son of man! turn your ear.

jesus. i think the new boards of canada is the best thing i've ever heard.

music: Campfire Headphase

word of the day: feuillemorte

because I was looking up: filemot (FIL-mot) noun, adjective

The color of a dead or faded leaf: dull brown or yellowish brown.

[From the corruption of the French term feuillemorte, from feuille (leaf) + morte (dead). Ultimately from Indo-European root bhel- (to thrive or bloom) that gave us flower, bleed, bless, foliage, blossom, and blade.]

the music is: Faure, Requiem

thoughts rearrange, familiar now strange

Movie night! H's friend Megan came up yesterday and so we gathered up Braden and went to see Jim Jarmusch's latest, Broken Flowers. Now, if you read the reviews you get burdened with the anticipation of a disappointing ending; I found the ending not the least bit disappointing, nor did I find the movie "depressing," in fact it had a very pervasive (if subtle) underlying humor. If I had to genre-fy it I'd call it a funny mystery, not a comedy, not a drama; definitely a road movie. The main attraction of course is Bill Murray, although even his shimmering genius only somewhat overshadows the just great filmmaking; Braden pointed out that some of the shots have a feel like Kurosawa, and one definitely does get the same feeling of quiet introspection as exposition. Anyway, I'd say it has the best soundtrack at least since Lost in Translation. The Mulatu Astatke alone is worth the price of admission. Bottom line, 5/5 tentacles, but it's only a theater movie if you like the experience of the small independant venues which for now exclusively show the film. Which, yeah, I do.

music: Greenhornes with Holly Golightly, There Is an End from the sdtrk.

dude. bluh.

I have tons to post, but turns out I'm getting sick. Naptime instead. News to come. Also, tomorrow is the one-year mark for H & I. Yay!

it's: Don Giovanni

the porn was of middling quality

Yesterday we were driving back home from something and passed a 7-eleven, and Hava suddenly remembered her friend's Playboy engagement - so of course we stopped and picked one up. Which is to say, she handed me her debit card and asked me to procure said magazine from the gentleman behind the counter. At first I resisted the responsibility, because I didn't understand why it would be less awkward for me to buy porn; on the way home, she cleared the whole thing up for me, in one concise phrase: "buying same-sex porn definitely doesn't make it less awkward."

music: Marvin Gaye, I Want You

diary of a drug fiend

Not because it's what comics scripts are like, but because it's what Alan Moore is like - check this out, which is the script for this.

music: Sons & Daughters, Love the Cup

the gashleycrumb... awesomes?

Edward Gorey, by Troy Nixey

musick: Paavoharju, Yhä hämärää

okay, so it's links day

Has anyone seen these? I want them intensely like a crazy person.

Edison Hate Future archive. (scroll down a bit)

And finally by using this, I found out Bellingham has almost exactly as many African-Americans as Puyallup: about 140.

music: Silent Alarm Remixed

it's tough being king of the world

current music: Bloc Party, Price of Gas

the sexiest photo ever taken

as ye sow, so shall ye reap free music

Yesterday I got a horrible sinking feeling as I discovered my "new great music!" directory, which consists of all mp3's I've downloaded since roughly June of last year, was corrupted. Well, I told myself, it's not like I paid for those albums - I probably deserve it. But among those 26G there was so much rare (or, cough, expensive) music... 2 Morrissey singles box sets, Tom Waits Scarecrows & Hummingbirds box, the Beck Elliott Smith memorial, and all my John Zorn, not to mention my overloaded single-song directory. What a waste.

Well anyway today I restarted my computer, and a screen came up I'd never seen before, the XP Chkdsk utility. As it happened, while we were down in Seattle for the funeral our power flickered, which must have interrupted a download or screwed up some internal checksum. Anyway it's all fixed now, and all my stolen watermelon tastes better than ever.

music: Fantômas, Kenneth Anger Tribute

Fallen Prices (Well... Cornelsons, really)

Last weekend there was a funeral for one of my father's uncles in Seattle, so Hava & I packed up and headed south, prepared for her to meet the entire Price clan. It was only the second funeral I'd ever been to, after Sabrina's in high school which I helped Mike film. Strange things, funerals. Especially this one, especially now. I've lived so long away from organized religion, and the deceased in question (Jim Cornelson) was in fact a minister, spent 40 years doing same in Korea, and had written & planned his own funerary service. Back in the religious context of my childhood again (fundi-Xtian via Mennonite), forgotten feelings came back as though foreign. Certain family members even act as symbols of my repression, for example, my Aunt who never swears. Anyway, it was a good occasion to re-examine my relationship with "the church," even if that just means being more aware of how it shaped my personality. I was reading Rilke's "Letters to a Young Poet" the other day (recommended read), and in one of them, (6?) he chastises the eponymous poet for rejecting religion because he realized the ideas of his childhood were based on a worldview too simple to hold water. The movie Dogma brings up the same idea in a similar metaphor, a glass of water: when you're young your glass is smaller and it takes less to fill. My relationship with religion now is anthropological, though I harbor a more personal view of spirituality. I am not without faith; but it is tempered and moulded by some pretty intense Socratic skepticism. And that's an entirely different post; suffice it to say, funerals make for great mirrors.

