Slang of the 1950’s compared with today.
Is our humour becoming less difficult to crack?
Intrepid endeavors.
Do you swear or slang? Yes in my opinion slang is a doing word…. To slang is to substitute the bad words with funny, lighter meanings. This is my definition of slang any road. ..Is it offensive then to slang? Keeping in mind that the person is protecting your feelings when they say you’re a pillock, a nong, a delinquent, a Reginald; though these words may sound big and important they are not nice things to be called. No matter how much they pretty it up for you, a delinquent is nothing to aspire to.
Wednesday, February 11, 2009
Frankly
eat, read, watch, listen :a regular feature of the quick witted and rather fresh Australian magazine frankie; is an example of good journalism writing.
It is unique in its two-page dedication to entertainment. Most magazines tend to allow a page. frankie’s reviewer goes that one step further and recommends places to eat as well. The style of the writing is friendly and conversational in its judgement. Anything negative is rebutted with something the reviewer did like.
The overall style of the reviews is approachable. (Which is the attitude adopted throughout the mag.) The reviewer does not come across as an expert on films, books or music for that matter. A food authority they are not, they’re just a person who enjoys a good time. This reflects in their writing. Ben Harper’s ‘Both Sides of the Gun’ being “home to his raw blues…funky-soul…political angst…and that damn fine slide guitar” on one side and “a Sunday-arvo affair with power ballads…” suggests a colloquial and youthful approach to critiquing.
It flows nicely because there is none of this “I liked it because…it was cool because of…I liked it when this happened...” It is clear and concise, without giving too much away.
In respect to the film/novel storyline, reviews should give a taste/tit bit of what the story’s about. A line/quote, a scene here and there is fine. But telling what happens ruins it for most.
For instance the film ‘CANDY’; the reviewer doesn’t go into great detail about how the character’s lives unravel nor do they elaborate on the hospital scene which will “leave you feeling absolutely gutted for days.” The intrigue to see this film is created by what the reviewer doesn’t say. The same goes for ‘Live and Become’; the meaning of the title is explained without giving away the whole film. In my opinion a review should outline the story, not tell all. This is why Harry’s magic words cast lasting spell, ‘Waikato Times’ review of the final addition to the Harry Potter series, is an example of not –so- good journalism.
It is unique in its two-page dedication to entertainment. Most magazines tend to allow a page. frankie’s reviewer goes that one step further and recommends places to eat as well. The style of the writing is friendly and conversational in its judgement. Anything negative is rebutted with something the reviewer did like.
The overall style of the reviews is approachable. (Which is the attitude adopted throughout the mag.) The reviewer does not come across as an expert on films, books or music for that matter. A food authority they are not, they’re just a person who enjoys a good time. This reflects in their writing. Ben Harper’s ‘Both Sides of the Gun’ being “home to his raw blues…funky-soul…political angst…and that damn fine slide guitar” on one side and “a Sunday-arvo affair with power ballads…” suggests a colloquial and youthful approach to critiquing.
It flows nicely because there is none of this “I liked it because…it was cool because of…I liked it when this happened...” It is clear and concise, without giving too much away.
In respect to the film/novel storyline, reviews should give a taste/tit bit of what the story’s about. A line/quote, a scene here and there is fine. But telling what happens ruins it for most.
For instance the film ‘CANDY’; the reviewer doesn’t go into great detail about how the character’s lives unravel nor do they elaborate on the hospital scene which will “leave you feeling absolutely gutted for days.” The intrigue to see this film is created by what the reviewer doesn’t say. The same goes for ‘Live and Become’; the meaning of the title is explained without giving away the whole film. In my opinion a review should outline the story, not tell all. This is why Harry’s magic words cast lasting spell, ‘Waikato Times’ review of the final addition to the Harry Potter series, is an example of not –so- good journalism.
Creative Waffle
“What is that, Waves? Under the Sea.”
“No”, Becky gasped while shaking with laughter.
“This is charades Beck; you can’t talk. You look like a bird by the way. Shane, it can’t be under the sea because you just did that.”
“Ha. Oh yeah” Shane’s face riddled with confusion as Becky continued to flip her wrists and arms.
“So we’ve got ‘with’ and ‘the’…what’s a film called something with the something?”
“Frankly my dear, I don’t give a damn!”
“You spoke! You’ve ruined the whole game.”
“C’mon, I’m sorry but this is getting boring! There’s no way you would’ve guessed it.” Becky giggled.
“…could’ve played the ‘sounds-like’ card…”
Amidst the teasing no-one noticed the epileptic fit.
He knows my secret.
I wish he did because it’ll destroy me. If he says those horrible words I know a part of me will die. It’s not a matter of if. When he looks one last time, hate burning his eyes, I’ll cry. God, will I cry?! My strength, my being- I'll cry it out. It won’t be just his love he’ll take; but mine too. Our souls will be lost - Gone with the wind.
“No”, Becky gasped while shaking with laughter.
“This is charades Beck; you can’t talk. You look like a bird by the way. Shane, it can’t be under the sea because you just did that.”
“Ha. Oh yeah” Shane’s face riddled with confusion as Becky continued to flip her wrists and arms.
“So we’ve got ‘with’ and ‘the’…what’s a film called something with the something?”
“Frankly my dear, I don’t give a damn!”
“You spoke! You’ve ruined the whole game.”
“C’mon, I’m sorry but this is getting boring! There’s no way you would’ve guessed it.” Becky giggled.
“…could’ve played the ‘sounds-like’ card…”
Amidst the teasing no-one noticed the epileptic fit.
He knows my secret.
I wish he did because it’ll destroy me. If he says those horrible words I know a part of me will die. It’s not a matter of if. When he looks one last time, hate burning his eyes, I’ll cry. God, will I cry?! My strength, my being- I'll cry it out. It won’t be just his love he’ll take; but mine too. Our souls will be lost - Gone with the wind.
As Something:
AS HEAVY AS my sleepy eyelids
AS SLOW AS a tired mind
AS DEAD AS the autumn leaves
AS BRISK AS some morning joggers
AS RED AS a pinot noir stained tongueAS HAPPY AS a drag queen in a leotard
Frivolity
So I start a revolution from my bed
Cause you said the brains I had went to my head
Step outside, summer time’s in bloom
Stand up beside the fireplace; take that look from off your face
You aint never gonna burn my heart out – Oasis, ‘Don’t Look Back in Anger’
Melt me down
To big black armour
Be no trace of grace just in your honour
Lower me down, culprit sigh you can watch the space in time
For the lead and the dregs in my bed I’ve been sleeping
Lower me down in the end
Secure the ground for the layer parade. – Cat Power, ‘The Greatest’
The night is full of holes
This bullet ripping sky of ink with gold
They twinkle as the boys play rock and roll
They can’t dance at least they know
I can sell the beat, mask them for the check
Girl with crimson nails, there’s Jesus round her neck
Swinging to the music, swinging to the music – U2, ‘Vertigo’
AS SLOW AS a tired mind
AS DEAD AS the autumn leaves
AS BRISK AS some morning joggers
AS RED AS a pinot noir stained tongueAS HAPPY AS a drag queen in a leotard
Frivolity
So I start a revolution from my bed
Cause you said the brains I had went to my head
Step outside, summer time’s in bloom
Stand up beside the fireplace; take that look from off your face
You aint never gonna burn my heart out – Oasis, ‘Don’t Look Back in Anger’
Melt me down
To big black armour
Be no trace of grace just in your honour
Lower me down, culprit sigh you can watch the space in time
For the lead and the dregs in my bed I’ve been sleeping
Lower me down in the end
Secure the ground for the layer parade. – Cat Power, ‘The Greatest’
The night is full of holes
This bullet ripping sky of ink with gold
They twinkle as the boys play rock and roll
They can’t dance at least they know
I can sell the beat, mask them for the check
Girl with crimson nails, there’s Jesus round her neck
Swinging to the music, swinging to the music – U2, ‘Vertigo’
The Intrepid are insipid... Hardly
We are our worst critics.
Forget the others, those who know you best… those who know you least.
We are forever questioning what we are by peering inside ourselves.
We try to see what everyone else sees.
Behind all the matter, pulsing heart; expanding lungs, bone and marrow…somewhere far below lies the answer.
No matter how far we delve/deep we go, we never get past the matter.
So we focus on another being. We take what we do know and transfer it to some other. We try to love it and see it from an outside perspective. We build our interests around finding what we like. Then, we spend the rest of that lifetime learning to make sense of it all.
Forget the others, those who know you best… those who know you least.
We are forever questioning what we are by peering inside ourselves.
We try to see what everyone else sees.
Behind all the matter, pulsing heart; expanding lungs, bone and marrow…somewhere far below lies the answer.
No matter how far we delve/deep we go, we never get past the matter.
So we focus on another being. We take what we do know and transfer it to some other. We try to love it and see it from an outside perspective. We build our interests around finding what we like. Then, we spend the rest of that lifetime learning to make sense of it all.
Judgement Days
The thought of taking down all my pictures made me think there would be no way I’d be able to sleep. The walls would be stark white, bare and so telling of my non-existence. Once tomorrow is over.
So I leave them up, delay their removal and busy myself with angst over my reflection in the mirror. A year has past- oh so quick! and yet I am feeling a little sick. I still can’t fathom the face that bares a forced grin, fakes hope and happiness back at me through the rectangular framed glass.
So I leave them up, delay their removal and busy myself with angst over my reflection in the mirror. A year has past- oh so quick! and yet I am feeling a little sick. I still can’t fathom the face that bares a forced grin, fakes hope and happiness back at me through the rectangular framed glass.
Quick Find
The years went by, the young boy grew and, tired of life alone, Made his way from town to town and set off on his own..Following the center line of rural blacktop roads,Seeking aim and purpose; seeking proper moral codes.The road was long and dusty and never seemed to end.And weariness embraced him like an old and faithful friend.He said to all the folks he met from Wichita to Nome,"I'm just a wayward traveler tryin' to find his way back home".Decades passed and sundown brought the twilight of his ride.And on an August evening, he breathed his last and died.The one's he'd touched throughout his years all cried or lodged complaint.Some said he was the devil; some said he was a saint.But then the Voice of God was heard; said, "None of this is true.The man was but a man, you see, and this I say to you:I put him here to pass a test; I put him here to learn;I put him here to light a fire where none had ever burned.Knowledge, love, humility were goals sought every day.And with all these some wisdom to be found along the way.I put him here to seek out love and give it back in kind.I put him here to plant a seed in someone else's mind.
Make the Most of the Now?
Vodaphone’s Make-the-Most-of-Now advert has appeared on television, is well known in New Zealand for its use of the mayfly as an incentive to sign up. The target audience appears to be male and in the 20-30 year age range. I intend to analyse the advert with my main point (of relationship between key signifiers being the cause and effect of the ad’s success) in mind. I will talk about the links between sound (music, voiceover), dialogue, camera technique/cinematography and visual aides. How these construct ideologies.
The advert unfolds like a story. A misty enclosure is denoted and signifies a peaceful place while connoting the ideas of tranquility, serenity and hidden beauty. This gives the sense of the beginning of a fairytale, the whole “Once upon a time…in a far away place…” A lot of the creation of these ideologies is due to the camera techniques and effects used. The slow zoom into the middle of the water, where the dragonfly rests, gives the impression that the audience is about to witness something special. The extreme close-up of the mayfly’s first movements is similar to a toddler’s attempt at standing. His motion is clumsy, hesitant, portrays the image as delicate. The gift of life being the opposite of certainty as it is restricted.
The music is one of the vital threads of the advert. It is modern, it is traditional in its composition. Having an upbeat song, with a tempo to match the progress of the mayfly’s day, is a highly successful way of implying the ‘happily ever after’ concept as something everyone aspires to. The music is fitting to the nature of the story, it ties in with the chop and change of the day and it acts as an extended metaphor of the mayfly. It ‘soars’, it ‘swoops’ just like the mayfly. The music relates to the images and the images relate to the music, the music helps tell the story by acting as the sensory system of the mayfly. It relates to the dialogue of the advert, they l interlink to create a narrative language of romanticism. David Gibson’s (aka Gibbo from the band Elemeno P) voice is gravelly; it depicts a husky feel to the story. “He saviours every moment” is followed by the climbing shot of the mayfly juggling as the drumming sequence intensifies, acts as a catalyst to the full, sufficiently happy feeling the ad brings.
Darting around suggests the ideologies of youth and new discovery. But also suggests the advert as not just being a fairytale but a romantic fairy tale. There is a romantic feeling to the concept Vodaphone has adapted through the mayfly. This was achieved through personification of the main subject. The cartoon-like eyes and mouth made the story more personal as the audience was given the ability to read the emotion of the setting/plot through their various expressions and characteristics.
The panning/tracking shot of the mayfly passing one another, the male doing a double take denoted a romantic gesture. This links to the connotations of spontaneity and that first feeling of attraction. It illustrates an innocence and sense of natural love. The low-angle shot of the mayflies dancing up into the sunlight, chasing each other around; the view of a cave, with an intimate amount of space filled with a mass of mayflies signifies summer flirtations. Our two lovers (guy and girl) falling back and out of the circle while twirling and giddy denotes giddy happiness. These images signify to me the ideology of summer love.
Through this relationship between the denotations and connotations the overall meaning that is constructed and interpreted for me is an undying want to obtain innocence and youth, and achieving that through young love.
You could argue, however that the advert contradicts the values of youth, romance and freedom. Sure it relates to New Zealanders but why use the scenic settings, the natural habitat of the mayfly, for an ad designed to promote cellular technology? It appeals to the typical New Zealander, the average person with its ideologies of socialism, active lifestyle and not-wasting-a -minute attitudes. But how is having a phone going to help them make more out of life? Will people become unfulfilled if they don’t? Will all these exciting possibilities be non-existent? Those without a Vodaphone plan, are they less fun because they don’t have one? The alternative meaning of technology enabling us to lead fuller lives could be constructed then. With another alternative twist being the general impression that the advert is angled at early 20-mid 30 kiwi males. Why would this be so when the advert pans out with a fairytale ending? Is Vodaphone saying that the average NZ male want a happily ever after?
In conclusion, the Vodaphone Make-the-Most-of-Now ad’s intentions are a success. For it is the strong relationship between connotations and ideologies that instill the importance of relinquished youth, romantic discovery, in their intended audience.
The advert unfolds like a story. A misty enclosure is denoted and signifies a peaceful place while connoting the ideas of tranquility, serenity and hidden beauty. This gives the sense of the beginning of a fairytale, the whole “Once upon a time…in a far away place…” A lot of the creation of these ideologies is due to the camera techniques and effects used. The slow zoom into the middle of the water, where the dragonfly rests, gives the impression that the audience is about to witness something special. The extreme close-up of the mayfly’s first movements is similar to a toddler’s attempt at standing. His motion is clumsy, hesitant, portrays the image as delicate. The gift of life being the opposite of certainty as it is restricted.
