Indiscriminate Watching (or Art by Algorithm)

If, like Sir Edward of the previous post, you are "no indiscriminate reader" (though hopefully, like Charlotte, you have  decidedly different taste in books than Sir Edward), then you know how frustrating it can be to find something really good to read, a story on which you can lock your eyes, heart and mind, with no regrets. 

The more catchy titles continually appear, the harder it becomes! How many of such  thinly conceived tomes littering display tables and lauded by "reviewers" have you latched onto, only to discard them  barely halfway through. . . ? It's like those movies you want to walk out on, but easier to do.

And so this winter I chose (or should say choze) a rereading of the novels of Jane Austen, starting with a favorite, Emma. As I delved once more into this scrumptious satire of manners and motives, after initially wrangling with early 19th c. spelling and syntax my resolve suddenly strengthened; I had caught sight of the first disappointing episodes of PBS' "Sanditon," Austen's unfinished work, and it was so soothing to be able to return to the source and ignore this misbegotten production. Somewhat idiotically written as a story now completed for a mass TV audience, the "finished" narrative has little relevance to Austen. Instead, it's become a kind of twenty-first century, lackluster soap with a few retro, lamely progressive and totally anachronistic nods,  all done up in lots of period costumes. 

So sad! Even PBS has gone the way of quick fixes and cultural photo ops; but though a bunch of these inane episodes still are waiting in the wings to be mind-numbingly aired, it was comforting to know that Austen's actual work and wit endures in the written word.


Here's but one gem from the novel I'm reading, the excerpt relating to an upcoming entertainment- a ball; Mr. Knightly, a character normally gracious and obliging, just does not like to dance, as he explains to Emma, and finds his enjoyment elsewhere. His words also can stand as a metaphor for participating in the predictable screen "dance" of a crappy, uninspiring, made-for-"prime" TV/streaming industry that can screw up even Austen. 

"Very well. If the Westons think it worth while to be at all this trouble for a few hours of noisy entertainment, I have nothing to say against it, but that they shall not choose pleasures for me.- Oh! yes, I must be there." could not refuse; and I will keep as much awake as I can; but I would rather be home, looking over William Larkin's week's account; much rather, I confess.- Pleasure in seeing dancing! -not I, indeed- I never look at it- I do not know who does..- Fine dancing, I believe, like virtue, must be its own reward. Those who are standing by are usually thinking of something very different."
                                           - Mr. Knightly in "Emma"

And like Knightly, even if you are present at the ongoing screen ball, you can chuze not to "dance," not participate in something you view as badly conceived, nor stand on the sidelines either, watching with interest a watered down art form or clapping to a faux, really badly writ, pseudo 19th century representation- (even if you are bored on a Sunday night and have come to the ball looking for a fix). And Net-Fix-Land is not Shakespeare, or Austen, and often not much of anything. 

Okay, I'm through with this rant for now on classic lit misappropriation as a means of upping TV ratings. Next time, something fun.

You Are What You Read

'I am no indiscriminate novel reader. The mere trash of the common circulating library, I hold in the highest contempt.The novels which I approve are such as display human nature with grandeur- such as show her in the sublimities of intense feeling- such as exhibit the progress of strong passion from the first germ of incipient susceptibility to the utmost energies of reason half-dethroned- where we see the strong spark of woman's captivations elicit such fire in the soul of man that leads him. . . to hazard all, dare all, achieve all, to obtain her. . . and event is plainly anti-prosperous to the high-toned machinations of the prime character, the potent, pervading hero of the story, it leaves us full of generous emotions for him;- our hearts are paralyzed-.'                          - Sir Edward, "Sanditon"           

'If I understand you aright'- said Charlotte- 'our taste in novels is not at all the same.'

