Ben Peek's Blog, page 19
October 16, 2012
Scarface
I watched Scarface last night and was somewhat surprised to find that it's a piece of shit.
The very fine and excellent Lucy Sussex informs me that the film is big in jail, but that really only goes as far as to assure me that Brian De Palma's natural audience is the incarcerated. Cell bars and chains are required, especially if the director wants to display his body of mediocre work. If they could leave, I am sure they would, no doubt writing reviews in crayon to assure anyone who read that it was predictable, boring, and that Mary Elizabeth Mastrantonio's final scenes are downright laughable (not to mention she makes a poor Cuban).
About half way through I began to formulate a theory about the film and its direct link to the death of Al Pacino as an actor. Now, don't get me wrong, I have liked Pacino in some films, but with the exception of Heat, all predate Scarface. And even in Heat, lets face it, he basically screams and swaggers around on camera, mistaking the level of vocal command that he has in a particular scene for acting. He does it reasonably well, but once you've seen one Pacino film, you have seen them all, really. And really, as you watch Scarface, you can kind of see it happen: he begins by being interviewed, by presenting himself with a reasonable affectation of a Cuban, but as the film drags and drags itself out for nearly three hours, the paper thin characterisation, the stupidity of the plot, and the predictability of it, finds Pacino literally rolling his head in mounds of fake Coke and yelling more and more at the camera, until finally, he storms out to die in a blaze of violence.
At which point, we are all free to return to our cells and contemplate our crimes.
Thank you.
The very fine and excellent Lucy Sussex informs me that the film is big in jail, but that really only goes as far as to assure me that Brian De Palma's natural audience is the incarcerated. Cell bars and chains are required, especially if the director wants to display his body of mediocre work. If they could leave, I am sure they would, no doubt writing reviews in crayon to assure anyone who read that it was predictable, boring, and that Mary Elizabeth Mastrantonio's final scenes are downright laughable (not to mention she makes a poor Cuban).
About half way through I began to formulate a theory about the film and its direct link to the death of Al Pacino as an actor. Now, don't get me wrong, I have liked Pacino in some films, but with the exception of Heat, all predate Scarface. And even in Heat, lets face it, he basically screams and swaggers around on camera, mistaking the level of vocal command that he has in a particular scene for acting. He does it reasonably well, but once you've seen one Pacino film, you have seen them all, really. And really, as you watch Scarface, you can kind of see it happen: he begins by being interviewed, by presenting himself with a reasonable affectation of a Cuban, but as the film drags and drags itself out for nearly three hours, the paper thin characterisation, the stupidity of the plot, and the predictability of it, finds Pacino literally rolling his head in mounds of fake Coke and yelling more and more at the camera, until finally, he storms out to die in a blaze of violence.
At which point, we are all free to return to our cells and contemplate our crimes.
Thank you.
October 11, 2012
Gillard, Again
In the last few days, the mainstream media has responded to Julia Gillard's speech yesterday by saying that it was uncalled for, that it was untrue, that the people who agree with it are wrong.
What I haven't heard is anyone say that the Prime Minister's speech has resonated with the female population, who have said for years that they do not like how Tony Abbott and the Coalition have conducted themselves, that have said for years that they believe that some of the attacks made on Gillard to be based on gender, that they feel insulted and attacked by what is said both in politics and out of politics, but within our public spheres. What I have not heard from anyone in the mainstream media say is, "Perhaps we shouldn't be defining how women throughout Australia have experienced this, and how women have reacted to this speech? Perhaps we ought to stop telling women that their lived experience is wrong and listen to what they are saying to us? I mean, isn't that the whole point of equality?"
Maybe I'm wrong here.
Maybe I've missed a huge newsletter, one with the title IRONY ISN'T DEAD BUT MAYBE IT'S OUTSIDE SLEEPING IN THIS HOLE I DUG WITH MY SHOVEL.
Maybe.
But it seems to me that the response of the media, that the almost complete denial of the voices of women, their opinion, and their experience in this matter, is a form of sexism. Hell, I'll even call it sexism. Not a form, not maybe, not kinda, but is. I'll even say that that the entire response by Australia's mainstream media lays bare the crux of the problem, that for thousands and thousands of women--young and old--their experiences of sexism are marginalised, denied, and ignored, while they are told that nothing of importance happened here and they ought to be quiet.