The music is one of the vital threads of the advert. It is modern, it is traditional in its composition. Having an upbeat song, with a tempo to match the progress of the mayfly’s day, is a highly successful way of implying the ‘happily ever after’ concept as something everyone aspires to. The music is fitting to the nature of the story, it ties in with the chop and change of the day and it acts as an extended metaphor of the mayfly. It ‘soars’, it ‘swoops’ just like the mayfly. The music relates to the images and the images relate to the music, the music helps tell the story by acting as the sensory system of the mayfly. It relates to the dialogue of the advert, they l interlink to create a narrative language of romanticism. David Gibson’s (aka Gibbo from the band Elemeno P) voice is gravelly; it depicts a husky feel to the story. “He saviours every moment” is followed by the climbing shot of the mayfly juggling as the drumming sequence intensifies, acts as a catalyst to the full, sufficiently happy feeling the ad brings.
Darting around suggests the ideologies of youth and new discovery. But also suggests the advert as not just being a fairytale but a romantic fairy tale. There is a romantic feeling to the concept Vodaphone has adapted through the mayfly. This was achieved through personification of the main subject. The cartoon-like eyes and mouth made the story more personal as the audience was given the ability to read the emotion of the setting/plot through their various expressions and characteristics.
The panning/tracking shot of the mayfly passing one another, the male doing a double take denoted a romantic gesture. This links to the connotations of spontaneity and that first feeling of attraction. It illustrates an innocence and sense of natural love. The low-angle shot of the mayflies dancing up into the sunlight, chasing each other around; the view of a cave, with an intimate amount of space filled with a mass of mayflies signifies summer flirtations. Our two lovers (guy and girl) falling back and out of the circle while twirling and giddy denotes giddy happiness. These images signify to me the ideology of summer love.
Through this relationship between the denotations and connotations the overall meaning that is constructed and interpreted for me is an undying want to obtain innocence and youth, and achieving that through young love.
You could argue, however that the advert contradicts the values of youth, romance and freedom. Sure it relates to New Zealanders but why use the scenic settings, the natural habitat of the mayfly, for an ad designed to promote cellular technology? It appeals to the typical New Zealander, the average person with its ideologies of socialism, active lifestyle and not-wasting-a -minute attitudes. But how is having a phone going to help them make more out of life? Will people become unfulfilled if they don’t? Will all these exciting possibilities be non-existent? Those without a Vodaphone plan, are they less fun because they don’t have one? The alternative meaning of technology enabling us to lead fuller lives could be constructed then. With another alternative twist being the general impression that the advert is angled at early 20-mid 30 kiwi males. Why would this be so when the advert pans out with a fairytale ending? Is Vodaphone saying that the average NZ male want a happily ever after?
In conclusion, the Vodaphone Make-the-Most-of-Now ad’s intentions are a success. For it is the strong relationship between connotations and ideologies that instill the importance of relinquished youth, romantic discovery, in their intended audience.
Semiotic Analysis: Andy Warhol
There are two types of signs when talking of semiotics: the signifier is the sign which has physical form, stands for what it is. The signified is the sign that refers to something other than what it is; the referent (Branston & Stafford, 2006, p.13). Semiotics emphasizes the distinction between the signifier and signified as well as the idea of perception being a constructed and shaped opinion. The role of the denotations and connotations is to define the relationship between the signifier and it’s signified. So how does this relate to the question this essay is to answer, How can semiotic analysis deepen our understanding of Andy Warhol’s disaster pictures? This essay expects semiotic analysis to help in appreciating the message being portrayed but with the likes of Andy Warhol this may be difficult. Perhaps it will be his process of the work that will assist in deepening the understanding? This will be answered through critiques found on these paintings and Warhol’s work, through comparisons with another contemporary artist Gerard Richter and through the definitions of the Pop Art genre. Comparing Warhol with other like-minded artists may determine whether comparisons better our understanding.
To understand the art of Andy Warhol, the origins of Pop Art must be known. A group of artists in the mid 1950s focused on theoretical exploration of technology and science fiction in art. The members of the group formed in Britain; however the American Pop Art held no relation to British Pop Art and was more involved in the individual’s instinct. (Centre Pompidou. Le Pop Art. (Retrieved 2008)) Robert Rauschenberg’s work is where it merged from and is concerned with the everyday object and the effectiveness of images. Something that Roy Lichtenstein and Andy Warhol developed on. Pop Art’s ideas of commercialism and mass culture are achieved with great irony. According to Marco Livingstone’s POP ART…a continuing history (1990, p.36) Richard Hamilton was an early icon of early Pop and had sent a letter listing characteristics to a publication in reference to the Independent Group and their theory of pop art and in suggestion of them being what made his own art. His list suggested Postmodern/ Pop art had to be: popular (designed for a mass audience), transient (a short term solution), easily forgotten, low cost, mass produced, young, witty, sexy, gimmicky, glamorous and big business.
So how did Andy Warhol’s work fit into this genre of art? It fitted as it was all these listed characteristics and more. He took Lichtenstein’s assault on the accepted notion of good taste and art being a form of self expression motive and made his own stamp on the art world. He was so controversial in his choice of art work. He started off with replicating famous cartoon characters like Pop-eye the Sailor Man and Walt Disney’s Mickey Mouse. Something of which was seen by most as a daring and blatant lack of originality. But he took it a step further by fixing it in some way to make it more than a copy. For one he painted them, but in the instance of the Popeye (1961) painting he had presented an ironic display of expressionism by cutting out the character and his name in white shapes so part of a crossword could be seen. It was ironic as it suggested the audience was looking through to another page of a newspaper. In a way it played on the mentality of some people who don’t care about the main subject of the news and just want to get to the crossword section. The rest of the canvas being covered in blue paint and able to dribble down the canvas was seen as an ‘Abstract Expressionist manner’ (Livingstone, 1990, p. 78)
A strong theme with Warhol was the ideas of Birth, Death, Love, and War.
His technique for his pieces was to take a series of Polaroid pictures with a big shot camera, send a large canvas over to a commercial photograph studio where the photo would be blown up and he would paint over it.
His series of mass produced images of car crashes, suicides, gangster funerals, atomic explosions, and electric chairs started after he developed a series of paintings exposing police dogs savaging blacks in Alabama. He did it when racial tension in the American South was extreme due to the black civil rights struggle in 1963 and for the rest of the year his obsession or focus was on the implications of death and disaster. “…when you see a gruesome picture over and over again, it doesn’t really have any effect.” - Warhol. One critic viewed Warhol’s painting topic as more than just an indifference. They thought the visual repetitiousness made a cultural statement about the way mass media reports tragic or horrific imagery. (Shane, 1988, p. 24) “..the fact most of us find such imagery intriguing throws back in our faces the morbidity, vicariousness or prurience of our interest in disaster.” By looking at the Optical Car Crash (1962) the deliberate abstraction, blurred and massive overlaps of the multi-copied picture (reflect the confusion and tension of the cars colliding. In a way semiotic analysis is a bit difficult to apply as the images are so abstract and blurry. It can still be carried out though, as a seriously crumpled bonnet of a car is denoted and signifies a severe car crash while connoting the ideas of trauma, physical tension, and loss of life. It can deepen our understanding of Warhol’s work as the critic has shown, but more so through the structure and technique of the art rather then just its visual image. This is backed up by a major aspect of Warhol’s work; the celebration of ‘all that is superficial, interchangeable and ordinary.’ (Luthy, 2001) With the celebration being seen as more the strategy of the work as opposed to the purpose of it.
Michael Lúthy’s contribution to Warhol Polke Richter: In the Power of Painting 1 (2001) gave in great detail his analysis of the disaster pictures. He described Warhol’s technique and the connotations and ideologies they had formed. According to him the pictures were subjected to deteriation in several stages by over exaggerating contrast. He made the pictures overlap and used colour unevenly. This was believed as being a way to moderate the shock of the image but in a way it highlighted it even more. As by distorting it in such a way it draws extra attention, arguably it would’ve done the opposite of moderate. A favourite theory that was found was the idea that through his techniques he ‘screened off trauma but manipulated it to the level of the picture itself.’ So in a sense it is the style and process of the paintings that act as a sign/signifier. The serial repetition creates an ambiguity; it softens or devalues the image. The best way to describe Andy Warhol’s technique is to say it was ‘a semiotic transfer which emptied objects of their…received meaning and re-inscribed over them a new set of significations.’ (Suarez, A., Juan .1996, p 216, para.1)
In terms of semiotics, the captioning of his paintings connoted a particular idea. He anchored and controlled the meaning of the art; he was able to guide the audience to the intended perception or understanding of the piece. Though it could be argued that the captions were on the most part obvious and unimaginative, which did deter from reaching the deeper meaning. The caption of a person falling from a high rise building read ‘Suicide.’ It may not be the most obvious of summations as the five images of a man falling down the face of tall building is bleached in parts and in a gradual manner until the final picture all that is left is the building. The jumping man is erased from the photo, signifying the implication of suicide, the idea of leaving this world. But a picture of a nuclear cloud as ‘An Atomic Explosion’ is more explicit in its literal meaning. The caption leaves nothing to the imagination; it just states what it is. But through this it links to the connotations of death and destruction through the use of red and black, and the gradual heaviness of the black wiping out the image signifying the idea of departed life, loss and extinction.
Warhol’s work can be placed in the Pop Art genre by comparing it with the likes of Gerard Richter. Since both these artists have been said to portray a prime characteristic of Pop Art, production of a ‘related conundrum of the painterly and the photographic.’ (Foster, Krauss, Bois and Buchloh. 2004, p. 445) Meaning in their own ways their art had forged a relationship between paint and photography. In non- postmodern art, the two would not have been accepted together. Whereas in the Pop Art genre, chopping and changing, crude editing, deliberate careless production works in developing an alternative meaning. Richter too used the blurring and smudging method to manipulate and control the meaning of his work. His Rokokotisch, 1964 portrayed a blurred and slightly out of focus side table, but with the same intention as some of Warhol’s work. “to make everything equally important and equally unimportant.” – Richter, 1964 (Elger 2001, p.118)
In conclusion semiotic analysis has been helpful in deepening some understanding of Andy Warhol’s work but not all. It seems the complexity of the artist’s technique can block the image being shown. Which is something Warhol has done on purpose to create an alternative view, but it has made the semiotic process have to adapt and change. In the sense of having the way the image has been changed being the signifier of the ideologies of death and distress in his Disaster Pictures.
The images were not as clear; words had to be relied on for signs. However by placing Warhol’s work alongside Richter’s work, and therefore in the pop art genre did better the understanding of what the artist intended.
No. words 1650
Reference List:
Books:
Branston, G. & Stafford, R. (1996, 1999, 2003, 2006) the Media Student’s Book. (4th ed.). New York: Routledge
Fischer, P., Luthy, M., Hentschel, M. & Elger, D. (2001). Warhol’s Calisthenics, or, Reproducing Reproductions. In Warhol Polke Richter- In the Power of Painting 1, (p. 30) Zurich: Scalo
Livingstone, M. (1990). Just What is It? In POP ART…a continuing history. New York: Harry N. Abrams
Shane, E. (1988) Warhol. London: Studio Editions
Electronic Media.
Online Internet Document.
Centre Pompidou. Le Pop Art. Retrieved 18 March, 2008, from http://www.centrepompidou.fr/education/ressources/ENS-Popart-EN/ENS-PopArt-En.htm
To understand the art of Andy Warhol, the origins of Pop Art must be known. A group of artists in the mid 1950s focused on theoretical exploration of technology and science fiction in art. The members of the group formed in Britain; however the American Pop Art held no relation to British Pop Art and was more involved in the individual’s instinct. (Centre Pompidou. Le Pop Art. (Retrieved 2008)) Robert Rauschenberg’s work is where it merged from and is concerned with the everyday object and the effectiveness of images. Something that Roy Lichtenstein and Andy Warhol developed on. Pop Art’s ideas of commercialism and mass culture are achieved with great irony. According to Marco Livingstone’s POP ART…a continuing history (1990, p.36) Richard Hamilton was an early icon of early Pop and had sent a letter listing characteristics to a publication in reference to the Independent Group and their theory of pop art and in suggestion of them being what made his own art. His list suggested Postmodern/ Pop art had to be: popular (designed for a mass audience), transient (a short term solution), easily forgotten, low cost, mass produced, young, witty, sexy, gimmicky, glamorous and big business.
So how did Andy Warhol’s work fit into this genre of art? It fitted as it was all these listed characteristics and more. He took Lichtenstein’s assault on the accepted notion of good taste and art being a form of self expression motive and made his own stamp on the art world. He was so controversial in his choice of art work. He started off with replicating famous cartoon characters like Pop-eye the Sailor Man and Walt Disney’s Mickey Mouse. Something of which was seen by most as a daring and blatant lack of originality. But he took it a step further by fixing it in some way to make it more than a copy. For one he painted them, but in the instance of the Popeye (1961) painting he had presented an ironic display of expressionism by cutting out the character and his name in white shapes so part of a crossword could be seen. It was ironic as it suggested the audience was looking through to another page of a newspaper. In a way it played on the mentality of some people who don’t care about the main subject of the news and just want to get to the crossword section. The rest of the canvas being covered in blue paint and able to dribble down the canvas was seen as an ‘Abstract Expressionist manner’ (Livingstone, 1990, p. 78)
A strong theme with Warhol was the ideas of Birth, Death, Love, and War.
His technique for his pieces was to take a series of Polaroid pictures with a big shot camera, send a large canvas over to a commercial photograph studio where the photo would be blown up and he would paint over it.
His series of mass produced images of car crashes, suicides, gangster funerals, atomic explosions, and electric chairs started after he developed a series of paintings exposing police dogs savaging blacks in Alabama. He did it when racial tension in the American South was extreme due to the black civil rights struggle in 1963 and for the rest of the year his obsession or focus was on the implications of death and disaster. “…when you see a gruesome picture over and over again, it doesn’t really have any effect.” - Warhol. One critic viewed Warhol’s painting topic as more than just an indifference. They thought the visual repetitiousness made a cultural statement about the way mass media reports tragic or horrific imagery. (Shane, 1988, p. 24) “..the fact most of us find such imagery intriguing throws back in our faces the morbidity, vicariousness or prurience of our interest in disaster.” By looking at the Optical Car Crash (1962) the deliberate abstraction, blurred and massive overlaps of the multi-copied picture (reflect the confusion and tension of the cars colliding. In a way semiotic analysis is a bit difficult to apply as the images are so abstract and blurry. It can still be carried out though, as a seriously crumpled bonnet of a car is denoted and signifies a severe car crash while connoting the ideas of trauma, physical tension, and loss of life. It can deepen our understanding of Warhol’s work as the critic has shown, but more so through the structure and technique of the art rather then just its visual image. This is backed up by a major aspect of Warhol’s work; the celebration of ‘all that is superficial, interchangeable and ordinary.’ (Luthy, 2001) With the celebration being seen as more the strategy of the work as opposed to the purpose of it.
