play quiet time, time quiet play

Back from Mud Fest. Tired as all get out. All I have are pictures and a couple of words.

Boryeong Mud Fest is a Korean event involving mud for some reason. Most of the locals come during the week. It got crashed by foreigners one year, and has since been an excuse for a whole host of English teachers to drink copious amounts of alcohol and mud wrestle. I stayed away from the mud. I wanted to be at the beach and away from the city so that's mostly what I did. I went with 4 women, Kim, Natalie, Maria, and Maria's friend from the States, Tonya, which wasn't as awkward as I thought it would be. The weather started out cloudy, then turned rainy and violently windy on Sunday. So violent was the wind that it bent the $12 umbrella I bought. Here are some of the pictures:











They're on Flickr as well as Facebook. Feel free to peruse as you wish. And here are some of my favorite quotes of the weekend:

These cookies have the aftertaste of gasoline or fiberglass, can't tell which. -Kim

I saw Asian peepee. -Tonya

I charge $20000 an hour for English lesson. -Kim

Spagetti-o's, that's all I see. -Me on Hangul, the Korean Alphabet.

Natalie has some other ones. Maybe she'll post them as well. Now I'm out to take a shower and to get some sleep.

Update: A real entry is forthcoming. In place of any substance, please enjoy pictures of people from church consuming Mexican food and hitting pinatas.







For the rest, follow this next enthusiastic link...MEXICAN NIGHT! WEEEE!
---

Now, if you know me, and if your ocular receptacles are reading these words, then I'm mighty sure you do, unless you stumbled upon this blog, in which case, I'm sorry, then you know I'm the type of person who loves clean teeth and hates math. Who would have thought the toothpaste for me exists here in Korea?



Clinx, the only toothpaste with the power to fight bad breath, the gum disease gingivitis, and complex differential equation.



Truly, I can have it all in my oral care.

So I got bored with the script I was working on for Script Frenzy. Just horrendously, depressingly bored. I decided not to work on it over the weekend, as I was stuck on page 18 and didn't want to depress myself anymore. Somewhere on Sunday, I remembered a movie I tried to write in high school with a friend. I made a list on the church bulletin of why I wanted to make that movie so much, what was so special about it. That night, I proceeded to open up Celtx and hammer out a couple of scenes and then head to bed. I made three cups of coffee. On the third one I looked at the clock. It read, 3:39am.

I turns out I wrote almost 30 pages.

The adrenaline cut off, and suddenly I became tired. I slept, woke up at 10 today, and wrote fifteen more pages before work.

That brings the count up to 45, which is a day ahead of where I should be to finish Script Frenzy on time.

I don't think I've ever written 45 pages of a thing in twelve hours. I have no idea how I'm going to survive work from 4:30 to 10 tonight. I may just pass out in the classroom. Honestly, I want to get back home and continue writing, or write right now at my desk, but sadly, I'm getting ready to teach. Otherwise, I wouldn't stop this good feeling.
--

I went into Seoul for the first time this weekend. My recruiter, ESL Park, organized the event for all the people they currently had working in Korea. I took pictures. A lot of them. Over 200 which was more than I've taken in awhile. I picked out 50 of them and put them up online.

http://www.flickr.com/photos/tinsergenavy/sets/72157616608238849/

It was a nice way to spend the weekend. I broke off from the group to find a shopping building full of musical instruments. I'll probably go back there. I withdrew money (since I haven't gotten paid for teaching) with my US debit card and ended up accidentally taking out too much. The upside was, I ended up getting a cellphone with the extra change.

Having a cellphone feels a little better. Feels like I'm a little more here. I can keep in touch with the people I meet. It helps me feel a little less helpless. The job, however doesn't. I'm trying not to let it get me down, but when I get criticized for what essentially amounts to not having any training as a teacher, it's disheartening. No training, no anything, & thrust right into it, and my boss chooses the worst possible moments. Being hired knowing that I have no experience, it's rather frustrating.

At least I have wonderful weekends. :)

When you're going to be in a place for a year, it's rather daunting to begin to write about the experience. I have no idea what crazy adventures I'll get myself into, or where I might end up, or who I might meet. So every time I sat down to write another blog entry, I'd be stumped at the start and just go back to working on my screenplay for Script Frenzy. But no more. I figure I have all the time in the world to write, so I'll start at home. With pictures of the apartment I'm done living in.

( pictures behind the link! )

I had a good first weekend. It was quiet, which is wonderful after teaching loud kids all week. I've spent time reading 'The Golden Gate' (thanks Jay!), listening to awesome music (thanks, EJ!) and writing my screenplay for Script Frenzy. I went out on Friday night with Brian, one of my fellow foreign teachers at school, barhopping around Incheon. After going to church on Sunday, Maria showed me around Buepeyong Station, which has plenty of food and shopping, as well as subway access. I go into Seoul next weekend, for the cherry blossom festival (yes, they have them here too.) I'm lucky I have so many people to help me get adjusted. I don't think I'd be able to do it without their help.

