Monday, December 26, 2011

Behind the word



   Looking out of one of my living room windows, I see at a street sign I've viewed many times, both from the front and the back. The sign reads, "Arguello", with white letters on a green background with white trim along the edges. This is the name of the street where I live. The sign is probably meant to inform people driving or walking east on Cornwall Street that they have just arrived on Arguello Boulevard, but looking at it from the back, as I currently am, it seems that this sign is intentionally keeping things out of view from the people and cars approaching. Visually, it doesn't allow them to see the construction of the sign as I can, or how it is affixed to the light pole that displays it. Beyond the visual, it strikes me as only showing one side of itself, the informational side. Because I live in an apartment behind the writing, I see the sign in a different way, precisely because the word is not visible to me. I see the construction as purely informational, because the word printed on it does not make me forget that I am looking at a sign.
   Thinking about the sign in this way leads me to think about how language functions as I seek to think about and describe myself to myself, and how it leads me to believe that it has no function other than to make my thoughts and feelings concrete. In reality, it seems to me that the words in my brain are not unlike the one printed on this sign. They provide a sense of reality to me about my existence, but they are more tangible than the feelings I am trying to understand. In back of them is a construction invisible even to me, who is supposed to reside there.

Sunday, December 25, 2011

An in between place

   If one wants to make contact with another person, whether a friend or stranger, how does one do this? Certainly, they can go for a walk, or perhaps make a transaction in a store. They can go into a coffee shop and look at the people around them when they drink their coffee. They could also sit and look at pictures of people they feel close to that aren't there while drinking their coffee, or go to a drugstore to buy a pack of gum, and talk to someone 200 miles away and the person in front of them at the same time, interchanging between the two. With email and social networking available on people's cell phones, it's easy to connect with people who aren't there without speaking or emoting in any way.
   In my own case, it seems that the more comfortable I become talking to people that aren't in front of me on my smartphone while I am amongst other people, the more skillful I become being in two places at once psychically, or, at being in neither place. It's a strange feeling when I really think about it, to be in between places. I often feel quite related to the world after talking to a good friend on my phone, but while engaged in conversation, I often have a sense of being nowhere, although it seems that I am physically. 
   When I am with my wife or a friend in a restaurant or on the street, and they are on their phones, I often feel like I am not in their world at that time, even though I am in very close proximity to them. Even if they give me some kind of sign to show me that they will be terminating their conversations soon, it's like they're saying to me that I will reappear in their surroundings when they finish their conversations. It's a strange sensation to have one's sense of placement in their own bodies' be determined in part by someone present, but not here

Tuesday, December 13, 2011

North Face jackets




The North Face outlet store, San Francisco

   I recently discovered that The North Face company began in San Francisco in 1966. Is that an amazing discovery? Not really, but really informative for me, as I've been wanting to jot down some thoughts on the abundance of North Face jackets worn by the people of the San Francisco bay area, and have been stymied as to why these garments are so omnipresent in this city I live in.
   I've read that this brand is very popular because the weather in San Francisco is so changeable, being a city of micro climates. That may account for part of this company's success, but I believe that there's another, more determinant reason; casualness.
   San Francisco is a city located in the northern part of a laid back state, of which it may well be the most laid back city. People here like to 'dress down', and it seems to me that North Face clothing is the clothing de rigeur of the laid back. Wearing one of these jackets is like a red tie and dark gray suit for a Wall Street power broker. I know that casually dressed people (of which I am one) probably dislike intensely the idea that they may wear a suit of some kind, but I'm afraid that they do. It's just a casual suit.

Sunday, December 11, 2011

Stopped




   I have been fascinated for years by the markings found on the street. Commands, instructions and symbols are just some of the things I've seen below me as I walk or drive. The paintings were done at some point in the past, and although seemingly well thought out and planned when executed, the time elapsed since then has often altered or amended their original designs.
   If pavement needs to be replaced, the new patch often obscures part of the message or markings around it. When a manhole cover needs to be removed, the workers who put it back don't seem to care or notice if it is returned in it's original position, and so the original design is changed. It is in these alterations that I can see the passage of time, and understand, at least temporarily, that people often collaborate without the same goals and work together unknowingly to create something new. Although I find these new markings to be beautiful illustrations of time, I am at the same time disappointed that the cooperation is unintentional. While it is true that I witness cooperation often in my daily life, it strikes me as existing generally to avoid violence, chaos, and usually serves the mundane. When participation is beautiful because it is difficult or hard to name, it is by and large moralized or belittled.
  


