The kid was an athlete. He looked like a savage, frothing at the mouth thanks to a mouthguard and barking commands to his teammates. He charged full force for every ball, ripping through the flanks of the opposition mercilessly. The ball's seams and threads didn't stand a chance if his foot met them, he had a cannon for a foot. His shorts seemed to be stained dark brown and bright, smeared green from the slide tackles-- a peaceful affair by no means.
Penn Station is a mess of noises, most of them coming from mouths. Human mouths. Magazine stores and an Au Bon Pain and a diner are lodged into one corner, and the ticket counter, a New York Yankees store, and a souvenir shop are pushed into the next. The trains from Manhattan to Long Island are supposed to leave every half an hour up until 2 in the morning, but still I feel an urgency to get on the very next one, as if it's my last opportunity to get out of this crazy city. I hear a fuzzy voice announcing that I should be at track 17, and that this is the last call. But the sign covered in letters, lights, and numbers above doesn't say 17. It says 19! The urgency builds when I see men in suits running around me to track 12...is that where I am supposed to be? A homeless guy lounging in one of the many waiting rooms laughs at my furrowed brow through the glass window. The song playing on the radio switches from a whiny piano ballad to a quick Michael Jackson beat. I feel almost as if I'm a character in a movie, with a soundtrack echoing behind me. My train leaves without me, but that's okay because I find a five dollar bill in my pocket, and a blueberry muffin from Au Bon Pain sounds pretty good right about now.
No more grazed imagines, now they are clean and pure. Reminiscent of Rembrandt, or that’s what I think after seeing Trance. Perfection, no longer is film a reflection of human imperfection, now it is something like godly and different. The frames are not real, well not really; they’re used for the sake of measurement. Artificial frames, all right I dig. Splendid, here comes Rosario Dawson; clear digital imagery has rarely been used for a better purpose. This is the way of the future; this is our future, and the future of our expression. Trance, the new Danny Boyle project, is testament to that. Fitting that a film that deals with the transition of 17th century painting reflects the changing nature in approach to filmmaking. No longer are scratchy frames processed by the experienced, bleeding hands of trained editors. Now its one click, two click, drag and paste, and there’s your movie.
"Mama today in school we went on a field trip to the river and we had to walk all the way there and we had to cross the street and we went to the dock and the water was brown and there was trash and I saw a fish and then we had to race our boats that we built in woodshop and Tucker's sank and he jumped in the water and Mrs. Schrier had to throw him a rope because the current pulled him away and she was mad at him and there was a frog that jumped on to the dock and we chased him away and my boat won Mama it beat all the other boats and then we grabbed our boats at the end of the dock but Drew's floated away Mama he couldn't catch it and then we had to cross the street again and we went back to school and it was hot and they had lemonade and then I came home."
I like this so much...partly because it's incredibly accurate, partly because I still talk like this, but mostly because the tone you established was great.
We were all caught up in act three. Its a big act, after all. There were screams that could be heard from the building over, accusations personal enough to cut through skin and into bone, and words that were tossed out casually but were meant to sting where it hurts the most. What caught me off guard was when I realized I was hurt by these words, and when I looked down for an instant, I noticed her, curled up and swimming in that purple dress, with actual tears in her eyes. They fell silently and created dark splotches on the wood. Her voice shook when she spoke, and I found myself in admiration of her ability to feel.
The paintbrush hits the stiff paper clumsily, splattering the emulsion. I ignore the drops on my arm and drag the emulsion over the paper, none too gently. The rough brushstrokes are barely visible in the dark. Not bothering to check the evenness of the coat, I shove the paper onto the drying rack and stick the paintbrush under the water, scrubbing harshly until I'm sure it's clean.
We spent the majority of our huddle discussing how unfortunately heinous the girls on the other team were. It seemed like the best way to tear them down. And as I stood in the middle of the the muddy green stage, about to go into penalty kicks in my senior season of soccer, I could not help but think about the way women. Many people talk about the way media portrays women and the messages society sends to teenage girls about their appearance. However, very few girls take on the responsibility of protecting each other from this vicious rhetoric.
It's raining today. I walked back from the old port and it was raining today. I walked all the way to the ferry, hoping to see a ray of sunshine on the pier, but the sunshine took me to the park next to the theater and disappeared, leaving me with rain. "tat-tat-tat-tat-tat-tat-tat-tat-tat," like a window pane breaking into dozens of tiny fragments, the rain fell over and over and over. "Yes, I understand," I told my sunshine. Even though my mind was now fragmented. Next I rose, feeling a cold spell coming on seeing the light disappear. Before she could leave, before she got the first step, before everything I knew about her walked away from my life, I went first. I didn't will myself to do it. I could do nothing but rain, my heart broken and the pieces drifting away in a downpour.
The buzz is all about the Red Sox these past few days. I'm hearing it in the halls, on tv, ads on the internet, and at home. Will they win at Fenway for the first time since 1918? Well, last night they did it, and what a victory it was. Headlines this morning: "V for victory, V for Victorino!", "Red Sox savor title, and comfort of home". I suppose I should be celebrating ecstatically with the rest of New England, and don't get me wrong- I'm happy about their win- but the thing that makes me happiest of all right now, is that everyone around me is happy. It feels like a win for all of us. Not a win exclusively a baseball team, but for the whole of Massachusetts (and Maine, as we all know, was once part of Massachusetts, ergo the celebration extends). I intend to savor the taste of everyone's cheerful attitude this afternoon, and go into this day like Koji Uehara takes the mound.