The truth was that Sir Edward whom circumstances had confined very much to one spot had read more sentimental novels than agreed with him. . . . With a perversity of judgement, which must be attributed to his not having by nature a very strong head, the graces, the spirit, the sagacity , and the perserverance of the villain of the story outweighed all his absurdities and atrocities with Sir Edward.- It interested and inflamed him. . . . Sir Edward's great object in life was to be seductive.
                      -Jane Austen

Perfectly stated! Choose carefully. . . . 
         -me

The Shadowy World of Futons, a Parable

I found it. . . . Finally.

The guy on the phone sounded sort of normal, rational, not uninformed or dazed, not resentful or bored, not fatuous or high pressured. And he had the exact futon mattress I sought. An actual store with a live human and samples. Almost too good to be true.

I quickly dressed and jumped in the car (how come you always jump in a car but into a shower??), then headed to the west side. Miraculously I found a parking spot albeit on a speeding avenue, with a perilous-to-pedestrian bike lane that seemed to welcome motorized two wheelers zooming straight at you; gingerly I made my way to the curb.

The company name was all over the web, but the store was so small that at first I did not believe it existed. When the sign came into view, immediately I tried to quell my disappointment. Once inside, the narrow, dreary, dim cave-like atmosphere matched the ramshackle, faded and chipped paint of the outside. You know the kind of situation- it blares MISTAKE, but inexplicably draws you in further if only to delay the small agony of defeat.

This was not at all like the cheery, suburban, well organized futon place with the knowledgeable, clean cut futon guy from whom I bought a futon mattress two decades earlier. All that was gone- gone-gone; online sellers had taken over; what’s more, after voluminous online research on how to replace this simple item without receiving a returned, bed bug ridden, sagging bundle of rags, it appeared choices were scarce; cyberspace held just a few dealers, most of whom did not have actual stores like this one, hence my initial, doomed elation. I had found a couple of wildly overpriced organic, west coast sellers who claimed futon spiritual purity, the other online retailers seemed spurious. 

The futon mattress on the floor of this “brick and mortar” venue of course was horrible, much like the store itself; it seemed comprised of bricks by its weight and bulk, and was truly frightening. If it fell on you, you’d be instantly smothered. In addition, it was dirty, really dirty. Two customers walked in as I stared in disbelief at this almost alive thing; the lone sales person totally ignored them and after a couple of minutes they left; I soon followed.

At that point I started flirting with the idea of “mattress toppers,” knowing deep down it would not end well. After all, a futon in itself is a kind of hefty mattress pad. In addition, finding one  to my liking in the shadowy world of pixels would entail the same frustrating process as before.

In the end I went with LL Bean, which offers only one simple futon mattress, not dozens. Their George Washington Apple Tree image of Total Honesty notwithstanding, I suffer from online shopping PTSD and still must endure the inevitable qualms and misgivings as I await delivery. Hopefully all those fears will become a dim memory and I will never have to stay awake at night thinking about how to repackage and mail back a fifty five pound mattress.

But why, oh why, must something like buying a damned futon mattress (or anything else you may need) be so daunting?? Oh yes, I forgot. Online product acquisition! The wild west, the unregulated “air b & b” of commerce- yes, it’s true, you can find a cozy sweater in your correct size and color in cyberspace, and at a great price (though chances are it may already have been washed by a previous owner, perhaps more than once); conversely you also can fall victim to a creepy, invisible, retail sociopath from some shady, online outfit that makes you curse and kick yourself for foolishly shopping online, again.

As if you had a choice these days . . . .

The naysayers of anything pre internet scoff at those of us who pine for the old days,  refuting complaints about online shopping as reactionary, unliberated, not in step with the times; they reduce our intense and well founded angst to a mere retro, nostalgic and unrealistic view of the world pre-online; they are not beneath dredging up arguments like lack of penicillin back then too! to prove what an old fashioned idiot you are.

And naturally they have a point. Now I actually can figure out how to treat toenail fungus or sore throat or even a bad back or the plague simply by clicking a button. I even can take my life in my hands and order medication without a prescription from unknown, online sources! But consumers also can be major-ly and egregiously scammed in a variety of ways, over and over and over again ad nauseam in this quintessential bait and switch universe, and  wind up throwing stuff away rather than repackage or fight with faceless customer reps.

