Submitted For Your Approval.

Tainted Love.

Author: October 11, 2024 1 Comment

Source: Wikipedia

I have mixed feelings about a new Creature From The Black Lagoon movie. On the one hand it seems like everything these days is a reboot, remake, or remix. On the other hand there’s a belief that there are a limited number of stories to be told and that everything already is a reboot, remake, or remix, the prime example being Shakespeare’s plays which were based on other sources, and he didn’t even pay royalties. And on the third hand, since we’re talking about monsters and anything’s possible, because I’ve always loved all things aquatic and went through a long phase of wanting to be a marine biologist like Jacques Cousteau, before I realized that job was already taken by this guy named Jacques Cousteau, I grew up fascinated by The Creature, even before I saw the original movies. Because the Saturday matinee on the UHF station mostly stuck to various versions of Dracula and Frankenstein’s monster, with occasional appearances by The Wolf Man and a few disappearances of The Invisible Man, I even wrote my own Creature story. It was loosely based on Jaws, although when one of the crew says, “We’re gonna need a bigger boat” they actually go back to land and get a bigger boat, which just gives The Creature more time to wreak havoc, though it’s good because it’s ultimately discovered he’s going after polluters. I was an environmentally conscious kid, and also influenced by Namor Of Atlantis, but that’s another story.

There’s also already been a modern retelling of The Creature From The Black Lagoon: Guillermo del Toro’s The Shape Of Water. Not only did I really enjoy it for its lovely, strange, and dark story but, in spite of only being inspired by, not connected to, the original three films, it seemed to pick up where the original three films left off. Although only very loosely connected the three Creature films still, taken together, tell a story of first love, maturity and marriage, and finally love turned toxic.

The first in the series, the 1954 The Creature From The Black Lagoon, has The Creature as the villain, but there’s also a side story of scientist David Reed and his girlfriend and fellow scientist Kay Lawrence. She’s the one who’s kidnapped by The Creature after he sees her swimming above him. Like a lot of classic monster films there wasn’t any interest in exploring why The Creature would find a human attractive, or even interesting, but what stands out for me is she’s resisted David’s pressure to marry because she wants a career of her own. The Creature is a not-so-subtle metaphor for the pressure put on women to be dragged down.

The sequel, coming out just a year later, was Revenge Of The Creature, with a whole new couple, animal psychologist Clete Ferguson, and his assistant, ichthyology student Helen Dobson. Clete and Helen fall in love and The Creature becomes a surrogate child. Clete is the father figure, disciplining The Creature with a cattle prod while Helen is more nurturing. And because they thought it would be a good idea to keep The Creature in an oceanarium open to the public it escapes and goes on a rampage. Things turn Oedipal—another story thrown into the mix—when The Creature kidnaps Helen and Clete has to come to the rescue.

The last of the original films, The Creature Walks Among Us, gets a lot of hate, and, I admit, deserves it for the ridiculousness of the Creature miraculously developing lungs so it can breathe air, but I like how dark it gets. Also it’s the only one that makes The Creature sympathetic. Finally it’s the humans who are the villains. We get a whole new couple. This time it’s Dr. William Barton—no relation to the real life engineer Otis Barton who designed the first bathysphere—and his trophy wife Marcia. Marcia, Marcia, Marcia is willful, independent, and enjoys shooting at sharks. She attracts The Creature’s attentions when she accompanies the men on a dive. That’s the extent of its interest in her, though. The reduced budget of the third film created a story focusing mainly on the human relationships, and making them more complicated than ever. Barton murders another man who made a pass at Marcia, not caring that she wasn’t interested, then tries to blame The Creature. Somehow aware of the danger it’s in The Creature escapes its cage, kills Barton, and goes to the sea, never to return.

There were plans for at least one more film that would introduce a female Creature, which could have been interesting, but it never made it past the early stages and it would take sixty-one years for The Shape Of Water to make romance central to the story, keeping the third film’s sympathy, and even love for, something not human.