What I haven't heard is anyone say that the Prime Minister's speech has resonated with the female population, who have said for years that they do not like how Tony Abbott and the Coalition have conducted themselves, that have said for years that they believe that some of the attacks made on Gillard to be based on gender, that they feel insulted and attacked by what is said both in politics and out of politics, but within our public spheres. What I have not heard from anyone in the mainstream media say is, "Perhaps we shouldn't be defining how women throughout Australia have experienced this, and how women have reacted to this speech? Perhaps we ought to stop telling women that their lived experience is wrong and listen to what they are saying to us? I mean, isn't that the whole point of equality?"
Maybe I'm wrong here.
Maybe I've missed a huge newsletter, one with the title IRONY ISN'T DEAD BUT MAYBE IT'S OUTSIDE SLEEPING IN THIS HOLE I DUG WITH MY SHOVEL.
Maybe.
But it seems to me that the response of the media, that the almost complete denial of the voices of women, their opinion, and their experience in this matter, is a form of sexism. Hell, I'll even call it sexism. Not a form, not maybe, not kinda, but is. I'll even say that that the entire response by Australia's mainstream media lays bare the crux of the problem, that for thousands and thousands of women--young and old--their experiences of sexism are marginalised, denied, and ignored, while they are told that nothing of importance happened here and they ought to be quiet.
October 9, 2012
The Gillard Speech
The now famous fifteen minute speech by Prime Minister Julia Gillard labeling the opposition leader Tony Abbott a misogynist has been a long time coming.
There are things that can be said against Gillard, a lot of them true. She personally voted against gay marriage. Her party has organised the return of off shore processing for asylum seekers. For example. But neither of them are relevant today, are part of this topic. Today, after months, even years, of attacks on her based purely on the fact that she is a woman, she has stepped back and attacked those around her who have been part of it.
It is an important moment not just for her, but for all women in Australia.
Psycho
Alfred Hitchcock's 1960 film, Psycho, is a film that shouldn't work, but does, and continues to do so, over fifty years after it was released.
Based on the slim novel by a mostly forgotten Robert Bloch, the film opens with Marion Crane, played by Janet Leigh, stealing a tidy sum of money in an attempt to realise her relationship with her partner, the recently divorced Sam. Her theft, more a crime of a passion than anything premeditated, is the focus of the first part of the film, and Leigh does a decent job of holding the film together until she arrives at the now culturally famous Bates Motel, a quiet, forgotten thing on the wrong part of the highway. There, she meets Norman, a man who is controlled by his mother, an angry, shrill woman seen in shadows on the top floor of their house. Played by Anthony Perkins in a roll that he would attempt to resurrect another two times, Norman is a strange, off-kilter man, who over the course of the film will be revealed to be a little more, much to the sorrow of Marion, and a handful of others.
As I said, the strangest thing about the film is the nature of it, and how easily it could have been much, much worse. It's perhaps no surprise that Perkins' attempt at two sequels look and sound awful, while the shot for shot remake by Gus Van Sant is uniformly disliked and considered poor against the original. Van Sant isn't a terrible director, and can be, at times, quite good--but he doesn't have the ability that Hitchcock had to elevate his film above it's subject material, which in the hands of another, would be terrible, b-grade trash.
Yet, that's not the true mark of Hitchcock's success with the film. No, the success of Psycho comes through the the melding of what is essentially four set pieces into a uniform whole, ending with the most difficult of the four, which is that of the psychiatrist explaining the mental illness of Norman Bates. Taken by themselves, the story of the unsatisfied woman, Marion Crane, the detective who has been hired to find her, the suspicious sister, and the psychiatrist, all form different, distinct quarters of the film--though to call them quarters is a lie, since they are not perfectly divided for time--and it is to Hitchcock's credit that he can use the Bates motel and Norman himself to bring all four narratives together, and make it appear as seamless as he does.
It is a pleasure to watch, even fifty years later.