In closing, a picture. One of the students drew this picture of me. I don't remember who, because I was just observing the class. I was rather flattered. I'm getting the nickname of Harry Potter teacher. I have no idea why, hehe.



Peace out!

So. I had no delays on the plane, which is wonderful, because I don't remember an international flight where I lost less than 15 minutes at a connection for engine failure or missing peanuts. San Francisco took a little longer to get around (their gates are mislabeled on the departures TV board) but I made on time nonetheless.

Before I left, Mom gave me some anti-jet lag homeopathic pills. They seem to be working. Despite losing an entire day, I'm pretty chipper. It's 10:46 here, Korea time. I have to figure out a way to remind Google, though I am in Korea, that I am not Korean, nor do I speak it, so I'd like my search results in English please.

My apartment's nice. Not fully furnished as stated (which I expected) but it has a bed and a couple of dressers and a kitchen. I had to clean it myself. It's not the worst I've seen. The floors were just dirty. I have a patio which is neat, but Korea's mostly concrete and asphalt, so there's not much to look at. When I find my camera battery, I'll post pictures.

Korea, on first glance, doesn't strike me as a particularly beautiful country. The cab ride over, it seemed that either I'm in a more industrial part or that that's the way it is. Lots of Daewoos, Kias, and Hyundais on the roads. I wonder why...heh...

I've met too many people. I can't keep names straight. Julia, the woman who greeted me out of the cab, will be working in the same part of the school as I. She's Korean, so I'm pretty sure that's not her real name. I'm going to be stuck with the elementary kids. Not my first choice, but I've made up my mind not to be picky. I may have to wear a tie. That bothers me more than teaching kids.

I think the other expat teachers I met tonight were trying to scare me. Put the fear in the new kid. Two of them, Andrew and Ryan let's call them, escorted me over to the building after finishing their classes, less than a block from the school. They talked up cockroaches and exploding kitchens when they moved in. I keep getting this feeling that I've walked into this situation with no expectations. I don't know if that's a good thing or a bad thing.

I'm sitting right now outside on the patio. It's midnight now. I just went shopping for trash cans and breakfast. This is the patio I'm going to write my first script (Script Frenzy, whoooo! April 1st!) if I can get some sort of table or desk out here. My feet are warmed by the heated wood floor. People are speaking outside on the street in a language I don't understand. I am half way around the world and I'm going to be here for a year. And so the adventure begins...

It's 9:59am EST. I'm in Atlanta. Tonight, I'll be in Raleigh. On Sunday, I'll be on a Boeing 737 headed half way around the world, to a country I know nothing about. But right now, I'm in Atlanta.

I'm sipping on tea. Celyon Tea. I ordered it because I didn't want coffee. If you drop one letter, then it becomes Cylon tea. I think that's the reason I ordered it.

Battlestar Galactica is over. I watched the finale two nights ago. The ending didn't matter. The show made it's point somewhere in the middle of the 4th season, with the reveal of the final Cylon. The two hour finale could have been clowns racing pink goats on wheelchairs, and I would have been satisfied. I've been with these characters for what feels like forever. Their lives are ending as mine is just taking off.

Three nights ago, I wore a red fedora and sequined bow tie, suit jacket, and dark slacks. I held a whiskey glass in my hand all night as friends and I acted out scenes for a floating audience. Friends put a voice to words I wrote as I helped entertain 50 people with a night of murder and mystery. I got to die right after dinner. The running gag was I was the night's band leader, and we never got to play, always interrupted by a murder or something else. After dinner was prime time to play. I ended up drinking a poison glass meant for another of the cast. Everybody laughed when I died. I did ham it up. We weren't going for serious with the whole thing. I was glad.

Driving home that night from the murder mystery, I watched Hillsborough Street from my roommate's red Jetta. Stephen played the night's doctor. He declared everybody dead. When I died, he grabbed my hand and let it drop on the ground. He wore his lab coat to work the next day. I tried hard to hold Hillsborough Street in my mind. It's going to change by the time I get back (if they ever get around to installing those frakkin' roundabouts.) The Hillsborough Street I've known for the past 4-5 years isn't going to be there when I get back. I wanted to hold on to it. I've been holding on to it for so long. It's hard to let go.

I want to come back to Raleigh. If North Carolina is my Middle Earth, then Raleigh's the Shire. I want to raise a family in Raleigh. I know the precise neighborhood. Anything could happen, though. I may never return. God knows everything, after all...

Today, I'm in Atlanta. Tonight, I'll be in Raleigh. On Sunday, I'll be in Korea. But right now, for the moment, I'm setting foot on a new Earth, sipping on robotic tea. A hint of rain strikes the air.

This is what I have done:



This is my reaction to what I have done:



Similar to what President-elect Barack Obama said, if anybody out there still doubts that anything is possible, here's your answer.

I freaking finished a novel. 50,000 words in less than a month. Completed Thanksgiving night around 10pm, far away from my mother, father, and sisters, in my room in Raleigh, North Carolina, USA, the World, the Universe.