Michael Lúthy’s contribution to Warhol Polke Richter: In the Power of Painting 1 (2001) gave in great detail his analysis of the disaster pictures. He described Warhol’s technique and the connotations and ideologies they had formed. According to him the pictures were subjected to deteriation in several stages by over exaggerating contrast. He made the pictures overlap and used colour unevenly. This was believed as being a way to moderate the shock of the image but in a way it highlighted it even more. As by distorting it in such a way it draws extra attention, arguably it would’ve done the opposite of moderate. A favourite theory that was found was the idea that through his techniques he ‘screened off trauma but manipulated it to the level of the picture itself.’ So in a sense it is the style and process of the paintings that act as a sign/signifier. The serial repetition creates an ambiguity; it softens or devalues the image. The best way to describe Andy Warhol’s technique is to say it was ‘a semiotic transfer which emptied objects of their…received meaning and re-inscribed over them a new set of significations.’ (Suarez, A., Juan .1996, p 216, para.1)
In terms of semiotics, the captioning of his paintings connoted a particular idea. He anchored and controlled the meaning of the art; he was able to guide the audience to the intended perception or understanding of the piece. Though it could be argued that the captions were on the most part obvious and unimaginative, which did deter from reaching the deeper meaning. The caption of a person falling from a high rise building read ‘Suicide.’ It may not be the most obvious of summations as the five images of a man falling down the face of tall building is bleached in parts and in a gradual manner until the final picture all that is left is the building. The jumping man is erased from the photo, signifying the implication of suicide, the idea of leaving this world. But a picture of a nuclear cloud as ‘An Atomic Explosion’ is more explicit in its literal meaning. The caption leaves nothing to the imagination; it just states what it is. But through this it links to the connotations of death and destruction through the use of red and black, and the gradual heaviness of the black wiping out the image signifying the idea of departed life, loss and extinction.
Warhol’s work can be placed in the Pop Art genre by comparing it with the likes of Gerard Richter. Since both these artists have been said to portray a prime characteristic of Pop Art, production of a ‘related conundrum of the painterly and the photographic.’ (Foster, Krauss, Bois and Buchloh. 2004, p. 445) Meaning in their own ways their art had forged a relationship between paint and photography. In non- postmodern art, the two would not have been accepted together. Whereas in the Pop Art genre, chopping and changing, crude editing, deliberate careless production works in developing an alternative meaning. Richter too used the blurring and smudging method to manipulate and control the meaning of his work. His Rokokotisch, 1964 portrayed a blurred and slightly out of focus side table, but with the same intention as some of Warhol’s work. “to make everything equally important and equally unimportant.” – Richter, 1964 (Elger 2001, p.118)
In conclusion semiotic analysis has been helpful in deepening some understanding of Andy Warhol’s work but not all. It seems the complexity of the artist’s technique can block the image being shown. Which is something Warhol has done on purpose to create an alternative view, but it has made the semiotic process have to adapt and change. In the sense of having the way the image has been changed being the signifier of the ideologies of death and distress in his Disaster Pictures.
The images were not as clear; words had to be relied on for signs. However by placing Warhol’s work alongside Richter’s work, and therefore in the pop art genre did better the understanding of what the artist intended.
No. words 1650
Reference List:
Books:
Branston, G. & Stafford, R. (1996, 1999, 2003, 2006) the Media Student’s Book. (4th ed.). New York: Routledge
Fischer, P., Luthy, M., Hentschel, M. & Elger, D. (2001). Warhol’s Calisthenics, or, Reproducing Reproductions. In Warhol Polke Richter- In the Power of Painting 1, (p. 30) Zurich: Scalo
Livingstone, M. (1990). Just What is It? In POP ART…a continuing history. New York: Harry N. Abrams
Shane, E. (1988) Warhol. London: Studio Editions
Electronic Media.
Online Internet Document.
Centre Pompidou. Le Pop Art. Retrieved 18 March, 2008, from http://www.centrepompidou.fr/education/ressources/ENS-Popart-EN/ENS-PopArt-En.htm
Letter to Editor
I was not familiar with the story James J Read of Huntly was referring to in his outburst to the Times. The writer comes across as emotionally manipulative. By saying they’re sure the readers, will have every sympathy with the families, especially the children; it’s like they’re saying the readers should have every sympathy. Every sympathy…just how many are there? The reader reads as if they have put their full body behind their words, emotionally loaded words at that. By adding especially the children as an additive, strengthens the concern that reads off the page.
It was their ‘fervent’ (keen, fanatical, burning) hope that ‘good may come out of misery …’ well can any good actually come out of misery? In this situation where a store is held up by armed burglars, young kids are scared for their lives…how could good come from that? Are they supposed to say well there’s a lesson to be learnt here…or thank goodness they chose our store to brandish a gun in? It seems odd to me that a matter of being held up could have some merit. However it is when the writer refers to ‘all Asians’ and classes them ‘among our fellow citizens’ he comes across as benignly racial. Is he being racist though? He doesn’t say all Chinese or all Japanese, he doesn’t single out a country but could he be seen as offensive by classing the mentioned as all Asians? The 45 percent Asians …this reads as having the potential to be offensive depending on what you deem as racism. This is a statistic that hasn’t been backed up, he doesn’t mention where this percentage was found and what starts out as a letter of concern about the ‘traumatic events surrounding the robbery’ ends with the rallying of basically those voters he classes as Asian and yet to be enrolled. It also seems that the writer is influencing the readers with their own political views on aggravated robbery. He tells them to call on those who make it into parliament to increase the penalties of armed robbery. Which implies that the writer believes this will make a difference to the common occurrence of shops being held up.
It has me questioning the purpose of the letter really, just what social constraints are in place here. Why is he targeting (as he put it the ‘Asian) community?
The other letter to the editor I looked at was concerned with an over-population issue. Frank Bailey of Hamilton ranted about a world over-population to be exact. He speaks of the world having to put a ‘nuclear holocaust’ behind us. Meaning what exactly? A nuclear holocaust, it’s not clear what he is referring to here. Perhaps he is digressing briefly on the potential for society to create our own disasters? That we bring it on ourselves? To go on and say that we know have to face an emerging global warming problem is false. The problem is not emerging; awareness of the problem is emerging. The global warming as they call it has been present it’s only now that the majority are sitting up and noticing. So to say that an exploding population can only ‘exacerbate’ that, presents the writer’s understanding of the issue is flawed. Would an increase in population really act as a catalyst to something beyond our control? What’s another few million going to do to the world? To say that for too long the number of children has been largely a matter of personal choice, is to contradict his self. As he goes on to say that this often depended on the parent’s religious persuasion…says who? What evidence is there of this? None, he’s merely speculating that a certain religion influences large families. In the writer’s eyes a woman having seven children under the age of 12 ‘encapsulates’ over-population. The writer seems tense and uptight about this issue. He refers to the woman’s children as seven offspring and questions their ability to have seven kids each itself in 30 years time. . Again too long, but this time too long the West has talked about Asia’s “teeming millions”. When has the whole West done that? The writer tends to generalize views to prove a point. Stating that it is important to know the population of China is half of the U.K. Again there is the lack of source acknowledgement, just where did he get this ‘fact’ from?
He appears dismissive of China’s human right’s approach by referring to it as their questionable ‘record’, and applauding their one child policy. ‘To say the least…’ is really to say it all. He not once has just mildly stated something, in saying it is the least important of his argument is a lie as the letter finishes at a controversial and insensitive angle. ‘...whatever contrary views the vocal anti-abortion lobby may have.’ There is a lot to say about this finishing sentence. 'Contrary views’? Vocal lobby? His choice of words discard the implications of abortion, what it entails as he is making out over-population is the bigger picture. How about global abstinence?! Wouldn’t that better the over-population situation? What he is suggesting is to keep procreating but to kill the embryo as we don’t want anymore people thank you. Has he forgotten that we eventually die? Who does he think will be left if we minimize our family life to one or at the most two children? What will this mean for those who can’t have children, who have to have IVF treatments and incidentally end up with triplets or more?
It was their ‘fervent’ (keen, fanatical, burning) hope that ‘good may come out of misery …’ well can any good actually come out of misery? In this situation where a store is held up by armed burglars, young kids are scared for their lives…how could good come from that? Are they supposed to say well there’s a lesson to be learnt here…or thank goodness they chose our store to brandish a gun in? It seems odd to me that a matter of being held up could have some merit. However it is when the writer refers to ‘all Asians’ and classes them ‘among our fellow citizens’ he comes across as benignly racial. Is he being racist though? He doesn’t say all Chinese or all Japanese, he doesn’t single out a country but could he be seen as offensive by classing the mentioned as all Asians? The 45 percent Asians …this reads as having the potential to be offensive depending on what you deem as racism. This is a statistic that hasn’t been backed up, he doesn’t mention where this percentage was found and what starts out as a letter of concern about the ‘traumatic events surrounding the robbery’ ends with the rallying of basically those voters he classes as Asian and yet to be enrolled. It also seems that the writer is influencing the readers with their own political views on aggravated robbery. He tells them to call on those who make it into parliament to increase the penalties of armed robbery. Which implies that the writer believes this will make a difference to the common occurrence of shops being held up.
It has me questioning the purpose of the letter really, just what social constraints are in place here. Why is he targeting (as he put it the ‘Asian) community?
The other letter to the editor I looked at was concerned with an over-population issue. Frank Bailey of Hamilton ranted about a world over-population to be exact. He speaks of the world having to put a ‘nuclear holocaust’ behind us. Meaning what exactly? A nuclear holocaust, it’s not clear what he is referring to here. Perhaps he is digressing briefly on the potential for society to create our own disasters? That we bring it on ourselves? To go on and say that we know have to face an emerging global warming problem is false. The problem is not emerging; awareness of the problem is emerging. The global warming as they call it has been present it’s only now that the majority are sitting up and noticing. So to say that an exploding population can only ‘exacerbate’ that, presents the writer’s understanding of the issue is flawed. Would an increase in population really act as a catalyst to something beyond our control? What’s another few million going to do to the world? To say that for too long the number of children has been largely a matter of personal choice, is to contradict his self. As he goes on to say that this often depended on the parent’s religious persuasion…says who? What evidence is there of this? None, he’s merely speculating that a certain religion influences large families. In the writer’s eyes a woman having seven children under the age of 12 ‘encapsulates’ over-population. The writer seems tense and uptight about this issue. He refers to the woman’s children as seven offspring and questions their ability to have seven kids each itself in 30 years time. . Again too long, but this time too long the West has talked about Asia’s “teeming millions”. When has the whole West done that? The writer tends to generalize views to prove a point. Stating that it is important to know the population of China is half of the U.K. Again there is the lack of source acknowledgement, just where did he get this ‘fact’ from?
He appears dismissive of China’s human right’s approach by referring to it as their questionable ‘record’, and applauding their one child policy. ‘To say the least…’ is really to say it all. He not once has just mildly stated something, in saying it is the least important of his argument is a lie as the letter finishes at a controversial and insensitive angle. ‘...whatever contrary views the vocal anti-abortion lobby may have.’ There is a lot to say about this finishing sentence. 'Contrary views’? Vocal lobby? His choice of words discard the implications of abortion, what it entails as he is making out over-population is the bigger picture. How about global abstinence?! Wouldn’t that better the over-population situation? What he is suggesting is to keep procreating but to kill the embryo as we don’t want anymore people thank you. Has he forgotten that we eventually die? Who does he think will be left if we minimize our family life to one or at the most two children? What will this mean for those who can’t have children, who have to have IVF treatments and incidentally end up with triplets or more?
Dogma
I’ve seen it all. I have seen the trees; I have seen the willow leaves dancing in the breeze.
I’ve seen a man killed by his best friend and lives that were over before they were spent.
I’ve seen what I’ve lost and what I will be. I’ve seen it all there is no more to see.
You haven’t seen elephants, kings or Peru.
I’m happy to say I have better to do.
What about China, have you seen the Great Wall?
All walls are great if the roof doesn’t fall.
And the man you will marry, you hope you will share
Children, honest, I really don’t care.
You’ve never been to the Niagara Falls.
I have seen water, its water, that’s all.
The Eiffel Tower and the Empire State.
My Paris was my very first state.
Your grandson’s hand as he plays with your hair.
To be honest I really don’t care.
I’ve seen it all, I have seen the dark. I have seen the promise in one little spark.
I have seen what I choose, and I’ve seen what I need. And that is enough to annoy would be greed.
I’ve seen what I was and I’ve seen what I’ll be.
I‘ve seen it all there is no more to see.
You’ve seen it all. I know you have seen you can’t always reveal
Of your own little scheme.
The light and the dark; the thick and the smart…
Just keep in mind you will get more than two.
You’ve seen what you know and you know what you’ll be, you’ve seen it all. There is nothing left to see.
I’ve seen a man killed by his best friend and lives that were over before they were spent.
I’ve seen what I’ve lost and what I will be. I’ve seen it all there is no more to see.
You haven’t seen elephants, kings or Peru.
I’m happy to say I have better to do.
What about China, have you seen the Great Wall?
All walls are great if the roof doesn’t fall.
And the man you will marry, you hope you will share
Children, honest, I really don’t care.
You’ve never been to the Niagara Falls.
I have seen water, its water, that’s all.
The Eiffel Tower and the Empire State.
My Paris was my very first state.
Your grandson’s hand as he plays with your hair.
To be honest I really don’t care.
I’ve seen it all, I have seen the dark. I have seen the promise in one little spark.
I have seen what I choose, and I’ve seen what I need. And that is enough to annoy would be greed.
I’ve seen what I was and I’ve seen what I’ll be.
I‘ve seen it all there is no more to see.
You’ve seen it all. I know you have seen you can’t always reveal
Of your own little scheme.
The light and the dark; the thick and the smart…
Just keep in mind you will get more than two.
You’ve seen what you know and you know what you’ll be, you’ve seen it all. There is nothing left to see.
Poetry
‘The bald man and his fat wife’ is how Waiata Dawn Davies’ poem ‘City Love’ starts off. So it may be confusing as to how this seemingly cruel line could relate to the title given. The beauty of this is that with the strategic placement of words, observational style, Davies’ is effective and successful in presenting her interpretations of love through the images lain before. While charming in its telling of love and the city, the poem unfolds into three ideas/couplings. The image of the first couple eating ice cream is followed by a flower scented mother watching her son play and an accountant with his girl at some traffic lights. This being with the intent of showing that love is not straightforward, nor just one type as well as the interaction love can have with a city.
The use of very few words suggests the author sees love as a simple thing, that it is better explained through image. For instance, the bald man and fat wife being ‘absorbed in ice cream and each other’ suggests an ageing couple which has been married for a while but still very much infatuated with each other. They don’t care about image, and lead an indulgent life. The mother watching her son ‘scattering pigeons while passers by smile’ represents youth and a mother’s pride. The passers by depict a different form of love by suggesting love for a child’s discovery of life. The accountant trading small kisses with her girl at the traffic lights gives the idea of opportunist, spontaneous love. The fact that the guy continuously kisses her until the lights change shows a starry-eyed, kind of passion.
What really works in taking the reader to the lighthearted feelings intended is the deliberate leaving out of certain details. The specific location of the relationships is missing. The reader doesn’t know where the first couple is walking. An effective way of understanding that beyond the ice cream and their married love, the couple is unaware. The way they are absorbed in each other is left up to interpretation. Is it through their eye’s gaze or through their hand holding? Is it non physical, an energy or chemistry they instill in one another?
The mother, with her son’s, location is not mentioned… leaving the reader to make assumptions of their own. Perhaps this was Davies’ intention, to leave it up to the reader’s own romantic notions. Take the accountant and his city fling at the city lights, the changing of the lights is not made clear. The colour they are waiting for is not stated. The couple could be kissing between change of the lights or just waiting to cross at the lights. Their purpose for waiting at those lights is really up to the reader’s imagination.
