shhh, peaceful
“What is it like being Timur Bekmambetov? No artist should be confused too closely with his creations, but anybody who sits through “Wanted,” Bekmambetov’s new movie, will be tempted to wonder if the life style of the characters might not reflect or rub off on that of the director. How, for example, does he make a cup of coffee? My best guess, based on the evidence of the film, is that he tosses a handful of beans toward the ceiling, shoots them individually into a fine powder, leaves it hanging in the air, runs downstairs, breaks open a fire hydrant with his head, carefully directs the jet of water through the window of his apartment, sets fire to the building, then stands patiently with his mug amid the blazing ruins to collect the precious percolated drops. Don’t even think about a cappuccino.”
—Anthony Lane, here.
June 2008
26 posts
“Imagine a kind of Martian cargo cult, where ordinary pictures and objects from Earth have reached that planet, and then been used — or rather, misused — as sacred art. So on Mars, pornography becomes a vehicle for romantic, almost Platonic sentiment. An ephemeral blow-up lobster seems so precious that it gets immaculately reproduced in everlasting cast aluminum. (Maybe the fact that pool toys need to float gets lost on a planet where all water is frozen.) And then there’s the blow-up Mylar bunny that gets cast in mirror-finished stainless steel: As reworked by the Martian Koons, “Bunny” has lost all the good humor of the original toy and now feels like a totem for some sinister rabbit ritual. …
With Koons, it’s as though we’re seeing objects from our own everyday world transported to a distant place where they have been transformed and reused to vastly different ends, then brought back down to us again without a key to their repurposing, leaving us with no choice but to use them as art.” —Blake Gopnik on Jeff Koons’s “unearthly sensibility”
With Koons, it’s as though we’re seeing objects from our own everyday world transported to a distant place where they have been transformed and reused to vastly different ends, then brought back down to us again without a key to their repurposing, leaving us with no choice but to use them as art.” —Blake Gopnik on Jeff Koons’s “unearthly sensibility”
“Half of my life is gone, and I have let
The years slip from me and have not fulfilled
The aspirations of my youth, to build
Some tower of song with lofty parapet.
Not indolence, nor pleasure, nor the fret
Of restless passions that would not be stilled,
But sorrow, and a care that almost killed,
Kept me from what I may accomplish yet;
Though, half-way up the hill, I see the Past
Lying beneath me with its sounds and sights,—
A city in the twilight dim and vast,
With smoking roofs, soft bells, and gleaming lights,—
And hear above me on the autumnal blast
The cataract of Death far thundering from the heights.” —Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, “Mezzo Cummin”
This poem’s not as well-garnished as Keats’s “When I have fears that I may cease to be,” but bonus points for “a care that almost killed.” Well put.
The years slip from me and have not fulfilled
The aspirations of my youth, to build
Some tower of song with lofty parapet.
Not indolence, nor pleasure, nor the fret
Of restless passions that would not be stilled,
But sorrow, and a care that almost killed,
Kept me from what I may accomplish yet;
Though, half-way up the hill, I see the Past
Lying beneath me with its sounds and sights,—
A city in the twilight dim and vast,
With smoking roofs, soft bells, and gleaming lights,—
And hear above me on the autumnal blast
The cataract of Death far thundering from the heights.” —Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, “Mezzo Cummin”
This poem’s not as well-garnished as Keats’s “When I have fears that I may cease to be,” but bonus points for “a care that almost killed.” Well put.
Listen
Oh, you better fucking believe it’s a Curtis Mayfield day today. This here’s “Pusherman,” from the Superfly OST (1972)
“The two young majors met in 1919, and almost immediately they began an argument that would last until Patton’s death. Patton thought the chief ingredient in modern warfare was inspired leadership on the battlefield. Eisenhower felt that leadership was just one factor. He believed that Patton was inclined to indulge his romantic nature, neglecting such matters as logistics, a proper worldwide strategy, and getting along with allies.