Based on the slim novel by a mostly forgotten Robert Bloch, the film opens with Marion Crane, played by Janet Leigh, stealing a tidy sum of money in an attempt to realise her relationship with her partner, the recently divorced Sam. Her theft, more a crime of a passion than anything premeditated, is the focus of the first part of the film, and Leigh does a decent job of holding the film together until she arrives at the now culturally famous Bates Motel, a quiet, forgotten thing on the wrong part of the highway. There, she meets Norman, a man who is controlled by his mother, an angry, shrill woman seen in shadows on the top floor of their house. Played by Anthony Perkins in a roll that he would attempt to resurrect another two times, Norman is a strange, off-kilter man, who over the course of the film will be revealed to be a little more, much to the sorrow of Marion, and a handful of others.
As I said, the strangest thing about the film is the nature of it, and how easily it could have been much, much worse. It's perhaps no surprise that Perkins' attempt at two sequels look and sound awful, while the shot for shot remake by Gus Van Sant is uniformly disliked and considered poor against the original. Van Sant isn't a terrible director, and can be, at times, quite good--but he doesn't have the ability that Hitchcock had to elevate his film above it's subject material, which in the hands of another, would be terrible, b-grade trash.
Yet, that's not the true mark of Hitchcock's success with the film. No, the success of Psycho comes through the the melding of what is essentially four set pieces into a uniform whole, ending with the most difficult of the four, which is that of the psychiatrist explaining the mental illness of Norman Bates. Taken by themselves, the story of the unsatisfied woman, Marion Crane, the detective who has been hired to find her, the suspicious sister, and the psychiatrist, all form different, distinct quarters of the film--though to call them quarters is a lie, since they are not perfectly divided for time--and it is to Hitchcock's credit that he can use the Bates motel and Norman himself to bring all four narratives together, and make it appear as seamless as he does.
It is a pleasure to watch, even fifty years later.
October 3, 2012
Alan Jones
In 1994, the then Prime Minister Paul Keating is reported to have said about Alan Jones, that his radio program was, "middle-of-the-road fascism."
Always one for a nice take down, Keating wasn't wrong then, and is not wrong now, days after Jones said that the current Prime Minister's father died of shame. He was at a Liberal Party event when he said it, delivering an off the cuff fifty-eight minute 'private' speech, where he had also put up a coat made from chaff bags to auction. That bag, if you aren't aware of it, is a reference to a previous comment, wherein the Prime Minister should be thrown out to sea in such a bag. On Sunday he gave what can only loosely be called an apology, in which he spent most of his time trying to convince people that a fifty eight minute speech was a private thing, and how would he know it would get out? He probably blamed a woman, to coincide with his previous comment that females in power are destroying the joint.
If you are unaware of Alan Jones, then you probably live in another country, or lucky. Perhaps you're both. But with John Laws relegated to sipping Bundy and Coke and wearing his bling during the odd interview that takes place in his retirement, Jones is what many would consider the King of Right Wing Talk Back Shock Jock Radio, but to characterise him strictly on that would be to ignore his many years in the public sphere and the complex relationship that his personal and public life have with it. Having been at one stage an English teacher, Jones has also been a speech writer for Malcolm Fraser, a football coach, an actor, and a large contributor to charities, most of them having to do with children. In addition to this, a lot of claims have been made about Jones on sexuality, the experiences of which are on public record--being caught in a London toilet--and his removal from a head position at King's due 'questionable' behaviour, and John Laws' non bling interview where he accused Jones of pressuring the then Prime Minister John Howard to keep David Flint as the head of the ABA because of a relationship between the two men. Chris Masters, in his book on Jones, believes that Jones' denial of his homosexuality and repressed nature of it is the defining characteristic of the broadcaster. In addition to this, Jones also has a long history of being accused of plagiarism, brought up on numerous charges for defamation and lies, comments that have targeted racial minorities and public figures, and he was also part of the Cash for Comment scandal, wherein he advertised businesses on his program without ever stating that he was being paid to do so.
To understand Jones is, I think, to understand all of this: the fame, the denial, the repression, the lies, the scandals, the, as Paul Keating said, "Middle-of-the-road fascism." The figure that is painted from the culmination of these events is a dark one, an angry, bile spewing individual, a man of of hate, of lies, of a fortune built from anything but truth. It pays well to remember this as he is discussed before you, and to understand also that Jones, after a career of hate, is not going anywhere soon.