Davies’ has managed to capture the different elements of love and express them through the use of a prop, a city. The unique structuring, omitting of details, simple wording and observational style lead to an image of contentment, youth, admiration and excitement. With just three verses she has created a refreshing, smile-inducing read that leaves the reader more aware of the acts of love around them.
The use of very few words suggests the author sees love as a simple thing, that it is better explained through image. For instance, the bald man and fat wife being ‘absorbed in ice cream and each other’ suggests an ageing couple which has been married for a while but still very much infatuated with each other. They don’t care about image, and lead an indulgent life. The mother watching her son ‘scattering pigeons while passers by smile’ represents youth and a mother’s pride. The passers by depict a different form of love by suggesting love for a child’s discovery of life. The accountant trading small kisses with her girl at the traffic lights gives the idea of opportunist, spontaneous love. The fact that the guy continuously kisses her until the lights change shows a starry-eyed, kind of passion.
What really works in taking the reader to the lighthearted feelings intended is the deliberate leaving out of certain details. The specific location of the relationships is missing. The reader doesn’t know where the first couple is walking. An effective way of understanding that beyond the ice cream and their married love, the couple is unaware. The way they are absorbed in each other is left up to interpretation. Is it through their eye’s gaze or through their hand holding? Is it non physical, an energy or chemistry they instill in one another?
The mother, with her son’s, location is not mentioned… leaving the reader to make assumptions of their own. Perhaps this was Davies’ intention, to leave it up to the reader’s own romantic notions. Take the accountant and his city fling at the city lights, the changing of the lights is not made clear. The colour they are waiting for is not stated. The couple could be kissing between change of the lights or just waiting to cross at the lights. Their purpose for waiting at those lights is really up to the reader’s imagination.
Davies’ has managed to capture the different elements of love and express them through the use of a prop, a city. The unique structuring, omitting of details, simple wording and observational style lead to an image of contentment, youth, admiration and excitement. With just three verses she has created a refreshing, smile-inducing read that leaves the reader more aware of the acts of love around them.
Diving-bells and buttered flies
“In my head I churn over every sentence ten times, delete a word, add an adjective, and learn my text by heart, paragraph by paragraph.”
To the unknowing, you would be forgiven for thinking Jean-Dominique Bauby (1997) had a finicky writer for his subject in ‘The Diving-Bell and the Butterfly.’ But this is far from the truth. The subject is confined to a hospital bed, entrapped in their body and alone with their thoughts... the subject is him. The story is told through first person and is filled with emotive words which create a mixed feeling.
In the beginning of the excerpt there is a sense of boredom and inescapable pain. There is a deep feeling of bitterness that overwhelms the reader as the subject speaks of congested lungs and emotions. The smooth transition from dark and twisty to enlightenment is a credit to Bauby’s fluent style of writing. Once the mind of the confined begins to wander from his body the mood shifts to peace and contentment. The strongest point of the story is the use of ‘cocoon’ and ‘butterfly’, a running theme reflecting the emotions of restriction and choice. Cocoon supports the subject’s feeling of oppressed mobility, frustration of their infant-like state and a desire to be like a butterfly, to have no boundaries.
This helpless frustration is emphasized effectively via the images of places the subject’s mind suggests in its butterfly-state. “…visit the woman you love…build castles in Spain, steal the Golden Fleece, discover Atlantis, and realize your childhood dreams and adult ambitions.” These dreams are spontaneous and determined. Having the great want to discover the undiscovered shows the great possibilities people find when they feel their life is ending before they want it to. Bauby’s creative use of symbols to show his conflicted outlook is resonated by the striking idea of their ‘bedridden travel notes’ being saved for an emissary. With an understanding of an emissary being some form of messenger, this appeared to reveal an acceptance of the worse. The idea of waiting to come full circle when referring to the butterfly life cycled theme. It depicted to the reader a preparation for death.
Overall, this excerpt of The Diving-Bell Butterfly leaves the reader wanting more. Bauby’s decision to use metaphors, (in the case of the butterfly concept, an extended metaphor) emotive words and first person was not only effective but inspiring. By having the subject speaking of their hands hurting of numbness, a lack of sensitivity, explains the sense of helplessness and constricted movement. The comparisons to certain stages of the butterfly ensure the reader appreciates the subject’s situation. The piece is accessible and a breeze to read in contrast to the circumstances of life, death, and immobility being brought up. A great excuse to hunt down the complete story.
To the unknowing, you would be forgiven for thinking Jean-Dominique Bauby (1997) had a finicky writer for his subject in ‘The Diving-Bell and the Butterfly.’ But this is far from the truth. The subject is confined to a hospital bed, entrapped in their body and alone with their thoughts... the subject is him. The story is told through first person and is filled with emotive words which create a mixed feeling.
In the beginning of the excerpt there is a sense of boredom and inescapable pain. There is a deep feeling of bitterness that overwhelms the reader as the subject speaks of congested lungs and emotions. The smooth transition from dark and twisty to enlightenment is a credit to Bauby’s fluent style of writing. Once the mind of the confined begins to wander from his body the mood shifts to peace and contentment. The strongest point of the story is the use of ‘cocoon’ and ‘butterfly’, a running theme reflecting the emotions of restriction and choice. Cocoon supports the subject’s feeling of oppressed mobility, frustration of their infant-like state and a desire to be like a butterfly, to have no boundaries.
This helpless frustration is emphasized effectively via the images of places the subject’s mind suggests in its butterfly-state. “…visit the woman you love…build castles in Spain, steal the Golden Fleece, discover Atlantis, and realize your childhood dreams and adult ambitions.” These dreams are spontaneous and determined. Having the great want to discover the undiscovered shows the great possibilities people find when they feel their life is ending before they want it to. Bauby’s creative use of symbols to show his conflicted outlook is resonated by the striking idea of their ‘bedridden travel notes’ being saved for an emissary. With an understanding of an emissary being some form of messenger, this appeared to reveal an acceptance of the worse. The idea of waiting to come full circle when referring to the butterfly life cycled theme. It depicted to the reader a preparation for death.
Overall, this excerpt of The Diving-Bell Butterfly leaves the reader wanting more. Bauby’s decision to use metaphors, (in the case of the butterfly concept, an extended metaphor) emotive words and first person was not only effective but inspiring. By having the subject speaking of their hands hurting of numbness, a lack of sensitivity, explains the sense of helplessness and constricted movement. The comparisons to certain stages of the butterfly ensure the reader appreciates the subject’s situation. The piece is accessible and a breeze to read in contrast to the circumstances of life, death, and immobility being brought up. A great excuse to hunt down the complete story.
Critique
In D.H Lawrence’s versions of ‘The Piano’, the use of words and rhythmic schemes to create sound and effect was effective in defining meaning to the idea of lost child hood and lost innocence in music. The poem drips of nostalgic thoughts of becoming a child again, experiencing music as a child once again.
However, in the earlier version, Lawrence had more stanzas and the image of a woman in the poem was made more obvious. References to the narrator’s mother and the effect her music, and the experience it gave, was extended in the original version. It tends to be more explicit and descriptive in building a bond between narrator and their upbringing. The earlier version is more complex in making comparisons between past and present music environments. It is more critical of the modern piano practices. The narrator implies that music was a private family experience and that the ‘clamour’ and ‘glamour’ of the modern great black piano disrupted his first impressions of music and life through his mother’s playing. The comparisons of the singers in the poem, the mother, sister and bare woman emphasize the sense of loss as the piano has progressed?
In the more modern version, Lawrence has condensed the feelings of the past being lost by the piano being commercialized. The description of the mother is downplayed in contrast to the earlier version. This may be with the intention of keeping the narrator’s desire to go back to their childhood, (where music is concerned) the main focus. The meaning of the poem is clearer in this version, the original version tends to wander off into the past and focus more on the mother than the impact the singer has on their memories. It is blameful towards the female singer for taking them back to ‘the old Sunday evenings at home….and hymns in the cozy parlour.’ It is accusatory of the singer for then interrupting their flashbacks and is sensed through the use of words. ‘So now it is vain for the singer to burst into clamor’ suggests a realization on the narrator’s part. After going back to their ‘childish days,’ they now see the singer as an annoyance, with the ‘great black appassionato.’
The use of language in both poems achieves a melodic impression to both experiences the narrator has when both man and child. The ‘boom of the tingling strings’ and ‘the tinkling piano’ demonstrate the child’s impression of the piano. Their awe of the instrument and comfort they get from it and their mother. This is contrasted with the ‘adult’ perspective of the instrument, where it is then ‘insidious’. In the earlier version more sound and visual effects were made. The image of a child, 'sitting... in the boom of the shaking strings’ tells that the instrument is important to the child.
Whatever the intention, the effect of intimidation is achieved through the strong comparisons. ‘Mother who smiles as she sings’ came across as simple and natural, not enhanced or melodramatic. Little description is given to the style of the mother’s voice. Where as the woman singing in the present, her style and effect of her voice is strongly described. ‘The full throated woman…singing me a wild Hungarian air’ creates a harsher experience as opposed to the unobstructed, impulsive singing of the sister ‘singing love’s first surprised gladness, alone in the gloom’. There appears to be an importance for solitary intimacy that goes with the past memories the narrator speaks of.
However, in the earlier version, Lawrence had more stanzas and the image of a woman in the poem was made more obvious. References to the narrator’s mother and the effect her music, and the experience it gave, was extended in the original version. It tends to be more explicit and descriptive in building a bond between narrator and their upbringing. The earlier version is more complex in making comparisons between past and present music environments. It is more critical of the modern piano practices. The narrator implies that music was a private family experience and that the ‘clamour’ and ‘glamour’ of the modern great black piano disrupted his first impressions of music and life through his mother’s playing. The comparisons of the singers in the poem, the mother, sister and bare woman emphasize the sense of loss as the piano has progressed?
In the more modern version, Lawrence has condensed the feelings of the past being lost by the piano being commercialized. The description of the mother is downplayed in contrast to the earlier version. This may be with the intention of keeping the narrator’s desire to go back to their childhood, (where music is concerned) the main focus. The meaning of the poem is clearer in this version, the original version tends to wander off into the past and focus more on the mother than the impact the singer has on their memories. It is blameful towards the female singer for taking them back to ‘the old Sunday evenings at home….and hymns in the cozy parlour.’ It is accusatory of the singer for then interrupting their flashbacks and is sensed through the use of words. ‘So now it is vain for the singer to burst into clamor’ suggests a realization on the narrator’s part. After going back to their ‘childish days,’ they now see the singer as an annoyance, with the ‘great black appassionato.’
The use of language in both poems achieves a melodic impression to both experiences the narrator has when both man and child. The ‘boom of the tingling strings’ and ‘the tinkling piano’ demonstrate the child’s impression of the piano. Their awe of the instrument and comfort they get from it and their mother. This is contrasted with the ‘adult’ perspective of the instrument, where it is then ‘insidious’. In the earlier version more sound and visual effects were made. The image of a child, 'sitting... in the boom of the shaking strings’ tells that the instrument is important to the child.
Whatever the intention, the effect of intimidation is achieved through the strong comparisons. ‘Mother who smiles as she sings’ came across as simple and natural, not enhanced or melodramatic. Little description is given to the style of the mother’s voice. Where as the woman singing in the present, her style and effect of her voice is strongly described. ‘The full throated woman…singing me a wild Hungarian air’ creates a harsher experience as opposed to the unobstructed, impulsive singing of the sister ‘singing love’s first surprised gladness, alone in the gloom’. There appears to be an importance for solitary intimacy that goes with the past memories the narrator speaks of.
three headed dog of myth.
Cerberus is the guard of Hades, a three headed dog of myth. ‘Dog byte, man’ is the caption of a PC FORMAT interview and it is the running dog-like theme that makes it an unusual and imaginative piece of writing. So just what would be the prerogative of Gil Gillespie to write on such a subject?
The style of the writing is clever in creating a likable, charming theme to the subject of a ‘fledgling company’ making music available online. The voice is a big part of this theme. The flow-full narration is in third person and comes across as more like the voice or insight of a music critic as opposed to an expert of technology.
Which appears to be the intention of Gillespie; the deliberate use of dog oriented, colloquial language is typical of a Rolling Stone or Creem article. The concept of a struggling company about to make a potential impact on the music industry, by going against the commercial compact disc market is rebellious, and a bold challenge.
Colloquial is the best way to define the style/personality of the voice. It is brash, energetic and scathing in parts while remaining simple and straightforward. Where the device of relating back to the theme could have resulted in the reader being swamped in a mass of images and dog-ridden paragraphs Gillespie has managed to avoid such a scenario.
“Something’s howling”; “Cerberus’ first chomp at the media”, “Selling a pup.” and “doghouse of history.” is scattered strategically and makes for some interesting reading. It is implicit in getting the reader to appreciate the consequences and difference a Digital Jukebox will do to their lifestyles and furthermore the lifespan of CDs. It builds the mood of the article. It is lively and focused towards a younger and music impassioned character. The structure of the article is unique with the introduction of the person behind the end being left out of mention until near the end. The journalist is abrupt and unmerciful in their description of Ricky Adar, but passionate of his intentions and alternative to buying ‘flamboyantly priced CDs.’
They depict Adar as a “twenty-something techno-hooligan with a fearless conviction in his ambitious baby.” The style is so colorful and ‘cool’ and really does carry the attitude and motive of a music review/critique.
The style of the writing is clever in creating a likable, charming theme to the subject of a ‘fledgling company’ making music available online. The voice is a big part of this theme. The flow-full narration is in third person and comes across as more like the voice or insight of a music critic as opposed to an expert of technology.
Which appears to be the intention of Gillespie; the deliberate use of dog oriented, colloquial language is typical of a Rolling Stone or Creem article. The concept of a struggling company about to make a potential impact on the music industry, by going against the commercial compact disc market is rebellious, and a bold challenge.
Colloquial is the best way to define the style/personality of the voice. It is brash, energetic and scathing in parts while remaining simple and straightforward. Where the device of relating back to the theme could have resulted in the reader being swamped in a mass of images and dog-ridden paragraphs Gillespie has managed to avoid such a scenario.
“Something’s howling”; “Cerberus’ first chomp at the media”, “Selling a pup.” and “doghouse of history.” is scattered strategically and makes for some interesting reading. It is implicit in getting the reader to appreciate the consequences and difference a Digital Jukebox will do to their lifestyles and furthermore the lifespan of CDs. It builds the mood of the article. It is lively and focused towards a younger and music impassioned character. The structure of the article is unique with the introduction of the person behind the end being left out of mention until near the end. The journalist is abrupt and unmerciful in their description of Ricky Adar, but passionate of his intentions and alternative to buying ‘flamboyantly priced CDs.’
They depict Adar as a “twenty-something techno-hooligan with a fearless conviction in his ambitious baby.” The style is so colorful and ‘cool’ and really does carry the attitude and motive of a music review/critique.
Art Canvas
For some, to paint on a flat surface is challenge enough. So to throw in the perspiring, breathing, awkward and complex human body as another form of an outlet for the painter seems mean spirited. That is until you witness it first hand.
