solitude is the rectitude of the creators. perspiration, sleepless nights, pencils chewed straight through. they will not understand--they have no perception of what we hold within our being. nor do they have perception of what they hold in theirs. in the spring we thaw our hands, and some grow with their dreams. other's let the morning frost panic them enough to forget. yet there the dreams sit... waiting to bloom.

when you meet your equal in dream seeking, it can knock the breath out of your chest with a forceful gusto. you look upon this shining being, daring to believe they won't turn into one of the withering souls you see everyday, surrounding you on all sides. but there it lies: a rose among the weeds.

let my icy resolve to be as i am drive you no further away. join me in steadfast solitude: we'll find it in each other.

you called me too proud, and yourself too stubborn. why is pride a sin? because i don't speak of my ability, but rather let it speak for itself? your stubbornness sprouts from the sanction others have given your laziness and demands for charity. they harbored you with the exchange of their rightfully earned money, words, and empathy, for your unjust assumption that you deserve it for the sole reason of just existing. you should never feel as if your existence is one that deserves anything you don't work for.

i stare up at the ceiling, pushing down the bile of disgust in my throat. it is a decadently rich and beautiful cross hatch work of deep wood. you blame me for my prosperity, which i rightfully earned, while you wallow from house to house taking what bread crumbs you can steal from another's pity. 

i'm indifferent to your hate, and in contempt of your lust for what is not yours. you will not win.

my ceiling will not come crashing down, and your ideals will not provide a roof over your head. 

if nothing else describes this, let it be that my brain was a sponge. i absorbed it all, with no other point but to absorb. every moment of it was pure exaltation; let it be no other way. the sight of your muscles moving smoothly, the smell of your hair and light perspiration, the touch of you brisk skin and mighty heat. it was all as it could be only then. never again. and imprinted into the back of my mind like a deep gash of foreign subsidy. let me feast on this forever.

there is nothing so lonely as realizing you are one of the only of your type. i despise willful ignorance, and despise even more the lack of pride in anything men do today. i don't believe in doing things for others. and i don't think it's wrong. when you devote your soul to that which calls you, it is the only thing in this world you can offer to everyone else as bare, naked, honesty. that is true philonthropism--celebrating your deepest desires and putting them into motion. when you love something, you will work to continually become better at it.  

the love of money isn't evil. money itself is the only thing that represents the value of another's effort--the value of their thoughts put into motion. if you love something, you understand it's truest essence. if you love money, you love your fellow man and understand that the best, deepest respect you can give to him is to attain money with your reciprocated effort and creation, and to do so with vigor and hunger. it is deeply seated bow, with the only intention of calling out the very best within someone. what better a salute is there, than asking someone for their very best that they are capable of?

those that say "the love of money is the root of all evil" don't really believe that... they are the looters, the ones who don't wish to see the best in their fellow man. if it begins to take more effort to earn money, it is because of one of two things.

1. there is healthy competition and innovation.
2. the very essence of money is being thwarted by those that do not wish to earn, only to despise their fellow man by taking what is not theirs.

the ones that despise money believe that success and effort should not be rewarded, but punished. they reward the ones that do nothing, yet punish the ones that hold society itself on their shoulders. it is the most despicable, hateful, contemptuous act that has ever been performed, or looked at as normal and right. how dishonest, how unjustified.

you and i can't be together much longer. you say you understand, but you merely agree to avoid the responsibility of knowledge. to avoid the questions, the debate. i question your motives because that is the only thing holding this world together: motive power.

if you love your fellow man, you will devote yourself to your interests. you will dive in with no repose. if you love me, you will follow your dreams to the end of the earth, and leave me in the dust. you will expect me to match and exceed you. our ecstasy will be in knowing the other is passionate enough to truly make it their life. our ecstasy will be to outdo each other, and celebrate it with liberty.

i don't know that you'll ever be beside me in this. you are only now beginning to learn... and i am so lonely.

sitting next to my porch window, it told me the secrets of sprinklers and children, and sunlight hindered by the strongest of winds... but i can feel the swampy air you skin muddles in, elegant as you are empress. it's like a connection of deep velvet, running through my veins. this desert can't separate us, whether kindred sisters or long lost lovers. it's an incredible vice, this instant intimacy. and my window lies low tonight, because for once we can briefly share the moon. sweet dreams princess.

sometimes.....

my dad emailed this to my proudly hispanic fiance of 3 years.... yesterday, because, hey! if you're racist on an ethnic holiday, it doesn't count:

Drinking with an Arizona Girl
A Mexican, an Arab, and an Arizona girl are in the same bar. 

