I didn't even know footage of Neal Cassady existed, but there he is in three clips on YouTube from part of an Allen Ginsberg documentary. Here's my favourite;



Suddenly Obama's pastor doesn't seem so special, huh?

I think I was sick on Friday. Barely any sleep, and I'm not very hungry, even though I haven't eaten since 11pm (it's now 5am). Currently trying to force down some spaghetti . . .

EDIT: I sure hope Atlanta's going to be okay. And the people in it.

It's weird how certain things tend to repeatedly crop up in my viewscreen. Like when Keith Olbermann quoted King Lear in one of his special comments a little while ago;



Of course, as Olbermann notes, just because someone finds a pattern in something, doesn't mean there's an intelligence on the other side of the table intentionally making the pattern. Still, I like entertaining these patterns sometimes, creating, I guess, recurring themes in how I perceive the world. It was on February 13th that I found, on YouTube, the clip from a production of King Lear featuring Laurence Olivier and John Hurt after doing a search for "King Lear". And it was just this past Wednesday that I read the first two Acts for class.

This incident with Geraldine Ferraro shows the sort of bludgeoning rhetoric that seems to've infected Hilary Clinton's campaign lately. A lot of it seems to come from a, sadly, somewhat common, misguided conception of feminism that sees it as a name for a team locked in eternal combat for supremacy against Men. I mentioned to someone a few days ago how I thought Hilary Clinton was beginning to slightly resemble The Joker, and the person I was talking to quickly replied that men often feel uncomfortable with women in power, as though I'd suggested what Clinton needed was a fainting room and smelling salts.

I'm turning over in my head whether or not I think the King Lear quote is apropos. "That way madness lies," is much more beautiful within the play, and is prompted by a more interesting set of emotions and lines of thought. After having been turned out of the homes of two of his daughters, Regan and Goneril, and learning how little they love him, Lear wanders, unsheltered, in a storm and says;

"No, I will weep no more. In such a night
To shut me out! Pour on; I will endure.
In such a night as this! O Regan, Goneril!
Your old kind father, whose frank heart gave all--
O, that way madness lies; let me shun that;
No more of that."

The madness he speaks of is in working to solve deep problems that have no solutions--though, of course, he does need to deal with these problems, eventually. He has misjudged the characters of his daughters, apparently for the entirety of their lives. He had allowed himself to love them when his love was never returned. Dwelling on this could only serve to constantly remind him that what was most important to him--the love he depended on--wasn't real. There's the hurt pride, that his judgment was so flawed, and the narcissistic love test from the beginning of the play was so poorly considered. But the worst part is being reduced to nothing, and having to assemble his perceptions of the universe anew.

That word, "nothing," has, as is observed in the textbook's footnotes, a lot of significance in King Lear. After the flattery Regan and Goneril heap on Lear, the single word resounds quite strikingly;

LEAR: . . . what can you say to draw a third more opulent than your sisters? Speak.

CORDELIA: Nothing, my lord.

LEAR: Nothing?

CORDELIA: Nothing.

LEAR: Nothing will come of nothing, speak again.

CORDELIA: Unhappy that I am, I cannot heave
My heart into my mouth. I love your majesty
According to my bond, no more nor less.

LEAR: How, how, Cordelia! mend your speech a little,
Lest it may mar your fortunes.

CORDELIA: Good my lord,
You have begot me, bred me, loved me; I
Return those duties back as are right fit,
Obey you, love you, and most honour you.
Why have my sisters husbands, if they say
They love you all? Haply, when I shall wed,
That lord whose hand must take my plight shall carry
Half my love with him, half my care and duty.
Sure, I shall never marry like my sisters,
To love my father all.


In class discussion, the teacher actually suggested it might have been better for Cordelia to mince words, to placate her father's ego to spare his feelings. The teacher asked, by show of hands, how many in the class thought it was better to lie to a loved one than to potentially hurt their feelings--which of course reminded me of the Enigma Kat's recent poll. Responses are pretty evenly divided in the Kat's poll, but I was one of only two people in class who raised his hand to say one should not lie to spare a loved one's feelings.

The point Cordelia makes is one of simple logic; if Regan's and Goneril's hearts are entirely devoted to Lear, then why are they married? Of course, Regan and Goneril were obviously lying, and Cordelia figures to do the same would be to insult Lear's intelligence. Lear either accepted the lies because he enjoys feeling superior to such obvious bollocks, which would inevitably be a lonely state of mind, or he is genuinely blinded, as, in fact, turns out to be the case.