Think not of just woman donning strategically painted Super 12 rugby gear, no. Think of the edgy image of an elephant man, eight armed skull-holder, and tribal enchanters, a human merry-go-round, hand painted. Woman and men, both alike, are half naked yet the art is not about the nakedness … it is about the ability, the patience, the exchange between artist and canvas. Not to mention the acting of the model.
May 2008 is host to the annual New Zealand Body Arts Awards. Held at the North Shore Event Center, it is a chance for artists, models, media and the public to revel and appreciate in the ability of body art. The theme was ‘In the Jungle’, a bonus for those Lion King devotees.
Body Art – is like…a car crash. It is not horrific or tragic or an allure for the intrigued and sickened few minds. But it is a car crash in the sense that you can’t help but not look away. It is the daring and boldness of the work, the inventive thought of using flesh as a canvas that makes it incidentally charming.
Think not of just woman donning strategically painted Super 12 rugby gear, no. Think of the edgy image of an elephant man, eight armed skull-holder, and tribal enchanters, a human merry-go-round, hand painted. Woman and men, both alike, are half naked yet the art is not about the nakedness … it is about the ability, the patience, the exchange between artist and canvas. Not to mention the acting of the model.
May 2008 is host to the annual New Zealand Body Arts Awards. Held at the North Shore Event Center, it is a chance for artists, models, media and the public to revel and appreciate in the ability of body art. The theme was ‘In the Jungle’, a bonus for those Lion King devotees.
Body Art – is like…a car crash. It is not horrific or tragic or an allure for the intrigued and sickened few minds. But it is a car crash in the sense that you can’t help but not look away. It is the daring and boldness of the work, the inventive thought of using flesh as a canvas that makes it incidentally charming.
Iamtrapped
I am trapped.
This is the first line in this story, the opening, and the beginning. I have no idea how this will go, how it will pan out. Whether it will need to be restrained or whether it will flow easily. You see short stories are not really my forte, creative yes – but short? No.
For the time being though, you will just have to trust me. So I am trapped. Whether you like it or not, that is the opener.
Not only am I trapped; but the room that I am trapped in is no wider than 5m x 4m and there are no large windows. The only pocket of air is a sunlight right above my head, which taunts me with its view of the sky and fleeting seagulls. The small breeze that comes from the partially open window is some comfort. But I am still trapped, in the hottest part of the house.
It is midday and the sun’s killing me; it is steadily drinking all the moisture out of my parching skin. I am sweating nothing, breathing nothing but that belittled breeze.
Fortunately there is some furniture in this place for me to rest on, a swivel chair, a desk and the carpeted floor.
I better point out that there is a door and it isn’t locked. It can’t be locked. The only thing stopping me from leaving is the knowledge that I don’t have the strength to open it. But I am not here by choice; I am here because I was pushed. Not by some unexplainable force, no nothing like that…though sometimes that would be the easiest way to explain it. This was more like a physical, cunning and premeditated force.
Please don’t misunderstand me though, this ‘force’ has provided for me, during my anxious time in this compact room. Sustenance in the shape of little thin yellow squares-Chives flavoured. That’s right; cheese…processed cheese has been every minute, on the minute shoved under the door.
I am tired, I am tired and embarrassed…and so hungry.
I can hear a muffled staccato of what sounds like sobbing coming from the other side of the door. Though I know it is not crying… it is laughing…at me.
Another cheese slice skids across the carpet, this one is more crumpled then the last, the cellophane which protects it is folded and the cheese inside split. The force is becoming more reckless and impatient.
It is a waiting game, who tires first? The person who is in control… thinks they are. Or the person who is melting into oblivion?
I pull on the door knob roughly, and once again a wide enough crack reveals the stove and countertop of the kitchen on the outside of the door. The rope that is knotted to the porch door stretches and strains once again. My captor shrieks in surprise and pushes all their body weight against the door, desperately trying to slacken the tight rope. I fall back into the light of the small room as the door slams shut for the fifth time. I am so tired, tired of fighting and sick of this room.
“Eat it!” My captor demands as the sound of something rolling around on the ground can be felt through the floor. I believe this is known as uncontrollable laughter. A distorted and static laugh fills the room after this. The force has an accomplice, on speaker phone it would seem.
“You know I can’t!” I yell back in frustration. This is getting ridiculous, what I would give to be free of this room and this heat. “I’ll die!” – Okay, so that’s a bit of a lie, but it could happen. You see as my captor knows but you don’t, I don’t eat anything with milk solids, whey powder, lactose, butter, any dairy really…especially cheese.
Another piercing laugh carries through the small gap between door and floor. “Did you hear that?!”
It had been five attempts now, five feeble attempts. I was just about to give up when I remembered something. While continuing to yell threats and bellowing in despair I darted to the wardrobe and pulled out the tool bag. “This is so embarrassing!” I fake cried as my eyes fell on the craft knife, tidily tucked away in a side pocket. I then tiptoed over to the door and rehearsed the plan of action in my head…I knew I only had one chance at this.
“Eat it! Eat it! Eat it! Eat it!’ The voice taunted.
I took a deep breath and sighed sadly. “You know you’re going to get in so much trouble? You’re wrecking the doors!” I yelled as I readied myself.
“You’re the one pulling on it!” The voice retaliated. “Just eat your cheese and I’ll let you out…” it then fades away as my captor struggles to control their hysterical laughter. “This is so funny!” They squeal and I place my hand on the door knob and twist.
“Nooooo!’ The voice bellows, as I pull the door wide enough to create a gap for my hand and the weapon to fit through. “Nooooo!” The voice begins to panic, a fear interrupting the flow of laughter.
I begin to haphazardly cut at the rope while my captor yells in frustration and amusement, tries to force the door shut again. The cell phone is thrown aside as the captor needs two hands to try to beat me.
“You can’t- you can’t! Where did you get that?! Oh my god! Nooo! “
As the last few threads of rope remain I mumble a threat to my captor, the sly force, to run…that I would give them a head start. To which they do, shrieking their head off the length of the hall. My sister’s torturous fun had backfired badly.
This is the first line in this story, the opening, and the beginning. I have no idea how this will go, how it will pan out. Whether it will need to be restrained or whether it will flow easily. You see short stories are not really my forte, creative yes – but short? No.
For the time being though, you will just have to trust me. So I am trapped. Whether you like it or not, that is the opener.
Not only am I trapped; but the room that I am trapped in is no wider than 5m x 4m and there are no large windows. The only pocket of air is a sunlight right above my head, which taunts me with its view of the sky and fleeting seagulls. The small breeze that comes from the partially open window is some comfort. But I am still trapped, in the hottest part of the house.
It is midday and the sun’s killing me; it is steadily drinking all the moisture out of my parching skin. I am sweating nothing, breathing nothing but that belittled breeze.
Fortunately there is some furniture in this place for me to rest on, a swivel chair, a desk and the carpeted floor.
I better point out that there is a door and it isn’t locked. It can’t be locked. The only thing stopping me from leaving is the knowledge that I don’t have the strength to open it. But I am not here by choice; I am here because I was pushed. Not by some unexplainable force, no nothing like that…though sometimes that would be the easiest way to explain it. This was more like a physical, cunning and premeditated force.
Please don’t misunderstand me though, this ‘force’ has provided for me, during my anxious time in this compact room. Sustenance in the shape of little thin yellow squares-Chives flavoured. That’s right; cheese…processed cheese has been every minute, on the minute shoved under the door.
I am tired, I am tired and embarrassed…and so hungry.
I can hear a muffled staccato of what sounds like sobbing coming from the other side of the door. Though I know it is not crying… it is laughing…at me.
Another cheese slice skids across the carpet, this one is more crumpled then the last, the cellophane which protects it is folded and the cheese inside split. The force is becoming more reckless and impatient.
It is a waiting game, who tires first? The person who is in control… thinks they are. Or the person who is melting into oblivion?
I pull on the door knob roughly, and once again a wide enough crack reveals the stove and countertop of the kitchen on the outside of the door. The rope that is knotted to the porch door stretches and strains once again. My captor shrieks in surprise and pushes all their body weight against the door, desperately trying to slacken the tight rope. I fall back into the light of the small room as the door slams shut for the fifth time. I am so tired, tired of fighting and sick of this room.
“Eat it!” My captor demands as the sound of something rolling around on the ground can be felt through the floor. I believe this is known as uncontrollable laughter. A distorted and static laugh fills the room after this. The force has an accomplice, on speaker phone it would seem.
“You know I can’t!” I yell back in frustration. This is getting ridiculous, what I would give to be free of this room and this heat. “I’ll die!” – Okay, so that’s a bit of a lie, but it could happen. You see as my captor knows but you don’t, I don’t eat anything with milk solids, whey powder, lactose, butter, any dairy really…especially cheese.
Another piercing laugh carries through the small gap between door and floor. “Did you hear that?!”
It had been five attempts now, five feeble attempts. I was just about to give up when I remembered something. While continuing to yell threats and bellowing in despair I darted to the wardrobe and pulled out the tool bag. “This is so embarrassing!” I fake cried as my eyes fell on the craft knife, tidily tucked away in a side pocket. I then tiptoed over to the door and rehearsed the plan of action in my head…I knew I only had one chance at this.
“Eat it! Eat it! Eat it! Eat it!’ The voice taunted.
I took a deep breath and sighed sadly. “You know you’re going to get in so much trouble? You’re wrecking the doors!” I yelled as I readied myself.
“You’re the one pulling on it!” The voice retaliated. “Just eat your cheese and I’ll let you out…” it then fades away as my captor struggles to control their hysterical laughter. “This is so funny!” They squeal and I place my hand on the door knob and twist.
“Nooooo!’ The voice bellows, as I pull the door wide enough to create a gap for my hand and the weapon to fit through. “Nooooo!” The voice begins to panic, a fear interrupting the flow of laughter.
I begin to haphazardly cut at the rope while my captor yells in frustration and amusement, tries to force the door shut again. The cell phone is thrown aside as the captor needs two hands to try to beat me.
“You can’t- you can’t! Where did you get that?! Oh my god! Nooo! “
As the last few threads of rope remain I mumble a threat to my captor, the sly force, to run…that I would give them a head start. To which they do, shrieking their head off the length of the hall. My sister’s torturous fun had backfired badly.
Observation #2
In Central Hamilton, during ‘rush-hour’ at the Transport Centre’s bus terminal, the area was very hot, and fairly busy. It was 3.00pm on a Wednesday; there were buses and people moving constantly; all with an air of confidence and certainty.
There was an impatience and restlessness about the place. People’s feet were twitching when the buses arrived. They did anything to not be aware of the time they were waiting, they read, sat down, made phone calls, walked around, up and down, stood in little cliquey groups. Once the buses arrived they became focussed. It was as if they all had this great purpose for waiting.
A mix of ages, ethnicities and agendas were present. Parents with prams and babies, school kids (mainly high school girls- is there something telling about this? Do girls get their driver licenses later then boys? Does a girl’s parent tend to be unable to pick them up from school?), business people and the elderly. The youth didn’t have cars but seemed to use the station as a chance to catch up with friends, meet ‘hidden’ older boyfriends, engage in situations they may not be able to at home. One school girl was seen smoking and standing around with a black hooded male. When no one interacted with them, no one was challenged.
It was unpredictable. In a sense it was as if this place provided more than just a transport terminal. It came across as a social ground, a specialised village, made of a subculture/co-culture of ‘bus people’. Everyone that was there seemed to have this knowledge for why they were there, how they were meant to act while being there, and why others were there as well. How did they know their purpose and that of the place? Was it by observing others, how they made use of the area?
The relationship/connection between the place and its people was that the bus station was a service. Everyone had their own motive for being there. For some it was their job i.e. bus drivers. For others it was a place to socialise and kill time, which makes me think about the colloquial term ‘to hang out’. What does it mean? Why do it? How do they know that it is acceptable to ‘hang out’ in such a public area? That was another thing about the place, though it was for the public, was easy to access; it seemed like a secret society. Where up the street people were walking basically everywhere. Here they just stood around, or sat down. It was like a whole different culture, different interactions took place as opposed to the ‘street people’. There was a sense of ownership. People were doing as they pleased, within the constraints of bus stop etiquette. Taxi cabs were all lined up, in a way marking their territory. The bus drivers were walking around in a manner of importance.
The practices of the place that were socially represented were in the people, how they interacted. How by being at and sharing the same place, they still had variations of groups. These groups kept to themselves mostly, sometimes socialised with other groups, but created their own space. For the most part, were social but kind of cliquey, informal with their texting and nonverbal hugging, raised eye browed greetings; formal with taxi and bus drivers. An example of today’s society, where though we are more accepting, not everybody gets along with everyone. It’s just the way people react to letting people into their circle. There seems to be a general limit on who and how many can be in your personal space. Why is it, that we can’t all socialise in a group, is our sense of identity reliant on belonging to a group?
The historical objects in the place were I think the layout of the bus terminal, the shelters, the seats in the shelters, the shelters being numbered. What we’d expect of a bus station? Not the design of the setting, as it was sleek and modern, oddly shaped and ran in a sweeping curve.
The place was used as a hangout, buses were used, shelters and bench seats were used. Not so much the car parks and sidewalk. Some routine action that took place was the catching of buses, getting on and off, sitting, waiting.
An example of discourse in the place was in the form of the varying clothing and uniform. There were the school uniforms, a mark of conformity, varying in colour and style in order to differentiate between the different schools. Perhaps for the purpose of making sure they don’t get lost or end up with people from the wrong school, the wrong crowd? That was something that I found, the school kids though they were willing to interact with a range of ethnicities (unlike the general adults) they did tend to stick to their own school ‘groups’.
The oddest thing was that most of the people stayed in tight little groups of 4-5. They stood around in semi circles … most talking, laughing, eating, drinking and texting. Only a few groups stood/sat in silence. Another unusual presence was the police and patrolling security guards, what does this say about our society? That we’re too distrusting?
There was an impatience and restlessness about the place. People’s feet were twitching when the buses arrived. They did anything to not be aware of the time they were waiting, they read, sat down, made phone calls, walked around, up and down, stood in little cliquey groups. Once the buses arrived they became focussed. It was as if they all had this great purpose for waiting.
A mix of ages, ethnicities and agendas were present. Parents with prams and babies, school kids (mainly high school girls- is there something telling about this? Do girls get their driver licenses later then boys? Does a girl’s parent tend to be unable to pick them up from school?), business people and the elderly. The youth didn’t have cars but seemed to use the station as a chance to catch up with friends, meet ‘hidden’ older boyfriends, engage in situations they may not be able to at home. One school girl was seen smoking and standing around with a black hooded male. When no one interacted with them, no one was challenged.
It was unpredictable. In a sense it was as if this place provided more than just a transport terminal. It came across as a social ground, a specialised village, made of a subculture/co-culture of ‘bus people’. Everyone that was there seemed to have this knowledge for why they were there, how they were meant to act while being there, and why others were there as well. How did they know their purpose and that of the place? Was it by observing others, how they made use of the area?
