Doubt will keep our minds captive and
fearful of the memories that make up our
past,
fearful of the seconds that make up the
present,
fearful of the hours that make up tomorrow,
and of all the days that make up the future-
a little momentum etched into the walls
can remind us that each day is the right day
to strike-
we will never find the ‘perfect’ day, yet
every day is the perfect day to
breathe that first breath,
make that first move,
take that first step,
or to see again for the first time-
in the end, something
usually beats nothing*
Fragility doesn’t have to last forever-
wounds tend to heal themselves,
which leads to stability-
stability, in time, solidifies, strengthens, and
turns into ability-
ability manifests and fuses with
our bones and turns into confidence,
and from there, the world is nothing but
a blank sheet of sketch paper,
each one of us a Van Gogh in waiting*
A rocky giant was formed from the black,
eons ago,
among anonymous ranks of faceless brethren-
from nothing came something,
and from that something came
everything-
out of the darkness came
light-
out of turmoil came
a foundation-
out of thin air came
substance,
out of the frost came
warmth,
and out of it all came
life-
simple, determined, rudimentary life,
basic and willing and fully unaware of
its vast potential-
the blankest of slates,
oblivious to what was to
come-
it has worn many masks, life-
nurturer,
scavenger,
predator,
and prey,
the wounded,
the withering,
the proud,
the sympathetic,
the content,
and the conqueror-
most of us are guaranteed a distinct
beginning,
a defined middle,
and a conclusive end-
the last page will be read by all that pick
up the book, that much is certain,
but it’s how we interpret
the middle that truly matters*
The quietest of times,
that gradient moment where orange gives
way to green, green yields to blue, and
blue surrenders deeply to black,
the stars presiding over all like
little crystal snowflakes-
those layers, evening or dawn, are the
quietest of colors,
a visual gateway into the sleeping and the
waking of the world,
a song that dances in my head like a symphony
that only my ears can hear-
notes penned by memory,
by experience,
and by the dreams which have yet to
manifest-
those tones ring broad, and rich, and deep,
breaching the boundaries of the horizon-
our lives seem to begin and end at the
tree line,
contained only within the part of the world
that we can see with the naked eye-
dreams tend to wither with our line of
sight,
and disappear completely when they can
no longer be seen-
how many stars rest quietly in the black,
invisible to earth, but thriving nonetheless?
they live, plentiful and real,
discharged of doubt and worry-
the calmest blue reminds me that
dreams surpass the boundaries
of the tree line,
well beyond the limits of the unknown,
thriving endlessly past the boundaries
that we so inevitably create*
Sometimes it’s true that if you don’t push yourself to what you think is your limit, you’ll never know that you could very well have pushed yourself beyond it.
So I read about a man that spent three
months lost in the Andes-
he’d trekked into the mountains and
became trapped in a storm,
disoriented, and subsequently lost-
surviving on scraps, he managed to
survive-
snow and frigidity couldn’t take the man
down,
nor hunger,
or fatigue,
or decimated hope-
how easy it would have been to just
lay down and succumb to fate,
in the face of all things seemingly tattered and
busted-
but he survived-
depleted, but found-
worn, but not defeated-
it is possible to survive,
even on scraps, and faith, and blind will-
it is possible to endure,
even while shivering under the weight of
endless frost and impenetrable black-
it is possible to be found,
even when your cries cannot be heard,
even when your throat lay damaged and wearied and drawn
by screaming incessantly into the thin, frozen air-
it is possible to be found,
as long as discovery is your aim, and
as long as the coals within you burn warmer
than the cold around you*
Anyone who knows me knows that I have somewhat of a zombie fetish. It was an addiction born of pure fear. As a kid, I was terrified of those slimy, grimy, stumbling dead bastards; scared shitless, actually. And I loved it. There was something mysteriously exciting about the way they shambled around, all haphazard, in search of juicy, warm flesh. My brothers would tease me with the now classic Night of the Living Dead line, “They’re coming to get you Barbaraaaaa”, and I despised and loved it at the same time. What scared me the most was that I just couldn’t wrap my young head around a specific reason as to why they did what they did. As if the whole ‘you’re dead, and dead things are not supposed to be walking’ thing wasn’t bad enough, you want to fucking eat me too? Why? What the hell did I ever do to you? The concept of scattered corpses roaming the land fiending to feed on the living…it was unfathomable…and if it did happen, what the hell would we do? That was some thrilling, exciting, white knuckle fear. I devised elaborate escape and survival plans, and pondered myself to sleep at night creating imaginary bunkers and caches of supplies. I just knew that if that shit went down, I’d be ready. I just knew that in the massive chaos of the zombie uprising, I’d be fully prepared.