This weekend, I relax, and fix pancakes in celebration. (If you're in Raleigh, show up at 1902 Fox Sterling Dr. around 1pm, and enjoy the deliciousness.) Next week, I edit the ever living crap out of those 50,000 words.

All is right with the world. All is love. Merry Christmas comes early.

Excerpt forth coming...

The wind was crisp outside of Pullen Park Community Art Center. NCSU's campus barely hinted at the scores of parents who descended for open house the day before. Starbucks was the place to spend a lazy Sunday morning, reading the bible (The Message translation) and knocking back a hot chocolate with a shot of espresso. When I ran out of steam to finish Isaiah, I parked in front of the bell tower and took a stroll around campus. I made my way to Pullen Park right around 1pm, to find people already lining up for early voting.

I haven't voted before, despite being eligible since 2003. The last time a presidential election came around, I was in Boone, freezing my ass off, looking for a way out. My vote was the last thing on my mind. I never keep up with politics, so local elections, the ones between the four year monoliths of presidential races, weren't even a thought. Government is far from my mind. Politics tend to disgust me. I'm not the type of person to take sides, especially when both sides (since that's all American voters can handle) are colorless clones of the same ideals. I wanted to vote, but there wasn't anything compelling me.

It was heartening to see the line forming on a Sunday. I stood behind a woman in a wheelchair, her daughter, and her daughter's husband. A black couple getting off of church showed up behind me. The old woman handling crowd control said this year was strange. She had worked for the election office since 2000. Normally, they'd only be allocated 4 officials, maybe 8 for a presidential election. This year, they had 32 people handling the process. She was only doing crowd control because there wasn't anything else for her to do.

I had never been in the building. I gathered that the Pullen Park Community Center offered a wealth of art classes. Displays of pottery, weaving, watercolor, acrylic. I even thought about taking some myself. Actually get better at arting. I have a lot of free time now.

The actual process was quick. I breezed from one part to the next, from verifying my Wake County registration with a gentleman in a blue shirt and red vest to the actual filling out of the ballot. The ballot was like a Scantron test, the exception being that I had to use a ballpoint pen. Carefully bubbling it out, I was struck by my inherent sexism. In (the several) cases where I didn't know one candidate from the other, I defaulted on the feminine sounding name. On cases where it'd be Robin, if there was a name with a more female ring, I went with that one. This, however, didn't affect my presidential vote. I did that last. I don't know why we do that. The vote that affects us least we think the most about. I was undecided up until I came to the ballot. I figured I would be. I thought long and hard about it. Then I bubbled in my vote and walked to the finish. The ballot machine ate my filled out test. The officer told me to wait until I saw the number change. 3107 to 3108. My vote was counted. A woman handed me a "I Voted!" sticker. I put it on without looking and left, less than half an hour from when I entered.

I got back to my apartment. I found my friend, EJ sitting outside, waiting on help to fix his car. He pointed out the slogan on my sticker. "I made freedom count!" I smiled. I was famished from my freedom counting, and fixed a pizza.

I've been more shutter happy lately than usual so I decided to collect my favorite ones and show them off.

Phone Wrestling:
so it was late and we were bored and stephen stole marty's phone and i had my camera.





moth & frog





Introspection ablaze


(is it just me or do I look like Will Wright here?






I've congregated most of the new stuff in a set on Flickr, if you're interested in seeing anymore.

Reading Watchmen gave me a joyous headache.

The 1986 graphic novel employs a technique that I can only call 'comic book montage' after the 15 credit hours for a film minor. Montage in movies is where scenes are edited one after the other, to create a 'language' through which the film, director, etc speaks. In Watchmen, different stories are placed with one another like scenes of a movie, dialogue and narration spilling over. A newspaper stand owner complaining about superheroes is juxtaposed with a comic narrative of a man shipwrecked at sea. Dr. Manhattan's television appearance happens along side his lover taking down thugs who mean to mug her. Each of these crosscutting moments is relevant, each cut illuminating something that the words or the images would have lacked standing on their own.

Super hero comics bristle me. Too many goodie-two-shoes, workshop rich boys, and supermodel stuffed into silk and nylon. The art never appealed to me and I found myself distracted by color, not story, not characters. Bill Watterson (creator of Calvin & Hobbes) once wrote, "You can make your superhero a psychopath, you can draw gut-splattering violence, and you can call it a 'graphic novel,' but comic books are still incredibly stupid," and I think he was referring to Watchmen. It's a gory story, faces smashed up against gold Egyptian decorations, a dog's head split open, corpses looking up from the depths of the ocean.

As much as I don't like comic books, I enjoy super hero movies more. They appeal to me on this humanistic sense. Free of the constraints of a static abstract visual medium, I can see the heroes as humans. Peter Parker becomes Spiderman and saves Mary Jane. Superman becomes Clark Kent, playing the greatest trick on humanity and his girlfriend. Their myths become my myths. The cinema put the most universal part of super heroes in my hands. I'm just sorry it had to be Toby Maguaire & Kirsten Dunst, tho I hear both of them regret it too. (Also, what's up with New York & superheroes?)