Del Toro’s film seems like a fitting end, and yet relationships are as strange and ever-changing as the sea itself, and if there is a new Creature From The Black Lagoon, I’d like to find out what it says about who, and what, we love, and how love connects us to all life.

Not Non-Fiction, Submitted For Your Approval., The Weekly Essay

Time And Tides.

Author: October 4, 2024 3 Comments

The Moon is finally getting a time zone. This is exciting because, though there still aren’t any residents there, giving it a time zone seems like part of a long-term plan to eventually establish lunar bases. Time zones are also very important. My wife and I realized this once when we drove three hours to a concert. The whole trip was almost due north but time zones have jagged edges, as though time cares about geography, and we ended up being an hour late. This worked out perfectly because we didn’t want to see the opening act anyway, but that’s another story. For most of human history time zones didn’t matter because going from one place to another, especially crossing oceans, was such a slow process no one noticed the time difference. Faster ships and, more importantly, trains created a need for standardized timekeeping, which is at least one thing most of the world can agree on. Trains also created word problems, which is at least one thing most of the world can agree are terrible.

A specific time zone for the Moon also addresses a big problem I’ve had with most science fiction. I’m willing to suspend a lot of my disbelief but in most science fiction shows and movies that involve people traveling from one planet to another how is it they almost always manage to arrive during daylight hours and when everyone’s awake? I can accept that somehow ships that are able to travel vast intergalactic distances in a matter of hours, or even days, have somehow found a way to deal with the time distortions that would be caused by traveling at or even faster than the speed of light, but statistically someone who’s on the run from space pirates or aliens or trying to get a shipment of cargo delivered has got to arrive at a spaceport at two a.m. on a Tuesday and sit in a holding pattern until the planetary rotation moves it into a reasonable hour. I’ve gone to parties and because I’m very concerned about being on time I’ve ended up circling the block because three hours is stretching the idea of “fashionably early”.

Star Trek, especially The Next Generation, did address this occasionally. Less experienced officers got the graveyard watch, and on at least one occasion an important message from Starfleet arrived in the middle of the night so Admiral Narrative Device had to start by saying to Captain Picard, “I’m sorry to wake you.” Although that just made me wonder how a ship on a long-term space voyage, where there is no “day” or “night” determines what time it is. No matter what the ship’s standard time was they’d eventually show up at a planetary bases or space stations at odd times. Shore leave always goes in shifts and it would be inevitable that at some point Yeoman Smith would have to beam down at two a.m. on a Tuesday after the bars were all closed and he’d be wearing a red shirt.

At least Doctor Who never had this problem. When your hero is a Time Lord they never have to circle the block waiting for the right time to show up at a party. A Time Lord is always right on time. And there is some science fiction that does deal with time zones. At the start of Larry Niven’s novel Ringworld Louis Wu is celebrating his birthday and starts hopping into transporters so he can go from time zone to time zone, extending the day until he hits the International Dateline. Imagine having a day so amazing you wanted to keep it going as long as possible and had the potential to do it by bouncing around the globe. Alternatively if you were having a really bad day you could use the same technology to head in the other direction, making your day shorter. That’s what I’d do if I had a math test with a bunch of word problems.

Submitted For Your Approval., The Weekly Essay

Someday Never Comes.

Author: September 27, 2024 2 Comments

Source: FromOldBooks.org

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Not Non-Fiction, Submitted For Your Approval., The Weekly Essay

Notes On Camp.

Author: September 13, 2024 3 Comments

Source: Friday The 13th Wiki

In honor of Friday The 13th I offer this overview of the infamous film series:

Friday The 13th: A sleeper hit made on a shoestring budget this little horror film is one of the most well-known examples of the slasher genre. Years after a camper named Jason Vorhees drowned while two counselors were having sex a group of young people get together to reopen Camp Crystal Lake. One by one they’re murdered by a mysterious figure. While an undead and supernaturally powerful Jason would be the central figure in the sequels the first film’s shocking twist is that the murderer turns out to be a coffee pot.  