The relationship/connection between the place and its people was that the bus station was a service. Everyone had their own motive for being there. For some it was their job i.e. bus drivers. For others it was a place to socialise and kill time, which makes me think about the colloquial term ‘to hang out’. What does it mean? Why do it? How do they know that it is acceptable to ‘hang out’ in such a public area? That was another thing about the place, though it was for the public, was easy to access; it seemed like a secret society. Where up the street people were walking basically everywhere. Here they just stood around, or sat down. It was like a whole different culture, different interactions took place as opposed to the ‘street people’. There was a sense of ownership. People were doing as they pleased, within the constraints of bus stop etiquette. Taxi cabs were all lined up, in a way marking their territory. The bus drivers were walking around in a manner of importance.
The practices of the place that were socially represented were in the people, how they interacted. How by being at and sharing the same place, they still had variations of groups. These groups kept to themselves mostly, sometimes socialised with other groups, but created their own space. For the most part, were social but kind of cliquey, informal with their texting and nonverbal hugging, raised eye browed greetings; formal with taxi and bus drivers. An example of today’s society, where though we are more accepting, not everybody gets along with everyone. It’s just the way people react to letting people into their circle. There seems to be a general limit on who and how many can be in your personal space. Why is it, that we can’t all socialise in a group, is our sense of identity reliant on belonging to a group?
The historical objects in the place were I think the layout of the bus terminal, the shelters, the seats in the shelters, the shelters being numbered. What we’d expect of a bus station? Not the design of the setting, as it was sleek and modern, oddly shaped and ran in a sweeping curve.
The place was used as a hangout, buses were used, shelters and bench seats were used. Not so much the car parks and sidewalk. Some routine action that took place was the catching of buses, getting on and off, sitting, waiting.
An example of discourse in the place was in the form of the varying clothing and uniform. There were the school uniforms, a mark of conformity, varying in colour and style in order to differentiate between the different schools. Perhaps for the purpose of making sure they don’t get lost or end up with people from the wrong school, the wrong crowd? That was something that I found, the school kids though they were willing to interact with a range of ethnicities (unlike the general adults) they did tend to stick to their own school ‘groups’.
The oddest thing was that most of the people stayed in tight little groups of 4-5. They stood around in semi circles … most talking, laughing, eating, drinking and texting. Only a few groups stood/sat in silence. Another unusual presence was the police and patrolling security guards, what does this say about our society? That we’re too distrusting?
Observation
During the hour of 2pm in Garden Place, two people of olive complexions and jet black hair, sat down on a bench. I decided to focus my attention on the female subject. Female being the operative word as I could only note her body shape, the way she was dressed.
She wore a cream suit of medium length jacket and pants. She sat down with her right leg crossed towards the man sitting beside her, hands resting in her lap, hip pressed against his. She sat more forward, creating the very little space they had between them. A glint of gold on her left hand resembled that of a wedding band.
Not long after she’d sat down she uncrossed her legs and began swinging her arms back and forth. Back behind her shoulders and out in front of her chest; her legs were slightly bent at the knee and her feet were placed under the seat. She opened her mouth wide and shut her eyes briefly. I noticed this sequence of events because I was feeling restless and open to something spontaneous happening. How do people act in public when they know they’re on display? How do we act when we forget? In my subject’s case, we behave at our oddest when we are unaware. When we’re aware, it doesn’t last for the duration. Our suspicions aren’t constant.
She looked left, past her company’s head for a few seconds, and then straight ahead. She placed her hand on the man’s leg. After a brief time she began lifting her arms up and down in a rapid, flapping motion. She did this for a while before raising her arm up and looking at something golden on the inside of her bent wrist. Her arm was slightly bent at the elbow while her other hand touched whatever was on her wrist. Before placing her arm back down on her leg she pushed away the man’s hand that had been placed on her inner thigh.
Why did I notice this interaction in great detail? Maybe I have an underlying covet for a relationship myself…if so, people who appear to be together, how they act in another’s’ line of view, would be of interest. After that moment, my subject bowed her head down and crossed her legs again. Still towards the male chaperone but her back she straightened, more so than before.
The idea of it not being chemistry that conveys your words, but your words that convey your chemistry, in this case does not apply. Since without the dialogue that was taking place I had to rely solely on the subject’s body language in order to understand how social stances are affected when put on the spot, placed in the open for all to judge, observe and analyse.
The subject looked into the distance, at her feet, all around. She watched the man, looked at him for what felt like a long time before she reached out her right hand, and cupped it behind his ear. While turning her head towards him she had nodded and placed her same hand on her own ear. Though I saw her mouth move very little, they were talking.
Maybe subconsciously I wanted to know how certain people display affection. Maybe my own wants of companionship influenced what I noticed. Her previous movements had me wondering what kind of conversation was talking place there. Was it one of intimacy or was it more obvious?
Her handbag, she picked up and bunched towards her chest, folding her arms. Her face was calm and non-expressive. So, when creating and managing personal space, do we act the same? Were her actions typical of how a female would foster distance?
As a skateboarder rode past, she turned her body to look around. Once it had passed, she looked directly ahead before talking to the man. Her head she bent intently, and faced her body in his direction. She talked, she rocked the upper half of her body back and forth, and her feet were twitching and shifting on the ground. While turning her head to the left, she looked down at her foot and shifted its position a little.
She looked at his feet and leaned away from him, tilted backwards as she still looked at them. Picked her bag up by the straps and slowly walked away, followed the man along the footpath, about half a step behind him. This may have been some form of respect, or a pressed custom, where the woman lets the man lead.
Max Weber (1980) idea of the human race being “each, essentially a constant, unchangeable, absolute individual” is questionable. After observing my subject for quarter of an hour, I noticed that no-one else mirrored her actions, her ways of expressing her varied emotions.
She wore a cream suit of medium length jacket and pants. She sat down with her right leg crossed towards the man sitting beside her, hands resting in her lap, hip pressed against his. She sat more forward, creating the very little space they had between them. A glint of gold on her left hand resembled that of a wedding band.
Not long after she’d sat down she uncrossed her legs and began swinging her arms back and forth. Back behind her shoulders and out in front of her chest; her legs were slightly bent at the knee and her feet were placed under the seat. She opened her mouth wide and shut her eyes briefly. I noticed this sequence of events because I was feeling restless and open to something spontaneous happening. How do people act in public when they know they’re on display? How do we act when we forget? In my subject’s case, we behave at our oddest when we are unaware. When we’re aware, it doesn’t last for the duration. Our suspicions aren’t constant.
She looked left, past her company’s head for a few seconds, and then straight ahead. She placed her hand on the man’s leg. After a brief time she began lifting her arms up and down in a rapid, flapping motion. She did this for a while before raising her arm up and looking at something golden on the inside of her bent wrist. Her arm was slightly bent at the elbow while her other hand touched whatever was on her wrist. Before placing her arm back down on her leg she pushed away the man’s hand that had been placed on her inner thigh.
Why did I notice this interaction in great detail? Maybe I have an underlying covet for a relationship myself…if so, people who appear to be together, how they act in another’s’ line of view, would be of interest. After that moment, my subject bowed her head down and crossed her legs again. Still towards the male chaperone but her back she straightened, more so than before.
The idea of it not being chemistry that conveys your words, but your words that convey your chemistry, in this case does not apply. Since without the dialogue that was taking place I had to rely solely on the subject’s body language in order to understand how social stances are affected when put on the spot, placed in the open for all to judge, observe and analyse.
The subject looked into the distance, at her feet, all around. She watched the man, looked at him for what felt like a long time before she reached out her right hand, and cupped it behind his ear. While turning her head towards him she had nodded and placed her same hand on her own ear. Though I saw her mouth move very little, they were talking.
Maybe subconsciously I wanted to know how certain people display affection. Maybe my own wants of companionship influenced what I noticed. Her previous movements had me wondering what kind of conversation was talking place there. Was it one of intimacy or was it more obvious?
Her handbag, she picked up and bunched towards her chest, folding her arms. Her face was calm and non-expressive. So, when creating and managing personal space, do we act the same? Were her actions typical of how a female would foster distance?
As a skateboarder rode past, she turned her body to look around. Once it had passed, she looked directly ahead before talking to the man. Her head she bent intently, and faced her body in his direction. She talked, she rocked the upper half of her body back and forth, and her feet were twitching and shifting on the ground. While turning her head to the left, she looked down at her foot and shifted its position a little.
She looked at his feet and leaned away from him, tilted backwards as she still looked at them. Picked her bag up by the straps and slowly walked away, followed the man along the footpath, about half a step behind him. This may have been some form of respect, or a pressed custom, where the woman lets the man lead.
Max Weber (1980) idea of the human race being “each, essentially a constant, unchangeable, absolute individual” is questionable. After observing my subject for quarter of an hour, I noticed that no-one else mirrored her actions, her ways of expressing her varied emotions.
Outline of a Biography
Maxwell William Smith, better known as Max, has led an interesting and fulfilling life, especially during his long post as senior postmaster.
Some colourful accounts of his time as a postmaster are fondly told. Particularly long battles for respect of lawns, involving the then Reporoa postmaster, a hand-made shanghai and a black Labrador called Jeremy.
A brief history of pure cat breeding; family trips to the beach and all its mishaps; getting lost in Auckland; driving to Auckland hospital with his daughter’s leg strapped to an ironing board are just some of the funny occurrences which made life different for Max and his family.
He also has some long spinners of hunting and camping with his best friend, galloping like mad cowboys and chasing deer in the bush of Nuhaka and Tuai; Wairoa. His favourite dish for out in the bush was a cooked tin of condensed milk. By placing it over an open fire it would become caramelized. “Beautiful stuff.”
Max didn’t always plan on being in charge of New Zealand’s mail exchange. Born in 1926, the twin to his brother Tony, had enjoyed school to a degree, but never got to do stay for 3rd form after becoming chronically ill.
His mother had got him a job at a post office. He was 15 years old, a ‘drop-out’ as he likes to put it. Needless to say, Max was a bit surprised to but started work and never looked back.
Childhood was tough, with his most vivid memories being the death of his younger brother, and surviving the Napier earthquake of 1931. Max was 6 years old yet he has accounts of cars sliding around in carports, a terrible roaring sound and being knocked to the ground by the force of the quakes.
The father of six, grandfather to nine, survivor of one has a real knack for story telling. One of his favourite school stories is where he showed skillful precision by dipping a girl’s pigtail in his inkwell without her ever knowing.
There are stories of working in the telephone exchange, altercations with a friend’s dog- no shanghai involved this time-, the long running tradition and importance of having a pocket knife on you at all times and more.
The 79 year old also has a hidden talent for leather making. He has made a saddle, a handbag, wallets, picture frames, a rocking chair, clocks, coasters, coffee tables, a lazy- susan, bracelets, cheque book holders…to name a few. The craft is seen more as a hobby and interest rather then a business opportunity.
He has experienced the ‘what ifs’ though, His eldest Grandson entering the fashion industry and finding a market for leather cuff jewellery has opened opportunities. For a few odd weeks, Max had been turning out about 100 of bracelets. What was at first a trial run; turned into an order for more.
Winner of the best lawn in Te Puke, two years running, the retired postmaster has many hidden tales.
Some colourful accounts of his time as a postmaster are fondly told. Particularly long battles for respect of lawns, involving the then Reporoa postmaster, a hand-made shanghai and a black Labrador called Jeremy.
A brief history of pure cat breeding; family trips to the beach and all its mishaps; getting lost in Auckland; driving to Auckland hospital with his daughter’s leg strapped to an ironing board are just some of the funny occurrences which made life different for Max and his family.
He also has some long spinners of hunting and camping with his best friend, galloping like mad cowboys and chasing deer in the bush of Nuhaka and Tuai; Wairoa. His favourite dish for out in the bush was a cooked tin of condensed milk. By placing it over an open fire it would become caramelized. “Beautiful stuff.”
Max didn’t always plan on being in charge of New Zealand’s mail exchange. Born in 1926, the twin to his brother Tony, had enjoyed school to a degree, but never got to do stay for 3rd form after becoming chronically ill.
His mother had got him a job at a post office. He was 15 years old, a ‘drop-out’ as he likes to put it. Needless to say, Max was a bit surprised to but started work and never looked back.
Childhood was tough, with his most vivid memories being the death of his younger brother, and surviving the Napier earthquake of 1931. Max was 6 years old yet he has accounts of cars sliding around in carports, a terrible roaring sound and being knocked to the ground by the force of the quakes.
The father of six, grandfather to nine, survivor of one has a real knack for story telling. One of his favourite school stories is where he showed skillful precision by dipping a girl’s pigtail in his inkwell without her ever knowing.
There are stories of working in the telephone exchange, altercations with a friend’s dog- no shanghai involved this time-, the long running tradition and importance of having a pocket knife on you at all times and more.
The 79 year old also has a hidden talent for leather making. He has made a saddle, a handbag, wallets, picture frames, a rocking chair, clocks, coasters, coffee tables, a lazy- susan, bracelets, cheque book holders…to name a few. The craft is seen more as a hobby and interest rather then a business opportunity.
He has experienced the ‘what ifs’ though, His eldest Grandson entering the fashion industry and finding a market for leather cuff jewellery has opened opportunities. For a few odd weeks, Max had been turning out about 100 of bracelets. What was at first a trial run; turned into an order for more.
Winner of the best lawn in Te Puke, two years running, the retired postmaster has many hidden tales.
Bullet Proof
The phrase bounds to mind when I think of today’s child.
Along with rambunctious, ambitious, fool-hardy and fearless; all attributes the general child aspires to be. The children of today think they’re the exception most of the time. They refuse to accept responsibility or consequence for their actions and yet feel they can handle privileges. In some ways this is a good thing. In others it is not.
So, why are today’s children growing more disrespectful and wanting to walk before they can crawl?
Choice; it has a lot to answer for.
Not implying that choice is the sole crux of the cause, there are other factors to be taken into account naturally, but choice does play a major part in the development of a kiddie’s personality.
Page 1A greater variety of anything is a cinch to get hold of nowadays. Technology is galore. A digital camera, ipod mini plus speakers, Telecom cell phone, Vodafone cell phone, hair straightener, either or all of these gadgets are likely to reside in the average child’s bedroom. Not just a girl’s room either, boys too have the option of straightened hair, as cared-for hair is becoming more and more accepted for the metro sexual male, just look at exemplar A: soccer stud David Beckham and his chameleon hair.
Bullet Proof 2
Image is a major deal. It determines whether you are liked or respected, it defines you as a person. At least this is the attitude shaping our youth. Social acceptance and pressure to be a certain way is existent everywhere.
It is a fact of life.
Underprivileged children, even they, worry about being the only kid in the class with cheap shoes. When clearly there are greater and more terrible things in the world to focus our energies on. The shoe department store Hannah’s has been a venue for many family tantrums I’m sure. Rugged Shark, the domineering rubber soled shoe that to the naked (non - parental) eye oozed coolness, caused a lot of upset for both kids and parents alike. All the kids felt inadequately dressed at school if their footwear resembled anything but.
It’s got to the point now that kids have a never ending want for stuff. They don’t necessarily need new things, or harbour a great desire even, but they still want them. Why? Because. Just, because.
They have so much stuff, and that’s what it is - stuff, they find it difficult to keep track of it all. Not to mention their little habit becomes grossly expensive to support.
Today’s children are still being kids it’s just they’re exposed to more; have more to contend with. It makes them streetwise before their time. It is scary to live in a world where drugs are made easily available to our youth.
