Daily Batman: the Long Halloween

The death of Johnny Viti.

Movie Millisecond: Lost Boys, wardrobe suggestions edition

Lost Boys (Joel Schumacher, 1987).

I say again. I am in this movie.

Liberated Negative Space o’ the Day: I ain’t never been cool

(“No, I didn’t; I was never cool.”)

Movie Millisecond: Always

Scream (Wes Craven, 1996).

Daily Batman: O.G. wisdom

We have not even to risk the adventure alone; for the heroes of all time have gone before us; the labyrinth is thoroughly known; we have only to follow the thread of the hero-path.

(Joseph Campbell. The Hero with a Thousand Faces. Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1949. p. 18.)

R.I.P. always to an O.G. champion of monomyth, bliss, and heroism — Joseph Campbell (March 26, 1904 – October 30, 1987). Crack a comic and pour out some King Cobra today in his honor.

Just Another Auden October: A force more dreadful than we can imagine

‘Lead us not into temptation and evil for our sake.’
They will come all right, don’t worry; probably in a form
That we do not expect, and certainly with a force
More dreadful than we can imagine.

(W.H. Auden, For the Time Being; A Christmas Oratorio, 1942).

Liberated Negative Space o’ the Day: Strict dress code

No backwards hats. No exceptions.

Movie Millisecond: Let he who is without dorky clothes cast the first stone

Pulp Fiction (Quentin Tarantino, 1994).

Monday, while my students were lined up to go out to recess, one of them said, “Miss L, did you know that tomorrow is Fifties Day?”

“Oh, no,” I replied drily. “What ever will I wear?”

Everyone laughed. They all got the joke. All of them. 100% of children age 8-9 years old recognize that E parties like it’s 1959. Tell A Friend.

Liberated Negative Space o’ the Day: Textual healing, “We are the dreamers of dreams” edition

via.

(Arthur William O’Shaughnessy.)

Just Another Auden October: We would rather be ruined than changed

We would rather be ruined than changed
We would rather die in our dread
Than climb the cross of the moment
And let our illusions die.

(W.H. Auden, “Epilogue.” The Age of Anxiety, 1948).

Daily Batman: A salt is no joke

Okay, that’s a decent diner joke, but I have another: you hold up the saltshaker.

“What’s this?” you ask your dining companion.

“Salt,” they say.

You hold up the saltshaker with one hand and, using the other, hold the knife from your place setting against its side. “What’s this?” you ask.

They don’t guess. You say:

“A salt with a deadly weapon.”

You’re welcome.

Liberated Negative Space o’ the Day: The cost of loving

I’ve gotten intercourse for far less, but, then, I’m a girl.

Movie Millisecond: This way to the monkeyhouse

Bringing Up Baby (Howard Hawks, 1938).

Daily Batman: Hanging out

I believe this is available as a tee on threadless. If it isn’t, it should be.

Flashback Friday — Just Another Auden October: Autumn Song

This entry originally appeared on October 20, 2010 at 9:19 am.

Photographed by mjagiellicz on the d.a.

Now the leaves are falling fast,
Nurse’s flowers will not last,
Nurses to their graves are gone,
But the prams go rolling on.

Photographed by bittersea on the d.a.

Whispering neighbors left and right
Daunt us from our true delight,
Able hands are forced to freeze
Derelict on lonely knees.

Photographed by leenaraven on the d.a.

Close behind us on our track,
Dead in hundreds cry Alack,
Arms raised stiffly to reprove
In false attitudes of love.

Photographed by cookiemonstah on the d.a.

Scrawny through a plundered wood,
Trolls run scolding for their food,
Owl and nightingale are dumb,
And the angel will not come.

Photographed by redribboninyourhair on the d.a.

Clear, unscalable, ahead
Rise the Mountains of Instead,
From whose cold, cascading streams
None may drink except in dreams.

(Auden, W.H. “VI.:Autumn Song.” Twelve Songs. March 1936.)

If ever there were a view on which to turn your back à la Gertrude Stein, a sweeping vista of the Mountains of Instead would be the one. No going back. Too late. Prams rolling on. Breathtaking strong tide of inevitability that takes all the water with it and leaves you and your petty fears and dreams dragging in the dust.

Time is stolen from us in such tiny ways — although I guess it is scarcely a theft when you never lock the door or look out the window to see if there is a shadow waiting for you to turn your back, as if all you possess are invincible by dint of being yours — and we use landmark occasions to mark the loss, but we only once in a while really look at what momentous and yet totally miniscule shit comprises what is destined to be our one and only, short history.

This Autumn was already weighing as heavily on me as last year. Now all I feel like I can handle doing is to take a hot bath and climb back beneath the covers (you see what I mean about aiding in our own robbery by time?). Thanks a lot, Auden. I guess what scares me most about it is does it always steal up on you? Does it just sneak up and you turn around and cry out, “Oh, not yet. It can’t be time yet. I’m not finished. I thought I would have more time.”

Photographed by disco_ball on the d.a.

Is there any way to escape that, that moment of realization, that punch in the gut when the waste, all the time you wasted suddenly comes rushing up around you so you can’t even breathe? Your life is over and you’re not ready because you thought you could always keep backsliding, that there would be special accounting for prodigal, last minute, golden you, who always slid in under the wire, who always got a second chance if you smiled big enough when you asked. There is no talking or charming or dodging your way out of final reckoning, and no method by which I can imagine escaping the horror of that realization, and you finally turn around and see the Mountains of Instead. You made them that tall. What do you do about the regret which will follow. Is there a way to soften that blow?

I don’t think there is. I can make vows about viewing this poem as a cautionary tale, and shine you on about how I plan on avoiding such a fate by making every moment count, and on and on until the sun goes supernova, but a plucky attitude does not lower the Mountains of Instead even an inch. No changing the past. No erasing regrets. That is just some fucked up shit right there.

Movie Millisecond: Never knew

From Here To Eternity (Fred Zinneman, 1953).

Isn’t that just the way of it? I assume this will happen to me eventually. Right? Or not. And I die alone. Whatevs.

Just Another Auden October: A lane to the land of the dead

Photographed by Logan White.

The glacier knocks in the cupboard,
The desert sighs in the bed,
And the crack in the tea-cup opens
A lane to the land of the dead.

(W.H. Auden, “As I Walked Out One Evening.” Juvenelia, 1922-1928).

Liberated Negative Space o’ the Day: Per mi amico, the Cappy redux — If only edition

Geez, if it were that easy, I’d already know what the Cappy’s baby smelled like and have kissed his wife with embarassing effusion on both cheeks in person.

Hippo birdie, old friendoh and brotha from anotha motha. I hope it was full of everything you deserve. Just wish I could’ve been there to wish you happy birthday in person. It’s like, where is this button??

Daily Batman: Cthulu edition

A terrible day to forget the utility belt.

“Batman and Cthulu” by Scott Vanden Bosch.

The other gods! The other gods! The gods of the outer hells that guard the feeble gods of earth!… Look away… Go back… Do not see! Do not see! The vengeance of the infinite abysses!”

(H.P. Lovecraft. “The Other Gods.” Weird Tales. 1948. )

Teevee Time: It’s Wednesday

Every child needs a pet.