,
Come and watch us sing and play,
We're the young gneration,
And we've got something to say.

Any time, Or anywhere,
Just look over your shoulder
Guess who'll be standing there

Hey, hey, we're the Monkees
And people say we monkey around.
But we're too busy singing
To put anybody down.

(break)

Hey, hey, we're the Monkees
And people say we monkey around.
But we're too busy singing
To put anybody down.

We're just tryin' to be friendly,
Come and watch us sing and play,
We're the young gneration,
And we've got something to say.

Hey, hey, we're the Monkees
Hey, hey, we're the Monkees
[repeat and fade]

I was talking with Hackerlilly and we agree that Mike is the shiznit. We both had crushes on each Monkee, but settled with the shy guy in the hat. Video pioneer and Son of White-Out Woman. Not to be missed: Elephant Parts, the inspiration for MTV, EP won Nez a Video Vanguard Award. The man is legend.

Monkee hat: A stocking cap like the one Mike always wears.

Monkee walk: Get side-by-side with at least two other people, and walk by stepping in front of the person next to you. You know, like they do in the opening of the show. Requires careful coordination. Yes, as a matter of fact I have done this.

Monkee Day would not be complete without some prime Monkee resources:

The Monkees Home Page
The Monkees Collector's Home Page
Monkees Online
Monkees 2001 Tour

And the boys themselves...

Mickey
Mike
Peter
Davey

It can't be Monkee day without a nice pic of the boys:

I've decided today is Monkee day.

Guilty pleasure? No kidding. I've pulled no punches in my vituperative rants against manufactured music, and yet...The Monkees. I'm sure in a few decades another person will be expressing the same guilt complex over n*sync.

Alas, I do not own any Monkees music. I resolve to remedy this today at lunch. If Borders has it (hey, they're close) I shall purchase the eponymous album, which contains the following song:

You know my girl just called me up
And she woke me from my sleep
You should have heard the things she said
You know she hurt my feelings deep.
I'm gonna buy me a dog [A dog, a dog! Why?]
'Cause I need a friend now. [Say, you need all the friends you can get]
I'm gonna buy me a dog,
My girl, my girl, don't love me no how.

She used to bring me my newspaper
'Cause she knew where it was at.
She used to keep me so contented.
But I can teach a dog to do that.
I'm gonna buy me a dog,
'Cause I need a friend now
I'm gonna buy me a dog,
My girl, my girl, don't love me no how.

Crappity crap crap. When did this happen? I was going to show someone the cool catherders commercial to find the site dead. For some reason, I thought they had mondo corporate sponsorship. I mean, wouldn't that make sense?

Sigh.

I hope they come back soon.

Oh, not really.

A while ago, I gave JR access to my Movable Type setup so he could poke around and see if he liked it. When he was done, I deleted him. Then today Blogger was being a big butthead and he had something important to put up, so I took pity and set up his account again. As soon as I did, Blogger was magically better, and he was able to publish to his own site.

I suspect a conspiracy.

This time, I just said heck with it and left his account. He probably won't use it, but just in case you see a strange name (attached to a stranger person) posting, that's what up.

JR my elf ho.

It's over two hours long and those hours would be better spent in a Turkish Prison. Best. Slam. Ever.

The Shuttlecocks review Vanilla Sky. I loved Open Your Eyes, so I think I'll give this a miss.

The "promo" for 8x8 is up. Okay, it's really an outtake, but I loves me some Pirate Jon. I think I've said this before: I'm really enjoying the process of watching this get made, even if it is from afar. When it's done, I know I'll be flying over for the premiere. And that's more than I'd do for Star Wars.

Inconsiderate: lighting up a cigarette in a mostly-enclosed bus shelter when it's pouring rain outside.

Complete asshole: lighting up a joint in a mostly-enclosed bus shelter when it's pouring rain outside.

I'm a mess of anxiety, waiting to hear from the woman who sold me the dulcimer. I know that I have to return it. There is no getting around a pin that moved through wood like it was putty. I will never be able to tune that machine.

I went over and over it in my head. Was I over tightening? I can't arrive at a yes. I was tuning the string exactly where it should have been tuned, and the pulling began immediately. My first thought was that this was my fault somehow, but it just isn't.

I feel rudderless. I had big plans--even if they were only spending time with the instrument. Especially over the next two long weekends (long weekends are challenging for me). Now this huge hole has been punched in my immediate future.

