On the rock, grains glued in silica, I stick close to myself. A dried oak wanders outward from the mountain’s negative. Roots snake through cracks. Two stuck stones, starting & staying, have fallen into each other: locked ready to shake off. It was the glacier, Wisconsin, that did it, carving thick braids of sentiment out of quartz. Now it’s another’s move. My arms are ticking. Full of adrenaline and blood, it’s too much for skin to hold, the forearms tendons fingers cable out to grimace the wall and I pendulum over the sheer apex of New York, crossing a crux, splitting I or some part making it out to that face. The bent joint of rock. Exposed and hung out to dry. Sun pools on my back. Bullets of sweat vanish from my head’s crown. There’s nothing to the south of me. All those untouched oaks, sycamore, euphorbia—& underneath huckleberries drop from the bush into lily ponds full of machine-voiced frogs. There’s the dipping lush of earth that begs me to spill into. But nothing holds here. Don’t let me lie. If I could I’d be weatherbeat or in Athens, at the foot of the Parthenon praying. Here’s not enough to stay. Even balance ends, end. I can’t keep my back to it. Face what you see.
The pink and blue Ferris wheel costs a suggested donation of four dollars. A line forms only when we approach the empty, swirling machine: three pale bodies, SPF 70 insured today, guaranteed to wake up tomorrow with flecks of skin peeling off red noses. To find our faces in the crowd, look for one boy with glasses, and another in a black Ché cap. Next to them you will find me, with rounder glasses and a backward, paisley hat.
Last night the domed friend hosted a party for his start-up. He’s the intern. In a room of ten 30-something paunchy Indian men, we ate multiple Chipotle build-your-own-burritos while playing Cards Against Humanity. Several cards required explaining to the company CEO. Until 11pm, we were not the only attendees under twenty-one. There were two others, the CEO’s toddler twins, who tumbled around the party, sucking on closed primary-colored beer cans that might one day make a great #tbt. Continue reading
One of Billy Wilder’s earliest films, Menschen am Sonntag, or “People on Sunday,” captures the weekly respite afforded to Berliners after six days of work. Using Wilder’s screenplay, directors Curt and Robert Siodmak send viewers to the Weimar Republic’s laziest days via black-and-white silent images. Intertitles declare that the characters they are about to see—Erwin, a taxi driver; Annie, his wife and a model; Wolfgang, Erwin’s friend and wine seller; Christl the movie extra, and her best friend Brigitte, a record shop girl—are all real Berliners playing themselves. The film was shot only on successive Sundays in 1929 Berlin, so as to allow the “actors” to attend to their regular occupations during filming.
There are few things to do in Anacostia, Maryland, besides visit the home of Frederick Douglass. It’s an estate called Cedar Hill, a large, white, red-gabled colonial with the type of rocking chair-laden porch that begs you to sit down with an iced tea and a bowl of strawberries. The tour guide looks like a cross between a university librarian and a park ranger; he has sinewy but muscular arms and Frederick Douglass-era glasses, shiny round lenses that hover about his face like flat moons. He is, or at least pretends to be, thoroughly excited about the rug on which Douglass gave his grandchildren piggyback rides, and the cabinet in which his servants storied pies. Continue reading
There are times when only a big box of ribs will do. Usually those times come after days already full of excess. Country fair and fried Twinkie kinds of days. Emotionally laden kinds of days—days in response to which doctors exhort patients to “not eat their feelings”. Yeah, right. People have been eating their feelings since Eve took a bite of that nice apple.
So I make a quick check of Yelp—these ribs better be quality ribs—and run out to the recommended rib joint on River Street named “Coast Cafe” and make my purchase: three whole pork BBQ ribs with a side of collard greens and string beans (to be healthy). When my order comes, it comes nestled in a styrofoam box, embraced by two pieces of aluminum foil. The heat sweats through the box and the plastic happy face’d bag. Continue reading
Imagine that you have a superpower for accelerating time at whim, for making decades pass in the span of hours. Imagine now that your superpower is actually just extreme diligence, and that you are the director Richard Linklater. The product of this is Boyhood, a languorous dip into the formative years of a young boy in suburban Texas and a feat of filmmaking stamina. Its innovation was to film the same cast for a few days out of every year for twelve years, and for a time after seeing it I wondered whether its power rests solely in its gimmick. After all, The Boston Globe had gone so far as to declare that it “may be why the movies were invented.” And yet, what it has to say about boyhood, or parenthood, or generalized personhood, resides squarely in the banal. It is the opposite of Terence Malick’s The Tree of Life, which situates its portrait of Texas boyhood in the context of nothing less than the incipient universe and the beginning of life on Earth. That film opens with a quotation from Job 38:4, 7 (“Where were you when I laid the foundations of the earth? …”) set to John Tavener’s “Funeral Canticle,” and ends with a surrealistic beachscape of the dead. Boyhood opens on a little boy cloud-watching to the strains of Coldplay’s “Yellow,” and ends with him, twelve years later, getting stoned in a national park.