So I've just seen Munich. After much time and anticipation. I've been real excited. Damn near on edge to finally see this film - now I wonder why in hell's name I was so zealous in my desire to witness the cinematic creation that is Munich.
I thought it was a great film. It was very well made. With great performances and powerful characters. A script with moving moments. It looked stunning and had deft camera movements with moody lighting. It flowed without any stutter save for the ending minutes where it leaves you in a daze that serves to mirror, though obviously without the intensity, the tension that grabs the main character after his mission has "ended."
If you wanted to watch this film, then perhaps reading this may serve to dissuade you or perhaps even spoil the experience for you to some extent, so you could steer away until you have seen this. I'll try to keep it spoiler free, but this is an opinion blog for a reason.
I found it ultimately pointless. On the whole issue of Israel v Palestine - the bombings, terrorism, etc. I'm not exactly on the politically correct side as accepted by the western world. So the movie, whilst occasionally touching on topics of real relevance, stays far away, for the most part, from the real questions and answers. Instead it focuses on reminding the viewer, with little subtlety, how killing, no matter the end, is not glorious. It is not justifiable. And death will only beget more death. It felt like yet another reminder of something I already "know." And, therefore, ultimately pointless in presentation and discussion whilst on a topic that could have been so much more risky and dangerous.
I guess for me the more I think about it, the more I find injustice in the situation with regards to Palestine that this world at large seems to ignore. Yes, I still think the whole row over the bloody cartoon strip is fucking retarded. Yet, everyone seems to completely ignore the possibility that someone other than Palestinians might be in the wrong here.
Till I can ignore the lack of justice in another world.
2006/02/19
2006/02/17
In the realm of satisfaction
I see things sometimes. Not like weirdness and so on. Not dead people either. I suppose it's out of searching rather than stumbling upon, but it's these patterns. Call it self-fulfilling prophecy if you must, but there are patterns to life. Amongst strangers. As well as I.
But it's about finding out how to use this knowledge of the patterns to my benefit. Knowing how a situation will turn out doesn't help me much until I go through it and then can say, you know what, I was right. good job, dude.
Yet that's not how it happens. So there goes that major pattern. To be fair, I don't bend the strings enough. If I did with ultimate ferocity, then maybe.
I miss the voices that I don't really know. I wish that I did know them rather than thinking I do.
Till up comes down.
2006/02/16
On the path to bettersville
It's hard to improve oneself when the habits that are ingrained in ones being are on the ... ingrained side of things. Engraved. That's a good word. Like lobotomized. Almost opposite, but not really - I suppose in terms of integration and disintegration - not like the powdery disintegration of Looney Toons days, but more of union and division without the grander aspects to it.
It is difficult, at any rate. There's communication as I know it - extremely flawed by all accounts. And so you try to alter it, but how do you do so without being fake - or at least sounding it, though in your heart, you're as sincere as you could be. You really do want to know. But it may not sound right. Confidence is what you've got to go through with, I suppose.
Enough about the self though - some things have to change there too.
Till next proper inspiration haunts this mind.
It is difficult, at any rate. There's communication as I know it - extremely flawed by all accounts. And so you try to alter it, but how do you do so without being fake - or at least sounding it, though in your heart, you're as sincere as you could be. You really do want to know. But it may not sound right. Confidence is what you've got to go through with, I suppose.
Enough about the self though - some things have to change there too.
Till next proper inspiration haunts this mind.
2006/02/14
Because of this, I'm ashamed
No, not this - just the standard moment's thought.
It's difficult to follow with the rules of this book - the Dale Carnegie thing. If that's his name. As the day goes on, you kind of realize all the little things that you do that you're "not supposed to." Like the whole not criticizing/condemning bit. I do it all a bit too ... instinctually. Complaining about this and that - heck this bloody blog is a testament to that. Raving and ranting about everything and nothing at once. So I've got to tone this down and find a way to see, or at least only speak of, the positive in the things around me. That's the idea - like a new mental diet.
So you look at people and yeah sometimes they peev you off, but you stand back and think why are they doing what they're doing? And, yes, you can conceive of the why and wherefore. Of course, it's all conjecture. And what and truly is the point of conjecture - I guess it's all to learn about one's self - introspection, no?
I'm watching ... well, yes, I guess I am watching this show on TV that ... see - I don't know how far this not criticizing thing goes, but this is terrible TV. I'm not a particular fan - well, I can see why someone would like it. It's quick, it's simple. I can see where people, the viewers would watch it with a wish, a small yearning perhaps, to be a part of the show themselves - thinking how they'd be if they had that chance that the ratty kids in the show do. If that makes sense. Too many pronouns.