Friday The 13th, Part 2: A whole new group of young people return to reopen Camp Crystal Lake because so many parents are clamoring for the chance to send their children to the site of a series of gruesome murders. Jason Vorhees, now a bulked-up adult, wreaks havoc on the camp after being fired from his job as goalie for the Washington Capitals.

Friday The 13th, Part 3: A plucky group of young people ignore the warnings of a bizarre old man with two eyes in his head and a spare in his hand and decide to stay at Camp Crystal Lake, certain that nothing could possibly go wrong. Jason savagely murders each one. Approximately a third of the film’s runtime is taken up by Alice making coffee.

Friday The 13th, Part 4, The Final Chapter: Much lighter in tone the fourth installment focuses primarily on a love triangle between three plucky young people, Sam, Tina, and Paul. The film received special recognition at the Toronto Film Festival for its recreation of the scene from the 1947 romantic comedy Here’s Looking At You in which Katharine Hepburn harpoons Cary Grant in the groin.

Friday The 13th, Part 5, A New Beginning: While this installment brings back both Jason and survivor Tommy Jarvis from the previous film much of the plot is centered on a wayward but plucky group of young people who, as a community service project, are tasked with cleaning up Camp Crystal Lake, now renamed Crystal Lake Recreational Center And Memorial. Each one is murdered in a series of montages with music by The Bangles, A-Ha, Debbie Gibson, The Pet Shop Boys, Culture Club, Duran Duran, and John Cage.

Friday The 13th, Part 6, Jason Lives: Tommy Jarvis returns to Camp Crystal Lake, now renamed Camp Crystal Lake And Golf Course, and digs up Jason’s corpse under the thirteenth green. Jason is revived when lightning strikes a putter which fell into his grave. In the final battle Tommy sends Jason to the bottom of Crystal Lake by chaining an espresso machine around his neck.

Friday The 13th, Part 7, The New Blood: Troubled but plucky young Tina is traumatized the accidental death of her father at Crystal Lake, now renamed Club Med Crystal Lake. Years later she returns and her telekinetic powers revive Jason. When a group of young people have a party at the clubhouse Jason murders several of them before being confronted by the powerfully psychic Tina. She summons her father’s ghost who drags Jason into the depths of Crystal Lake.

Friday The 13th, Part 8, Jason Takes Manhattan: Together with pals Fozzie and Gonzo Jason falls in love with Miss Piggy and must save her from being framed for a series of high profile jewel thefts carried out by Kevin Bacon.

Friday The 13th, Part 9, Jason Goes To Hell: A bounty hunter discovers that only blood relatives of Jason can kill him permanently and arranges a Vorhees family reunion at Crystal Lake Shopping Plaza. Plucky young Jessica, Jason’s third cousin twice removed on his uncle’s side, stabs Jason with a magical dagger. In a tearful moment just before he’s pulled into the underworld Jason tells Jessica he loves her. She replies, “Ditto.”

Friday The 13th, Part 10, Jason Resurrected: Federal agents corner mass murderer and undead monster Jason at Six Flags Over Crystal Lake. Unable to kill him they cryogenically freeze his body. A thousand years later he’s discovered and revived and becomes an interplanetary delivery boy, having a series of wacky space-themed adventures.

Friday The 13th, Part 11, A Whole New Jason: Environmentalists set out to save Crystal Lake which is discovered to be the site of the largest oil deposit in North America. Jason leads the group, collecting signatures and developing strong ties to people in the community, whom he then kills. This is the only installment in the series based on a true story.