Jones' comments on the weekend are nothing new for him. In a society that values free speech, he is fully within his rights to say it... just as the society he lives in is fully within their rights to slap him for his words, which should and must be done. In a perfect world, the ugly, false, hate filled bile that emerges from Jones would be difficult to find an audience: people would demand facts, demand actual articulation, and would call him on his many faults, including the current one that relations to the Prime Minster, which is his misogynistic, bullying behaviour. People would point out that his comments about women, in any position of power, are nothing short of insulting. Indeed, that is what a lot of people are saying, and this is good, because if you wish to live in a society that values equality, the words that Jones has given air need to be shut down, need to be denied fully. It is only through that that he--and those who follow in his model--will find it difficult to grab an audience, find it difficult to work, and find themselves relegated to the radical, right wing hate media that is listened to only by people who did not evolve into individuals with thumbs.
And for this who support him, who support, in this case, the bullying of women...
...Well, it was the CEO of Woolworths who purchased the chaff bag jacket and, as the girl said earlier today, "It's time to do more shopping at IGAs."
Always one for a nice take down, Keating wasn't wrong then, and is not wrong now, days after Jones said that the current Prime Minister's father died of shame. He was at a Liberal Party event when he said it, delivering an off the cuff fifty-eight minute 'private' speech, where he had also put up a coat made from chaff bags to auction. That bag, if you aren't aware of it, is a reference to a previous comment, wherein the Prime Minister should be thrown out to sea in such a bag. On Sunday he gave what can only loosely be called an apology, in which he spent most of his time trying to convince people that a fifty eight minute speech was a private thing, and how would he know it would get out? He probably blamed a woman, to coincide with his previous comment that females in power are destroying the joint.
If you are unaware of Alan Jones, then you probably live in another country, or lucky. Perhaps you're both. But with John Laws relegated to sipping Bundy and Coke and wearing his bling during the odd interview that takes place in his retirement, Jones is what many would consider the King of Right Wing Talk Back Shock Jock Radio, but to characterise him strictly on that would be to ignore his many years in the public sphere and the complex relationship that his personal and public life have with it. Having been at one stage an English teacher, Jones has also been a speech writer for Malcolm Fraser, a football coach, an actor, and a large contributor to charities, most of them having to do with children. In addition to this, a lot of claims have been made about Jones on sexuality, the experiences of which are on public record--being caught in a London toilet--and his removal from a head position at King's due 'questionable' behaviour, and John Laws' non bling interview where he accused Jones of pressuring the then Prime Minister John Howard to keep David Flint as the head of the ABA because of a relationship between the two men. Chris Masters, in his book on Jones, believes that Jones' denial of his homosexuality and repressed nature of it is the defining characteristic of the broadcaster. In addition to this, Jones also has a long history of being accused of plagiarism, brought up on numerous charges for defamation and lies, comments that have targeted racial minorities and public figures, and he was also part of the Cash for Comment scandal, wherein he advertised businesses on his program without ever stating that he was being paid to do so.
To understand Jones is, I think, to understand all of this: the fame, the denial, the repression, the lies, the scandals, the, as Paul Keating said, "Middle-of-the-road fascism." The figure that is painted from the culmination of these events is a dark one, an angry, bile spewing individual, a man of of hate, of lies, of a fortune built from anything but truth. It pays well to remember this as he is discussed before you, and to understand also that Jones, after a career of hate, is not going anywhere soon.
Jones' comments on the weekend are nothing new for him. In a society that values free speech, he is fully within his rights to say it... just as the society he lives in is fully within their rights to slap him for his words, which should and must be done. In a perfect world, the ugly, false, hate filled bile that emerges from Jones would be difficult to find an audience: people would demand facts, demand actual articulation, and would call him on his many faults, including the current one that relations to the Prime Minster, which is his misogynistic, bullying behaviour. People would point out that his comments about women, in any position of power, are nothing short of insulting. Indeed, that is what a lot of people are saying, and this is good, because if you wish to live in a society that values equality, the words that Jones has given air need to be shut down, need to be denied fully. It is only through that that he--and those who follow in his model--will find it difficult to grab an audience, find it difficult to work, and find themselves relegated to the radical, right wing hate media that is listened to only by people who did not evolve into individuals with thumbs.