When the Mexican finishes his beer, he throws his glass in the air, pulls out his pistol, and shoots the glass to pieces.

He says, 'In Mexico, our glasses are so cheap we don't need to drink with the same one twice.'


it's not even funny. sheesh. my dad is a noob.

the dreams are uncontainable, unexplainable. it's only a lullaby attraction, a wispy whim of closed eyes. you're a married man, i'm a marred woman spoken for with a sparkly rock and the imitation of domestic bliss. we both have our picket fences that stand between us, and these are only dreams, only dreams... oh god sparks flew when your hand brushed my thigh this afternoon, and if ever i was to control a quiver, it would have been then. this is fatal, and i'm your mark.

why was it so surprising to us, that it was still here after all this time? rounding the corner, looking at the rolling grass, right up to the lake's edge. this was where i left my beautiful, and came back to pick up like the missing sock in a pair. my breathing evened out, my eyes dilated slightly. i was home, and i had brought you with me, all this way. were you home with me,or just visiting?

lunar and foreign. i feel like a lesser known me at the moment. twisting and turning through a maze, asking riddles of myself that i never expect to be capable of answering. are you a mother when you have child, or a more so when the child never comes? i feel homeless and helpless sometimes when i sit in my comfy chair and watch the sky get brighter in the phoenix horizon. lacing your fingers in mine, you're so sure of who were are, who i am, who i will be. what will you do when i'm gone, and my snowy skin isn't there to cool your fiery heart?

dear vegas: why does your constant bustle feel like home?

i'm ready to be seattle bound--the rain is whispering the most seductive promises.

this is one of the nights where sleep hides like secrets in the forest; if a tree falls, will you hear it? at one point you were my lullaby, your deep even breath a metronome to my dreaming symphony. now i am restless and watching the city that never sleeps below; the night is long and the day's light burns crisp holes in my retinas. we don't brush against one another, as i have become more icy with each passing moon; my vampiric tendencies are anything but mythical, romantic, or sparkly.

but i crave your tender touch and your pocket-watch eyes.

productivity is the royal title bestowed on my brow at the moment. the bags under my eyes and dryness of the mouth all comes with due reward.

we're almost there.

california, i smell your salty ocean now.

seeing green grass reminds me of you; the sharp brightness. it's like a promise of blooming spring and blistering summer... how we embrace one and dread the other.

you don't want to step on it, but you want to know how soft it is between your toes. when you cave and finally mark your entrance with a dent on the blades, you almost cry from a combination of joy and sorrow.

the green is always temporary, and i mourn it's pending absence. just as i mourn yours.

Reflections from over 5 years ago, a movie scene analysis:

Movie: The Village
Director: M. Night Shaymalan
Composer: James Newton Howard
Scene: Those We Don't Speak of

Link: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GbJpJBKUf4k

Why: Once upon a time, there was a film that planted many ideas of visual beauty and it's combined grace with composed sound, as well as the power of love over darkness. These seeds were watered with each subsequent viewing of this film, and other's that inspired. But it always came back to this one. The precision, and obvious care that went into every shot composition, the psychological play of the edit and cuts, the color design, and homage to past arts; the individual character quirks for event the smallest of parts; the beautiful play of words, and the ancient arch of a hero'd myth. These seeds grew steadfast, into the passion which is mine--aspiring film maker.

Another reason: Because at one point, M. Night Shaymalan was a great hero of mine. He molded the greatness behind a simple story arch into something so symbolic and unique in presence, that you cannot forget his films (even if you do not like them). And then, The Happening happened, which I now prefer to think did NOT happen. It is in my hope that by rediscovering the beauty and thought behind his first films, that I can appreciate the upcoming film version of The Last Airbender. I expect that as a Hindu believer, he can nail the theological message with grace; I hope that he can return to the beautiful cinematography and flow of shot choices, as well as deeply intriguing character traits and flaws.