And it's simple and addictive. You don't have to think. In the words of other people here "It's actually quite entertaining, isn't it?" You don't think - you unwind and watch. As in Psychonauts - for the kids who get their brains stolen - the first thing they say, repetitively "TV..." ;D I love that game.
Everyone looks so happy. At least in the intros. And they're all generally good looking folks. The justification would perhaps be that someone like me wouldn't want to see an ugly person on TV. Like when .... no, scratch that reference. A bit of an insult to avoid there.
Not that I'm a fan of any of this. Then don't watch it, eh? I'm off to do the work of a Psychonaut. Peace out till next my mind divines otherwise.
It's difficult to follow with the rules of this book - the Dale Carnegie thing. If that's his name. As the day goes on, you kind of realize all the little things that you do that you're "not supposed to." Like the whole not criticizing/condemning bit. I do it all a bit too ... instinctually. Complaining about this and that - heck this bloody blog is a testament to that. Raving and ranting about everything and nothing at once. So I've got to tone this down and find a way to see, or at least only speak of, the positive in the things around me. That's the idea - like a new mental diet.
So you look at people and yeah sometimes they peev you off, but you stand back and think why are they doing what they're doing? And, yes, you can conceive of the why and wherefore. Of course, it's all conjecture. And what and truly is the point of conjecture - I guess it's all to learn about one's self - introspection, no?
I'm watching ... well, yes, I guess I am watching this show on TV that ... see - I don't know how far this not criticizing thing goes, but this is terrible TV. I'm not a particular fan - well, I can see why someone would like it. It's quick, it's simple. I can see where people, the viewers would watch it with a wish, a small yearning perhaps, to be a part of the show themselves - thinking how they'd be if they had that chance that the ratty kids in the show do. If that makes sense. Too many pronouns.
And it's simple and addictive. You don't have to think. In the words of other people here "It's actually quite entertaining, isn't it?" You don't think - you unwind and watch. As in Psychonauts - for the kids who get their brains stolen - the first thing they say, repetitively "TV..." ;D I love that game.
Everyone looks so happy. At least in the intros. And they're all generally good looking folks. The justification would perhaps be that someone like me wouldn't want to see an ugly person on TV. Like when .... no, scratch that reference. A bit of an insult to avoid there.
Not that I'm a fan of any of this. Then don't watch it, eh? I'm off to do the work of a Psychonaut. Peace out till next my mind divines otherwise.
2006/02/12
Dear Diary
Dear Diary,
I got my head checked
By a Jumbo Jet
It wasn't easy
But nothing is ...
No.
This whole deal is so fucking painful. I swear man - I feel like a fucking pin cushion. Saw one on tv and thought - yeah, that's me. What is me? I have these sides and ... I'm probably bipolar. Maybe that's it. That would explain a lot - hook me up to a tanker of drugs and watch the disease melt away like a bad dream - like waking up at nine on a saturday thinking you're late for work - which I'm all too familiar with - in all aspects of the statement.
Tomorrow a trip has been planned. Without much forewarning to my person - to the science museum, I will go - with three hideous children in tow. Perhaps a walk down to the historic place of yore, dandy-o - what a bore! Muahahhaha! I'm a poet and you can complete the rest of that.
Such enthusiasm is rare and disturbing. Very fake. What is real? It's like "Ghost in the Shell" - I'll admit I'm pretty dumb when it comes to watching and reading shit with deeper meanings, so when i saw this film the first time ... some 6 years ago, in the middle of it all going pete tong, I didn't really get it. I didn't understand why she had to be destroyed. Why it had to go wrong in the film. I saw it again a few weeks ago, probably around the anniversay (coincidentally enough) of me watching it the first time now that I think about it. And a lot more made sense. The philosophical meanderings of the animated creations, though as subtle as a muskrat taking a dump on an ipod, were ones that I could understand, nay even associate with to some extent.
Perhaps it'll be another 6 years before I begin to understand "Innocence" - ;D
It's like history - tracing back World War 2 to events more than a century before. I can trace moments in my life to ... years ago. This leading to that. And that, in turn, giving rise to that thought. That idea. That action. And this is where this takes place. Leading to this. To now. Creepy. A moment's revelation brought to you by Ghost in the Shell. And dog food - you pick the brand - Pedigree Chum is all that comes to my head.