And for this who support him, who support, in this case, the bullying of women...
...Well, it was the CEO of Woolworths who purchased the chaff bag jacket and, as the girl said earlier today, "It's time to do more shopping at IGAs."
October 1, 2012
Music and Money
Vulture has an interesting article on Grizzly Bear, which is, in a way, about making money from music:
It's similar, in many ways, to what is said about making money out of writing, which has been on my mind of late. I suspect the truth of it is that I'd like to find a new way to pay my rent, and maybe I will, but it won't be today.
Ah well.
Onwards, onwards, etc, etc.
The band’s hesitant to talk about money at all. And after I talk to solo artist and former Hold Steady sideman Franz Nicolay about the rigors of his job—constant low-level panic over never having more than a couple of months’ worth of cash, rarely having health insurance, having to tour so often that you can’t take a break to write and record another album to tour for—he sends a quick explanatory e-mail: “I want to make clear,” he says, “because a lot of the response musicians get when they talk about the difficulty of the lifestyle, especially touring lifestyle, is of the ‘oh, boo-hoo’ variety, that I’m not complaining about any of it in any way that anyone wouldn’t grouse about their job. The smart lifer musician goes into it with eyes wide open, assuming it’s going to be a rewarding but difficult way to make a living.” When I go to a Williamsburg bar to meet Frankie Rose, veteran of a string of much-discussed rock bands, she’s just back from touring a solo album—her first stint without a day job—and already talking to the bartender about finding work. “I feel like if you’re in this at all to make money,” she says, “then you’re crazy. Unless you’re Lana Del Rey or something, it’s a moot point. You’d better be doing it for the love of it, because nobody’s making real money.”
This isn’t exactly news. But these days, instead of describing a visibly low-rent netherland of mimeographed fanzines, it describes a world where the songs might wind up in movie trailers or national car commercials. Musicians often find themselves in the position they occupied before the rise of the LP, working as accessories to other, more profitable industries: nightlife, advertising, film and television, “music discovery” engines, streaming services, press, social networks, branding. (Grizzly Bear once licensed an unreleased track to the Washington State lottery.) But these industries also require musicians to approach what they’re doing as an art—something with authentic, organic connections to style, aesthetics, and youth culture—not a craft to be dutifully plied for a living. And in a trend-driven art, success has a tendency to end.
It's similar, in many ways, to what is said about making money out of writing, which has been on my mind of late. I suspect the truth of it is that I'd like to find a new way to pay my rent, and maybe I will, but it won't be today.
Ah well.
Onwards, onwards, etc, etc.
September 26, 2012
Penguin Sues but Myer Does Not
Yeah, I know: it's been a quiet week.
Firstly, have a look at this article: it's a brief rundown on a set of lawsuits brought by Penguin Books to get money back out of authors who failed to deliver books, or the books that they were contracted to do so. In the case of Herman Rosenblat, he simply lied about the truth of meeting his wife, and after Oprah promoted him, got caught out. The advances for the books are pretty solid, though some more than others, but I can only imagine that soon publishers will be suing the authors they have found in fanfic circles.
Occasionally, I wonder how it is that Fifty Shades of Grey hasn't been brought to court over intellectual theft. If you don't know, the series originally became as Twilight erotica, but was changed later to be what it is now. Anyhow: what always struck me was that considering how open the original influential point was, and how that basically argues that certain properties of the end product were lifts... then how does that keep it safe from an argument of plagiarism and intellectual theft? Stephanie Myers, the author of Twilight does not seem to have any real issue with it, but it becomes interesting when you start opening doors and thinking, well, what if I took this popular character and book here and just wrote my own version, skipping on a lot of the intellectual realisation process that is part of writing? Obviously, I have no idea how this plays in a court of law, and it makes an interesting discussion, since a lot of art is theft, to one degree or another, but very rarely as direct as it was in this case.
That was a bit random, wasn't it?
Anyhow: back to working.