OPEN SCENE

We find that Finton Coin is watching, under the glow of yellow lamp light, shrouded in a yellow cloak. This is the "Safe Color." Under American culture, yellow is the symbolic color of happiness, as well as sunlight. In the native (eastern) Indian culture of M. Night Shaymalan, yellow is the symbolic color of Ganesha and Lakshmi. (To learn more about Ganesha, look here: http://www.shivashakti.com/ganesh.htm . To learn more about Lakshmi, look here: http://www.sanatansociety.org/hindu_gods_and_goddesses/lakshmi.htm) These gods, (essentially represented differently, but used as one and the same), represent luck, prosperity, and the pursuit of our desires.

When we view the "Good Color" in the respect of looking for our greatest desires, luck, and prosperity, you can understand the depth of symbolism in which M. Night Shaymalan initially infuses the essence of the village.

The lamp is in the foreground of this introductory shot, while Finton is cuddled, uncertainly and slightly out of focus, against the wall of the watch pyre. This represents both his weariness and discomfort, in that our vision of him is that of bleary eyes, and the composition of the shot is slightly askew. The lamp in the foreground is foreshadowing that which is to be revealed.

The focus is shifted from the lamp onto Finton himself, as his attention is claimed and he awakens alarmed, by the bump of the pyre stair-well door.

You will notice in the following shot, as he peers down onto the ground, the cross sections of the pyre, and the organized appearance of "security" are also slightly askew--nothing is as it seems. 

Then Those-We-Do-Not-Speak-Of appears, off beat, during the silence of the score. It is boldly red; what does this mean?

Red, in American culture, is stock full of twisted and contradictory symbolism. It is representative of passion, from different sides--both that of love and lust, as well as fear and violence. In Indian culture, the color red is symbolic of purity and integrity (as most brides are outfitted in red, with red henna paint on their finger tips and feet). With this double edged meaning, we once again see the depth of symbolism behind M. Night Shaymalan's motif--at first it seems harmful, but as you look closer you see the innocence of intentions behind the creation of Those-We-Do-Not-Speak-Of.

Finton's reaction is that of a the psychology humans can only share--by cloaking himself rather than immediately ringing the bell, he silently asks the question: do we really prefer the light of day, where horror is in plain sight, or the cloak of our dark minds, where we remain ignorant? Is the yellow really the protective comfort the Village seeks, or the very thing that brings forward their oppression and fear?

He rings the bell--a forewarning to those in the village, or a clear spotlight for the monster to pursue?

In the follow shot sequence, we watch as some members of the village scurry about in fear and panic, while others are methodical. Again, everyone is adorned in yellow lamp light, yellow tinged clothes, and neutral brown and yellow houses.

Lucius Hunt, our rebellious hero, is symbolized as such by being the dark silhouette against the yellow cloak of light. He is walking steadfastly, with a purpose. Lucius is not afraid. The tight shot that tracks him as he continues walking displays his level-headed attitude, and his peace within the darkness and fray.

As he is revealed in the somber glow of lamplight, we watch Lucius run into the fray, to assist a child who is stilled by her fear. She is adorned in a yellow night gown, and Lucius' path is slightly askew, not entirely straight; even in his certainty, he has doubts of this situation and his misstep reveals such.

The next shot sequence is of the Walker residence, where Kitty is caring for a group of children as well as Noah Percy. In tempo with what might be her sudden reaction to the situation, the shot is handheld and rough, following her body about the house, in preparing to hide from the monster. The shot follows her in a circular pattern, as Noah is overjoyed at the sound of the bells--we are being directly lead to our perpetrator with this shot, as he dances around in lunacy.

The women begin to descend, as we take notice of Ivy Walker in the scene.

Lucius continues his purposeful plan, going from house to house and securing each entry way. He runs into the shot, slightly off center, and again silhouetted. The shot tracks and pans, as he walks more fully towards the camera; everyone is secure, and it is now that we more clearly observe the monster. Shielded by the side of the house, Lucius seems to be divided--he remains in the safe of the shadow, as the monster becomes more apparent in the yellow light of house's porch. We end this shot sequence as he stares to the side of the camera, listening for the next move of the creature.