Alan Moore, the wild-bearded man who wrote Watchmen, decries the upcoming 2009 movie, calling director Zach Synder "homophobic," "racist," and that 300 was "a subliminally stupid movie." He'll have nothing to do with the movie, his name already deleted from the credits. Moore says his novel is meant to be read by a fire with a nice cup of coffee (wonder what he'd say about rain and chicken nuggets?) Like any other work that explores the strengths and weaknesses of it's medium, Watchmen succumbs to everything, holding nothing back. It is a total work. One that stretches so far across time, across space, to reach at us, it comes back around and meets us in a cold, desolate place full of fear and hope, of nightmares and nostalgia, of dreams and reality. If that sentence makes your brain hurt, don't let that stop you from reading.

Recommended? You betcha.

I'm stuffing my face with my foot. Samurai X: Trust & Betrayal or Rurouni Kenshin: Tsuiokuhen is the best anime I have ever seen. I never though I'd write such a sentence, but there you go. If Anime Planet were up right now and not under reconstruction, I'd update my list to reflect this revelation.

Before tonight, I held Invader Zim as the show most happiest to be an animated television show. Everything about Zim couldn't have been done in any other medium. Not even comics, the medium which the show's creator, Jhonen Vasquez, started out in. as a crazy, insane person who drew merely to satiate the voices in his wall. That Nickelodeon gave him a show is a subject for another time. That he created the most animated bit of animation ever is the focus here. Invader Zim was happy to be what it was and is, an animated television show. Even though it remains unfinished, every moment of the show sings the praises of it's medium, like Evangelion, like Wile E. Coyote & Road Runner, like Mickey Mouse. Zim has been usurped. I never thought that was possible.

Rurouni Kenshin is a show I was familiar with before I saw this four part OAV (Original Animated Video, Japanese equivalent of direct-to-video) tonight after weekend where I saw the joyous union of two friends and an evening/night of spiritual discussion over cigar smoke and bourbon with friends who were joyously un-unionated (yet.) However, the TV show wasn't half as moving or honest or poetic as this eighty eight minute show was. (forgive me if the length is wrong, wikipedia doesn't have the running time listed.) Cartoon Network ran Rurouni Kenshin the TV Show along side Sailor Moon and DBZ on Toonami. An endless series of comedy that has this flaky dramatic core. Kenshin, a man who slays to save. To make a ground for a new world to blossom, he destroys the old world. The directors of the TV show have to be kicking themselves. They let this story of Kenshin's origins slip through their fingers.

Trust & Betrayal doesn't wait for you. It pulls you along, moving between time periods of the main character's, Shinta-turned-Kenshin, life as an innocent walking into a world of murder. Kenshin is an assassin, a man who kills other men. He does so unquestioningly, believing he's bringing about a new world where no one has to kill. He meets Tomoe, a woman who smells of plum blossoms. Scorned from the death of her fiance, she plots to kill Kenshin, assassinate the assassin until she falls in love with him, culminating in the most tragic of ends, but then how else does love complete itself in this sinful world?



The moments this OAV projects are majestic. A second don't go by without a transfixing detail gracing the screen. Kenshin's eyes lighting up by the fire at dinner, the comb moving through Tomoe's hair, water running down the stream, the blood from a kill splattering on an umbrella. Animation depends upon abstractions. To render something so real, so striking, so true in the fictional sense and to make it 'real' or at least as real as lines and colors arranged to trick your eye into seeing movement from static images, there is nothing else one can ask from an animated anything. Trust & Betrayal couldn't have been done in any other medium. It is right there, on the same pedestal as Chuck Jones' One Froggy Evening and Disney's Steamboat Willie. This is what animation is all about.

One of my friends called Trust & Betrayal the man's Titanic. To love and be loved by one's enemy, I don't know, as a Christian that's what I'm called to do, at least first one. It's easy to imagine the perfect woman or man, and the situation(s) where love could blossom. At a day job, on a cruise, during the fourth of July. To love that who hates you, who plots to kill you, who holds in her hand the knife where your fate hangs; that's a different story. Forgive me for writing this, ladies, but it's a man's story. God forgive me; I feel like a man, despite the cigar smoke and the bourbon. My foot tastes good. Delicious, really.

Highest recommendations.



(images found from Google image search, piece of fan art found at this site, but if you're the artist, please lemme know for proper credit where credit is due or removal if removal is due.)

So I got bored yesterday, and decorated my door with Yotsuba. I printed out a bunch of pages from a scanlation of Chapter 34 (the beach chapter,) cut them up, and created a collage/storyboard. I wanted to capture how a day trip to the beach feels, how lively and packed it is, and how worn out everyone is at the end of it. This was a spontaneous project, just like Yotsuba's own trip, cobbled together after I got tired of sitting in front of the computer, job hunting. Originally, I was going to mix up Yotsuba and Calvin & Hobbes images, but I decided to leave that for another wall.

