Film Scores >>
LEGO Sculptures >>
Digital Photographs >>
Out On a Lim >>
Hacienda Heights >>
"You've already asked that question," I remembered. "And no, I'ven't seen it yet."
"Oh, it's intense," she boggled her eyes.
"Really?" I smeared.
"Yeah," she hypnotically suggested, "y o u s h o u l d p u t i t a t t h e t o p o f y o u r q u e u e . . . "
"Uh," I memorized, "I should, uh, put it at the top of my, uh, queue. Uh, sure, thanks, mumble, mumble..."
There's a baby crying from the next apartment, nothing my boombox can't beat in volume. Well, not really, I can still hear the teary yells between the dramatic pauses. And I see "L" swiveling.
"The next movie in my queue is The Seven Samurai," she remembered, kinda boggling her eyes, but they were more sorta like smearly blinks.
If there are X amount of frames needed per second to create the illusion of motion, how many frames does real movement use? Likewise with resolution, contrast, and brightness.
There was something familiar about the Greek tragedyesque characters in Oldboy. I mean, epic revenge scheme, body parts get severed, incest galore, and curses to the heavens. Throughout I thought about how all this ought to make some sorta sense to "L". Sure, superficially, it's just popular entertainment, which's got barely the resolution of a crappy television set from the 70's in terms of metaphorically representing reality, but sometimes some people recommend some movies cause they think there's something in them that's worth sharing. Although, I thought that the mind fuck techniques were fucked up, to put it mildy.
The heat indoors was bearable during the Saturday afternoon, but especially noticeable when I stepped into the breeze outdoors for my evening walk. Street lamps ignited, birds chased their shadows, cats gave me the look of death, and infinity divided at each crossroad. It was cool. I dropped the DVD off at the closest corner mailbox.
"Where's the film department?" the animated freshman chick asked. I pulled out a campus map and gave her a no nonsense explanation on how to get from here to there. "That's so far away..." she frowned and exited the library.
"That's so far away..." "L" parodied. "Do you think she rents The Seven Samurai?"
Originally, I'd wanted to say "Uh, with someone like her, I don't care what she rents." But chose to be considerate of her little charade and bluntly said "Nope."
"Here, look," my assistant produced a colour photocopy of her flyer advertising her upcomming recital. I gave it a look and a laughed, cause it appropriately captures her clarinet and bird sense of humour. She ran to the front of the library and taped onto the window at a level above her eyes next to the entrance. It gives me a chuckle whenever I see it.
A chill liquefied and froze thru my spine for a pie charted second when I connected the memories of the disappearing dots. But sorry, my elephant's memory has flown the cooperated negotiation. Give me my demands, namely no more unfair lapses of good fortune that figure me apart from the desolate and let me have the choice to escape from fate, minus all your brainwashing to suggest my rewired acceptance of your control. Only after I get those cleared into my account, will I begin to betray nothing of any importance to whatever I was never mind writing about.
There's a sloppy curve on the 405. It doesn't guide my car like a well designed freeway ought to. Cause my tires, which normally don't slip outta of the lanes, feel like they're drunk at this point on my homeward bound commute. Well, last week, when I hit the curve, I landed in a perfect only for that suspended instance of everything--my car, my glasses, my speed, and my angle on the cracked dimesion--lining up exactly such that I could keep from crashing within a peripheral reflection of the oncomming traffic's vehicle lights. It fogged my sight and it's highly likely that my steering wheel was being guided by a hand other than mine. Silhouettes of my multiple personalities jumped ship.
I was absolutely alone.
And this is what I understood:
"I just turned 21 last week," "L" answered my questioning of her age. "You missed my birthday..."
"Hey, wait a minute," I computed, "you've got the same birthday as 'E'’s teacher."
"Yeah," she bummered, "that's why no one was at my party, but that's OK, cause he turned 80 and that's a bigger milestone than 21."
"Did you get drunk?" I jokingly jabbed.
"Yeah," she widened her smile.
Well, imagine that "Hey, wait a minute" realization compound in my brain so that it rings thru my blood like an echo down the evolutionary layers of my cells, grabbing the receivers honed by billions of eras of research, for a special broadcast from central bureau about the state of my soul.
"Um," the godly voice spoke, "I'll be brief given your car's precarious circumstances on earth--I gotta get that curve fixed. Hey, do you mind if I smoke a joint? Like you have a choice, haha, just kidding. Anyways, let's see, uh, where were we? Oh yeah, the state of your soul. Let me pull up your file..."
I was in a marble office. Angels flew around in crazier than anything on earth geometric patterns. I did notice one of them with wings similar to "L". And another that reminded me of "E".
The joint smoking clerk commented on my file.
"Dude," he sucked in a hit, "it says here that you're supposed to notice two angels within their, uh, production back there." He waved his hands at the flying girls. "Thank you, ladies," he megaphoned. And so they flew away from the windows of my mesmerization.
"Keep an eye on them," was his suggestion. "Don't lose them from your sights, no matter how evil one of them might seem. They'll move fleetingly, but they'll hold still, if only in your patience. But don't force yourself onto their paths. Let them cross yours only when they feel like it. And always remember not to pick a favourite--everyone is tied for number one..."
I blinked and the v i s i o n was gone as I managed to safely find myself further down the freeway.
(5.14.08)