Ivy Walker's back is to us, as she begins the last shot sequence. The door to her home is still open, and in the light, we are revealed a bit of irony--Ivy's hair is red. The shot is still and steady, as if to contemplate the situation. This is disrupted by the visual representation of Kitty's thoughts--the shot is wild and hand held, unsteady as she descends and begs her sister to come. The shot refocuses on Ivy, steady once again. Ivy's mind is made up.

The banter is followed with the different shots, going back and forth between Ivy and Kitty. Finally, Kitty realizes that Ivy is not going to come into the basement without Lucius, and he still remains outside. The camera trembles with Kitty, yet is focused as Ivy's hand slowly rises outside the door frame. There is a line of lights, leading in an obscure pattern up to Ivy's house, all out of focus. It is the pathway of the creature.

When we hear the creature, the camera shifts from Kitty's terrified face to a corner in the house, this time confirming our fear of the unknown. This time the camera shakes slightly as it pulls focus from Ivy's hand to her face. Her confidence is wavering, and the creature comes closer.

The agony begins--we watch as Ivy's hand remains in focus, and the creature finally appears, approaching yet remaining out of focus. Is the ugly appearance of the creature in our minds? Why do we not see it more clearly?

Then our dark hero appears, taking Ivy's hand in slow motion, and pirouetting her into the house. Her skirt twirls, and the door closes. The score rises. Lucius has broken his silence with the whisper of his palm.

The shot is less intense, loosened up to a medium wide, at level with our characters, and not askew in the least bit. We focus on the unity of the two, their hands intertwined and diagnally cutting the shot into segments. There are no more shaky shots, and it subsides between still medium wide and medium close up shots of their hands and feet--the journey together is more important than alone. 

End Scene


WHY THIS IS SO GREAT:

First of all, our tension in this scene is built up by the shot composition, shot choice, lighting and color choices, and character dynamics. Not once do we get a clear view of the monster itself. IN FACT, the monster occupies less than 10% of this entire scene. It is not once in focus for us to see clearly. We create the creature in our minds, and the psychological response we have to the scene as a whole.

This was a perfectly, and precisely planned scene.

Also, the multiple layers of symbolism are mind-blowing. We have the symbolism of Ivy and Lucuis--the balance of light innocence and dark knowledge. You have the red and yellow--the appearance of order that is then stripped away, moment by moment. 

This is classic Shaymalan.

I cry when I see this scene... the build up is so powerful!

And in homage to passion, and that which ignites it... I salute this movie. It still has the power to move me emotionally, as it did when I was 16.

With that.. Good night. :)

my magical birthday happens to be tomorrow. that's right, i will be turning 21 on the 21st of january. 

i'm not sure what to do with myself.

your voice startled me into a irregular rhythm my heart barely kept

it was the same in my dream. i’ve never met you. i’m tumbling against my will, but i’m not fighting all that much either.

it caused me to stumble over my words, my hands shook, my lips pursed.

you made laughing easy.

you are surprising… and terrifying…and…exactly the way my mind contemplated it while sleeping…

lord help me.

this is forbidden; it must be why i crave it so much.

then again. talk is cheap; it could go like this for ages and change with the quickest of look-overs.

why must life be live?

wrote this so long ago...but i feel it today like it's fresh.


fickle
tickle
tears that run
slowly
quickly
just to young
love
hate
war
and peace

a piece
a piece
a piece
(of me)

memory
never more
running for
forever gone
obliviate
fucking hate

cut
cut
slash

fears
pills
passion

crush
crushing
crushes
crash

stare
stun
blush
blush

don't speak
no
hush

shiver
tremble
fawn
and weep

a piece
a piece
a piece
(of me)

scream
shake
silent fear

no one

nothing

disappear

dreaming
drumming
running free

a piece
a piece
a piece
(of me)

attack
refute
omit
abuse
submit
conclude
shove
pull

take

stealing
wanting
breaking
flaunting

screaming
"let me be"

where's your piece?

a piece
a piece
a piece
(of me)

and under our headline
postscript reads "scribble"

our words are wrong
our hearts are stone

we are separately together

lace my fingers in your's
never let me go
hold my words in your heart
wrap them like a bow
it's all i have to give
so please take them; they're yours
lace my fingers in yours

never let me go