Yotsuba reminds me of how much I miss childhood. How the earth seems new, how discovery feels genuine to a child. I'm only twenty four and I feel like I've forgotten that. The mental playfulness, the curious nature; these are the essential states of mind for a creative person and I've let those parts of my brain go unpolished or filed them away in some unconscious warehouse, like a cerebral final shot of The Raiders of The Lost Ark. These are the things that are going to set me off from the crowd, that define who I am, how I choose to act. Innocence engenesizes my work.

I watch my friends become adults, go from being college students with no clue to full members of society. I envy them, because they're living their lives. They aren't sitting around. They are acting, producing, even if it's just handling dirt at a chemical company or helping people or waiting tables or whatever. Their lives have begun. They're making it on their own, whether they have help or not. They have a life that can be claimed, however they chose to do so.

Watching my friends, it's hard for me to imagine keeping my innocence the way it is. I want to, believe me. I'm slowly coming to the realization that that's not going to happen. But there must be something virtuous in keeping a fraction, a piece of that light from childhood. I want to be a creator. A writer and an artist. I'm uncompetitive. I attempt to be as non-offensive as possible (doesn't always work, opinions boil to the surface and what not.) My ambition is to have a book published. Does that mean my future is nil? Does that even fit into this universe? I feel so out of place in this existence. The values I hold don't jive, a door shut, locked, nailed, bolted, and bricked before I could even turn the knob.

Yotsuba's fictional world is often criticized for being too naive, too easy. The little scamp gets into all sorts of trouble that should maim her or kill her. That Yotsuba can stand up from a bike wreck breaks the believability of the world. I guess there's some validity to that argument. I mean, her reckless energy alone should land her in the hospital. Though, my childhood was filled with near misses with death, now that I think about it and I'm still here. For all the damage, I'm still here. Something about this innocence must be prevailing to have carried me this far.


food for thought, thoughts for food:

An adult is merely a child with responsibilities, nothing more.
-Shigeru Miyamoto

Jesus called over a child, whom he stood in the middle of the room, and said, "I'm telling you, once and for all, that unless you return to square one and start over like children, you're not even going to get a look at the kingdom, let alone get in. Whoever becomes simple and elemental again, like this child, will rank high in God's kingdom. What's more, when you receive the childlike on my account, it's the same as receiving me."
Matthew 18:2-5 (The Message)

You came just as a child/ you came all meek and mild/ oh i wished that's how he stayed.
-Deastro, "Child of Man, Son of God"

Every child is an artist. The problem is how to remain an artist once we grow up.
-Picasso

Steve Wiebe (rhymes with 'dweebie') jobless engineer turned science teacher, attacks an almost quarter century held record held by Billy Mitchell (rhymes with 'kitchell' ... yeah, i got nothin') hot sauce moguel and proclaimed greatest videogame player of our era. The battleground, Donkey Kong; the stakes, 1,000,000+ points, a mention in the Guinness Book of World Records & eternal bragging rights. Competitive videogaming is an absurd notion, but the film manages to find a compelling thread within this story of cabinets, joysticks, and sprites.

The film plays up Billy as a Machiavellian prince of gaming, the sly guy who maintain his record at whatever cost, while Steve is given the archetype of the underdog, the intelligent, sensitive man who never could get his life going. The camera glances at him sympathetically as his wife, Nicole, tells us that the day they bought their house was also the day Steve was laid off from Boeing. Distraught, he turns to video games, to Donkey Kong, to the record books of Twin Galaxies, and to Billy Mitchell's high score. The competition grows very fierce, as both men fight for a useless number at the top of an arcade monitor. I won't give the ending away here, though it's far more interesting than the source material deserves.

I wonder about the authenticity of the film. Mitchell, as a shot fired, arranges for a tape of his DK high score game to be played at a classic arcade event where Steve challenges his record publicly. The tape is accepted as record by Twin Galaxies but the film questions its legitimacy. The left side of Billy's video tears and fuzzes out, as Walter Day Twin Galaxies founder and high score keeper, notes, evidence of either the duplication process or potential cheating. In that same way, Billy's and Steve's performances(though a documentary, everybody performs in front of the camera) seem illegitimate, fuzzy, staged. Steve's destitution comes across as insincere (i mean, he did travel across the country from Washington to New Hampshire for, of all things, a videogame tournament) while, according to Walter in a later Twin Galaxies forum post (thanks Wikipedia,) the two men actually conversed and were genuinely chummy together, even while competing. There's a level of artificiality to the whole thing. Nobody cares this much about a videogame, right? The constant comparisons to organized athletics only heightens the absurdity.

And yet, we care about the economy, one giant number. When those stocks go up or down, we feel relief or worry. When our bank accounts reach 1,000,000 dollars (& beyond,) when church attendance numbers swell at the doors. If I had to make a blanket statement, humans like numbers that go up (gas prices are an exception, naturally.) They go up, we get more, have more room, feel secure that there isn't an end. I mean, God did say "Be fruitful and multiply." As far as I know, he didn't add, "oh, and there's a kill screen at board 251, so you know, watch out." We believe in limitless futures. Some numbers are just backed up by things other than imagination.