Grump.

I'm fucked. The dulcimer's wood is too soft--the tuning pegs are pulling! I think whomever made it didn't know what they were doing. Shit, shit, shit. Well, I've learned a lesson. I only hope I can return it.

I've upgraded to MT 1.31. It has nifty lovely things which I shall enjoy playing with.

Have I mentioned yet that I'm very excited about January 19? More than a month away. Waa! I've already chosen my first crush.

10. Hey! Now there's a gift!
9. Well, well, well...
8. Boy, if I had not recently shrunk 2" that would've fit.
7. This is perfect for wearing around the basement.
6. Gosh, I hope this never catches fire! It is fire season though. There are lots of unexplained fires.
5. If the dog buries it, I'll be furious!
4. I love it - but I fear the jealousy it will inspire.
3. Sadly, tomorrow I enter the Federal Witness Protection Program and must leave all my beloved belongings behind.
2. To think - I got this the very year I vowed to give all my gifts to charity.

   and the number one thing to say about a Christmas gift you don't like...
   

1. I really don't deserve this.
   

I was communing with the gods recently when the subject of childhood toys came up. I was jettisoned back to many smiles enjoyed with:

Hippity Hop
Gnip Gnop
Rockem Sockem Robots
Trouble!
Big Wheel

And finally: my brother's train set. I would get in trouble a lot for sneaking into his room and playing with it.

Of course the best toys were the ones we didn't buy. The mountain of mud at the construction site in the field next door. The twin beds right next to each other--we'd strap on pillows and play Belly Busters--points for knocking your opponent on to the bed behind him.

Hmm. I need to go find a mudpuddle...

This brightened my cynical day.

I was re-reading Kathe Koja's Skin tonight. I kept reminding myself that when she wrote it, her characters were not hip, and what they did was far out on the edge. There are still some extreme bits in the book, but much of it has entered mainstream consciousness in the last decade.

I remember when the book came out in the early 90s, a nipple piercing was unheard of in decent circles. Now MTV has made them ordinary. The edge of acceptability has moved, and if not for its age, Skin would be merely another hipster novel.

Links to archives are now neatly down the side at the right. All the old blogger stuff has been imported. It's about time I fixed it--my archives have been half there for a while.

And now, I sleep.

It's here.

I dragged the 4' x 2' box up to my apartment, noting that Jo Ellen (the builder) had undercharged me vastly for postage. Iarla O'Lionaird was on the stereo, and the song playing while I unwrapped had a tension of anticipation. My life's soundtrack is full of synchronicity.

The picture in no way does this instrument justice. It is stunning. She shipped it fully strung, which surprised me. Of course it's ever so slightly out of tune, and I'll be venturing out for a tuner today.

Sometimes a thing has power. This thing is full of ominous promise for me.

What a smashing evening I've had.

Met Anna after work, pasta at the usual place, then off to the piercer's. Anna was to get her labret shortened. I hadn't planned on anything as I was a little low on funds, but by the time we got there, I decided plastic would do. It had been a good week, and I felt like getting more metal in my head. One ring in the left ear (that's all I'll get there), and two in the right, all matching the gauge of my nose. The two on the right are the beginning of a line that will go up...until I run out of ear or decide to stop.

We bussed back downtown to see a movie, singing Jane's Addiction songs and discussing junkies. Amelie was still at the Fox, and when I found out she hadn't seen it, that was that. We came out of the theatre with what I call the "Amelie Effect": stupid grins and a feeling that all is right with the world. I noticed more the second time, and didn't enjoy it any less. What an amazing, amazing flick. We picked up promo cards in the lobby on the way out.

Giggling for 30 minutes while we waited for her bus, we said goodbye with promises to go see LOTR.

My route home along the waterfront is lined with drug dealers--I usually see four or five. They used to completely ignore me. Since I got the ring back in my nose, they approach me, making eye contact. One even tried to strike up a conversation today.

I find this fucking hilarious.

I recently bought two pairs of Chuck Taylors, both manufactured at the new Indonesian plant. I just had to have that cool mottled purple. The verdict: thinner canvas and looser stitches around the tongue. The logo is attached a little differently, and sticks out more, but it still looks secure. I also grabbed a pair of baby blues, and I haven't examined them closely. They may be different. The purples are a specialty color.

On the good side, the fit is the same, which is something that had worried me, and the sole looks the same.

