Argh-itecture Might Suck, But the People are Great

Well, it's not "film" but I suppose it might qualify as "video".
Barely.

In either case, this is my first video ever, made from footage taken from my cheap digital camera.
Not the greatest thing ever-- it's certainly no lasting contribution to the world-- but then again, this is only the credits chapter to a larger film that some of my incoming classmates and I did as documentation of our first days of exploring Vancouver, BC.
(The soundtrack is not our creation: it's Irfan, Les Ogres de Barback, "Niev Nietch Nevitch". Thomas, Camille et Manu, merci!)

Yes, This Man With the Sharp Teeth Loves The Woman With The Beautiful Eyes

The Better To See You With, My Dear.


And The Better To Pounce With, My Darling.

When Bojana's Gone, We're All that's Left

 Verde que te quiero verde.
Verde viento.  Verdes ramas.
El barco sobre la mar
y el caballo en la montaña.
Con la sombra en la cintura
ella sueña en sus baranda,
verde carne, pelo verde,
con ojos de fría plata.
Verde que te quiero verde.
Bajo la luna gitana,
las cosas la están mirando
y ella no puede mirarlas.

Verde que te quiero verde.
Grandes estrellas de escarcha,
vienen con el pez de sombra
que abre el camino del alba.
La higuera frota su viento
con la lija de sus ramas,
y el monte, gato garduño,
eriza sus pitas agrias.
¿Pero quién vendrá?  ¿Y por dónde...?
Ella sigue en su baranda,
verde carne, pelo verde,
soñando en la mar amarga.

Compadre, quiero cambiar
mi caballo por su casa,
mi montura por su espejo,
mi cuchillo por su manta.
Compadre, vengo sangrando,
desde los puertos de Cabra.
Si yo pudiera, mocito,
este trato se cerraba.
Pero yo ya no soy yo,
Ni mi casa es ya mi casa.
Compadre, quiero morir
decentemente en mi cama.
De acero, si puede ser,
con las sábanas de holanda.
¿No ves la herida que tengo
desde el pecho a la garganta?
Trescientas rosas morenas
lleva tu pechera blanca.
Tu sangre rezuma y huele
alrededor de tu faja.
Pero yo ya no soy yo.
Ni mi casa es ya mi casa.
Dejadme subir al menos
hasta las altas barandas,
¡dejadme subir!, dejadme
hasta las verdes barandas.
Barandales de la luna
por donde retumba el agua.

Ya suben los dos compadres
hacia las altas barandas.
Dejando un rastro de sangre.
Dejando un rastro de lágrimas.
Temblaban en los tejados
farolillos de hojalata.
Mil panderos de cristal,
herían la madrugada.

Verde que te quiero verde,
verde viento, verdes ramas.
Los dos compadres subieron.
El largo viento, dejaba
en la boca un raro gusto
de hiel, de menta y de albahaca.
¡Compadre!  ¿Dónde está, dime?
¿Dónde está tu niña amarga?
¡Cuántas veces te esperó!
¡Cuántas veces te esperara,
cara fresca, negro pelo,
en esta verde baranda!

Sobre el rostro del aljibe
se mecía la gitana.
Verde carne, pelo verde,
con ojos de fría plata.
Un carábano de luna
la sostiene sobre el agua.
La noche se puso íntima
como una pequeña plaza.
Guardias civiles borrachos
en la puerta golpeaban.

Gli Amanti Eroici

Discomfort and Pleasure, Just Short of Fascism

Among other pursuits, I coach high school wrestling.

This past weekend was the sectional individual wrestling championship tournament, which serves as the culmination of an entire season for many members of the team.

In a room humid with evaporated sweat and echoing with the hoarse voices of thousands of screaming fans and participants of the massive spectacle of flash and flesh, there is little space remaining for profound observation. However, one thing that becomes readily apparent to even the casual observer is the fine line that exists between joy and sorrow, pride and pain, humanity and savagery.

It hardly takes more than one close match, pairing two nervous but motivated opponents squaring off against each other: one toils to push his opponent to the limit, to test his strengths and weaknesses, while in the process necessarily nearing his own brink of strength, control and sanity. Often in the course of such a match, these thresholds are passed, and unintended signs of madness, unbridled power, or bad judgment appear. Wounds are inflicted, dignities affronted, and well hidden latent character is highlighted.

Yet at the end of the match, these two young men, who've attempted to exorcise their own inner demons whilst doing small battle with a willing opponent, shake hands with their combatant (and often offering a voluntary embrace), before trotting across the mat to shake hands with coaches of the opposite corner.

With bruises, scratches, or blood adorning his physical self, he must now turn inward and face himself privately. Usually what pleasure or frustration he finds waiting there is not born from the final score at the end of the match, but instead is the result of his effort: Did he work as hard as he could have, given the circumstances of the match? Had he worked hard enough, and with enough focus, in his preparation for the match? Did he pair his physical effort with an appropriate, optimizing, mental effort?

The fact is, no matter the score, there is immense pleasure in hard work, particularly if it is self-elected. There are hundreds of explanations and elaborations upon this point, but rather than offering the matter up to Rilke, holy texts, Freud, or Foucault, I'll redirect this question toward a hale Dutchman, an amateur cyclist, the lucid author Tim Krabbé, The Rider (1978):

“The greater the suffering, the greater the pleasure. That is nature’s payback to riders for the homage they pay her by suffering. Velvet pillows, safari parks, sunglasses; people have become woolly mice. They still have bodies that can walk for five days and four nights through a desert of snow, without food, but they accept praise for having taken a one-hour bicycle ride. ‘Good for you’. Instead of expressing their gratitude for the rain by getting wet, people walk around with umbrellas. Nature is an old lady with few friends these days, and those who wish to make use of her charms, she rewards passionately.”

(The novel's paragraph is excerpted from text on the website of the world's premier luxe-retro cycling clothes purveyor, Rapha).

Nice Ice, No Snow

Enough with talk of Odd-Sort Winters.
Away with Climate Change Drivel.
We don't need that anymore.

There's ice out and all is beautiful.
There's lily pads, there's skating circles.
There's a dusting at least atop the tundra.

Call forth the damsels and their swinging.
Bring out the skwinging pagentry and song.
Mull dark the sanguine Gluehwein, and sip.

(From Rilke, Sonnets to Orpheus I, 15) Wait ... that taste ... it's already flown. ... just a little music, a stamping, a drone: You warm maidens, you silent maidens, dance the taste of fruit we experience! Dance the orange. Who can forget it? How, drowning in itself, it struggles to deny its sweetness. You possess it. It preciously converts itself to you. Dance the orange. The warmer season weave around you, so it ripely shines in the air of its homeland! Radiant, reveal fragrance after fragrance! Create the liaison between the pure, forbidding rind, and the juice, with which this happy fruit is filled!

Wartet ..., das schmeckt ... Schon ists auf der Flugt. ... Wenig Musik nur, ein Stampfen, ein Summen -: Mädchen, ihr warmen, Mädchen, ihr stummen, tanzt den Geschmack der erfahrten Frucht! Tanzt die Orange. Wer kann sie vergessen, wer sie, entrinkend in sich, sich wehrt wider ihr Süßsein. Ihr habt sie besessen. Sie hat sich köstlich zu euch bekehrt. Tanzt die Orange. Die wärmere Landschaft, werft sie aus euch, daß die reife erstrahle in Lüften der Heimat! Erglühte, enthüllt Düfte um düfte! Schafft die Verwandtschaft mit der reinen, sich weigernden Schale, mit dem Saft, der die glückliche füllt!