That the play ends unhappily is not, I think, an indication that Shakespeare feels it's better to be dishonest with loved ones. I think rather the point is that enlightenment has intrinsic value. As Edgar says at the end;

"The weight of this sad time we must obey;
Speak what we feel, not what we ought say.
The oldest hath borne most; we that are young
Shall never see so much, nor live so long."

Shakespeare knows that to reward the characters with a happy ending would be shallow and to shift the focus.* Lear is a greater man in our eyes after his fall than he was at the beginning of the play.

I must admit, if I lie to someone, it is always out of disrespect. It means I think it's better to manipulate them than to have a meeting of the minds. Obviously, I'm not in the majority on this view, but I must say I have some trouble understanding the opposite opinion, though I respect my friends who hold it, since I'm fully aware of the fact that I'm not all-wise (believe it or not).

Anyway. The past couple of days have been extremely full. On Wednesday, I received my copy of Caitlin R. Kiernan's Tales of Pain and Wonder, third edition, which I'd completely forgotten that I'd preordered several months ago. I even got one of the signed editions with the nifty Tails of Tales of Pain and Wonder. The book itself is hardback and has an absolutely gorgeous cover.


*I only wish the writers of Knights of the Old Republic were half as wise. I beat the game last night, and I actually was supposed to convert a character back to the light side by beating her into submission. Sigh.

Here's something from 1943 (you can tell I like the 40s, huh?). One of the few where Donald's a winner. Sort of.

Because Robyn's feet smell like Christmas, I figured I oughta post this. If you're like me, you saw this at least 80 times, every Christmas, when you were growing up.



And here's Bjork, featuring a man with the very serious job of walking in snow;

Just woke up moments ago--I think I'll write down my dream.

I was in some kind of hilly, greenish area, at a high altitude with a lot of complicated roads, sort of resembling Princess Toadstool's course from Mario Kart 64. I was talking with a stern, female impresario who wanted me to be Claire Danes' understudy in a ballet. Claire Danes didn't really know how to dance, which made me perfect, apparently, because not only did I not know how to dance, I looked nothing like Claire Danes. I started to stress a little about being in shape.

But I was distracted because, nearby, on an enormous drive-in screen, a strange version of Pulp Fiction was playing. Jules was wearing his suit and was in a diner booth with Tom Roth's character, "Ringo". Jules was talking excitedly about something, and he had an English accent for some reason.

The impresario was done with me, so I wandered until I came across a pond. I looked at my reflection and asked, "How could I possibly be Claire Danes' understudy?" Then, behind me, I heard muffled, high pitched chanting. I turned around, and there was a row of wooden, Japanese dolls, held up by a single rope drawn between two hills. Above was an enormous, ancient stone bridge. There were red paper lanterns, and a slightly smaller screen than the one I saw earlier, but it was showing the odd Pulp Fiction in its proper aspect ratio (unlike the other screen I saw). It was a close up of Jules' face, and he was trying to explain something that was really important to him.

Without seeing him, I knew somehow that the proprietor of this, er, nook, was an old man to whom movies were extremely important.

Then I woke up.

I got an 87 (out of a hundred) on the in-class midterm, and the teacher complimented my writing, telling me I lacked only enough quotes from the text. So, maybe he's not such a bad guy. He likes my writing. Angels and ministers of grace nothing, it's my ego that'll preserve us.

And we're doing King Lear next. Hello, fond briar patch. My copy of the version with Laurence Olivier and John Hurt came in the mail a couple weeks ago, too, and it's fabulous. So I shall enjoy some whiskey to-night.

I finally downloaded Winamp a couple days ago to replace the copy I lost on the hard drive that died last year. I was reluctant to download it, because I knew it would never be the same as my ancient version number with the Gendo Ikari skin I downloaded from gods know where in 2000 or 2001. And because Apple is a police state, I can't transfer my old collection of mp3s off my iPod and onto the computer. My good old collection, that came together slowly over more than five years from sundry sources, never amounting to more than a thousand files, but having a special flavour and personality all its own. Now, of course, I probably have at least two thousand mp3s from the past couple weeks alone, but it's just not the same, man.

This new Winamp isn't bad, though, especially since it lets me switch to "classic" mode, and at least I don't have to deal with iTunes anymore and the soft spots in its skull.

Anyway, here's some more music; four videos. Spot the hidden Melora Creagor!