My feet look cool.

There's nothing like writing a song about how overwhelmed and depressed you are and then accidentally dropping the pick into the guitar.

Napkin.org updated. I only check every few months because they tend to be slow, but when a batch goes up...bliss.

Yesterday I received my copy of Wish For Something Better by Sam Brown. I've paged through it over a dozen times already. What a wonderful thing he's made. It leaves me smiling every time I pick it up.

This would make a great gift for a quirky friend. If I could afford it, I'd buy one for everyone who reads this site, because I know darned well you're all quirky. That's why I loves ya.

Did I say buy the book yet? Buy the book.

Got something you want to put on the web, but you don't want everyone's nose in it? Here's the scoop.

While I realize it sounds crazy to put something on the web that you don't want people into, it does happen. I've had the need a couple times myself; I wasn't interested in password protection, but I didn't feel like being Googled.

This is the best page I've found on the subject.

I'm having an anxious, insecure day. There are tears lurking for no reason (no, it isn't that time of the month, so just quit thinking it, butthead). It will probably pass in an hour or so. Strangely, I'm not in a bad mood--it's just a funny feeling.

Came in to work today to a CLEAN desk! I spent a lot of time organizing yesterday, and it is so worth it. I get three times the work done when I'm well organized. The cliche that you don't have time not to organize is true, true, true. I wish I were better about keeping up with it.

Boss is out today. I would be too if I were him. That's how I react to a chewing--I put on a brave face for the day then take the next day off. He'll bounce back.

Sheldon at Bobupandown is innovating the way we use the web. Like the Blogathon, but with a twist, the bobupndown.com penny drive for charity - Dec 12 - Dec 26 2001 emphasises smaller charities that have been neglected in the wake of 911.

It's a fantastic idea. Go get a button and give a few pennies.

The Brunching Shuttlecocks and I disagree for the third time in recorded history. The Self-Made Critic finds nothing spectacular about Ocean's Eleven, Soderbergh's heist flick. Speaking of Heist, this is exactly what I was hoping for when I went to see that movie. Something clever. Something fun. Something stitched together with care and skill.

Ocean's Eleven isn't heavy--in fact it's rated PG-13 (a rating I happen to appreciate), but it is a kick in the pants. Everyone is slick and charming, and the grand scheme leads you step by step, trying to figure out how the heck they're going to get out. Great fun. Go.

I swear I'm here, really. Just got a lot of stuff going on. Work is really, really busy and I'm left exhausted at the end of the day and only want to sit and watch movies. Incidentally, I tried to watch The Golden Bowl last night. I kept looking at the timer on the DVD player to see how much more I had to endure. I gave up after an hour. I may try again tonight--I keep thinking something might happen.

One comment: Jeremy Northam + beard = No.

Dawn wanted me to help her set up one of those mood thingies that I had on my page many moons ago. It took me a while to find it because I couldn't remember the service, but I finally got to the good old imood page, and got her set up. While there I signed in to see if I still have an account. I do. I've been since June, 2000.

My mind amazes me. I mean, it just blows me away sometimes.

About a dozen years ago, I went to a small gallery in downtown Portland, where I saw several things I loved. The gallery is no longer there, but they had a habit of finding things I was in to. That day, in the back corner of the room, I saw a small kandinsky-esque abstract and fell in love. It was painted by a woman in the mid-50s. I stared and stared. I knew I had to remember the name of that artist--something I'm not very good at. I was painting eggs for Christmas ornaments at the time, and I immediately went home and painted a few in her style. I then promptly forgot her name.

Fast forward to ten minutes ago. I'm sitting around thinking about Wayne Thibaud, as is sometimes my habit, when I wished for the billionth time that I could remember the name of that long-ago woman who moved me. In fact, I'll go so far as to credit her with helping me finally love abstract art.

Then it came to me. Apparently she's a local leader in the arts community. Shows ya what I know. Frustratingly I couldn't find any of her actual work on the web. I'll be in Eugene in a few weeks, and shall have to drop by the Center.

Today is a happy day.

Several years ago I had a dream that has haunted me, a dream that changed me in minor but permanent ways.