Firstly, have a look at this article: it's a brief rundown on a set of lawsuits brought by Penguin Books to get money back out of authors who failed to deliver books, or the books that they were contracted to do so. In the case of Herman Rosenblat, he simply lied about the truth of meeting his wife, and after Oprah promoted him, got caught out. The advances for the books are pretty solid, though some more than others, but I can only imagine that soon publishers will be suing the authors they have found in fanfic circles.
Occasionally, I wonder how it is that Fifty Shades of Grey hasn't been brought to court over intellectual theft. If you don't know, the series originally became as Twilight erotica, but was changed later to be what it is now. Anyhow: what always struck me was that considering how open the original influential point was, and how that basically argues that certain properties of the end product were lifts... then how does that keep it safe from an argument of plagiarism and intellectual theft? Stephanie Myers, the author of Twilight does not seem to have any real issue with it, but it becomes interesting when you start opening doors and thinking, well, what if I took this popular character and book here and just wrote my own version, skipping on a lot of the intellectual realisation process that is part of writing? Obviously, I have no idea how this plays in a court of law, and it makes an interesting discussion, since a lot of art is theft, to one degree or another, but very rarely as direct as it was in this case.
That was a bit random, wasn't it?
Anyhow: back to working.
September 18, 2012
Province
Zhou readily conceded his friend Wang had something of a "hero complex", constantly performing as if his life was a blockbuster film.
Wang, a fan of spy movies, made a show of being reluctant to eat food from unknown sources, because of a fear of being poisoned.
His police canteen became a personal refuge and a meeting place for Chongqing's political elite.
A few days after Gu Kailai, wife of the fallen Chongqing Party boss Bo Xilai, murdered Englishman Neil Heywood, she assembled police including Wang at his canteen and told him she was on a secret mission from the central Public Security Bureau to protect him.
She wore a general's uniform of the People's Liberation Army at the time, even though she held no military or official Communist Party rank, Reuters reported.
Weng Zhenjie, a central figure in Chongqing's state-dominated financial system, and also its shadowy underground banking network, lobbied incessantly to meet Wang.
Weng smoothed the relationship by donating 100 million yuan to a compensation fund for police who were "injured" in the anti-mafia crackdown, to be administered by Wang.
Eventually, Weng knew he had succeeded when Wang invited him to dine in his canteen, businessman Zhang Mingyu said.
Wang drank red wine in a profession where beer and a white spirit called baijiu are the norm.
He paid great attention to his attire and appearance, combining professorial glasses with a reputation for belting hooligans in the face and shooting guns into the air while standing on the bonnet of his jeep.
He commissioned books - and of course a film - about his crime-fighting exploits.
I am utterly fascinated by the current political intrigue going on in China. The above article--which is about the police chief who went to the US embassy--is a part of it, and the fact that he appears to have been an ego maniac with fine dining tastes merely adds another dimension to it, really.
A few weeks ago, N. (who is also fascinated) suggested we make a game out of this. We don't have a title yet--but I like Province for it--but we imagine that the board of the game is China, cut up into provinces, and the goal is to become the Party Leader. You do this by taking over other provinces, but to do this, you have to use different political intrigues, as gathered from a deck of cards before you. Within that deck are cards such as Police Chief in the US Embassy, Body Double Takes Your Place in Jail, Murdered British Businessman, Sexually Ambiguous Son, and so on and so forth, a collection of cards that you can force upon the other player, to take control of their provinces, and to ultimately weaken their power in your bid to become the Honourable Leader.
Brilliant, yes?
September 17, 2012
Daily Writing Goals
Down to four chapters of the book left to write.
Each chapter is around ten thousand words in length and takes around two weeks to do. There is an ugly rough draft that I mostly ignore, so that two weeks is for rewriting, editing, tightening, etc. Compared to other writers, I am a slow author, but most of it is due to how I process things in my mind. A lot of people have various methods for writing, but the one I've found best is to simply write a thousand new words a day, Monday to Friday. Deadlines can make you move faster, and indeed, I can move faster. I can put out between three to five a day for a week, but what happens, after doing that for a few weeks, is that I burn out and I get up and walk away for a couple of weeks and do nothing. The net product is about the same, in word counts, but its not as productive as just a consistent work load, which is what I've found works best for me. Your mileage may differ, of course.