Hell, I don't have a job right now & I'm downloading the latest GTA 3 speed run (term for the fast playthrough of a videogame.) I started my own run of the game through a couple of years back in college (Lord knows that's strange to say.) I even found a few tricks to knock off a healthy number of minutes. Maybe it's about time I bite the buckle and bullet down. I mean, I got nothing else better to do.

Recommended (especially if you think a documentary about two nerds setting records sounds ridiculously unappealing.)

Screenshots yoinked from VGMuseum & Brawl Snapshots

Pixar can't seem to make a bad film. A Bug's Life was an excellent kid's movie with no depth and Cars, while financially successful, couldn't make endearing, human objects out of Corvettes, Mustangs, and Porsches. Neither of these films would I call a failure, and the rest are resounding successes. The Toy Stories returned to childhood nostalgia, when action figures actually talked, while the Incredibles and Finding Nemo explored the meaning of family in classic superhero tropes and the ocean respectively. Everyone of these films with few exceptions was made under increasing hype. With each new film, Pixar seemed to raise the bar.

It should come as no surprise that WALL-E measures up. It's a fantastic film, and you should make the time to go see it. As far as summer movies go, you couldn't ask for a movie that's more "feel good" than this one.

WALL-E plays out like a feature length animated short, one of Disney's early Mickey shorts or a Merry Melodies short that revolved around a library with books coming to life. It takes a conceit and wraps all the jokes and story around it, and in this case, the conceit is a little trash compacting robot of the film's title.

WALL-E's an endearing character. He is ridiculously adorable and full of those little animated touches that make him almost human. I mean, when he gets off of work at sunset everyday, he wanders back home, sorting his junk and watches a worn tape of Hello Dolly! and dreams about holding another's hand. He's got the same dreams as me.

The movie pushes an environmental and anti-WalMart agenda, but it takes a back seat to scenes where WALL-E and EVE, his Jonathan Ives designed companion, dance around in space. The movie's full of moments that delight in displaying its diverse characters. Even the most minor player has a personality. Ultimately, it's a love story. EVE does everything to keep her rusted square companion alive, and together they end up saving humanity from a blubbery, empty fate.

There's no explanation given for why WALL-E might collect useless human junk, or why he might fall in love with another robot, and there don't need to be. It's science fiction, not science boring. Science fiction only works when it reflects something back about humanity in the cold and the unfeeling, and on that level WALL-E excels. It's one of the most solid animated films released in awhile, and I can't recommend it enough.

so I totally biffed my interview with this English school in Japan. Totally failed it. It was embarrassing. I thought I had a good idea. It was the second interview and I was feeling good about it. I mean, I thought that's a good sign, right? They loved me so much that they wanted a second taste, to see if I was up to snuff. It turns out that I took it the wrong way, as the dude I talked to (a man with a nice British accent and several opinions about the luxury of oil and the future of humanity) it was a second chance. They apparently are always looking for people to fill positions and they need anybody they can get and even with that, I failed. Even now, I'm thinking of a way to spin it to look like I'm the victim, like they miscommunicated their requirements or other distortions. It's a natural human inclination, and a troubling one. I'd do without it, if I could.

It's not the end, though. I'm not going to cut off the possibility of teaching English in Japan (or another country, for that matter.) I'm just going to have to rethink it. I think I desired the travel, not the actual work, and I got too focused on that. Like, I just wanna get outta here. Wanna see the world, etc. I forgot I was applying to teach. Not that I didn't think about it. I wrote down a few ideas I had for lessons, music, activities. Nothing beyond that, which turned out to be the problem. I wasn't prepared for the test I ignored. Which leads me to believe my desire was misdirected and I just played Half Life 2 when I should have been researching education tactics and lesson ideas. I'm so blindly blinded by desire, sometimes, I forget that reality actually exists.

And it's not like I haven't applied for other work. Put in applications for jobs in and around Raleigh, and I've kept my ear close to the ground for blogging jobs that pop up from time to time, and those things I know I can do. There are other possibilities.

I don't think I imagined post-graduation like this. I always assumed I have something to do, because the years before had just been full of school and family. I started college a skinny kid hunched over a computer screen, and that's how I lived it out. How I still live. Not much has changed, and that bothers me more than any sort of job failure. If anything, every failure disquiets my accepting nature and forces a change. I can't avoid the banal nature of my life right now. Aimless. Directionless. I've found it so hard to write, even with the weight of education lifted. Anything that shakes me up and sets me on the right path is a welcome speed bump.

I just finished and sent out a batch of applications for English teaching jobs in Japan. We'll see how it goes. I'm both excited and nervous at the thought of somebody half way around the world just looking at my application.

Is it weird to be afraid of success? I think when I send out any application, I assume the worse and fear the best. I'm not a responsible person. Actually, I'm kinda lazy. It's taken me this long to just send out four applications. I've been out of school for almost a week now, graduated and Good God Almighty free, but even before that milestone, I had plenty of free time with only one exam to go to and a couple of papers. If I succeed, then I have to do work and I'm not very good at that. Hell, I haven't updated this blog in like two months. Double hell, who even reads this anymore?