I was the age I am now, living somewhere in the East, going to college part-time. There I met a beautiful, serious, and much younger man named Jim Chen. He played violin, and I played hammer dulcimer. Together, we sounded fucking incredible. Playing music with him was transcendent. We developed quite a following on campus. Naturally, we became involved. His parents did not approve of me, but I felt I could win them over. This and many, many other details were in the dream, including ex-girlfriends, walks across the campus to dinner, visits to his parents' house--it was epic. I awoke knowing two things: Asian guys are hot, and I had to have a hammer dulcimer.

I put it off, but the desire for the dulcimer wouldn't go away. I told myself it was frivolous, and that I couldn't afford it. I told myself I'd tire of it after a few weeks. But if that's true, why won't the ache go away?

Now I'll find out for sure.

I'm excited, not just because I'm getting a dulcimer, but because it feels like I'm turning a key. I can't wait to see where this door leads.

Floating through the nightlit city, high and uptight; good, but with a spiny ball of anxiety lodged in my belly. It jumps to my heart at intervals, and I think: I want something. I want someone. Peering in the depths of the dimmed music shop, a thing isn't there. Something for my project. Zooming back to the bookstore on senseless feet, finding what to read, what to watch. Then home. In ten minutes, I'll be home in my head.

I will now prove myself an utter curmudgeon. Imagine!

I have seen Harry Potter and I declare it: TRIPE.

Because I have heard the movie is faithful to the book (which I shall not read), and because otherwise the movie was competently executed, I rest my verdict squarely on the shoulders of JK Rowling.

Rowling is a student of the Move Along, No Substance Here (MANSH) school of writing, of which Anne McCaffrey is the maven. The rules of MANSH:

1. It shall be established early in the story that our hero shall never be placed in real peril, removing any sense of danger.
   
2. Our hero is Special.
   
3. Our hero doesn't does not make mistakes. When our hero makes what might be perceived as a mistake, it is turned to his or her advantage.
   
4. Our hero must never face disappointment.
   
5. Character development must never exceed one dimension.
   

Where do you fall on the Political Compass? I'm down in the lower-left quadrant with the leftie libertarians. My score:

Economic Left/Right: -4.63
Authoritarian/Libertarian: -7.18

Anyone who knows me knows that I've been opposed to having children almost all of my life. Here is my short list of reasons why:

1. There are too many humans on the planet.
   
2. I'd be a bad mother.
   
3. I have crappy genes.
   
4. My experience of motherhood is that it ruins women's lives.
   
5. Children are loud (yeah, that's a reason for me).
   
6. I value my privacy too much.
   

First off, I'm betting a lot of people think my attitude towards children comes from complete ignorance. It doesn't. As a teen, I was very, very involved with raising my three oldest nephews; often to the tune of twelve hours a day. I watched, I nursed, I taught, I played mother in every way. In all my time with those boys, I only blew up once; I felt horrible and, when he was old enough to understand, I sincerely apologized to my nephew.

But it got me thinking. I was a teenager, and I blew up once. Once. The rest of the time, I did pretty well. This was at an age when patience was a foreign country.

One memory in particular: my oldest nephew, Mike, often had trouble sleeping when he was about a year old. I can't count the nights I took him out of his crib and paced the livingroom until my arms ached, waiting for him to calm down and fall asleep. My father would watch me with one of his few loving looks and remark what a wonderful mother I was going to make someday.

I think I might have hated that remark, but like the time he told me I looked better in short hair (I immediately grew it out), he was right. I can't look at anything in my history that indicates I'd be a bad mother. Considering I've developed a huge amount of patience in my old age, I imagine quite the opposite is true.

So one of my reasons is gone.

No, I'm not running out and getting pregnant, but it's important I tell the truth to myself; and that was certainly a lie worth letting go.

While I'm at it, I've learned that #5 & #6 no longer apply either. Yes, children are still loud, but I've grown to the point where it's not an issue. As for privacy, another thing I've learned is that there are ways to work things out. There really are--it isn't black and white.

#4 is a personal issue that I have to face. Not because I'm planning on a family (don't you love all my caveats?), but because I know intellectually that this false, and I think it's a damaging attitude.

I suspect I'll be ruminating more on this later.

Jerwin has a fantastic new design. Conceptually, it's something I'll steal from later. The way he's packaged his extra content is zippy and easy to use.

Take that, you white-sheet designers! Except for Mena of course, because she's the shiznit.

No, I'm not referring to Oprah's magazine.