My computer's making noises at me. People appearing, disappearing. I'm listening and watching. Like some kind of sick bastard - on a distant machine hooked up to a forgotten terminal. Watching the comings and goings on a small platform connected to a billion more. Technology disassociates humanity from the word. The written word with power and conviction is now a mere ... replication. Where once upon a time, the pen and the paper that it coursed along were one of a kind, unique. The printing press, yes, that did its fair share, but with this machine, where is the point of the word for it to be typed out so coldly and with varying degrees of passion and conviction. Where is the meaning in a message disseminated with such ease? And where, o fucking where, is the thirst for the word that must have once existed in the minds of those blessed with seeing and understanding its divine message under dying sunlight.
My theory about love is that it must exist. Yes, believe it or not - this is indeed me talking. Cynicism aside, it's got to be real. How do I "know" this? Because I know that hate exists. I see it everyday - I have its website bookmarked - www.cnn.com. If such hate must exist all over the planet between every caste, creed, family, sibling, rival, and on and on ... Love must be real. If for nothing else than to serve as the counterpoint that defines what hate really is. Does that give you a warm feeling deep down inside?
I miss passion. I miss feeling a passion for things. I feel it - this energy and drive. And it fades away - the destination, the target much too distant. The goal too obscure. Am I giving up too easily? Doesn't everyone? If it really matters, you don't give up. This is what I tell myself. You have to keep trying. Keep going - let yourself be driven even though it seems the brick wall will never collapse.
And then ... you wonder - what's the point? It's that fine line between reality and fantasy. Yes, the objective seems more ludicrous than a pancreas pierced by a Unicorn's horn, but you keep going? Why? Why not just give up when that's so much easier. Shut your tired eyes and go to sleep. Go to sleep my pet and it'll all go away till you see it in another dream. And then all you have to do is open those precious orbs and never let them shut again. It's a beautiful thing, my darling. That's all that there is to be said, no?
As long as there is conflict, there will be survival. If there is nothing to thwart the journey of the determined, then there will be no need to travel so long and so far. The sand that cuts into the skin. Stings the eyes and dries the lips. Settles on the tongue and sends foul tastes running through the hungry soul. This sand - this flying sea of stinging nettles that cuts but leaves no bruises. A gash across a thick, leathery skin. Peel it off and start again.
Till obscurity hides this word once more.
I got my head checked
By a Jumbo Jet
It wasn't easy
But nothing is ...
No.
This whole deal is so fucking painful. I swear man - I feel like a fucking pin cushion. Saw one on tv and thought - yeah, that's me. What is me? I have these sides and ... I'm probably bipolar. Maybe that's it. That would explain a lot - hook me up to a tanker of drugs and watch the disease melt away like a bad dream - like waking up at nine on a saturday thinking you're late for work - which I'm all too familiar with - in all aspects of the statement.
Tomorrow a trip has been planned. Without much forewarning to my person - to the science museum, I will go - with three hideous children in tow. Perhaps a walk down to the historic place of yore, dandy-o - what a bore! Muahahhaha! I'm a poet and you can complete the rest of that.
Such enthusiasm is rare and disturbing. Very fake. What is real? It's like "Ghost in the Shell" - I'll admit I'm pretty dumb when it comes to watching and reading shit with deeper meanings, so when i saw this film the first time ... some 6 years ago, in the middle of it all going pete tong, I didn't really get it. I didn't understand why she had to be destroyed. Why it had to go wrong in the film. I saw it again a few weeks ago, probably around the anniversay (coincidentally enough) of me watching it the first time now that I think about it. And a lot more made sense. The philosophical meanderings of the animated creations, though as subtle as a muskrat taking a dump on an ipod, were ones that I could understand, nay even associate with to some extent.
Perhaps it'll be another 6 years before I begin to understand "Innocence" - ;D
It's like history - tracing back World War 2 to events more than a century before. I can trace moments in my life to ... years ago. This leading to that. And that, in turn, giving rise to that thought. That idea. That action. And this is where this takes place. Leading to this. To now. Creepy. A moment's revelation brought to you by Ghost in the Shell. And dog food - you pick the brand - Pedigree Chum is all that comes to my head.
My computer's making noises at me. People appearing, disappearing. I'm listening and watching. Like some kind of sick bastard - on a distant machine hooked up to a forgotten terminal. Watching the comings and goings on a small platform connected to a billion more. Technology disassociates humanity from the word. The written word with power and conviction is now a mere ... replication. Where once upon a time, the pen and the paper that it coursed along were one of a kind, unique. The printing press, yes, that did its fair share, but with this machine, where is the point of the word for it to be typed out so coldly and with varying degrees of passion and conviction. Where is the meaning in a message disseminated with such ease? And where, o fucking where, is the thirst for the word that must have once existed in the minds of those blessed with seeing and understanding its divine message under dying sunlight.
