Why I am taking African American Literature.

I was first exposed to a lengthy piece of African American writing in my eleventh grade honors English course. My teacher, Olivia Macaluso, gave all of her honors English classes a long list of authors about halfway through the school year, from which they would choose one and select a novel on which they were expected to write an extended paper weaving literary criticism with their own writing on a topic of their choice by the end of the school year. I was a little late to the game, so by the time I asked Mrs. Macaluso for recommendations on whom she supposed I would enjoy, Ralph Ellison was already taken. She then offered a few others, of which Ishmael Reed was the only one that I had a mild interest in. She warned me about students from previous years having trouble with his work, but I would not back down. I traveled about a half hour away until I finally found a bookstore that had a copy of Mumbo Jumbo available for my taking. Reed's surreal, hyper-attentive style appealed to me, and made me want to do research to understand some of the allusions he was making that I was unfamiliar with.

On October 3rd, the day I was born, of 1998, I received Ralph Ellison's Invisible Man as a present from my mother. Mind you, she did not read my mind, or anything of the sort, she just got what I had asked for a while back. I put off reading it, because I had also received two or three novels and had a difficult course load for my honors English class that year, until the summer after I graduated. That summer I took an Introduction to Cinema course at Hunter, and since I live in New Jersey I commuted four days a week, taking the bus and then the train. I remember, quite vividly, being so absorbed within the world that Ellison had constructed that I frequently forgot I was even on a train at all. I did not want it to end, and after I had finished it I thought... I wish I could be someone's boo'ful. But then I discovered, I probably was, and I just didn't know it yet.

the manipulation: or how I'll never be able to listen to Noah and the Whale the same again.

Tribeca kicked off Thursday night; since then I have seen a total of three films. All three viewings have been affected in some way by my deteriorating mental and physical conditions. I am eating very little these days, somewhat relying on coffee and cigarettes to get me by.

The first film I saw, Lola by Brillante Mendoza, was on Friday afternoon. I felt ambivalent to it at first, but upon reflection I think it might have been more special than I originally thought. I want to rewatch it, with a proper amount of sleep the night before, and see how I feel.

The second film I saw, The Chameleon by Jean-Paul Salomé, was on Friday night. It made me angry. Everything about it I pretty much found repulsive (not content wise, although they did sensationalize the material). It was laughable, and I do not think I would be able to watch it again if I tried.

The third film I saw, Meskada by Josh Sternfeld, was mediocre-to-bad. It was a very by-the-books crime drama, nothing special about it. Nick Stahl was adequate.

The fourth film I saw, Sons of Perdition by Tyler Measom and Jennilyn Merten, was actually good. My bad streak has temporarily ended. It was a documentary about subject matter that I know little about but it engaged me the majority of the running time.

My lack of sleep is due to manipulation. The manipulator doesn't quite understand me, or himself, to know what the point is, or what the outcome of his manipulation would be. The collateral damage should not be collateral damage, but this is the way it works with people sometimes. I am still myself, he is still him, and doomed to be him for the rest of his life.

I've been avoiding this English paper up until now, but I'm finding it, like I usually do with English papers, therapeutic to write. I am thankful for that. Now to get some food in my body, until next time...

rub down that set, son.

so let me hammer this point home
i see us all as lonely fires that have burned alive as long as we remember
but like all fireworks and all sunsets, we all burn in different ways
you are a fast explosion and i am the embers
and though your flames are quick and mean, they will not last the year,
but expire like a sudden falling star
that only nightingales had seen, before migrating to southern jungles
and in this way you will come find me in December

he said he'd like to move to Nashville to master the guitar
where he would live a single day the way i live a single year
covered his body in mud, went hunting for the sun
then went swimming in the lake of holy water
oh you are too hot for me, i am too slow for you
you are a fast explosion and i'm the embers
you need the one who slowly burns, and burns to stay alive
and in this way you will come find me in December

so let me hammer this point home
i see us all as lonely fires that have burned alive as long as we remember
but like all sacrificial virgins, we all burn in different ways
you are a fast explosion and i'm the embers
and though your flames are quicker than me, they will not last the year,
but expire like a sudden shooting star
that only nightingales had seen, before transforming into bluebirds
and in this way you will come find me in December

...this is one of the most profound songs of the past decade. So for now, I am out for a night of excess. Until next time.

balancing acts abound.

In the sincerest tone I am capable of, I am sorry to all of my followers for not blogging on this blog for the past month and not even telling you all about my new blog (which is, by the way, http://akadaniel.tumblr.com/).

I will attempt to update this blog more often, but it really depends on a few things.

1.) the teetering level of interest in my schoolwork (my last final is on Monday May 24th).

2.) the teetering level of interest in my social life.

3.) the teetering level of interest I have in writing analytically on film and music.

4.) my [impersonal] working status.