The original Night of the Living Dead was the first zombie flick that I saw, and it remains a classic to this day. It was a surprisingly multilayered script with a smattering of subtle political undertones, an interesting crop of characters/survivors weaved in, and a gang of remarkably spooky zombies, given the fact that it was made in 1968. It even had a non stereotypical black lead, which was a rarity during that era.
The 1990 Night of the Living Dead remake was solid, but not nearly as good. For much of the 90’s, zombies fell into a sort of comedic, overly campy slump, and the genre was subjected to horribly cheesy renditions and awfully scripted C movie fare. Google ‘zombie movies’, and a gaggle of generic titles pop up, each one dumber than the last.
In my opinion, they sucked right up until 2004’s Dawn of the Dead remake, which breathed new life into the format. It was a breath of fresh air, really, to see them chowing down with quality vigor again.
Too long had zombies suffered under the muck of bad scrips and even worse acting; too long had they been buried under the weight of cheese and camp. That 2004 remake set the tone and laid the groundwork for The Walking Dead, which has shuffled its way into millions of homes, becoming one of the most watched cable shows currently on TV. An excellent script, based on the comic of the same name, has reinvigorated zombie cinema, and given it a much needed dose of credibility.
The whole zombie thing is an official phenomenon now, with zombie walks, zombie memorabilia, zombie everything readily available now, which is a huge turnaround from the veritable shunning that it received prior to 2004. It’s a great thing, if you’re a fan. But hey, I was a fan long before the horde of newcomers bit into their first zombie experience, and when the shit comes down to the wire, I’ll be ready and waiting!
In an era dominated by testosterone, big muscles, bigger guns, and the ever present and ultra macho Alpha Male phenomenon, the idea of a female lead in an action role was not merely uncommon, but was largely unheard of. Guys like Stallone, Schwarzenegger, Bruce Willis, and Van Damme ruled the box office with their manly mix of tough cop roles, cheesy one liners, and improbable shoot outs; for a female to suit up into a stereotypical male lead ‘hero’ role, in that era, was remarkable. Ellen Ripley, the Warrant Officer on the Nostromo (effectively played by Sigourney Weaver) in the original 1979 film, was a true bad ass. Everything about Ripley was atypical for a hero lead; she wasn’t bulging with pecs and biceps, she wasn’t trained in any sort of martial arts, there were no Matrix style slow mo flip kicks, she didn’t dish out one liners like candy, and she obviously wasn’t a dude. She did however, possess an uncommon resilience in the face of unthinkable carnage (standing toe to toe with a dinosaur sized mother alien was pretty damned awesome), and courage that rivaled any character that Stallone or Arnold ever played. Who knows, Ripley vs. Rambo may have been a decent duel. At any rate, Sigourney Weaver made that role her own (a role that was originally written for a man); she beat the shit out of gnarly aliens across space and time, and in my eyes, is one bad ass Legendary Hero for doing it.
Have you ever seen a movie six thousand times, but only gotten a whiff of the depth of that movie after the most recent viewing? Case in point; I’ve seen Joe Versus the Volcano at least 30 times since 1990, but only recently realized that the movie indeed had a bit of depth. It was always on in the background, and I’d sort of half ass watch it without really watching it. The knowledge and understanding came slowly; a little bit here, a little bit there, until one day I said “fuck it” and sat down and watched the film again for the first time. Don’t get me wrong, I’d enjoyed the movie time and again previously, but I’d only really seen the surface of it. Oddly enough, I was somewhat blown away. For all of its cheese, the movie was an effective, multi-layered glimpse into a man’s quest for self discovery. Looking beyond the clunky 90’s camp, it’s quite a deeply rendered portrait of the journey that we all endure in order to accomplish whatever it is we want to accomplish with our lives. It is a great little tale about overcoming obstacles, standing up for your beliefs, and never giving up. And if you’ve ever hated your job, the quitting scene located below is priceless.
musings at random. 