I was talking with a friend about my neighbor's (hi Nadia!) incredibly loud sex, when the subject came up. You know the one. Throughout time immemorial, this subject has been a mainstay of male/female friendships the world over:

Faking it.

My personal experience is this: without love, the chances for orgasm are slim and none. Because I was in a loveless marriage once, I had to fake it if I were to have any hope of getting the bastard off of me. Sometimes you do what you have to; but never again did I subject myself to loveless sex. Okay, one more time, but that was brief, and he was good with his hands. Er, moving right along...

We sort of came to the conclusion that affection and emotional honesty preclude any need for faking it. Sex is not football, and expressing physical love is not about getting a touchdown. I say "sort of" because between the two of us we have less knowledge of the subject than some teenagers I know. Well, promiscuous teenagers.

Here are the questions we cannot answer alone (yes, this is a plea for help, and no, I don't care if you lie about your name in the comments):

1. Is there ever a reason to fake an orgasm in a loving relationship?
   
2. Have you faked? Why?
   
3. How do you tell if someone is faking?

Today's list of good things:

1. Friends who'll go to a movie with you when you're down.
   
2. A fun job.
   
3. Cookies with everything in them.
   
4. Someone on the phone asking what you're listening to because they like it.
   
5. A high river.
   
6. A neighbor having loud sex (okay, that's not always good, but I'm happy for her).
   
7. Candles.

A funny thing happened on the way to the forum.

Yesterday I was having one of my infamous (and festive!) pity parties, ruminating on the terrible conflagration that is My Life, when a Walter Cronkite voice in the back of my head said: "Yes...how tragic." I blew out a couple of laughs--the thought came so suddenly it cracked me up. Since then, Walter has been back there with his quip, helping me keep perspective.

When he stops working, I think I'll try Jar-Jar Binks. "Yes! How twagic!"

Contrary to popular Western belief, Akira Kurosawa is not the only Japanese master of film.

Set in a labor camp of 1943 Japan, Human Condition I: No Greater Love(1959) is the first of the WWII trilogy of Masaki Kobayashi.

Kobayashi places a humanist, Kaji (brilliantly played by the striking Tatsuya Nakadai), in charge of the workforce at a labor camp. Believing that all humans should be treated with dignity, he is immediately faced with the conflict of his position, and the impossible task of working within the system to change it. Again and again, his dedication to principle is tested, often brutally.

In addition, Kaji is a newlywed. His new wife, Machiko (Michiyo Aratama) struggles to make her marriage work, but does so by being more of a wife--when the answer is to engage her husband as a human.

Slow in parts but always emotionally riveting, No Greater Love is a film to see for two reasons: the above-mentioned performance of Tatsuya Nakadai, and the starkly stunning camera work of Yoshio Miyajima. The utterly barren landscape of a strip mine wrings out all hope for shelter in nature--there is no nature here, and the eye is left longing for the only light; the human light.

This is a long haul: two installments total three hours. The entire trilogy is more than nine. Watch in bits and pieces if necessary (I certainly had to), but do watch.

Hello, hello

Are you out there?
M.O.D. are you out there?
I can't see your face
But you left a trace on a data back-road
That I almost erased
Not even God takes this long to get back
So get back
'Cause I hit a fork in the road
I lost my way home
I'm cut off from out main line
Like a disconnected modem

Hello
Tap in the code
I'll reach you below
No one should brave the underworld alone
Hello, hello, hello
How do I reach you?

Word has it on the wire
That you don't who you are
Well if you could jack into my brain
You'd know exactly what you mean here
Mothers are trails on stars in the night
Fathers are black holes that suck up the light
That's the memory I filed on the fringe
Along with the memory of the pain you lived in
Hello

I don't have the password
But the path is chainlinked
So if you've got the time
Set up the tone to sync
Tap in the code
I'll reach you below

Hello, hello
Are you out there?

What I should be able to say:

"Hey Boss, I'm having a depressive flare-up and I need to stay home, take meds, and do some things to pull out. I'll mess something up if I come in today."

What I'll have to say:

"I'm sick."

No, this isn't a "poor Kitty is depressed" entry. It is a genuine frustration of mine that the truth cannot be told. Would you believe I actually tried at one job? This was many years ago, when I was so sick I was on family medical leave (boy howdy am I glad those days are over), so it was a little more obvious and my employer had to know. Needless to say, it backfired.