5.) my [personal] working status.

and finally

6.) my memory/remembering to blog on this blog.

NJ Transit is the spawn of Satan.

The bus I was coming home from school today broke down about a mile away from the bus station. I, along with everyone else on the bus, walked the rest of the way back, which involved crossing a highway going both ways. That was fun.

On the bus ride home I listened to all of This Is a Stick Up... Don't Make It a Murder. There is a journal entry from May 12, 2006 that I found online but I know it's from about a month or so earlier that year. I know this because that album was released April 11, 2006 and this was soon after it was released. I evidently was listening to it while lying on a radiator in computer class freshman year. It reminds me of you, even though I don't think you particularly liked or disliked them.

I think I have figured out my clapping problem. I remember almost every day of freshman year you used to clap all the time during science class (actually, I think it was during most classes I had with you). Sometimes you did it to the tune of Ben Lee's "Catch My Disease". I think I caught that from you.

I still wonder sometimes what happened during the summer of 2004. I know I should not, and I am one hundred percent sure I do not need closure on this, but I do wonder. That is all.

In other news, Shutter Island was a complete and crushing disappointment. A.O. Scott is pretty much spot on when he says "the plot of which does not so much thicken as clog and coagulate". With such a stacked cast, including the likes of Mark Ruffalo, Ben Kingsley, Michelle Williams, Emily Mortimer, and Patricia Clarkson, you wonder what went wrong. I don't want to pour all the blame on the likes of Scorsese, because I'm pretty sure the screenplay, written by Laeta Kalogridis, is a big source of the problem. Oh well, you can't win them all.

I am the master of astronomy.

I saw a woman who resembled my eleventh grade English teacher reading The Unbearable Lightness of Being on the 6 train today. It made me smile. I came home to a package from Drag City today; yes, it is the new Joanna Newsom record, Have One On Me. I cannot wait to listen to it in its entirety. I wonder if it will knock Heartland off the top spot of my favorite album of the year thus far. I also convinced Karyn to buy House of Leaves today from Borders. I am excited to see what her reaction to it will be. I have plans to see Shutter Island on Wednesday with a few people. The wait has been, and is still killing me. Until then...

Bonus: Grizzly Bear covered Hot Chip's "Boy From School" - mp3 (thanks to prettymuchamazing)

Nightmares and delusions of grandeur.

I have recently been imbued with a feeling that is so fleeting for me, a feeling that I can actually change the world one person at a time. A detective I have become, willing to put my time and energy into cracking this case that has been open since August and which will have a hole burnt in it by June. I'm not worried, though. I will wait and see where it leads me.

I feel like I should be supporting a family; holding two jobs, what do I do with this money? For now, I'll put it in the bank and act like it doesn't exist until I need it for transportation to and from school come the end of this month.

Last night I had a dream about Stanley Tucci raping and killing me, ala The Lovely Bones (which I do not plan on seeing; I really just want to hear Brian Eno's score). It was creepy and rooted in strange suburban values.

When I woke up I thought I heard my mother speaking about my grandmother; I quickly fell back asleep and dreamt that my grandmother had passed. When I awoke again my house was empty. My mother arrived home a few hours later to deliver some awful news about another member of my family, which I feel uncomfortable disclosing on this blog.

Tonight I am seeing Owen Pallett (formerly Final Fantasy) at Bowery Ballroom with Samira; tomorrow I am seeing Vampire Weekend (for the second time) at Bowery (again) with Kevin. I look forward to both nights of music; let's hope that humanity does not get in the way. Thursday I take off for Park City, where I will try my best to update on all the films I see.

Adios, you who watched the sun go down, at the rail, by my side, smiling –

The New York Film Festival screenings completely took the life out of me. The ball smashing and clitoris cutting of Antichrist, the child abuse of The White Ribbon, the beauty of Penélope Cruz in Broken Embraces... it was thrilling. Still I think the Film Society of Lincoln Center needs to reboot the festival in a way, attendance seemed to be at almost at an all time low. I was so exhausted yesterday when I went to see Spike Jonze speak at the Apple Store in SoHo. Catherine Keener was there, but the sound system was very poor so it was difficult to make out what Jonze, Keener, and the crew of Where the Wild Things Are were saying. Neon Indian's Psychic Chasms was released today by Lefse Records. Pitchfork named it "Best New Music" and I love "Deadbeat Summer" so I believe there is a good chance I'd really enjoy it. I attempted to make scrambled eggs with a Mexican blend of cheeses and feta today, but when it finished cooking it had the consistency of risotto. At least the coffee I made in my French press was good. I finished Kerouac's Visions of Cody, finally. I think I'm going to go back to Pynchon's Gravity Rainbow now. I'm coming home this upcoming weekend, and hopefully seeing Where the Wild Things Are sometime soon. I wanted to see New York, I Love You, but now my interest has gone down for some strange reason. Oh well, until next time...