But, regardless. Down to four chapters. Beginning the siege now.
Here's something I did the other day. I'll edit it a bit more in a few days, so it may or may not look like this a week from now:
Each chapter is around ten thousand words in length and takes around two weeks to do. There is an ugly rough draft that I mostly ignore, so that two weeks is for rewriting, editing, tightening, etc. Compared to other writers, I am a slow author, but most of it is due to how I process things in my mind. A lot of people have various methods for writing, but the one I've found best is to simply write a thousand new words a day, Monday to Friday. Deadlines can make you move faster, and indeed, I can move faster. I can put out between three to five a day for a week, but what happens, after doing that for a few weeks, is that I burn out and I get up and walk away for a couple of weeks and do nothing. The net product is about the same, in word counts, but its not as productive as just a consistent work load, which is what I've found works best for me. Your mileage may differ, of course.
But, regardless. Down to four chapters. Beginning the siege now.
Here's something I did the other day. I'll edit it a bit more in a few days, so it may or may not look like this a week from now:
“Your skin burns, child.” The matron in the orphanage had drawn her from her friends five days after she had arrived. The large white woman had stopped the game she had been playing and led her into her office: a room surrounded by files and paper, a nest of information and junk. “I am not a woman who tolerates curses,” she said, “and I am watching you for such. I do not want to wake up one morning and find that your friends are dead in their bed, that the ward you sleep in has caught fire and you have turned all in there black and charred while you rest easy. I will not have a tragedy under my watch.”
She had a child's grasp on the language, yet her understanding of death was anything but. The matron's words frightened her, terrified her, made her think that she could be responsible for such an act.
“I will send you from this establishment before the week is over,” the woman continued. “I will send to Yeflam, where they can deal with your kind.”
The matron had died, had burned to death, before she could send Ayae away, and she had slipped through the administrative cracks, even as her mind had blamed herself, using the woman's words as condemnation.
September 16, 2012
Innocence of Muslims
Over the weekend, there were protests in Sydney at the US embassy over the film Innocence of Muslims.
There were a lot of things said, afterward. Mostly, it was a condemnation for the violence that happened, and for the images of children holding posters claiming that heads ought to be chopped off, and various other violent ideas. In addition to this, there's been a suggestion after that the protests were helped along by extremist groups, which if it's true, isn't so surprising. Extremists have bussed it to Sydney to riot before. But through all of this, one thing has not been said, and I keep waiting for it. People talk about the film, about the responses, about the anger and the violence, and some times they talk sense and sometimes they do not. Some very valid points have been made by others that the catalyst for the violence is not really the film, but that the deep resentment from years of violent US foreign policy, coupled with a rising frustration in the young due to the lack of opportunities, employment, and the growing cost of living, have led to the attacks abroad. And, to be sure, these are all part of it: any violent protest or riot is years in the making, and built out of a variety of issues.
But no one has said, "Innocence of Muslims is a piece of shit. You ought to be ashamed of your reaction to this film."
And seriously, if you protested or raised a hand or did anything other than turn off this piece of shit, you ought to be ashamed.
There were a lot of things said, afterward. Mostly, it was a condemnation for the violence that happened, and for the images of children holding posters claiming that heads ought to be chopped off, and various other violent ideas. In addition to this, there's been a suggestion after that the protests were helped along by extremist groups, which if it's true, isn't so surprising. Extremists have bussed it to Sydney to riot before. But through all of this, one thing has not been said, and I keep waiting for it. People talk about the film, about the responses, about the anger and the violence, and some times they talk sense and sometimes they do not. Some very valid points have been made by others that the catalyst for the violence is not really the film, but that the deep resentment from years of violent US foreign policy, coupled with a rising frustration in the young due to the lack of opportunities, employment, and the growing cost of living, have led to the attacks abroad. And, to be sure, these are all part of it: any violent protest or riot is years in the making, and built out of a variety of issues.
But no one has said, "Innocence of Muslims is a piece of shit. You ought to be ashamed of your reaction to this film."
And seriously, if you protested or raised a hand or did anything other than turn off this piece of shit, you ought to be ashamed.