And all this religion business is bedrock - funerals are the quintessential function of religion. The issue is how we deal with death. It's funny, but during the service, I kept thinking about my funeral, and how I wouldn't want it to be anything like it - no hymns, no flowers, no crying, certainly no $5k casket - but then, is the funeral for me, or for those who knew me? It seems from a Christian perspective [note: can't say "the"] that the wishes of the deceased should be honored as though they were watching from heaven. I'm struggling with how to gauge the efficacy of my preferred funeral, where folks are seated during a performance of the Adagio Sostenuto from Beethoven's 29th Sonata, then gradually progress from that somber music into drunken revelry & remembrance, sorta like an Irish wake. Hm.

Photo gallery here.

the music: Sigur Ros, Takk

From/for purveyors of home videography

we can't stop here - this is bat country

[stolen shamelessly from WarrenEllis.com]
A February 16 note may be Hunter Thompson’s final written words. It reads:

“No More Games. No More Bombs. No More Walking. No More Fun. No More Swimming. 67. That is 17 years past 50. 17 more than I needed or wanted. Boring. I am always bitchy. No Fun — for anybody. 67. You are getting Greedy. Act your old age. Relax — This won’t hurt.”

Hunter left the note for his wife, Anita. He shot himself four days later at his home in Aspen, Colorado, after weeks of pain from a host of physical problems that included a broken leg and a hip replacement.

Written in black marker, the note was titled, “Football Season Is Over.”

(something about mixing your liquors)

If I were independantly wealthy, I think I might throw a huge party involving the following beverages:



- just because people would probably remember that party. Or else forget it completely... and aren't those equally valuable? Oh, and I'd definitely involve a video camera of some kind.

music: Miles Davis, In a Silent Way Sessions

nothing to report, sir

Yesterday was a very productive day: both H & I had the day off, and after a rough morning at Costco (no, there's no other kind) we went over to the public library, where we discovered 4-5 shelves of free books. Usually these kinds of things are filled with crap, but not yesterday...





Goldmine! Afterwards we went and saw 40-Year Old Virgin, which was actually really funny. In fact, probably the best comedy I've seen in a theater in years; Steve Carrell's zany comic stylings (slightly-too-cheerful naivete, subconsciously-noted possible serial killer), cause him to stand out in a marketplace saturated by high-concept comedies and "isn't this awkward" meet-the-family sit-com-movies. Then we rounded out the day with some food-court Ivar's. God I love Ivar's. We spent all our hyphens at Ivar's.

Then this morning for about half an hour there was a helicopter hovering over the water outside our window. No idea why.



Ok.

music: Serena Maneesh, Fixxations EP

today's poem

ON A DROP OF DEW

by: Andrew Marvell (1621-1678)

See how the orient dew
Shed from the bosom of the Morn
Into the blowing roses,
Yet careless of its mansion new,
For the clear region where ’twas born,
Round in its self incloses:
And in its little globe’s extent
Frames, as it can, its native element.
How it the purple flow’r does slight,
Scarce touching where it lyes,
But gazing back upon the skies,
Shines with a mournful light,
Like its own tear,
Because so long divided from the sphere.
Restless it roules, and unsecure,
Trembling, lest it grow impure;
Till the warm sun pitty its pain
And to the skies exhale it back again.
So the soul, that drop, that ray,
Of the clear fountain of eternal day,
(Could it within the humane flow’r be seen)
Rememb’ring still its former height,
Shuns the sweat leaves and blossoms green,
And, recollecting its own light,
Does in its pure and circling thoughts express
The greater heaven in an heaven less.
In how coy a figure wound,
Every way it turns away;
(So the world-excluding round)
Yet receiving in the day.
Dark beneath, but bright above,
Here disdaining, there in love.
How loose and easie hence to go;
How girt and ready to ascend;
Moving but on a point below,
It all about does upwards bend.
Such did the manna’s sacred dew destil,
White and intire, though congeal’d and chill;
Congeal’d on Earth; but does, dissolving, run
Into the glories of th’ almighty sun.

just in time for school...

I've finally decided to take the time to learn to play a Paradox game (what, my fifth attempted?): Hearts of Iron 2. My God, what have I done? It's so fun so far, though!

Yeah, I was just sitting around reading Rilke and it hit me - the desire to play games. Gotta feed that one. Avoid burnout.

and they gathered themselves in a place called...

Oh holy crap.