Friday The 13th, Part 12, Jason, Jason, Jason: A billionaire creates a theme park on Cystal Lake Island filled with cloned Jasons. A small group of scientists are invited to a preview of the new park but, when a disgruntled employee shuts down the electrified fencing that protects visitors from the Jasons, it’s up to a plucky young girl who’s an expert in Linux to save the day.

Friday The 13th, Part 13: The final installment pits Jason against Halloween’s Michael Myers and Freddy Krueger from A Nightmare On Elm Street before forcing them to unite to stop the aliens from Predator who are unleashing the xenomorphs from Alien at Camp Crystal Lake, now renamed Time Warner Cable And AT&T Stadium. In the end they’re all destroyed in a final gigantic battle. The only survivor is a plucky young barista named Norman Bates.

Not Non-Fiction, Submitted For Your Approval., The Weekly Essay

Ciao, Baby, Part 2: They’re Back.

Author: September 6, 2024 3 Comments

When I said hornets hold a grudge I thought I was kidding. Insects having the memory to recognize and target an individual, to make deliberate attacks, sounds like something out of a horror film. If it hadn’t happened I wouldn’t believe it. I’m still not entirely sure I believe it.

When bugs first started appearing in horror films they were mostly solitary giants: the titular monsters in Tarantula (1955), The Deadly Mantis (1957), which deliver exactly what they say on the can, and Mothra (1961), though one of the earliest bug films, Them! (1954), did something different with a horde of giant ants who are somehow really hard to find in Los Angeles. Both The Beginning Of The End (1957) and Five Million Years To Earth (1967) gave us giant grasshoppers, though in the later film they’re from Mars and use psychic powers to summon the Devil. As audiences evolved horror did too. More people realized that, although there were once eight-foot millipedes and two-foot dragonflies, the Earth they roamed was a very different place, and giant insects now are biologically impossible. And bugs are so much more terrifying, and plausible, in quantity, which led to films like the still disturbing and atmospheric Phase IV (1974) with hyper-intelligent ants, Bug (1975), and Kingdom Of The Spiders (1977). And I remember when I was a kid the threat of killer bees being a hot news item for a hot second, probably because of the movie The Swarm (1978). And while bug films tapered off through the slasher-minded ’80’s there was a little bit of a resurgence with Arachnophobia (1990)—I’m ashamed to admit a friend and I threw handfuls of plastic spiders into the audience of a screening of that one—and Eight Legged Freaks (2002).

The hornets, each one no bigger than the end of my pinky finger, didn’t need numbers to frighten me. It’s been a long time since I was stung by anything and while I was never allergic before my body then was a very different place, and anaphylaxis is no joke, though Anna Phylaxis would be a great name for a Drag Queen, but that’s another story.

I’d put off dealing with the hornets because I only saw one or two at a time, and they didn’t seem interested in me. When one followed me into the house, however, I knew we couldn’t continue to coexist in such close quarters.

First I tried an organic solution. I plugged the hole they’d been using to go in and out of the crawlspace under the house and where, I assumed, they were building a nest. I hoped maybe the ones stuck outside would bivouac elsewhere and if any were inside, well, time would take care of them. Instead of going away a whole squadron hovered around the plugged hole like paparazzi outside a Hollywood nightclub. At least they ignored me, for the moment, but I felt I had to take drastic measures before they went into attack formation. The bug and hornet killer delivered exactly what it said on the can. A quick, well-placed spray of foul-smelling foam took down hornets clinging to the wall and in flight. They fell into piles of dead leaves and disappeared. I could only hope the end was mercifully quick.  

I only had to knock out a few. The horde disbanded. But the next day a couple came back. I was a dead-eye with the spray, and soon they were dead too. That would be all, I thought. Then, the day after, I was out in the yard when one grazed the back of my neck and buzzed by my ear. “Clever girl,” I muttered as it sailed up over the house before I could arm myself. After that every whisper of wind, every falling leaf, even the buzz of a fly made me jump. One last hornet was out there and it knew me. I saw it by the plugged hole about an hour later; I grabbed the spray can from the basement and aimed. I missed, and the hornet flew right at me, making cold eye-contact before it disappeared.