A letter Patton wrote to Eisenhower in July 1926 illustrated the difference between the two men. ‘Ike’ had just spent a year at the Command and General Staff School at Fort Leavenworth. He had applied himself with almost monastic diligence to his studies and had graduated first in his class. Patton, fearful that his friend had concentrated too hard on such subjects as transportation, staff functioning, and how to draft a memo, decided to set him straight. After congratulating Eisenhower on his achievement, Patton declared, ‘We talk a hell of a lot about tactics and stuff and we never get to brass tacks. Namely what is it that makes the poor S.O.B. who constitutes the casualty list fight.’ Leadership was Patton’s answer. Officers had to get out and inspire the men, keep them moving. One or two superheroes would not do; Patton thought any such notion was ‘bull.’ Finally, he concisely summed up the difference between his and Eisenhower’s approach to battle. ‘Victory in the next war will depend on EXECUTION not PLANS.’ By execution, Patton said, he meant keeping the infantry advancing under fire.
Eisenhower disagreed. Plans, he said, meant that food and ammunition and gasoline would continue to reach the men at the front lines, that pressure would be applied where it hurt the enemy the most, that supreme effort would not be wasted. The most difficult tasks in the next war, Eisenhower believed, would be raising, training, arming, and transporting the men; getting them ashore in the right places; maintaining good liaison with allied forces. Execution would matter, of course, but it was only one part of the total picture.” —Stephen Ambrose, Americans at War
A letter Patton wrote to Eisenhower in July 1926 illustrated the difference between the two men. ‘Ike’ had just spent a year at the Command and General Staff School at Fort Leavenworth. He had applied himself with almost monastic diligence to his studies and had graduated first in his class. Patton, fearful that his friend had concentrated too hard on such subjects as transportation, staff functioning, and how to draft a memo, decided to set him straight. After congratulating Eisenhower on his achievement, Patton declared, ‘We talk a hell of a lot about tactics and stuff and we never get to brass tacks. Namely what is it that makes the poor S.O.B. who constitutes the casualty list fight.’ Leadership was Patton’s answer. Officers had to get out and inspire the men, keep them moving. One or two superheroes would not do; Patton thought any such notion was ‘bull.’ Finally, he concisely summed up the difference between his and Eisenhower’s approach to battle. ‘Victory in the next war will depend on EXECUTION not PLANS.’ By execution, Patton said, he meant keeping the infantry advancing under fire.
Eisenhower disagreed. Plans, he said, meant that food and ammunition and gasoline would continue to reach the men at the front lines, that pressure would be applied where it hurt the enemy the most, that supreme effort would not be wasted. The most difficult tasks in the next war, Eisenhower believed, would be raising, training, arming, and transporting the men; getting them ashore in the right places; maintaining good liaison with allied forces. Execution would matter, of course, but it was only one part of the total picture.” —Stephen Ambrose, Americans at War
Listen
Alpha Blondy, “Cocody Rock,” Cocodoy Rock!!! (1988)
How did Alpha Blondy never strike it big in the United States? Capitol signed him in 1989, praying he was Bob Marley, but it didn’t last. The tracks he recorded in Jamaica with the Wailers—like this one, a megahit internationally, at least—seem button-down compared to the cuts featuring the Solar System Band hopscotching notes behind him (Revolution is the key album here). Well, they love him in Paris.
Say by force of magic or technology I find myself teleported back in time to the early European Middle Ages. We’ll settle on rural Britain, though speaking the local dialect might be a problem. And we’ll pretend I find some proper breeches to wear and that my smallpox shots are up to date. The question is whether there’s anything I could actually contribute to the world.
And the answer is: No, probably not.
Start with the things I know that my medieval friends wouldn’t. Well, a great deal about Galois Theory and algebraic topology. In a jam, I could probably explain, step by step, why there are no algorithms that can determine whether a polynomial Diophantine equation with integer coefficients has an integer solution. Which would just earn me a whack in the throat with a poleaxe, or worse.
Okay, think harder… think practically. I’ve got nothing on the engineering front. I’d know what gravity is, if anyone cared. But I surely couldn’t “generate” electricity for them or teach these sorry folks the principles of bridge building. No amount of fiddling on my part would ever produce a light-bulb, steam engine, or telephone. With the help of the town blacksmith I might, perhaps, beat Gutenberg to the punch on the printing press.