Kids take too much responsibility; they don’t have enough or worse any emotion experience to deal when things go wrong. Opportunity is everywhere and they need guidance. It’s incredibly disheartening that kids not only have to be aware of their friends and selves, they have to be made aware and be protected from the unknown too.
Page 2
The style and social acceptance of celebrity role models is reflected in our youth, it yields a scary power. Attitudes are flawed by television’s materialistic societies, fabricated for entertainment but still potentially harmful, which spill over into real life. Certain programs lead kids to believe that certain behaviours are acceptable and are considered as the norm. With methamphetamine becoming a greater problem, marijuana in comparison is seen as not that big a deal. It could be worse, our kids think. This kind of attitude is damaging as by seeing it as only ‘dabbling’ and not harmful, they are condoning drug abuse. They don’t think of it this way. They believe they can take control of the situation; they are in control and know what they are doing. Some would say they’re “Too smart for their own good”. Inept they are.
Bullet Proof 3
When it comes to dealing with the nitty-gritty realities of life, they lack the experience and cool thinking to handle things when they turn ugly and pear-shaped. Watching a reality series where a girl drives along with her bejewelled hands barely on the steering wheel, in normal terms would be seen as dangerous and reckless behaviour, through the eyes of a young girl who sees the actress as the essence of cool, it’s not that big a deal. She could be driving with no hands OR she could be doing drugs, while doing so.
It Could Be Worse.
Being highly impressionable and keen to experience new things doesn’t make it any easier. It’s erosive, to our children, to our society. Fat should not be associated with beauty. Money and fame should not be the making of someone.
You may have noticed how our teenage girls are beginning to look the same? Most are starting to have big hair, big sunglasses, big handbags with little dogs inside them, and little bodies. We are teetering dangerously on the edge of becoming a cloned society. This is a shame because we have some beautiful individuals out there. Our children of today have so much choice, so much variety in the clothes, the technology they can buy…So why can’t this be reflected in their selves? Instead of buying same personalities they should be honing and nurturing the unique ones they have.
Mother Goose once said: the weekday children were fair of face, had far to go. The weekday children were loving and giving, full of grace, woe. While Saturday’s worked hard for a living. Sunday’s was fair and wise and gay. If we were to ask today’s child which they felt they were, they’d probably say all of that and then a little bit more. Rambunctious, ambitious, fool-hardy and fearless… No. of words: 961
Page 3Ends
Along with rambunctious, ambitious, fool-hardy and fearless; all attributes the general child aspires to be. The children of today think they’re the exception most of the time. They refuse to accept responsibility or consequence for their actions and yet feel they can handle privileges. In some ways this is a good thing. In others it is not.
So, why are today’s children growing more disrespectful and wanting to walk before they can crawl?
Choice; it has a lot to answer for.
Not implying that choice is the sole crux of the cause, there are other factors to be taken into account naturally, but choice does play a major part in the development of a kiddie’s personality.
Page 1A greater variety of anything is a cinch to get hold of nowadays. Technology is galore. A digital camera, ipod mini plus speakers, Telecom cell phone, Vodafone cell phone, hair straightener, either or all of these gadgets are likely to reside in the average child’s bedroom. Not just a girl’s room either, boys too have the option of straightened hair, as cared-for hair is becoming more and more accepted for the metro sexual male, just look at exemplar A: soccer stud David Beckham and his chameleon hair.
Bullet Proof 2
Image is a major deal. It determines whether you are liked or respected, it defines you as a person. At least this is the attitude shaping our youth. Social acceptance and pressure to be a certain way is existent everywhere.
It is a fact of life.
Underprivileged children, even they, worry about being the only kid in the class with cheap shoes. When clearly there are greater and more terrible things in the world to focus our energies on. The shoe department store Hannah’s has been a venue for many family tantrums I’m sure. Rugged Shark, the domineering rubber soled shoe that to the naked (non - parental) eye oozed coolness, caused a lot of upset for both kids and parents alike. All the kids felt inadequately dressed at school if their footwear resembled anything but.
It’s got to the point now that kids have a never ending want for stuff. They don’t necessarily need new things, or harbour a great desire even, but they still want them. Why? Because. Just, because.
They have so much stuff, and that’s what it is - stuff, they find it difficult to keep track of it all. Not to mention their little habit becomes grossly expensive to support.
Today’s children are still being kids it’s just they’re exposed to more; have more to contend with. It makes them streetwise before their time. It is scary to live in a world where drugs are made easily available to our youth.
Kids take too much responsibility; they don’t have enough or worse any emotion experience to deal when things go wrong. Opportunity is everywhere and they need guidance. It’s incredibly disheartening that kids not only have to be aware of their friends and selves, they have to be made aware and be protected from the unknown too.
Page 2
The style and social acceptance of celebrity role models is reflected in our youth, it yields a scary power. Attitudes are flawed by television’s materialistic societies, fabricated for entertainment but still potentially harmful, which spill over into real life. Certain programs lead kids to believe that certain behaviours are acceptable and are considered as the norm. With methamphetamine becoming a greater problem, marijuana in comparison is seen as not that big a deal. It could be worse, our kids think. This kind of attitude is damaging as by seeing it as only ‘dabbling’ and not harmful, they are condoning drug abuse. They don’t think of it this way. They believe they can take control of the situation; they are in control and know what they are doing. Some would say they’re “Too smart for their own good”. Inept they are.
Bullet Proof 3
When it comes to dealing with the nitty-gritty realities of life, they lack the experience and cool thinking to handle things when they turn ugly and pear-shaped. Watching a reality series where a girl drives along with her bejewelled hands barely on the steering wheel, in normal terms would be seen as dangerous and reckless behaviour, through the eyes of a young girl who sees the actress as the essence of cool, it’s not that big a deal. She could be driving with no hands OR she could be doing drugs, while doing so.
It Could Be Worse.
Being highly impressionable and keen to experience new things doesn’t make it any easier. It’s erosive, to our children, to our society. Fat should not be associated with beauty. Money and fame should not be the making of someone.
You may have noticed how our teenage girls are beginning to look the same? Most are starting to have big hair, big sunglasses, big handbags with little dogs inside them, and little bodies. We are teetering dangerously on the edge of becoming a cloned society. This is a shame because we have some beautiful individuals out there. Our children of today have so much choice, so much variety in the clothes, the technology they can buy…So why can’t this be reflected in their selves? Instead of buying same personalities they should be honing and nurturing the unique ones they have.
Mother Goose once said: the weekday children were fair of face, had far to go. The weekday children were loving and giving, full of grace, woe. While Saturday’s worked hard for a living. Sunday’s was fair and wise and gay. If we were to ask today’s child which they felt they were, they’d probably say all of that and then a little bit more. Rambunctious, ambitious, fool-hardy and fearless… No. of words: 961
Page 3Ends
Stage Left
Music is an escape exit.
No matter what mood, music has the ability to alter it. Music uplifts and understands. The sound, the sight, the feeling, I had settled for on the record player, radio and CD. Until I experienced it live.
It was my first rock concert, “The Rolling Stone’s: A Bigger Bang’’, April of last year. It felt surreal that I was at a Rolling Stones concert. Though I was precariously perched on a hill with a tree obscuring the view, it’s something I’d never miss.
Incredible! Mick Jagger was. Tinier then in person, but I could hear him. Keith Richards was incoherent at times; still we knew he wanted to play us a song. Who cares what he was trying to say? I was there, so were the Stones. That was all that mattered.
I thought nothing could top that. But at 2pm, 26th September while first in line outside the TSB Stadium, New Plymouth, It felt different. I knew that something incredible was going to be witnessed. I’m talking about the “INXS: Switched On” tour, of course.
I was right. It was incredibly different. Not better then the Rolling Stones; they’re a whole different show entirely (with numerous costume changes and a revolving stage in tow).
No. This was more intimate. And it had a lot to do with my position; the lone mike stand had been my direct view. I was front and centre. When the black curtain dropped and ‘‘Suicide Blonde” began, the atmosphere was exciting.
INXS were on and it didn’t seem real. I don’t know if it’s because you know who they are and what they do, but they have a presence about them, these ethereal rock stars.
No matter what mood, music has the ability to alter it. Music uplifts and understands. The sound, the sight, the feeling, I had settled for on the record player, radio and CD. Until I experienced it live.
It was my first rock concert, “The Rolling Stone’s: A Bigger Bang’’, April of last year. It felt surreal that I was at a Rolling Stones concert. Though I was precariously perched on a hill with a tree obscuring the view, it’s something I’d never miss.
Incredible! Mick Jagger was. Tinier then in person, but I could hear him. Keith Richards was incoherent at times; still we knew he wanted to play us a song. Who cares what he was trying to say? I was there, so were the Stones. That was all that mattered.
I thought nothing could top that. But at 2pm, 26th September while first in line outside the TSB Stadium, New Plymouth, It felt different. I knew that something incredible was going to be witnessed. I’m talking about the “INXS: Switched On” tour, of course.
I was right. It was incredibly different. Not better then the Rolling Stones; they’re a whole different show entirely (with numerous costume changes and a revolving stage in tow).
No. This was more intimate. And it had a lot to do with my position; the lone mike stand had been my direct view. I was front and centre. When the black curtain dropped and ‘‘Suicide Blonde” began, the atmosphere was exciting.
INXS were on and it didn’t seem real. I don’t know if it’s because you know who they are and what they do, but they have a presence about them, these ethereal rock stars.
Blind Kind
Without saying anything, you say it all
Without even trying, hard, you do it all
No change
In expression
Even when you like
To hide
Yourself away
I see you shy away from being one of them
The others.
Behind those inquisitive, free-spirited eyes is a seething, simmering shame
You’re untraceable, while implacable
You walk this difficult life
Without leaving a path for me to find
To follow and hold
It’s as if you’re unimpressed
But at the same in awe
of life’s ability to please and scar
To wreck, to score.
This life we lead, we walk with eyes closed,
As one we are strong, resilient; hard to bring down
But as single struggling beings,
We are meaningless without our team
Without even trying, hard, you do it all
No change
In expression
Even when you like
To hide
Yourself away
I see you shy away from being one of them
The others.
Behind those inquisitive, free-spirited eyes is a seething, simmering shame
You’re untraceable, while implacable
You walk this difficult life
Without leaving a path for me to find
To follow and hold
It’s as if you’re unimpressed
But at the same in awe
of life’s ability to please and scar
To wreck, to score.
This life we lead, we walk with eyes closed,
As one we are strong, resilient; hard to bring down
But as single struggling beings,
We are meaningless without our team
Spotless
It is a continuous fear that they will see through me; see me for the mess and abandon what I am.
Question
When a parent tells their four year old they can't understand them are they expecting too much??
Chaotic Chapter
A vanquished life lays before
As time creeps past evermore.
The baleful eye of others (forever trained)
On catching us at our worst, still remain.
A troubled soul must wander dark hallways
A wallowment, abandonment marking set ways.
Yet, be still. We box on, feign bravery at its strongest
Like some obsolete balloon, of dreams, clinging on for the title of 'longest'.
Turn away in disarray
Bow your head, turn cheek to a decay...
That is the building blocks of today;
Survival and its internal struggle ever lead astray.
As time creeps past evermore.
The baleful eye of others (forever trained)
On catching us at our worst, still remain.
A troubled soul must wander dark hallways
A wallowment, abandonment marking set ways.
Yet, be still. We box on, feign bravery at its strongest
Like some obsolete balloon, of dreams, clinging on for the title of 'longest'.
Turn away in disarray
Bow your head, turn cheek to a decay...
That is the building blocks of today;
Survival and its internal struggle ever lead astray.
Obstruction
Though tears cease to fall, to leak as before...To mask the off-beaten track of the mind so course; Their disability to soak and drench skin suggests a lack of feeling within.
Wandering blindly, self-harming by deceiving thought patterns and conclusion; A disturbing intrusion. As though the tears have hit a temporary dam, the indulgent sadness ebbs where emotion is jammed. Threatening to force a reckoning of misguidance...To set, pessimism as the one form of reliance.
I heard once, it was told to me that it was deemed mad to hide the signs of gladness which ironically lead to the definition of madness.
Wandering blindly, self-harming by deceiving thought patterns and conclusion; A disturbing intrusion. As though the tears have hit a temporary dam, the indulgent sadness ebbs where emotion is jammed. Threatening to force a reckoning of misguidance...To set, pessimism as the one form of reliance.
I heard once, it was told to me that it was deemed mad to hide the signs of gladness which ironically lead to the definition of madness.
L'esprit de l'escalier
"staircase wit" or L'esprit de l'escalier is remembering something when it is too late. i.e thought after the conversation has ended; a clever some-back...when you know everything at the start of an exam but forget all you've learnt once it begins...incidentally remembering every detail once it is over.
A Stormy Kind
I feel a storm coming...the clouds are rolling in.
It was different this morning...the air is now so thin,
so fragile and pretentiously foul;
I keep my head in a deepened bow.
The sky is angry...rippling with my fury.
As clouds divide...billow in size, the sheets of water fall at speed.
The sky, its torn heart: it pleads while it bleeds.
Bitter taste, the salty tears,
Thunder clap! He ever nears.
The boom and the thud...the thickening mud;
The lightning flash of our past...
The sky buckles and falls apart, the light splitting its seams like a dart.
It was different this morning...the air is now so thin,
so fragile and pretentiously foul;
I keep my head in a deepened bow.
The sky is angry...rippling with my fury.
As clouds divide...billow in size, the sheets of water fall at speed.
The sky, its torn heart: it pleads while it bleeds.
Bitter taste, the salty tears,
Thunder clap! He ever nears.
The boom and the thud...the thickening mud;
The lightning flash of our past...
The sky buckles and falls apart, the light splitting its seams like a dart.
Sunday, February 01, 2009
Contemplation
Impassive water spreads the width of human point of view.
Heat beats down upon my parched body, it strengthens and bares its wrath upon me...to the point where I can bare no longer.
Large billowing sheets catch in the wind; puff with pride as they lead their boom-baring captors around.
A mother, encourages her child to spell as they stroll around the balmy afternoon.
Sheer materials (silken and breathing) clad toned bodies as arms rise and fall in time with quickening feet.
Snatches of conversation loiter behind, at every turn of the winding path.
The headphones preech about forlorned love and volcanic activity.
-"What I give to you is just what I'm going through.
This is nothing new, just another phase (no,no)
Of finding what I really need is what makes me bleed..."
The unexplainable laughter finds more sense and meaning in this setting of infused lyric, infused image.
Impassive water spreads the width of human point of view.
Heat beats down upon my parched body, it strengthens and bares its wrath upon me...to the point where I can bare no longer.
Large billowing sheets catch in the wind; puff with pride as they lead their boom-baring captors around.
A mother, encourages her child to spell as they stroll around the balmy afternoon.
Sheer materials (silken and breathing) clad toned bodies as arms rise and fall in time with quickening feet.
Snatches of conversation loiter behind, at every turn of the winding path.
The headphones preech about forlorned love and volcanic activity.
-"What I give to you is just what I'm going through.
This is nothing new, just another phase (no,no)
Of finding what I really need is what makes me bleed..."
The unexplainable laughter finds more sense and meaning in this setting of infused lyric, infused image.