My theory about love is that it must exist. Yes, believe it or not - this is indeed me talking. Cynicism aside, it's got to be real. How do I "know" this? Because I know that hate exists. I see it everyday - I have its website bookmarked - www.cnn.com. If such hate must exist all over the planet between every caste, creed, family, sibling, rival, and on and on ... Love must be real. If for nothing else than to serve as the counterpoint that defines what hate really is. Does that give you a warm feeling deep down inside?
I miss passion. I miss feeling a passion for things. I feel it - this energy and drive. And it fades away - the destination, the target much too distant. The goal too obscure. Am I giving up too easily? Doesn't everyone? If it really matters, you don't give up. This is what I tell myself. You have to keep trying. Keep going - let yourself be driven even though it seems the brick wall will never collapse.
And then ... you wonder - what's the point? It's that fine line between reality and fantasy. Yes, the objective seems more ludicrous than a pancreas pierced by a Unicorn's horn, but you keep going? Why? Why not just give up when that's so much easier. Shut your tired eyes and go to sleep. Go to sleep my pet and it'll all go away till you see it in another dream. And then all you have to do is open those precious orbs and never let them shut again. It's a beautiful thing, my darling. That's all that there is to be said, no?
As long as there is conflict, there will be survival. If there is nothing to thwart the journey of the determined, then there will be no need to travel so long and so far. The sand that cuts into the skin. Stings the eyes and dries the lips. Settles on the tongue and sends foul tastes running through the hungry soul. This sand - this flying sea of stinging nettles that cuts but leaves no bruises. A gash across a thick, leathery skin. Peel it off and start again.
Till obscurity hides this word once more.
2006/02/09
Cardinal Escape
It's around 9 pm right now. This is prime time for me to be enjoying my ... day. I'm done with work. People are asleep. Well, certain folk are - and I should be winding down by now. Kicking it with a bit of fighting for survival in Azeroth. Perhaps some Movies - haven't done that in a while. No? Some console fun - DOA. No? PS2? No? Handhelds perhaps? A bit of electroplankton? No? PSP? No? WELL THEN WHAT THE FUCK DO YOU WANT!
That's my head. And I'm thinking, perhaps I want to sleep and hide again. Terrible, really. Makes for piss poor reading too. Though there is the moment of awesomeness to hear the Halo theme running through a battle in DOA with a "secret" character. Well chuffed to hear that. The original Halo theme is one of those pieces of music that I believe will stay with me - it's so Glorious. For me it's up there with ... no, it isn't that far up. I mean, it has an effect on my soul. It reeks of glory and power and victory, nay, triumph. It's pride, though not conceit, embodied in music. I love it.
Might listen to some music. Tool. Now they're undoubtedly in a league of their own making. There is nothing I can say that would do even the slightest bit of justice to their majesty. To the perfection of a track as "simple" as Schism to guide me through ... that could help now. Just Tool - every day. Can't hurt. What worked once may very well work again. It can't really hurt now, can it?
It's annoying to be so confused about everything. I'm in another self. GOD, that music is awesome! I've asked the questions, time and time again. I've even been gifted with answers of a sort. Though I don't understand what they mean. I'm being ridiculously cryptic again. I I I I.
Why does one continue this? For the benefit of the not-so-random other? Not that there was any question of why, I suppose. A bit sad and pathetic really, but I can't really think of why else for this to exist and to continue. But it must - for the sake of speech. For clarity of mind in the face of an avalanche of mud and rocks. And yellow vomit with olive pits in it.
Till it beckons again. There will eventually be some positivity here. Just going through the motions now.
That's my head. And I'm thinking, perhaps I want to sleep and hide again. Terrible, really. Makes for piss poor reading too. Though there is the moment of awesomeness to hear the Halo theme running through a battle in DOA with a "secret" character. Well chuffed to hear that. The original Halo theme is one of those pieces of music that I believe will stay with me - it's so Glorious. For me it's up there with ... no, it isn't that far up. I mean, it has an effect on my soul. It reeks of glory and power and victory, nay, triumph. It's pride, though not conceit, embodied in music. I love it.