That night it went to the patio light, buzzing around the bulb inside the glass case. With the spray ready I waited until it came out and hit it. The hornet fell, struggled, curled and uncurled, then stopped. All I could do was stand there and watch it die. Then I got some water and washed away the spray, like tears in the rain.  

Except that wasn’t the end. There was another one clinging to the brickwork in the shadows, and the next morning another. There will always be another one. They know it’s not size that matters but numbers.

Nature Talks., Submitted For Your Approval., The Vault, The Weekly Essay

I Really Shouldn’t Be Doing This.

Author: July 19, 2024 4 Comments

The scene: under a large red sign reading THE INFERNO a shadowy figure holds a telephone receiver…

-Hell-hello, is this Gabriel?

-Hi Gabe, it’s Bill from downstairs. How’s it going up there?

-I said it’s Bill. From downstairs.

-Zeebub.

-That’s right. Yes, it has been a long time. Listen, Gabe, the reason I’m calling is, well, you know how in the old days when we were still sorting out who went where and we talked about the possibility of a mixup? When you look at the numbers and now long we’ve been doing this it’s amazing we haven’t had any. I mean, just the law of averages…

-Well, Gabe, what I’m getting at is it looks like it finally happened. You know, somebody who got sent to the wrong place. See, there’s a guy who just arrived named Bob Newhart…

-Sure, I’ll give you a minute to check your list.

-Did you just say “I’ll be damned if I can find anything”?

-No, I won’t tell anyone you said that.

-Well, is there anyone up there you can ask?

-No, I’m not trying to get you in trouble. You know, I hate pulling door duty too. That’s why we’ve got to look out for each other.

-Well, listen, this guy may not be on your list, but I can’t figure out why he’s down here. He’s a family man, always lived a pretty clean life. I mean, yes, he was a comedian.

-What’s that? No, he’s Catholic.

-Yes, I know, you hear ‘comedian’ you automatically think they’re…

-Sure, Gabe, I know, you don’t discriminate. We don’t either.

-Yes, I remember you took Don Rickles when he arrived. We were grateful too, Gabe. We really didn’t want him either.

-No, I won’t tell anyone you laughed at that. You know, Gabe, it’s a funny thing, some people show up here and they’re surprised we’re not more restricted. I mean, you’d think they’d know we’ve got a pretty open door policy. And you and I can both say we’ve got people dying to get in.

-No, I won’t tell anyone you laughed at that.

-What’s that, Gabe?

-No, most of his act was pretty clean. He did these, well, these monologues, like one where he was a bus driving instructor and showing the new drivers how to close the door right in a passenger’s face.

-No, I won’t tell anyone you laughed at that.

-Well, he started out in radio, and then he worked nightclubs. He did pretty well, too. He even had a couple of his own TV shows.

-Television.

-Yes, that “new thing all the kids are talking about”.

-Well, in one he played a psychiatrist in Chicago and he mostly played straight man to a bunch of wacky characters, and in the other one he played an inn owner in Vermont and a writer and he mostly played straight man to a bunch of wacky characters. The second one ended…well, let’s just say you should really watch both.

-Did he what? Did he do anything else? Well, I’ve checked the records and before he started doing comedy he did some work in accounting.

-Oh, that’s it. Okay. That’s why he’s down here.

-Yes, Gabe, that does make sense. Thanks for helping me work this out.

-You bet, and, hey, Gabe, let’s not let it go so long this time. How about we do lunch one of these days?

-Bye for now, Gabe!

-What’s that?

-No, I won’t tell anyone we talked.

Hail and farewell Bob Newhart.

 

Hail & Farewell., Not Non-Fiction, Submitted For Your Approval., The Weekly Essay

Memorial.