Is it stupid to admit laziness? I want to work. As much as I enjoy the time off, the doubt lingers inside of me when I just sit around the apartment. Yes GTA IV is a wonderful game, but I haven't enjoyed it as much as I know I would if I were busier. It's not a reward or even a pleasure. I'm just progressing through it to fill the empty space right now. I make Nico Bellic take jobs as I'm struggling to get off my ass and find my own employment.

Is it normal to think that writing isn't professional? I'd like to make a career out of writing. Not in a corporate or technical sense. I'd like to have books published with my name on them. I'd want to be involved with movies, write for videogames, animation. I love the way words can produce images or sounds, the way that words have not disappeared in this postmodren age of videogames. I want to tell stories and recite poems. Why the hell can't I think of that life as professional? BT, composer, producer, and musician genius, moved to LA for a year or so after music school, trying to get published as a singer/songwriter. He failed, moved back home, and became popular in Europe. He's more daring than I am, but I feel like sometimes, that's the kind of effort it's going to take to get myself noticed, involved, and published. Even in this strange Internet born world of ours, I feel distanced from success.

For some reason, Word just opened a poem I wrote in middle school while I was working on a film paper. It came up all junked up and gave me a laugh. If anything, I forgot how angsty I was in middle school.

Elusive Love
by evan tysinger and his powerbook

Love
An elusive idea to me
I have simple passions and wants
That need to be fulfilled
I want to kiss somebody
And taste more than their lips
I want to look at someoneís eyes
And see more than eyes
I want to put my head close to anotherís
And hear more than rhythmic breathing
I want to hold someone close
And feel more than a simple, repeating pulse
I want to tell someone I love them
And watch a smile appear on their face
I want more than this pitiless anger can offer
I am tired of rage
I am done with hurt
I am finished with loneness
I want to make some one happy
I want to have a purpose in life
I want to see her smile
Ear to ear
I want to hear the sounds of joy
When I say, ìI love you.î
Am I to be denied such freedoms?
Such simple desires?
Such simple passions?
Why does she do so?
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I want to read this at an open mic night. It would be so awesome.

To conclude, I have a picture of myself from middle school. I warn you. I was hideously angsty.



I'm a little bit taller now, and that cucumber still has eyes, but really, not much has changed.

it's getting harder and harder to pay attention. i'm at work, but i can't focus. i can't tell what i'm doing. everybody's gone, my supervisors are in a meeting across town. the newsletter can't be completed any further unless i can get the facts from the fundraising event, and nobody's around who has that, and nobody's around anyway. i have nothing to do. i'm fighting off boredom.

i'm not angry that i have nothing to do. i'm just infuriated that i could be doing the things i have to do from home. i'm starting to wonder just how corporate i should be. i've got to fix up a resume and a cover letter and a portfolio for internship class in the next couple of weeks. what can i put in them, especially the portfolio? class work on academic and theoretical subjects? articles? the stuff i've written for this internship? blog entries? i'm a strange person, growing up in a postmodern world.

somehow, that strangeness has to get me the job. if i'm looking at an employer, and they don't see me, what good can i do them? i'm strange. i'm weird. and if that's not a positive then i'll never get a job.

i wonder how much longer things will be postmodern. postmodernity started after the world wars, both of which positioned the US as the dominate power in the world. now, the US faces a sore economy, while the EU keeps pumping up. the dollar falls while the euro soars. my dominant thought patterns have been shaped by situations that are rapidly falling apart. this economic situation makes me question even my ability to secure a job. the last statistic i heard, my generation will average twelve job changes in one decade.

i'm not so worried about getting a job or my country's economic health as i am about how prepared i am for this new world. i feel like the only ideologies i've been taught have either been, america is great or america is not great. i don't know the world like i should. i have traveled, but my travels always come back to tourism. i never can shake the idea that i'm judging other places by standards that have been given to me, rather than standards that come from within me. if only i could get a job where i travel and write...maybe i'm too much of an artist/rebel/poet, but i'm not sure i can really give people what they need sitting behind a desk.

Who am I? Where do I begin and you end? Where is the line? Where does my identity start? Who am I? What am I?

Well, I don't know about you, but I just finished watching Evangelion.

Someone once said about Xenogears, a videogame that draws more of its story from Eva than I previously realized, that you should only play it when you're 11 years old and that if you aren't, you should give it to an 11 year old. I'm tempted to say the same about Evangelion but Evangelion is just so much more mature and savvy in its storytelling. The last two episodes bleed off any animation for sketches, still images, photographs, and voice overs. It's still animation, the practice of creating motion through a series of still images played in rapid succession, at its barest, and tells an intensely psychological story in the mode.

And still, knowing full well without any spoilers how the show was going to end, I was unhappy with the ending. They had spent literally twenty four episodes, almost two seasons, developing this stark, original science-fiction world. A world post-world where there is nothing left, where humanity has been marginalized and desperate, where people become apart of the giant robots, souls infused with machine. A world desolate and abandoned. Even once the second season starts and the psychological element of the show gets amped up, there was still this fantastic story being woven along with that. The world of Evangelion was so detailed and believable, to not deliver on that aspect of the show, abandoning it for a much more artistic, psychological, and arguably weaker conclusion is disappointing.