Might listen to some music. Tool. Now they're undoubtedly in a league of their own making. There is nothing I can say that would do even the slightest bit of justice to their majesty. To the perfection of a track as "simple" as Schism to guide me through ... that could help now. Just Tool - every day. Can't hurt. What worked once may very well work again. It can't really hurt now, can it?
It's annoying to be so confused about everything. I'm in another self. GOD, that music is awesome! I've asked the questions, time and time again. I've even been gifted with answers of a sort. Though I don't understand what they mean. I'm being ridiculously cryptic again. I I I I.
Why does one continue this? For the benefit of the not-so-random other? Not that there was any question of why, I suppose. A bit sad and pathetic really, but I can't really think of why else for this to exist and to continue. But it must - for the sake of speech. For clarity of mind in the face of an avalanche of mud and rocks. And yellow vomit with olive pits in it.
Till it beckons again. There will eventually be some positivity here. Just going through the motions now.
2006/02/08
Connecting the cables to another outlet
It feels like a beautiful moment right now. There's nothing special on. Nothing to set this moment apart from any other, apart from the yellow glow of a tiny lamp in the peripheral vision of my left eye. And sounds of yet another shite Hollywood funded film - is there any other kind? Perfect, pretty faces set upon gorgeous bodies trying to be normal though they couldn't ever be unless they got the unspeakable of plastic surgery - or pulled off a Christian Bale, ala Machinist. Not that he defined normal in any way - but at least it was a far cry from the stupid "perfection" as sold by some fat cat fuck in a tweed jacket.
Tweed is the first word that comes to mind - not sure of the accuracy. If you're some movie-making bigwig reading this, I've got ideas for a good film or two, or three. Hire me! Bastards.
Doing a good job, aren't I?
Read about the muslim protests about the cartoon thing. Fucking crazy man. This entire planet. Going off on one because of a bloody drawing. There is no such thing as a joke anymore, I guess. Not that such a thing should be a joke, well everything's up for comment.
There's a part of me that's absolutely screaming, shouting - cause it isn't in order in my head. I've taken this step that ... this is yet another thing for my tiny brain to focus on. And I can't take this much shite. It's hard enough managing on a daily basis without something to stir the fucking cauldron, as they say - or at least as it goes in my head.
The beautiful moment has passed for sure. Once again I'm kind of clued out of the equation of my own making.
And so I quit before I confuse myself yet again.
Tweed is the first word that comes to mind - not sure of the accuracy. If you're some movie-making bigwig reading this, I've got ideas for a good film or two, or three. Hire me! Bastards.
Doing a good job, aren't I?
Read about the muslim protests about the cartoon thing. Fucking crazy man. This entire planet. Going off on one because of a bloody drawing. There is no such thing as a joke anymore, I guess. Not that such a thing should be a joke, well everything's up for comment.
There's a part of me that's absolutely screaming, shouting - cause it isn't in order in my head. I've taken this step that ... this is yet another thing for my tiny brain to focus on. And I can't take this much shite. It's hard enough managing on a daily basis without something to stir the fucking cauldron, as they say - or at least as it goes in my head.
The beautiful moment has passed for sure. Once again I'm kind of clued out of the equation of my own making.
And so I quit before I confuse myself yet again.
This hope is disturbing and new
I feel hope beyond this present darkness. Like I'm wearing this blindfold and am in the cold darkness, yet I can feel this light upon my skin. It isn't warm or anything of the sort. I may be imagining it. I see the same dreams in the darkness, but I'm thinking of something better. With one weight off my back, the rest of my mind fights on for a grip on a lost illusion. Like an amputated dream, it's a phantom creation within the space of my mind.
There isn't much that has changed right now. Other than things being tighter - the change that I've been trying to "avoid" has got to come soon before I collapse under the weight of the tower of a reality I hold above my head. This is what this is again - a late night attempt to forget this - like resorting to a drop of alcohol - it's a beautiful thing. That first moment that you know that it's reached your head - you're losing control and every decision you make ... well, you're not accountable anymore, are you?
I wish to be free of consequences - the ability to make a mistake and trigger a faux pas and then move on. Not to feel like an idiot for doing that thing that you shouldn't have done. I've lost that cryptic quality I aim for. I feel dumb. Where's that freedom I'm looking for? In the nearest bottle of vodka? Probably. The easy solution that the american dream speaks of.
Till the fubrid gets up off another park bench.