Author: May 27, 2024 2 Comments

Source: Wikipedia

Sometimes words fail me and when that happens I find poetry to be the best way to express that. One of my favorite poets is Yusef Komunyakaa. I’d been reading his poetry for several years when I was lucky enough to meet him after he gave a talk and read several of his poems. I went to talk to him afterward and words completely failed me then too, but he was friendly.

Today I’m re-reading his poem about his feelings as he stands before the Vietnam Memorial. An African American man, and a Vietnam veteran, standing before a black wall, seeing his own reflection as he reads names of those who lost their lives, feeling, perhaps, more than a little survivor’s guilt—this all speaks to me of things I haven’t experienced but something I too have to face.

Facing It

My black face fades,
hiding inside the black granite.
I said I wouldn’t,
dammit: No tears.
I’m stone. I’m flesh.
My clouded reflection eyes me
like a bird of prey, the profile of night
slanted against morning. I turn
this way–the stone lets me go.
I turn that way–I’m inside
the Vietnam Veterans Memorial
again, depending on the light
to make a difference.
I go down the 58,022 names,
half-expecting to find
my own in letters like smoke.
I touch the name Andrew Johnson;
I see the booby trap’s white flash.
Names shimmer on a woman’s blouse
but when she walks away
the names stay on the wall.
Brushstrokes flash, a red bird’s
wings cutting across my stare.
The sky. A plane in the sky.
A white vet’s image floats
closer to me, then his pale eyes
look through mine. I’m a window.
He’s lost his right arm
inside the stone. In the black mirror
a woman’s trying to erase names:
No, she’s brushing a boy’s hair.

Here’s Komunyakaa reading another poem:

Adventures In Busing., American Graffiti., Submitted For Your Approval., The Vault

Mostly Original.

Author: May 24, 2024 4 Comments

Source: Fromoldbooks.org

I was sitting in a coffee shop trying to think of something to write and feeling pretty insecure about it because there was a guy next to me tapping away furiously at a keyboard. I tried to console myself with the thought that he might be writing a computer program or arguing on social media—not that there’s anything wrong with such pursuits if that’s how you want to spend your time—but then he talked a little to the barista, since they knew each other, about how he finally felt like he was making progress on the script he was writing. And once it was done he wanted the filming to be “as low-tech as possible, no CGI or any of that”, which just made me even more interested in his project. Then he got up and said, “Okay, I’m going to the bathroom, no one steal my ideas!”

When he got back I said, “I swear I didn’t steal any of your ideas.”

“Oh, good, I’m so glad,” he laughed and we talked a little about coffee shops being good places to write. He then added, “It’s not like this is a total ripoff of Moby Dick or anything like that.”

I said something about there being worse things one could choose to steal from but he was focused once again on what he was writing and I’d finished my coffee and blueberry muffin so I felt like it was time for me to go. And of course I was across the street before I realized I’d missed a real opportunity to ask him who he was and what he was working on, not because I wanted to steal it but because I want to see the final product. And maybe I will see him again—since he knew the barista he’s clearly a regular there; he even said it was one place where he could really focus on his writing because he’d been there so much that it had become a familiar place to him. That was interesting to me because one of the things I like about writing in coffee shops is I find the distractions, the unfamiliarity of the surroundings, at least as stimulating as the caffeine.

And I keep coming back to that “No one steal my ideas” and “This is a total ripoff of Moby Dick” because an idea I keep coming back to is how much ideas get recycled, reimagined, updated—whatever you want to call it. There’s plenty new under the sun but people haven’t really changed and a lot of old stories, whether consciously or not, get retold because they remain relevant to who we are. It was really funny to me that, of all the stories he could have chosen from, he went with Moby Dick. It’s a massive novel with a massive number of themes and interpretations. Also maybe he was just kidding. I don’t know. It’s funny, though, that one of the themes is the futile pursuit of a dangerous goal. The line I thought of after I’d crossed the street was, “From Hell’s heart I stab at thee!” That’s not the full quote but then the first time I heard it—without knowing the source—was Star Trek II: The Wrath Of Khan, in which those were Khan’s last words. Which just shows how much retellings and allusions permeate culture.