I didn't mind (the developments of the second season)...I didn't feel (that we had to give up.) My opinion was, "Why don't we show them the entire process including our breakdown." You know -- make it a work that shows everything including our inability to create a satisfactory product. I figured that, "In 10 years or so, if we look back on something that we made while we were drunk out of our minds, we wouldn't feel bad even if the quality wasn't so good."
-Kazuya Tsurumaki

After reading the interviews with both the director, Hideki Anno, and Kazuya Tsurumaki, deputy director for the series, I get the sense that both men were proud of the original ending and unhappy with the backlash. A backlash so fierce that it led to two movies, one which is a re-edit of the first twenty four episodes and the other which is all new material complementing or replacing the last two episodes (feel free to correct me if I've gotten any of this wrong.) I'm curious to see these additions, if just because of my dissatisfaction with the ending.

The series still resonates with me. In the last episode, after everything's gone to hell, Shinji faces himself on the battlefield of his own mind. Shinji's words stick with me, his feelings of worthlessness, the demons in his head, and the purely mental nature of the battle with himself. The mind is terribly powerful. It can create and destroy all kinds of fabrics of reality. It can tear a human apart and hold her together. It's a dangerous place to go and even more dangerous place to return from.



Evangelion reminds me of The Passion of the Christ. Hideki Anno put the same energy into his show as Mel Gibson did for his movie. Gibson was reported to have sang on a couple of pieces for the film's soundtrack and the hand that drives the first nail into the cross is his own. The images and ideas of Eva originate from a journal kept by Anno during his battle with depression. I have no hard time believing that the struggles Shinji deals with were the director's own. Anno was given a rare and precious thing with Evangelion. He was allowed to make the series what he wanted, exactly & unchallenged. It is an opportunity I, as a creator, am envious of.

Is it the best anime ever? No. Is it my favorite anime of all time? Hardly. It will take a miracle to usurp Cowboy Bebop. Still, I've never seen anything like Evangelion, nor ever again. The show resides at the intersection of genius and madness, a place of desolate apartments and strange characters. I'm glad to have gone there, but I don't know if I will pass its way again. For a brief moment, I wonder how I ended up here, in this place where I have fallen apart. In that moment, I know who I am, and for that, I am grateful.

Recommended.

People hurry as I sit. Where are they going? Starbucks has a line. Tea cools in front of me. Camomile. There's a fault line running right through my brain, and I hope to calm it.

The place is dark, like a subway, without the white tiles and sticky stuff. People walk by. Scurry. Shuffle, run, sprint. I can see their faces as they pass through the light. They look flat, shadows robbing them of a dimension. They pass by. I sip my tea.

This place reminds me of the subway, but it smells like an airport. The comings and goings, the passing bys, the number of people who know people. A Latino woman embraces one of the flowing crowd to the side of me. He is a tall man, red beard and long hair kept in place by a John Deere hat. Outside, a blonde-haired angel performs a triple axel. Artists with working canvases spring up out of their seats beside me, only to be replaced by a man with a muffin who makes me look like the Governator.

I'm sick. My head is splitting. I'm burning on the inside. How many people pass through this place? Am I just one of a thousand? Another sick customer? Squares of granite are everywhere. Rectangles upon squares. Squares upon rectangles in squares. Squares in rectangles in squares upon squares. Pleasing to the eye. A plaza of shops still above. An oil baron's name on the whole thing. The shopper relaxed and the credit card ready. The card readers are down at the drug store. So much for some Tylenol.

Love comes to mind as they round the corner. Companions on this trip. I act alone, reading Wired, and they don't see me. And then they do. I'm not lost yet in the crowd, in the sickness. In myself. Yet, at least, I am not strong. I'm weak.

People flood the corners of my breached mind. They slide in. People watching turns into absorption and I can feel their lives mesh. I can feel a moment where all of this city turns into one and the crowd of souls on the ferry sing to one tune and Flood-tide I see you face to face. It avails not, time nor place - distance avails not. I am with you, you men and women of a gener- This city has made me sick. I have taken too much of it in.

I hear yelling, from the 60 Rockefeller Street entrance. "Where'm I fuckin' going? I'll tell you where I'm fuckin' going!" It's a man whose screaming. He's older and creased, but his hair and beard are still brown. He's carrying two drug store bags full of other drug store bags and a backpack over his two jackets. "Where'm I fuckin' going? Where are you fuckin' going?"

An attendant intercepts him. The man stops in front of me. I can't see his face now. He doesn't say anything. The attendant firmly yet gently intones to him directions to follow. Other people watch, or ignore the scene all together. I sip my tea. I sip my tea again. The man starts walking until I can't see him or the attendant.

As I shuffle back to the subway, I glance into the Starbucks lounge. He's sitting there, his two jackets off. He's got a muffin & a coffee in front of him and the attendant is watching him like a hawk. How about that? I think. Where'm I going? I'll tell you where I'm going. I'm going to Starbucks, yo!