The second episode of School Rumble;



And here's a song I'd like to get out of my head;

This series is easy to underestimate. It looks kind of cheap, but in retrospect, I realise it never missed a beat. When it ended after two seasons, I was sorry for taking it for granted. This is the first episode;



Looks like I'll sink or swim with just the two pages. Oh, well. The paper's only 20% of my grade SIGH.

I managed to add exactly one paragraph to my paper last night. It now stands at two pages (or 532 words, for the grown-ups in the audience). I just don't know what else I could possibly say.

I also have to read Philip Sidney's The Defence of Poesy to-day. At least I have Atomic Fireballs this time, though I'll hold off on those 'til I've finished my tea.

I've downloaded every Ramones album to-day. I haven't even finished listening to all the Led Zeppelin albums, not to mention all the Chuck Berry I downloaded, though in Berry's case I accidentally downloaded a bunch of collections. Generally speaking, I hate collections, but it's even sillier in this case as it means I have several folders with the same mp3s in different orders.

Digging the Ramones so far . . .

Remember that paper that was due last week? Well, I was rather pleased with the page and a half I wrote, especially since the four prompts I had to choose from were each awesomely dull. Yes! These are them;

Consider the role of women in Sir Gawain and the Green Knight. In what ways are women represented differently than in heroic tales such a Beowulf? What do women’s roles in this tale suggest about the ideals of the Medieval Romance?

Consider the role of Monsters in Beowulf. In what ways do they serve the purpose of this Christian era tale? In what ways might they undermine the Christian values of the text?

Consider the critique of religious corruption, or of courtly love in the Miller’s Tale. Explain the importance of “God’s Privetee” in the Miller’s “quiting” of the Knight.

In a discussion of either Julian of Norwich’s “Showings,” or of the Book of Margery Kemp[sic], discuss the ways in which the author uses and extends the notion of “affective piety” in order to empower women spiritually and/or socially.

See what I mean about this guy trying to shoehorn discussions on feminism into the class? I mean, sure it's a valid topic, but given the limited amount of time with which we have to discuss British Literature from Beowulf to Thomas Gray, you'd think there wouldn't be room for feminism to take up fifty percent of the midterm prompts.

But, obviously, there's not a lot of imagination at work in these prompts. And here's the kicker--the paper I wrote, which was a page and a half, is too short. The teacher had forgotten to specify length, so while everyone who turned it in on Thursday gets credit, a lot of us have to pad our papers out to five and a half pages. How the hell am I supposed to wring four more pages out of this thing? I chose number four, by the way, and Julian of Norwich. A page and a half was all I needed to discuss how The Book of Showings used affective piety to break barriers for women writers. It's done.

Though, incidentally, he's the one who told us about how affective piety was used by these writers to expand their turfs as women. It's his argument he wants echoed back at him, just like all the other prompts are either about his arguments or points made by the text book. Except I have four pages of padding to do, which inevitably can't communicate anything except, "Yes, I read it, yes, I was listening, yes, I read it, yes, I was listening." Which, I know, I know, is obviously going to be the point, except I find writing about the things I want to write about difficult enough. I find it almost impossible to write shit on purpose. I need an angle, or I'm just Piggy's brains on the rocks.

The Beowulf question might have been a little more interesting, except Beowulf was reminding me too much of Caitlin. Though--would you believe it--I'm mainly beating my brains out about Sonya lately. We had such a good rapport, why'd she have to--

No, must stop. It's no good, puzzling over things with no answers. Best to look for soluble problems elsewhere, as Morteirmiru said. Morteirmiru who ran off with Sonya.

I guess that's as good an explanation as any. I suppose it'll have to do, anyway.

On a more positive note, I downloaded every Led Zeppelin album to-day. I normally don't like to listen to music with lyrics while I write, especially lyrics I haven't heard before, but I have a feeling what I'm going to be writing is going to be so vapid it won't matter. I wish I had some Atomic Fireballs . . .

Another Elvis Costello album for Moira, Armed Forces this time;

1. Accidents Will Happen
2. Senior Service
3. Oliver's Army
4. Big Boys
5. Green Shirt
6. Party Girl
7. Goon Squad
8. Busy Bodies
9. Sunday's Best
10. Moods for Moderns
11. Chemistry Class
12. Two Little Hitlers
13. (What's So Funny 'Bout) Peace, Love, and Understanding?