Today is the time for me to go
Driving down the road, windows wound right down and the stereo blaring. Arms hanging over window edge; waving in excitement at the freedom experienced as the Summer time glow begins. Untrained voices singing full-tilt as laughter and absurdity over spills- pallid skin bravely bares self to the sun as the possibility of infinite mischief takes hold.
Today is the time for me to go, to be on my own way.
To leap and bound along this heavy path. With shoulders aching, bearing a weight of pressure and distrust...an independence to be made.
Staring in the mirror and I look a little clearer,....
I see something that I thought would be fairer.....
A feeling of excitement bubbling through the error,....
I know,....
I’m caught.....
.. ..
And as I stand in disbelief at what I’m seeing, ....
An unfamiliar form of a confident being,....
I think of how far I’ve come in this small clearing....
And know,....
I’m caught.....
.. ..
Cause early in the morning when I used to wake up,....
I’d prize myself from my pillow, smeared in tear-stained makeup....
And I’d take my pill and dance around and try to shake up....
A feeling of lost cause.....
Today is the time for me to go, to be on my own way.
To leap and bound along this heavy path. With shoulders aching, bearing a weight of pressure and distrust...an independence to be made.
Staring in the mirror and I look a little clearer,....
I see something that I thought would be fairer.....
A feeling of excitement bubbling through the error,....
I know,....
I’m caught.....
.. ..
And as I stand in disbelief at what I’m seeing, ....
An unfamiliar form of a confident being,....
I think of how far I’ve come in this small clearing....
And know,....
I’m caught.....
.. ..
Cause early in the morning when I used to wake up,....
I’d prize myself from my pillow, smeared in tear-stained makeup....
And I’d take my pill and dance around and try to shake up....
A feeling of lost cause.....
Thoughtage
Books To Read In This Lifetime
Ulysses by James Joyce
Lolita by Vladimir Nabokov....
Anna Karenina by Leo Tolstoy ....
Madame Bovary by Gustave Flaubert ....
War and Peace by Leo Tolstoy ....
The Man Who Loved Children by Christina Stead....
.. ..
Scaramouche, by Rafael Sabatini....
.. ..
Jorge Luis Borges's Labyrinths.....
.. ..
17. Fyodor Dostoevsky The Idiot....
.. ..
26. Ralph Ellison Invisible Man
"I was looking for myself and asking everyone except myself questions which I, and only I, could answer. It took me a long time and much painful boomeranging of my expectations to achieve a realization everyone else appears to have been born with: That I am nobody but myself. But first I had to discover that I am an invisible man!"....
28. Stendhal The Red and the Black
"A novel is a mirror that strolls along a highway. Now it reflects the blue of the skies, now the mud puddles underfoot."....
52. Nathaniel West Miss Lonelyhearts....
.. ..
Raymond Chandler The Big Sleep....
67. Kingsley Amis Lucky Jim
70. Arthur Conan Doyle The Hound of the Baskervilles
"The world is full of obvious things which nobody by any chance ever observes."....
71. Jack Kerouac On the Road
"So in America when the sun goes down and I sit on the old broken-down river pier watching the long, long skies over New Jersey and sense all that raw land that rolls in one unbelievable huge bulge over to the West Coast, and all that road going, and all the people dreaming in the immensity of it... and tonight the stars'll be out, and don't you know that God is Pooh Bear?"....
77. Mary Shelley Frankenstein
"Life and death appeared to me ideal bounds, which I should first break through, and pour a torrent of light into our dark world."....
84. William Faulkner As I Lay Dying
"I could just remember how my father used to say that the reason for living was to get ready to stay dead a long time."....
71. Giuseppe Tomasi di Lampedusa: The Leopard
"For things to stay the same, things have to change"
Robert Musil The Man Without Qualities
"He is a man without qualities . . . There are millions of them nowadays . . . What he thinks of anything will always depend on some possible context -- nothing is, to him, what it is; everything is subject to change, in flux, part of a whole, of an infinite number of wholes presumably adding up to a superwhole that, however, he knows nothing about. So every answer he gives is only a partial answer, every feeling only an opinion, and he never cares what something is, only 'how' it is."
Thomas Mann The Black Swan
"One of the swans, however, pushing close against the bank, spread its dark wings and beat the air with them, stretching out its neck and hissing angrily up at her. They laughed at its jealousy, but at the same time felt a little afraid."....
Thomas Pynchon Gravity's Rainbow
"A screaming comes across the sky. It has happened before, but there is nothing to compare it to now."....
Ulysses by James Joyce
Lolita by Vladimir Nabokov....
Anna Karenina by Leo Tolstoy ....
Madame Bovary by Gustave Flaubert ....
War and Peace by Leo Tolstoy ....
The Man Who Loved Children by Christina Stead....
.. ..
Scaramouche, by Rafael Sabatini....
.. ..
Jorge Luis Borges's Labyrinths.....
.. ..
17. Fyodor Dostoevsky The Idiot....
.. ..
26. Ralph Ellison Invisible Man
"I was looking for myself and asking everyone except myself questions which I, and only I, could answer. It took me a long time and much painful boomeranging of my expectations to achieve a realization everyone else appears to have been born with: That I am nobody but myself. But first I had to discover that I am an invisible man!"....
28. Stendhal The Red and the Black
"A novel is a mirror that strolls along a highway. Now it reflects the blue of the skies, now the mud puddles underfoot."....
52. Nathaniel West Miss Lonelyhearts....
.. ..
Raymond Chandler The Big Sleep....
67. Kingsley Amis Lucky Jim
70. Arthur Conan Doyle The Hound of the Baskervilles
"The world is full of obvious things which nobody by any chance ever observes."....
71. Jack Kerouac On the Road
"So in America when the sun goes down and I sit on the old broken-down river pier watching the long, long skies over New Jersey and sense all that raw land that rolls in one unbelievable huge bulge over to the West Coast, and all that road going, and all the people dreaming in the immensity of it... and tonight the stars'll be out, and don't you know that God is Pooh Bear?"....
77. Mary Shelley Frankenstein
"Life and death appeared to me ideal bounds, which I should first break through, and pour a torrent of light into our dark world."....
84. William Faulkner As I Lay Dying
"I could just remember how my father used to say that the reason for living was to get ready to stay dead a long time."....
71. Giuseppe Tomasi di Lampedusa: The Leopard
"For things to stay the same, things have to change"
Robert Musil The Man Without Qualities
"He is a man without qualities . . . There are millions of them nowadays . . . What he thinks of anything will always depend on some possible context -- nothing is, to him, what it is; everything is subject to change, in flux, part of a whole, of an infinite number of wholes presumably adding up to a superwhole that, however, he knows nothing about. So every answer he gives is only a partial answer, every feeling only an opinion, and he never cares what something is, only 'how' it is."
Thomas Mann The Black Swan
"One of the swans, however, pushing close against the bank, spread its dark wings and beat the air with them, stretching out its neck and hissing angrily up at her. They laughed at its jealousy, but at the same time felt a little afraid."....
Thomas Pynchon Gravity's Rainbow
"A screaming comes across the sky. It has happened before, but there is nothing to compare it to now."....
Friday, November 21, 2008
Favoured Quotes and Songs
“You can’t be as much of a bitch as you were before, you can’t be as much of an egomaniac, you can’t feel as much like the world owed you something, you can’t be the “where’s mine?” guy. “ – Anthony Kiedis
My song is love
Love to the loveless shown
And it goes on
You don't have to be alone
Your heavy heart
Is made of stone
And it's so hard to see you, clearly
You don't have to be on your own
You don't have to be on your own
And I'm not gonna take it back
And I'm not gonna say I don't mean that
You're the target that I'm aiming at
Can i get that message home?
My song is love
My song is love unknown,
But I'm on fire for you, clearly
You don't have to be alone
You don't have to be on your own
And I'm not gonna take it back
And I'm not gonna say I don't mean that
You're the target that I'm aiming at
And I'm nothing on my own
Got to get that message home
And I'm not gonna stand and wait
I'm not gonna leave it until it's much too late
On a platform, I'm gonna stand and say
That I'm nothing on my own
And I love you, please come home
My song is love, is love unknown?
And I've got to get that message home.
.....................................................................................................................................................
Your eyes are full.
Full of the future of us.
The air changes as you look across at me in that wondering way.
It is as if I knew you before we spoke.
Do our hearts know something we dont?
Conspiring, converging without giving us any say?
You sing me to sleep, talk down the walls, look through my windows
As, I wait You could be the thief I give the key to.
You are ruining me with secrets and gestures and looks.
With sonnets and second-hand books, playing the chords in me nobody knew how to play.
You sing me to sleep, talk down the walls, look through my windows
As, I wait You could be the thief I give the key to.....
....
It fits in your hand like the water in me.....
Unlocks our two different sounds and shows we are the same.....
Rather than wait till I put me out for the taking you're breaking, you're breaking into my heart.....
....
And I'm letting you.
..............................................................................................................................................................
This song
Is one I never thought that I'd play
But if you want me gone
There are kinder ways to say
So long than spitting in my face
They don’t teach these things in school
They just lay down the rules which are there for you to break
Which are there for you to break
If I’m wrong
Then dust me off and put me in my place, but
Drop a bomb
Shall you blow me away without even a trace?
I’ll be gone and I won’t give chase
‘Cause when you’re in pieces, you pick up the bits, and nothing fits, and the wind blows
You away
Oh, the wind blows you away
Oh, the wind blows you away
Oh, the wind blows you away
I pray
There will come a time when I think of you and I smile
These days
Everything seems to last only a while
Remember the names
For the day when we’d have a child
But the trouble with dreams, they’re not what they seem, ‘cause when you awake, they fall through your fingers
In flakes
They fall through your fingers in flakes
They fall through your fingers in flakes
They fall through your fingers in flakes
“You can’t be as much of a bitch as you were before, you can’t be as much of an egomaniac, you can’t feel as much like the world owed you something, you can’t be the “where’s mine?” guy. “ – Anthony Kiedis
My song is love
Love to the loveless shown
And it goes on
You don't have to be alone
Your heavy heart
Is made of stone
And it's so hard to see you, clearly
You don't have to be on your own
You don't have to be on your own
And I'm not gonna take it back
And I'm not gonna say I don't mean that
You're the target that I'm aiming at
Can i get that message home?
My song is love
My song is love unknown,
But I'm on fire for you, clearly
You don't have to be alone
You don't have to be on your own
And I'm not gonna take it back
And I'm not gonna say I don't mean that
You're the target that I'm aiming at
And I'm nothing on my own
Got to get that message home
And I'm not gonna stand and wait
I'm not gonna leave it until it's much too late
On a platform, I'm gonna stand and say
That I'm nothing on my own
And I love you, please come home
My song is love, is love unknown?
And I've got to get that message home.
.....................................................................................................................................................
Your eyes are full.
Full of the future of us.
The air changes as you look across at me in that wondering way.
It is as if I knew you before we spoke.
Do our hearts know something we dont?
Conspiring, converging without giving us any say?
You sing me to sleep, talk down the walls, look through my windows
As, I wait You could be the thief I give the key to.
You are ruining me with secrets and gestures and looks.
With sonnets and second-hand books, playing the chords in me nobody knew how to play.
You sing me to sleep, talk down the walls, look through my windows
As, I wait You could be the thief I give the key to.....
....
It fits in your hand like the water in me.....
Unlocks our two different sounds and shows we are the same.....
Rather than wait till I put me out for the taking you're breaking, you're breaking into my heart.....
....
And I'm letting you.
..............................................................................................................................................................
This song
Is one I never thought that I'd play
But if you want me gone
There are kinder ways to say
So long than spitting in my face
They don’t teach these things in school
They just lay down the rules which are there for you to break
Which are there for you to break
If I’m wrong
Then dust me off and put me in my place, but
Drop a bomb
Shall you blow me away without even a trace?
I’ll be gone and I won’t give chase
‘Cause when you’re in pieces, you pick up the bits, and nothing fits, and the wind blows
You away
Oh, the wind blows you away
Oh, the wind blows you away
Oh, the wind blows you away
I pray
There will come a time when I think of you and I smile
These days
Everything seems to last only a while
Remember the names
For the day when we’d have a child
But the trouble with dreams, they’re not what they seem, ‘cause when you awake, they fall through your fingers
In flakes
They fall through your fingers in flakes
They fall through your fingers in flakes
They fall through your fingers in flakes
Friday, November 21, 2008
VOLITION
Damp hair matted her ageing face as she peered at the shelves of my local grocer. Her small features contracted in the artificial lighting. She studied the tinned food, while her shopping basket remained empty....
I watched as she pulled her motley cardigan nearer to her shivering body, her tiny feet rocking back and forth, offending all who noticed. ....
.. ..
The sadness had left her eyes when they landed on the lone tin of salmon, the fancy stuff.....
.. ..
She licked at her cracked lips and grasped the tin in her shaking hands. Just as she was about to place her find in the basket, she spotted the price. ....
.. ..
$8.50- for some reason this made her face fall.....
.. ..
She looked around and shoved the tin into her bag, but a thief she was not. Instead she screamed and hurled the tin away as if it had scolded her. The metallic clanging rang throughout the store, causing all to stop and stare at the weeping woman.....
.. ..
I bent down and picked up the tin that was causing so much heartache, stilling the deafening racket. I placed the tin in her basket along with a $20 note. The gesture was ridiculous at best, but I was in repair mode. The likelihood the woman even owned a can opener was slim, but the whispering had to stop. ....
.. ..
It felt like all the attention was on me, that I was the woman crying over dropped salmon; that I was the one who was displaced, different. Seeing a person so awkward and unsure with themselves made me uneasy, for I was a clone of society. I blended well.....
.. ..
I steered her towards the checkout, shielding her from view, and didn’t breathe properly till her and her shopping trolley house were leaving the car park, salmon in tow. ....
Damp hair matted her ageing face as she peered at the shelves of my local grocer. Her small features contracted in the artificial lighting. She studied the tinned food, while her shopping basket remained empty....
I watched as she pulled her motley cardigan nearer to her shivering body, her tiny feet rocking back and forth, offending all who noticed. ....
.. ..
The sadness had left her eyes when they landed on the lone tin of salmon, the fancy stuff.....
.. ..
She licked at her cracked lips and grasped the tin in her shaking hands. Just as she was about to place her find in the basket, she spotted the price. ....
.. ..
$8.50- for some reason this made her face fall.....
.. ..
She looked around and shoved the tin into her bag, but a thief she was not. Instead she screamed and hurled the tin away as if it had scolded her. The metallic clanging rang throughout the store, causing all to stop and stare at the weeping woman.....
.. ..
I bent down and picked up the tin that was causing so much heartache, stilling the deafening racket. I placed the tin in her basket along with a $20 note. The gesture was ridiculous at best, but I was in repair mode. The likelihood the woman even owned a can opener was slim, but the whispering had to stop. ....
.. ..
It felt like all the attention was on me, that I was the woman crying over dropped salmon; that I was the one who was displaced, different. Seeing a person so awkward and unsure with themselves made me uneasy, for I was a clone of society. I blended well.....
.. ..
I steered her towards the checkout, shielding her from view, and didn’t breathe properly till her and her shopping trolley house were leaving the car park, salmon in tow. ....
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)