It's been awhile, what with the valley of lethargic antipathy that is the post-project doldrums not coming with a road map or really any sort of guidance whatsoever. I ate potato chips for dinner, so there. My fearless readers, you get another in the long line of compendium posts that I seem to be so efficient, nay, resigned, to cobbling.
The notes:
The notes:
- Firstly, I would like somebody, more versed in the voodoo that is contemporary physics theory as it pertains to personal electronic devices in the early 21st century, to explain how the simple shock of walking up three flights of stairs can render, without external aid of any sort, the touch screen of a cell phone to shatter to the point of unusability. Because people, this happened. And it was sort of beautiful.
- Secondly, there's a certain joy in the smell of a counter cleaner that it should smell like over-ripened, treacly and sugar-enriched oranges. The lingering scent makes me think my counter should still be sticky.
- Thirdly, and tangentially, I had a grand experiment with cocktailing this weekend, which frankly worked like a charm. Going back to the treacle, there's the negroni. That was the base. One part gin, one part Campari, one part sweet vermouth. Needless to say my counter/bar area had the tackiness of a women's locker room after the visiting freshman-boys-chess-club ventured through the wrong locker area.
My addition? Beer. Add one more part beer, let it rip. It livens and separates the flavors, seemingly transforming the cocktail from a fine late night summer drink to a finer, midday at the yacht club affair.
Except your yacht club serves PBR.
- Fourthly, and similarly tangential, a rule: the game of Scrabble should absolutely be devoured while drinking said Negronis. Makes the words so much crisper.
- Fifthly, and completely unrelated to everything said above, so get over it. I've been reading this critique of Jonathan Franzen's eulogy for the novel, and more importantly, its relevance. Franzen argues the novel is dead, much in the same way that longform journalism is dead. Martha Nichols argues that it isn't largely based on the inherent suspense and gratification delayment the simple necessity of turning a page entails, further saying that the books that will most likely live on tend to be sort that you have to apologize for reading upon inquiry.
I read the mood as more transitional right now. Franzen has a style more inline with American realism, the sort of Pulitzer bait that isn't very far removed from the practice of longform journalism. It's fine, but currently feels old and stale compared to the other forms and stylistic approaches engaged in currently (I'm thinking of the more European experimental styles, the philosophical novel, even the gothics). I still maintain that for art to retain its power, it needs to find the way to say things new, and while the realist tradition, with its power drawn more from the author's ability for observation than framing, ...well, the dusty layers of caked-on mold are starting to show.
- Sixthly, finally, breathlessly, I've recently had two friends bemoan photography's place in the art world. Studio shit? Junk. I agree. Slice of life, candid, street? Maybe so. This is seriously a problem that keeps me up at night, so understand I have no way around it. In light, though, I've been messing around with the camera more, and some of these photos, while you may have seen them, I offer only for amusement and...my attempts at the ineffable. Because that's what it's really about.