It also made me think of the ongoing conversation about AI and a question that I keep hearing brought up again and again: why is AI art so bad? And I don’t think I’m the first person to think that it’s because AI, contrary to its name, isn’t in any way “intelligent”. It remixes without understanding the material it’s remixing. It’s not just that it fails to bring anything new to what it “creates”. It doesn’t fill any need, it doesn’t come from any desire. And in response to anyone who wonders why artists should be compensated for their work—and, yes, they’re out there—I’d say, if art and writing and ideas created by people doesn’t have any value why is AI “scraping” it to make millions for a few tech companies?

I’m also probably not the only one to have thought or even said that—I may have even read something like it somewhere else even if it felt like that came to me naturally, but I can’t remember. It’s still a thought that came from a person, not a machine, and one I think the tech companies exploiting human “content” should answer. Let them give up the spear.

Submitted For Your Approval., The Weekly Essay

So Surreal.

Author: May 17, 2024 4 Comments

“The Truth About Comets” by Dorothea Tanning. Source: dorotheatanning.org

Surrealism turns one hundred this year. That seems like a weird thing to say since surrealism seems like it’s always been around, depending on how you define it, but some places are calling 2024 its centenary and there are exhibits around the world marking the occasion since it was 1924 when the when the writer Andre Breton published his Surrealist Manifesto and gathered together a group that would call themselves the Surrealists. Being surreal they didn’t have a clear plan but after the horror of World War I, which most people didn’t realize already had a sequel in the works, Breton had the idea that by exploring dreams, inspired by Freud, and dreamlike states the Surrealists could tap into an absolute freedom, unify humanity, and make the world a better place. So of course Breton set up a bunch of rules and kicked anyone out of the group if they disagreed with him. The first and most famous expellee was Salvador Dali who, in a plot twist, is an artist a lot of people think of when they hear “surrealism”, especially his melting clocks. Talk about persistence, even for people who don’t remember him. Surrealism bringing very different artists—writers, painters, even photographers from all over the world—together as a group shows what can be really good about an art movement. Most of the male Surrealists had lousy opinions of women but there were still some women like Dorothea Tanning and Leonora Carrington who were part of the movement, and Frida Kahlo exhibited with the Surrealists although she considered them elitist and stayed independent. The divisiveness and exclusiveness of the Surrealist group also showed what’s worst about art movements, especially a movement that, for some, was supposed to be about unity and making a better world.

2024 also marks the sixty-fifth anniversary, in 1969, of what at least one Surrealist called the end of Surrealism. Breton had been dead for three years at that point and so were many of the group’s original members, while others had left, but it’s still ironic to me that at the height of the psychedelic Sixties anyone would call Surrealism “over”. A bunch of hippies descending on Woodstock must have seemed pretty surreal to people of upstate New York. And a lot of artists did push back, saying, “We’re here, we’re surreal, we’re aardvarks!”

I went through a long phase in college of being really fascinated by the Surrealist movement. Dali was my gateway but I went so much deeper than that, which set me apart from most of my friends. How many pretentious English majors have read both of Breton’s manifestoes and can name at least twenty members of the original group? A lot, probably, now that I think about it, but on a small liberal arts campus in Indiana I stood out like an umbrella and a sewing machine on an operating room table. Surrealism was my jam, even my obsession. But I realize now that if you’d asked me to define it I couldn’t give you a clear answer—aside from saying it was an art movement that started in the early 1920’s. And even the word “surrealism” was only been invented a few years before that by the poet Guillaume Apollinaire, from “super reality”—not a better reality, but an “above reality”.