It isn't like I take a ton of days for this; I don't. The point is that in our society, any kind of mental illness (gah, even I loathe the phrase) is perceived as weak. Yo, 'topia readers, do I seem weak to you?? Didn't think so. I have a chronic illness that over many years of struggle has become much, much better. The ups and downs I chronicle here are nothing compared to the disease in my 20s, and rarely require me to take a time out. I happen to think what I've done is an amazing feat, and I'm damned proud of myself.

But if I tell...weak.

So screw that. I'll just tell him I'm sick.

In modern film I've come to expect anti-heroes. People who don't necessarily do the right thing; flawed but human. Dersu Uzala, based upon the journals of Russian Captain Vladimir Arseniev, reminds us that humans can be basically good, and walk through life doing the right thing no matter how difficult.

Dersu is the story of a Goldi (Nanai) hunter who acts as guide for the explorer and his men. Nature is a character in the film, portrayed as beautiful, treacherous, and of a certain intelligence. She is dangerously indifferent to the party, but Dersu has lived with her for decades, and knows exactly what to do to survive. It is not a passive relationship; rather, Dersu daily makes supreme effort to maintain his life.

Yet another Kurosawa masterpiece, the film maintains a quiet but engrossing pace. Despite what must have been a grueling location shoot, nothing is out of place in the frame. Relationships between men, trees, rivers, wind, all precisely expressed. I kept watching and thinking to myself: "How long did he wait for that shot??" The images left by this film will remain for a long time.

When I'm disappointed in a book, my first response is to chuck it angrily at a wastebasket, payback for having stolen my time. I'm glad I slept on that idea, because though I was left nonplused and unenriched by Mark Z. Danielewski's House of Leaves, there are a couple things worth discussing.

In House, the author attempts to bind the form of the novel to the story. His apparent goal is to draw the reader into the story more deeply, leaving them in disarray even as the subject leaves the characters. To attempt such a thing is admirable, and his failure is a pity.

What emerged from the attempt was a book full of too-obvious gimmickry that never lets you forget you are reading a creation of The Great Mark Z. Danielewski. It is literary masturbation. If the purpose of writing is to tell a story (perhaps not the only purpose, but certainly the most obvious), Danielewski misses the mark by constantly jarring us--not more deeply into the tale--but out of it.

The volume is not meritless. Written in layers, the interlocking stories themselves are intentionally contrasting and deeply interesting. If given fewer interruptions, it would have been an engrossing narrative, even despite a boatload of irritating misogyny. The section of letters from Truant's mother are layered within the text itself, a palimpsest of sorts, creating an emotional rythm both astonishing and beautifully crafted.

As much as I disliked the book personally, surprisingly I would not steer people away from it--I would merely warn them that this is not something to sit down and enjoy. House of Leaves is an intellectual exercise; a puzzle-book where every few pages you are presented with a new item to fit into context. It's a slog that, for me, was ultimately unrewarding because I didn't want a puzzle-book I didn't want to roll my eyes and struggle through another obtrusive bit of trickery. I just wanted a good read.

PS: A footnote (HA, I kill myself)--Danielewski is brother to one of my favorite musicians, Poe, and her album Haunted is based on this book. Unlike the book, the album is a treasure.

You know that one person in your life that you call every day? The one you share all the little stuff with? And the big stuff, for that matter. Not only that, but you're there for them as well--it isn't one way.

I don't have that. Haven't for years. No, I'm not looking for sympathy. This entry is officially Writing for Myself. I just need to work some things out in my head. I haven't had a human touchstone for years. When I say years, I mean a lot of them. I think after a while it makes you a little insane.

I've tried to build friendships. I think I probably get too needy. I don't want to be needy--I also want to be needed. But when I tell my friends my troubles, I'm dumping. I know it, and I find it intolerable. Yeah, yeah, now I'm gonna get a bunch of calls/emails from people saying: "you can talk to me any time!" Okay, but can you talk to me? That's what a touchstone is.

And right now I should specify that I do, in fact, have this relationship with a couple people via email. You know who you are, and I love you very much. I'm glad and grateful for you.

But you aren't here.

Fatal admission: I'm really fucking lonely right now. I suspect I'm going to regret this entry tomorrow. I wish I were drunk, so I would have a good excuse. Wow, the things I would write if I drank! Now that would make for an entertaining blog.

Not entertaining tonight. Just depressing. Sorry everyone. I'll bounce back. Ya know I always do.