In truth, I also miss all that human to human contact, the touching of the fabric, the pinching of cushions, the smelling of rugs, the peek at that pristine, first page of a novel in the book store so that you don’t defile or mess up the volume’s crisp, newness even as you feel the shopkeeper’s vigilant eyes boring into you; the kindly doctor you love, or obnoxiously taciturn, arrogant ass of a practitioner whom later you can diss but who still talks to you, discusses your case face to face, personally as it were. Even healthcare is getting the screen treatment! How do you explain your intensely mysterious, no doubt significant symptoms to the image of a face attired in the image of a white coat?

Oy. You think this is bad? Just wait until “AI” takes over. . . .

Breaking the Ice (Castle)

As the holiday season enfolds I think about the the Disneyfication of New York nearing  its total completion. It has captured even the hearts and minds of the residents, lulled us into an unconscious acceptance, propelled into a kind of Disneyfied world view.

The other day when I left the house and got to my car, I found it neatly and completely encased in a complicated pattern of intricate ice crystals; a kind of giant icy blanket, a fantastic and translucent sheet covering every square inch of my defenseless, little Civic. It was a bit unnerving but picturesque.

After spending a good long time trying to warm the under powered, sputtering engine I alternately attempted to crack the ice so to speak by randomly attacking spots along the windows with one of those plastic ice cracking tools that has a small brush on the other end. It was then that I also noticed the branches of the many trees surrounding my parking spot- the ice had turned them into a fantasia of dripping, frozen, pinkish icicles. This hint of rosy color evocative of a children's animated movie, perhaps something Disney-ish, had to do no doubt with the blue-gray light of December that made noon seem like evening as we approached the shortest day of the year. It was quite pretty, totally cinematic, and daunting at the same time. A definite change in the weather.

Suddenly I began to imagine myself as one of the characters in Disney's latest, wildly popular kiddy story, the ubiquitous "Frozen," perhaps  Anna as she enlists the aid of Kristoff to reach Elsa the Snow Queen and thus release the barren, frozen land from a perpetual winter. Oooooh nooooh, not winter again! If the plot sounds  a tad familiar, just hearken back to the pagan tales of yore, an ailing king, the unforgiving, infertile land of the cold months that is anathema to agriculture or husbandry and the getting of food, and all the ancient rites used to revive the earth as practiced by ancient peoples; they just didn't get it yet that spring would come round again, even without the sacrifices to the gods. 

This kind of magical, respun, old story that the Disney Universe now markets so shamelessly to children of all ages as it seeps through the culture can only emanate from the sun scorched, seasonless valleys of a Disneylandish landscape- an arid imagination, a place where the shade never shines; where changes in the temperature of a sunny everyday and all-is(forever)-well-with-the-world mind set are received with alarm. In addition, "Frozen" has become an obscenely lucrative industry for the Disney trademark, giving rise to the hawking- both to kids and adults- of the myriad souvenirs, amulets and charms evocative of this re-purposed ancient story- everything  from jewelry, pads, pencils, calendars and coloring books with the characters' images imprinted on them to pajamas, mugs, pillow cases and chocolate pretzels, to name just a few. 

"Frozen" in its insane ever-presence and almost scary commercial reach (yes, you can get all this stuff on Amazon) is a far cry from the now seeming, harmless and fanciful tale of Cinderella for example, bare-foot-in-the-kitchen stereotyping that this earlier movie exhibited notwithstanding, what with its foot-fetishing prince, kindly, chubby fairy godmother and hurtful though trendy, must-have party shoes. Nor did the gal who was named white as the driven snow- though she shacked in the woods with  seven, strangely adorable, exuberantly musical male companions- exert a fraction of the cultural influence of "Frozen.". But all that happened before the internet, before Disney Universe took over even our very towns, our stories, and then went after our weather.