Still the Surrealists themselves had an idea that surrealism in some form had always been around, or had at least been around a long time, making Hieronymous Bosch, Baudelaire, and Dante, among others, posthumous members. It seems like anything that presents an alternate reality, like myths, folklore, science fiction and fantasy, anything dealing with the supernatural, are forms of “surrealism”. So are cartoons, jokes, comedy sketches. Video games. Those weird pictures clickbait articles use. The Marx Brothers have been called “surreal”. So have Monty Python and The Kids In The Hall. Start thinking about this enough and you can really go down a rabbit hole of what surrealism is, and even what reality itself is, which is why it’s fitting that Lewis Carrol was also an influence on the Surrealists.

Something I never bothered to think about when I was young but which is a lot more important to me now is, did Surrealism make the world better? And I can’t answer that either. So much can be called “surreal” that trying to imagine a world without surrealism is like trying to imagine a world without plastic, although you’re less likely to find fur-covered teacups choking up the oceans.

If there’s something good about it, though, it’s that surrealism—the idea, and to some degree the movement—was so inclusive. It wasn’t the first movement to expand the idea of what qualifies as art, as well as encouraging more creative expression, but it was an early one and has an enduring legacy. I’d really lost interest in surrealism but I’m glad this centenary got me thinking about it again because stomach whoomph ichthyosaurus black hole turnip.

American Graffiti., Happy Birthday., Submitted For Your Approval., The Weekly Essay

An Open Letter To The Staff At The Mexican Restaurant Who Saw Me Leaving The Takeout Place Next Door.

Author: April 19, 2024 4 Comments

You probably didn’t recognize me, which is fine. I’ve been in there enough times that it’s very familiar to me but you have so many customers I don’t believe you can remember all of them, not even the ones who come in every few weeks. I’d probably have to come in nightly, or at least weekly, to really be known. Still I feel a little guilty, like I’d been out with one friend and found out another friend had spent the evening at home and even if the two friends didn’t know each other, or didn’t get along, I’d still worry the other friend was thinking “Why didn’t you call me if you were going out?”

It’s not exactly the same situation, of course, for many reasons. It was late at night, almost closing time at your place, and all of you were sitting out on the patio where, if it had been a typical night, you’d all been extremely busy serving people. It was a lovely evening too and I’m glad you were finally getting a break, sitting down and laughing with each other. It says something that you were all spending the time with each other rather than getting ready to bolt as soon as your shift was over. You all still had your work clothes on. Not uniforms exactly but similar black slacks and white shirts. I don’t know what’s riskier: wearing white while carefully balancing trays of salsa and guacamole or navigating through a crowd of people on their third half-price margarita while holding a sizzling fajita platter. Either way it’s admirable how all of you manage to accomplish it, how I’ve never seen a stain or a scalded man in a polo shirt dousing himself with beer from a frosted mug, at least any of the times I’ve been in there.

So logically I shouldn’t feel guilty. I should be relieved because if I’d come to your place I’d be yet another customer who needed to be served, even though I’ve never felt like just another customer there. I know everyone who comes in gets a smile and a “Welcome, my friends” from the guy who shows people to their tables, and all of you have always been friendly whenever I’ve been in. We’ve never gotten close to a first name basis, or even a last name basis, but, like the restaurant itself, you’ve become familiar to me. I appreciate that you always seem happy, and while I don’t like to make assumptions I know you’re more than just vehicles for food and drink delivery. Some people handle it better than others but I know keeping up a cheerful demeanor can be exhausting, and I know from my own restaurant experience how a single lousy customer can throw off a person’s whole day.

And I don’t want to diminish how much your niceness means to me but the people at the place next door were just as welcoming, just as happy to see me. Kindness may be the one thing that becomes more valuable the more there is of it because when there’s a surplus it would be so easy for one person to not bother, and that could have a cascade effect.

This is just to say I will call.

 

Adventures In Busing., Submitted For Your Approval., The Weekly Essay