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An article sparks an interest, the interest brings out the child in you, the child anxiously awaits the experience only to find… disappointment.
Luckily, disappointment can also be a source of amusement for some. :)
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Four versions of Damien Rice’s Volcano. Enjoy!
This post is the creative work of Iris Watts Hirideyo and is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 3.0 License.
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“A green plastic watering can
For a fake chinese rubber plant
In the fake plastic earth
That she bought from a rubber man
In a town full of rubber plans
To get rid of itself
It wears her out, it wears her out
It wears her out, it wears her out
She lives with a broken man
A cracked polystyrene man
Who just crumbles and burns
He used to do surgery
On girls in the eighties
But gravity always wins
And it wears him out, it wears him out
It wears him out, it wears him out
She looks like the real thing
She tastes like the real thing
My fake plastic love
But I can’t help the feeling
I could blow through the ceiling
If I just turn and run
And it wears me out, it wears me out
It wears me out, it wears me out
And if I could be who you wanted
If I could be who you wanted
All the time, all the time”
(Fake Plastic Trees - Radiohead)
It’s neither the beginning nor the end of the world… ever. It’s always just the world right in the middle of infinity, which as the word suggests, is comprised of infinite personal beginnings and ends, all of which, in turn, amount to nothing at all. Egos get inflated without forethought along the way. Low IQ feet get tired of flat roads and eager to experience the momentary joy brought on by sweeping motion. Flowers get plucked and flattened against paper and plastic and paper again, thus led to premature death. Silence rules. Needs are not met. Eyes are cast down. Opportunities get missed. Eagerness deflates.
Every action is inherently infinitive and should remain that way for the I’s and you’s and he’s of the world are always set to drop everything - regardless of size and importance - down the same well of ’self-centerism.’
—— ∫ ——
And the seasons they go round and round
And the painted ponies go up and down
We’re captive on the carousel of time
We can’t return we can only look behind
From where we came
And go round and round and round
In the circle game.
(The Circle Game - Joni Mitchell)
Photograph by bratan (FLICKR)
This post is the creative work of Iris Watts Hirideyo and is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 3.0 License.
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My first rant on this blog just had to be movie-related. And this is so tiny a reason to rant, against the indisputable cinematic achievement that is No Country for Old Men, that no one in their right mind would have noticed the detail I’m writing about let alone take time to write about it. But this is me. Someone not quite in her right mind, I guess…
Now, think with me. If you’re an unknown actor in Hollywood, and are given the opportunity to be in a Coen brothers movie and not just any Coen brothers movie, but what may turn out to be their masterpiece, wouldn’t you be willing, even anxious to do your absolute best? To contribute your 2¢ humbly and eagerly? Why then, would you take a simple death scene, and mangle it by diverting attention to yourself (blinking repeatedly after you’re on the ground, covered in blood, supposedly dead) and showing thereby that you’re not even effective as an extra? How hard can it be to keep your eyes wide open and still for… what, twenty @#%&?! seconds? Can someone be dumb enough to think ‘Oh, I’ll be out of focus. No one will notice if I just blink methodically.’ Well, I noticed. And I resent having had my attention taken from Javier Bardem’s chilling performance for the few seconds I felt compelled to gape in utter astonishment at those blinking eyes in the background.
For those of you who have seen the movie: ‘room 138′ scene, second man down.
This post is the creative work of Iris Watts Hirideyo and is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 3.0 License.
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Losing someone you love is one thing. It hurts but since you know the person, since you’ve gotten to know the good as well as the bad, it is a real person you’re getting over, some of whom will be missed, some of whom you’ll be ecstatic not to have to deal with ever again. That’s the evil of virtual love. You “meet” someone who goes from being a stranger to being a loved one, who showers you with the most beautiful words, envelops you in poetry, makes you feel loved beyond anything you’ve ever known, is there for you day in and day out, someone whose voice you come to hear and love more than your favorite songs. And things change overnight (or over the weekend.) And where are the flaws that tell you there’s a good side to this… break-up? Can it even be called a break-up? What was it? How to define it?
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