The kid was an athlete. He looked like a savage, frothing at the mouth thanks to a mouthguard and barking commands to his teammates. He charged full force for every ball, ripping through the flanks of the opposition mercilessly. The ball's seams and threads didn't stand a chance if his foot met them, he had a cannon for a foot. His shorts seemed to be stained dark brown and bright, smeared green from the slide tackles-- a peaceful affair by no means.
ReplyDeletePenn Station is a mess of noises, most of them coming from mouths. Human mouths. Magazine stores and an Au Bon Pain and a diner are lodged into one corner, and the ticket counter, a New York Yankees store, and a souvenir shop are pushed into the next. The trains from Manhattan to Long Island are supposed to leave every half an hour up until 2 in the morning, but still I feel an urgency to get on the very next one, as if it's my last opportunity to get out of this crazy city. I hear a fuzzy voice announcing that I should be at track 17, and that this is the last call. But the sign covered in letters, lights, and numbers above doesn't say 17. It says 19! The urgency builds when I see men in suits running around me to track 12...is that where I am supposed to be? A homeless guy lounging in one of the many waiting rooms laughs at my furrowed brow through the glass window. The song playing on the radio switches from a whiny piano ballad to a quick Michael Jackson beat. I feel almost as if I'm a character in a movie, with a soundtrack echoing behind me. My train leaves without me, but that's okay because I find a five dollar bill in my pocket, and a blueberry muffin from Au Bon Pain sounds pretty good right about now.
ReplyDeleteNo more grazed imagines, now they are clean and pure. Reminiscent of Rembrandt, or that’s what I think after seeing Trance. Perfection, no longer is film a reflection of human imperfection, now it is something like godly and different. The frames are not real, well not really; they’re used for the sake of measurement. Artificial frames, all right I dig. Splendid, here comes Rosario Dawson; clear digital imagery has rarely been used for a better purpose. This is the way of the future; this is our future, and the future of our expression. Trance, the new Danny Boyle project, is testament to that. Fitting that a film that deals with the transition of 17th century painting reflects the changing nature in approach to filmmaking. No longer are scratchy frames processed by the experienced, bleeding hands of trained editors. Now its one click, two click, drag and paste, and there’s your movie.
ReplyDelete"Mama today in school we went on a field trip to the river and we had to walk all the way there and we had to cross the street and we went to the dock and the water was brown and there was trash and I saw a fish and then we had to race our boats that we built in woodshop and Tucker's sank and he jumped in the water and Mrs. Schrier had to throw him a rope because the current pulled him away and she was mad at him and there was a frog that jumped on to the dock and we chased him away and my boat won Mama it beat all the other boats and then we grabbed our boats at the end of the dock but Drew's floated away Mama he couldn't catch it and then we had to cross the street again and we went back to school and it was hot and they had lemonade and then I came home."
ReplyDeleteI like this so much...partly because it's incredibly accurate, partly because I still talk like this, but mostly because the tone you established was great.
DeleteWe were all caught up in act three. Its a big act, after all. There were screams that could be heard from the building over, accusations personal enough to cut through skin and into bone, and words that were tossed out casually but were meant to sting where it hurts the most. What caught me off guard was when I realized I was hurt by these words, and when I looked down for an instant, I noticed her, curled up and swimming in that purple dress, with actual tears in her eyes. They fell silently and created dark splotches on the wood. Her voice shook when she spoke, and I found myself in admiration of her ability to feel.
ReplyDeleteThe paintbrush hits the stiff paper clumsily, splattering the emulsion. I ignore the drops on my arm and drag the emulsion over the paper, none too gently. The rough brushstrokes are barely visible in the dark. Not bothering to check the evenness of the coat, I shove the paper onto the drying rack and stick the paintbrush under the water, scrubbing harshly until I'm sure it's clean.
ReplyDeleteWe spent the majority of our huddle discussing how unfortunately heinous the girls on the other team were. It seemed like the best way to tear them down. And as I stood in the middle of the the muddy green stage, about to go into penalty kicks in my senior season of soccer, I could not help but think about the way women. Many people talk about the way media portrays women and the messages society sends to teenage girls about their appearance. However, very few girls take on the responsibility of protecting each other from this vicious rhetoric.
ReplyDeleteIt's raining today. I walked back from the old port and it was raining today. I walked all the way to the ferry, hoping to see a ray of sunshine on the pier, but the sunshine took me to the park next to the theater and disappeared, leaving me with rain. "tat-tat-tat-tat-tat-tat-tat-tat-tat," like a window pane breaking into dozens of tiny fragments, the rain fell over and over and over.
ReplyDelete"Yes, I understand," I told my sunshine. Even though my mind was now fragmented. Next I rose, feeling a cold spell coming on seeing the light disappear. Before she could leave, before she got the first step, before everything I knew about her walked away from my life, I went first. I didn't will myself to do it. I could do nothing but rain, my heart broken and the pieces drifting away in a downpour.
The buzz is all about the Red Sox these past few days. I'm hearing it in the halls, on tv, ads on the internet, and at home. Will they win at Fenway for the first time since 1918? Well, last night they did it, and what a victory it was. Headlines this morning: "V for victory, V for Victorino!", "Red Sox savor title, and comfort of home". I suppose I should be celebrating ecstatically with the rest of New England, and don't get me wrong- I'm happy about their win- but the thing that makes me happiest of all right now, is that everyone around me is happy. It feels like a win for all of us. Not a win exclusively a baseball team, but for the whole of Massachusetts (and Maine, as we all know, was once part of Massachusetts, ergo the celebration extends). I intend to savor the taste of everyone's cheerful attitude this afternoon, and go into this day like Koji Uehara takes the mound.
ReplyDelete