There isn't much that has changed right now. Other than things being tighter - the change that I've been trying to "avoid" has got to come soon before I collapse under the weight of the tower of a reality I hold above my head. This is what this is again - a late night attempt to forget this - like resorting to a drop of alcohol - it's a beautiful thing. That first moment that you know that it's reached your head - you're losing control and every decision you make ... well, you're not accountable anymore, are you?
I wish to be free of consequences - the ability to make a mistake and trigger a faux pas and then move on. Not to feel like an idiot for doing that thing that you shouldn't have done. I've lost that cryptic quality I aim for. I feel dumb. Where's that freedom I'm looking for? In the nearest bottle of vodka? Probably. The easy solution that the american dream speaks of.
Till the fubrid gets up off another park bench.
2006/02/01
A purple sweater with white polka dots
So forgive me on this, but I'm slow when it comes to these things. Been subjected - no, that's not accurate. I've been present whilst a series of movies directed at the female of ze species, your "chick flick" so to speak, have been shown. First one with Reese's Pieces Witherspoon and this second with Sandra Boring-as-crap Bullock. Luckily I've had Azeroth and the defence of the Alliance lands against all manner of evil threats to keep my true attention. But in side glances and listening that's akin to poor evesdropping, I've figured out one thing. Or think I've figured it out. That all chicks want is to feel beautiful.
Well, at least in these films and their class, they do. Cause that's what seems to happen. The guy falls in love with the girl, forgetting her Hollywood-approved looks and botox-injected smiles and other enhanced protrusions, etc., because deep inside, they're beautiful people. Past their neuroses and craziness and supposed inability to keep up with hectic and difficult lives, somehow there's the dude who loves all this and this person that they've managed to uncover from the depths of ... the woman's mind. I'm lost at this point, but this is an epiphany for me. That all a girl supposedly wants is to feel beautiful. So if I manage this, I should have higher success, right? Well, in theory. Movie/Hollywood Approved Theory. Now if only to find a Catherine Zeta Jones supposedly real beauty who won't mind walking alongside someone who's mistaken for a terrorist purely based on the color of his skin.
I don't agree with these award ceremonies. Apart from my annual boycott of the Oscars, at least I do ... listen to their nominations - often inspiring me to watch some quality films, I have even less faith in those of the music industry. Anything, such as the grammies, that could, in its time, have chosen N Sync or their equivalent shit-mongers to be representative of the best that music has to offer needs to be disregarded and then flushed down into the sewage leading directly into the nearest black hole where it can exist in a moment of pain that extends towards eternity.
And between the emergence of the next war front in what seems to be Iran and Big Momma's whoreHouse, I get to wonder once more. Where am I sitting? In this world where creativity and hope seems to have died. Where nothing really makes sense - at least the way it works out. And that's what gets me every day. I have to make my choices and stick by it. And you don't know what's next - I suppose that's the magic. You just ... see what comes. And come what may, you keep on going.
Till another moment of solitude inspires me to speak beyond this mind's walls.
Well, at least in these films and their class, they do. Cause that's what seems to happen. The guy falls in love with the girl, forgetting her Hollywood-approved looks and botox-injected smiles and other enhanced protrusions, etc., because deep inside, they're beautiful people. Past their neuroses and craziness and supposed inability to keep up with hectic and difficult lives, somehow there's the dude who loves all this and this person that they've managed to uncover from the depths of ... the woman's mind. I'm lost at this point, but this is an epiphany for me. That all a girl supposedly wants is to feel beautiful. So if I manage this, I should have higher success, right? Well, in theory. Movie/Hollywood Approved Theory. Now if only to find a Catherine Zeta Jones supposedly real beauty who won't mind walking alongside someone who's mistaken for a terrorist purely based on the color of his skin.
I don't agree with these award ceremonies. Apart from my annual boycott of the Oscars, at least I do ... listen to their nominations - often inspiring me to watch some quality films, I have even less faith in those of the music industry. Anything, such as the grammies, that could, in its time, have chosen N Sync or their equivalent shit-mongers to be representative of the best that music has to offer needs to be disregarded and then flushed down into the sewage leading directly into the nearest black hole where it can exist in a moment of pain that extends towards eternity.
And between the emergence of the next war front in what seems to be Iran and Big Momma's whoreHouse, I get to wonder once more. Where am I sitting? In this world where creativity and hope seems to have died. Where nothing really makes sense - at least the way it works out. And that's what gets me every day. I have to make my choices and stick by it. And you don't know what's next - I suppose that's the magic. You just ... see what comes. And come what may, you keep on going.
Till another moment of solitude inspires me to speak beyond this mind's walls.
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