Like many here in our little city, I'm quietly and not so quietly horrified by the ever growing disneyfication of the once charming, alive, diverse and vibrant New York streetscape; a place where all sorts of people resided, not toured, lived, not crashed in pied-a-terres, a spot with definable, enjoyable seasons! The takeover has happened in the form of junky merchandise, diluted entertainment, a lack of choices, the disappearance of book stores, all sorts of little shops going out of business to make room for chains that sell Anna-Kristoff-Elsa paraphernalia and the like, corporate fast food signs everywhere and the general dumbing/diluting down of everything: the setting, street improvisation, stimulation of the senses and thought, the arts, alertness, realness as we once knew it. Now they're even aiming at the seasons!

Perhaps equally dispiriting, why must winter be portrayed as so terribly scary, something to be avoided and feared at all costs? What ever happened to the joys of ice skating, sledding or even thinking about ice skating and sledding, the strange satisfaction that comes from bitterly complaining while cleaning off the new snow from one's car in the freezing, fresh air, the comfort of furry snow boots and warm sweaters, a mug of richly brewed hot chocolate, a brisk, energizing walk on a chilly day in the bright, frosty winter sun, and kicking back to watch a video or read a great book, the wanting winter to be over, the anticipation of spring. . . .

It all goes together, it really does. The obsessive online ordering of defective, often disappointing products because of a reluctance to leave your cozy screen, then often having to go through the hassle of sending it all back; the reticence of visiting a store or a movie or museum and especially in cold weather-  and not just places that exist in florescent malls and their "food courts," but the kind of destinations that take you down a real street with sidewalks, hot dog vendors, cafes and restaurants, traffic lights, dogs, baby strollers, life. The film making antipathy toward cold, snow, rain, ice, walking outside, the burgeoning fingerprint of Disney Universe everywhere, cautioning us about the dire consequences of not having a sufficient number of hot, sweaty, mind numbing, ultra violet, and perpetually sunny days. In truth, they even have taken over the barometer,  the notion of changing seasons, our very perceptions and thoughts! 

Now when it snows, or we have an occasional ice storm or "wintry mix"  that requires dislodging the stuff from your car and perhaps getting your gloves wet, for one brief moment I find myself re-imagining myself as a character in a cartoon about the evils of an eternal winter. And I haven't even seen the darn movie, but somehow the whole schtick has permeated my consciousness, as it always was meant to do.

Between Disney and Amazon we surely are done for.

Yearnings

Yearnings

Dec. 13, 2019

 

 

We all experience longing, especially around the “holidays.”

 

Who has not lived, and successfully managed to escape ever wanting a particular thing? Perhaps the sudden sounds of soppy, silly music and appearance of decorations exhorting us to be happy and buy everything in sight propel us into the murky, sentimental and elusive past. In any case, there is introspection.

 

And contrary to the once popular, super modernist film master Bunel (please do not forget the tilda on the “n!”) “The Obscure Object of Desire” is in truth usually not that obscure but quite identifiable, often in the simplest of ways: the universal quest at bottom always is a longing for immortality. Because upon achieving whatever it is that beckons, you invariably want the next thing.

 

As I pointed out to a class in an effort to get them to read and appreciate the Epic of Gilgamesh, the reason for the four thousand year old hero’s obsessive fear of death and ensuing quest for eternal life is simple: why do your homework if you know that one day you’re gonna die? Wouldn’t it be better not, thus making all your toil and efforts more meaningful as you meet each day? Gilgamesh, one of the earliest, recorded neurotics of stature in the western canon, concrete and literal of thought though he was, still can impress. It's the quest, of course!

 

So now that we’ve established the purpose of yearning- that of always seeking immortality- be it through shopping, food, drugs, screen time, human connections, exercise, gambling, constant travel or moving about, sugary confections or a potato chip addiction, I’ll share one of my own particular quests.