So, now that we have ourselves a printing press, I may as well go down in history as a famous poet of sorts, maybe palming off some passages of King Lear as my own. Set them down, hide them from the village philistines, instead go pass the pages off to some cloistered monk to preserve and hand down to posterity, praying that one day, centuries hence, some medievalist uncovers this stuff, pronounces it grand, and gives me all the credit. Trouble is, poor Shakespeare would then get dinged for plagiarism…
Okay, now that that’s taken care of, I’ll go engage in a little medieval political activism… No, I will not do that. First, it’s not like I’m going to create a democratic polity from scratch. Plus, I’d rather not irk the local feudal lord. And I’d be wise to keep whatever Enlightenment-type ideas I have about the Catholic Church to myself. The same goes for lecturing the villagers on the virtues of usury. You know, when all’s said and done, I actually might end up devoting my life to public health—after all, understanding the germ theory of disease is no minor thing.
That’s a bit deflating. The Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur’s Court was a big hit, as I recall, because he knew all sorts of oddly useful facts of the sort you find in Poor Richard’s Almanack (being able to “predict” exactly when solar eclipses will occur can be handy when it comes time to demonstrate that you’re an all-powerful sorcerer). Educational standards, I’m afraid, have fallen markedly since his day.
Listen
John Vanderslice, “Bill Gates Must Die,” Mass Suicide Occult Figurines (2000)
The ultimate Mac song, for sure, though my assorted PCs over the years have been good to me, and I may yet go back (it’s hard to explain, but it’s easier to be more confident writing on a PC—that “ctrl” key, among other things, is more precise, less tentative, than its “apple”-button counterpart).
Meanwhile, the goofy Microsoft hoax that accompanied the release of Mass Suicide Occult Figurines was the first most people had ever heard of John Vanderslice, which was of course the point; it certainly sent this young lad, at least, off to go pillage the MK Ultra back-catalogue.
“Your thighs are appletrees
whose blossoms touch the sky.
Which sky? The sky
where Watteau hung a lady’s
slipper. Your knees
are a southern breeze—or
a gust of snow. Agh! what
sort of man was Fragonard?
—as if that answered
anything. Ah, yes—below
the knees, since the tune
drops that way, it is
one of those white summer days,
the tall grass of your ankles
flickers upon the shore—
Which shore?—
the sand clings to my lips—
Which shore?
Agh, petals maybe. How
should I know?
Which shore? Which shore?
I said petals from an appletree.” —William Carlos Williams, “Portrait of a Lady”
When I was younger, I thought this was a comic poem about a painter whose subject won’t stop asking annoying questions (“Which sky? Fragonard? Who dat?”). But it turns out the speaker’s just daydreaming to himself about “breaching” the “shore” by the “thighs,” which… yeah, yeah… I get it. Still like my old version better.
whose blossoms touch the sky.
Which sky? The sky
where Watteau hung a lady’s
slipper. Your knees
are a southern breeze—or
a gust of snow. Agh! what
sort of man was Fragonard?
—as if that answered
anything. Ah, yes—below
the knees, since the tune
drops that way, it is
one of those white summer days,
the tall grass of your ankles
flickers upon the shore—
Which shore?—
the sand clings to my lips—
Which shore?
Agh, petals maybe. How
should I know?
Which shore? Which shore?
I said petals from an appletree.” —William Carlos Williams, “Portrait of a Lady”
When I was younger, I thought this was a comic poem about a painter whose subject won’t stop asking annoying questions (“Which sky? Fragonard? Who dat?”). But it turns out the speaker’s just daydreaming to himself about “breaching” the “shore” by the “thighs,” which… yeah, yeah… I get it. Still like my old version better.
“La lune blanche
Luit dans les bois
De chaque branche
Part une voix
Sous la ramée…
Ô bien-aimée.
L’étang reflète,
Profond miroir,
La silhouette
Du saule noir
Où le vent pleure…
Rêvons, c’est l’heure.
Un vaste et tendre
Apaisement
Semble descendre
Du firmament
Que l’astre irise…
C’est l’heure exquise.” —Paul Verlaine, “La Lune Blanche”
Luit dans les bois
De chaque branche
Part une voix
Sous la ramée…
Ô bien-aimée.
L’étang reflète,
Profond miroir,
La silhouette
Du saule noir
Où le vent pleure…
Rêvons, c’est l’heure.
Un vaste et tendre
Apaisement
Semble descendre
Du firmament
Que l’astre irise…
C’est l’heure exquise.” —Paul Verlaine, “La Lune Blanche”
Listen
Silver Jews, “Strange Victory, Strange Defeat,” Lookout Mountain, Lookout Sea (2008)