The past couple of days I've been writing about religious persecution, mischievous faeries, and agriculture. I think at this rate, I'll be done with the necessary background material in a month and a half. Maybe. I'm kind of at a point where I feel I must admit to myself I'm writing my own Silmarillion. I honestly have tried to scale back to just the material I know I'll need for the comic. But I can't help it--there's just too much I want to know. I swear it'll all be sincerely bonus material. You won't have to take a course to understand the comic.

I actually managed to get up at 12:30 on Saturday. This follows Friday when even I was amazed that I managed to sleep past 5pm. My spirit animal may be a pet rock.

I was bringing the trash cans up from the curb just before leaving for class when I met a pretty, short haired white cat. She (I'm guessing it's a she since that's how she'd be cast in a Disney movie) was on the fence between houses and started to run away when the big trash cans I brought up scraped loudly against the concrete. But she stopped and watched me, and I noticed she looked slightly cross-eyed. I stood still and silent, and we watched each other for a few moments. Her eyelids finally started to droop, so I stepped closer. She immediately back away, but then walked back towards me a little, her nose twitching. She never let me pet her--it might have happened if I'd had a lot more time to just stand silently with her--but she seemed to grow accustomed to my proximity. I like friendly cats, but there's something to be said for the cautious ones, especially if my grandmother notices her hanging around and tells the gardener to kill her.

I can't overstate how much I miss my aunt's cats. Their absence makes me feel like I have a chemical imbalance. Everything feels very, very unnatural.

I didn't actually go straight to class--I had to read Shakespeare's sonnets and eat breakfast first, and I did both at the same time at Starbucks. I've read the sonnets before, but it was years ago, and I don't think they ever impacted me as much as they did to-day. It was also amusing to see how many good Christians in the class seemed upset by the idea that Shakespeare might have been in love with a man.

I feel like I oughta post one, but it's hard to decide which. Here's 23;

As an unperfect actor on the stage
Who with his fear is put besides his part,
Or some fierce thing replete with too much rage
Whose strength's abundance weakens his own heart,
So I, for fear of trust, forget to say
The perfect ceremony of love's rite.
And in mine own love's strength seem to decay,
O'er-charged with burden of mine own love's might.
O let my books be then the eloquence
And dumb presagers of my speaking breast,
Who plead for love, and look for recompense
More than that tongue that more hath more expressed.
O learn to read what silent love hath writ;
To hear with eyes belongs to love's fine wit.


And here's another Smiths video, one directed by Derek Jarman, whom Robyn and Moira have recently told me about;

The paper I said was due on Tuesday is actually due on Thursday. So I'll be working on that for the next couple hours. I so don't feel like it, though . . .

Watching the season finale of Terminator: The Sarah Conner Chronicles on Monday (or, if you're like me, you watched it online), you might have been asking yourself, "Who's this band they're talking about? Who are these 'Smiths'? Golly, I wish someone would post a YouTube clip of them in his blog."

Well, fear not, friends. Because it so happens that's just the kind of hero I can be sometimes;



Also, I've discovered that Colin Meloy of the Decemberists recorded an entire album of Morrissey covers. And it's public domain now, and available as a free download at the Internet Archive. And it's pretty good, I think. I could only find one clip on YouTube of Colin performing one of these, though; here.

EDIT: Incidentally, Morrissey's first name is not Paul. It's Steven. His full name is Steven Patrick Morrissey. And now that's something else you know.

Augh. There's a gardener outside making arrhythmic tapping noises I can't sleep around even though I'm strornry sleepy. I'm currently blasting Prince and the Revolution in a puerile attempt to annoy the gardener right back. I don't think it's working.

Thinking right now feels like trying to puncture a granite block with a butter knife. And to-day was yet another day where I had all sorts of plans.

Oh. I think he's stopped . . . more later . . . PERHAPS.

Finally a decent episode of The Colbert Report. It's been too long.

You know, I think the dichotomy of the Democratic presidential race is well illustrated by the images that come up on the first couple pages of Google image searches for the candidates. Here's a signifying Obama;



And a Clinton;



Any moment I expect Hilary to ask Barack, "Why so serious?"

I have to say, Hilary's rhetoric's been downright obnoxious lately. I think I'm tipping more towards Obama lately, though I don't think he's quite Superman. Aquaman, maybe.

I'm still tapping away at A History of a Fake World. I made some decent progress on Tuesday. Four thousand years down, four thousand to go. I keep writing and rewriting the first script of the comic in my head. It oughta be damn near perfect by the time I'm done. Of course, I'll be really irritated if it's not . . .

You may've heard Gary Gygax has died.



Gods, I miss playing Dungeons & Dragons.