 

In the past I’ve wished to be a writer of towering import, as mesmerizing, precise, accurate and compelling as Dreiser and James, emotionally suspenseful and page-turning as Charlotte Bronte, brilliantly witty as Austen, enduring a chronicler of my times as Wharton, slick as Pynchon, poetic as Woolf, clever as Calvino and so much more. When people still eagerly are devouring my books a hundred years hence, they will be transported back into the cultural miasma of the latter twentieth and early twenty-first centuries, in bold colors! A labyrinth of pictographs my words have created propelling the readers' imaginations speeding through time and lusting for more of my work.

 

Was this really too much to ask for?

 

Well, now I’m not so sure. . . . In any case, there is the blog.

 

And your yearnings?

Things to Do on a Long Flight

Here are some of the things you can do to pass the time on a six hour flight.

For the first half hour or so you are busy "settling in" as you wait excitedly to taxi to the runway. This includes hoisting a heavy, overpacked roll-y, stuffed with clothes you may never wear, into the overhead without injuring your back, sitting and trying to get comfortble. There's also fiddling with the seat belt, squishing your nice coat and previously spiffy carry-on into the dark, dirty space on a carpet beneath your feet and checking out neighbors.The captain cheerily announces a "brief delay" and it no longer feels exciting.

Since it's usually a seven or eight a.m. "departure"- which means (if you count backwards) you've been up since three something- you are determined to sleep for the first few hours, which almost never happens. You writhe your weary, sleep deprived body into a consciousness blocking, soothing place that totally does not block light, noise or consciousness.

After an hour or so of pretending to "sleep," you "wake" and inquire about the time, at which point you find out you have not completed yet a fifth of the journey. You continue to down as much water as possible to avoid dehydration.

Heading for the bathroom and while waiting for the occupied, claustrophobic little closet to become available, you have a brief but intense conversation with a curious fight attendant who seems mesmerized by the tiny, across-the-body Baggalini you wear. She asks if she can see how the little compartments work. The door opens and you slither sideways into the tiny space.

Returning to your seat you go through your carry-on somewhat wildly looking for something you may have forgotten. Everything is in small, Ziploc bags yet still basically unidentifiable. It's discouraging.

Free floating and un-Ziplocked items in the bag reveal a crumpled scarf, a now creased folder, a couple of pens, a pad, a book, two hair clips, tissue packets, loose hard candies; the process of pawing through the stuff is excruciating. You do not find what you are looking for and have forgotten what it was, but make a mental note to check for it again later. 

Staring intermittently at the book you brought occupies a few unhappy minutes before you decide to search for a movie. The airline film "library" is mainly Disney-ugh along with other made-for-video really bad movies, but you refuse to go it alone and pay for wi-fi, and in any case your "device" is way too small. You go through the menu twice and decide it's time for the bathroom again. It's so important to stay hydrated, you remind yourself, even though this means constantly having to pee in a contorted pose, in a teeny closet that presages being really, really careful; by now your eyes are burning crazily from the dry, recycled air.

You begin this little diary, madly scribbling a few notes, then start the whole idiotic process again: rummaging through the carry-on; going to the bathroom; staring into space; refusing to read your book; more staring; looking at the movie menu in utter disgust; going to the bathroom . . . .

Three hours finally have passed although you have no idea by now what the real time is and may be beyond caring. In any event, you will have the chance to repeat the entire process of rummaging, staring, cursing at the movie menu, staring, wondering if the other passengers are going through the same thing or just have taken drugs, staring, and peeing in a most uncomfortable position at least three more times, and possibly more.

By the time you arrive you are more exhausted than ever dreamed, and the soul crushing, beaten down, nihilistic feeling that began shortly after boarding has permeated almost every cell; but as you prepare for landing  (what will that be like this time? Such episodes from air to ground vary from relatively "smooth" to unbelievably white knuckle) you vow to buck up, drag yourself and all your stuff down that crowded, narrow aisle, and onward!

California Leaves Me Speechless