Thursday, December 1, 2011

The ins and outs of acting in television commercials




Actor Dennis Haysbert

   I have probably seen tens and tens of thousands of television commercials in my life. I never want to see these commercials, but it seems like too much of an effort to either walk away from the screen or cover my eyes and ears every time they are shown. Commercials have always been a part of my television watching experience, and are now a part of my movie theater experience as well. Owing to the fact that I've always found commercials to be a kind of necessary evil (necessary because I don't have the choice to remove them while watching television), I've never really concentrated very much on them. Because of this, I have tended not to think much about their construction and execution (whereas I do tend to analyze these in things I've chosen to see), and they therefore have a kind of selfsame, whole quality for me. By appearing seamless, the actors and actresses in these short films are more difficult to separate from the spots they're in and the characters they portray.
   The actor in the picture above, Dennis Haysbert, would probably be considered more of a spokesman for the insurance company he represents in commercials than an actor portraying a role, but the question of what the actor is portraying in these pieces has become one of interest for me. When an actor or actress plays a role in a commercial, are they interpreting a person to be believed as existing in the world depicted in the the advertisement, or are they taken to be an actor portraying a role of that person? It's an important distinction, because I think that when I watch a film, or even a situation comedy on television, I will be more interested in what I see if I can suspend my disbelief about the situation I am witnessing, and so believe a little bit more that the characters I see are real
   In the case of a spokesperson, it is apparent that the viewer is being asked to take the word of the actor or actress to verify the validity or quality of the product they are selling, and so understand them as existing both inside of and outside of the commercial. If someone performs in an advertisement, and they are viewed not as a spokesperson, but as an actor or actress, seen to exist only inside of the scene they are in, then where is they're outside for me the viewer? And if I should be the the person acting in one of these advertisements, then where would my inside be? 

Saturday, November 26, 2011

Putting the we in them



Some of the San Francisco Giants baseball team

   I live in San Francisco, and although I don't pay much attention to professional baseball, I do on occasion find myself around people that follow it closely, and often these people talk about their favorite baseball team by using the pronoun "we". They say things like, "we have one three games in a row", or "we should trade him (such and such a player) to another team". It strikes me as quite interesting, and odd, that a person should be pleased to be a part of something that offers them so little recognition. While I'm certain that the players of the San Francisco Giants know in a very general way that they have quite a large number of fans in the San francisco area, I'm also pretty sure that they know very few of them personally, while the fans seem to know a lot about the players.
   It is, of course, not at all unusual that a member of the general public should know more about a public figure than that figure does him or her, yet rarely would you hear a person refer to themselves and say, a pop singer, as "us". The public does not try to avoid the fact that they are the passive person in the relationship, yet these baseball fans seem quite satisified with, in fact, seem to celebrate, this apparently skewed association.
   There's no doubt about the roles assumed in this accord; the fans are the followers of the team, they sit in the their seats at the stadium or in their homes watching the players perform. Perhaps they jump up, yell, or clap on occasion, but they are still passively involved, if at all. They use a pronoun of inclusion, but it is a lie; they are not a part of. They are voyeurs, and to be a voyeur is to be outside of the action.
 

   

Thursday, November 24, 2011

The lonely city



The view from one of my living room windows this morning

   Today is Thanksgiving day, I don't have to work today or tomorrow, and I my wife and I are invited to a good friend's house for a meal this evening. These things would certainly be on my wish list, would I to have one, if I were to detail things I'd like for the next two days. Still, I wake up with a healthy dose of melancholy this morning; it's drizzling outside, and there's a feeling of sadness inside of me.
   I can recall many years when I would look out of my window on Christmas, Thanksgiving or New Year's Day, and be moved by the stillness outside. I've lived in cities my entire life, and it's really difficult not to notice the quiet on these occasions. I love it when it's quiet, but the silence on these days is impregnated with a loneliness for me. I know that the lack of movement around me signifies that the people who would normally be busily walking or driving their cars are probably with their families or friends, yet I imagine all those people being alone. It's as if human isolation is made more tangible by a sense of community.
   There have been many years that I have experienced these holidays, sometimes having a place to go, and sometimes not, at times alone, and sometimes with a partner or wife, but this feeling I have doesn't seem contingent on my own plans or company for the day. When I look out of the window, the relative calm makes the city look lonely and superfluous. Is it that the city planners, architects, designers and engineers all worked together to produce something that was not useful or appreciated? Perhaps the city is just being given a well deserved day off? Still, I find it difficult to comprehend how the calm that I so value can leave me feeling so hollow.

Friday, November 11, 2011

An inverted world



Tray molding
  
   When I was a kid I used to enjoy laying on my back on the hardwood floors of the living room where I grew up. I would stare straight up, examining the molding which outlined the door frames and the geometric shapes which it created on the ceilings. I would imagine what it would be like if what was above me was under me, if the ceiling could become the floor that I would walk on. It always seemed to me that life would be so much better if this part of my world could just be reversed. It didn't suggest to me that everything would suddenly be perfect, but it certainly registered that it would be more interesting and beautiful. It also allowed me to exist in a sort of half-awake, dreamlike state, of the sort when you wake up from a nap and stare off into space without really seeing. I've always enjoyed that feeling.
   I remember thinking that what would then become the floor would be trickier to walk on, as I would have to be careful not to trip on or break those elegant shapes, and I also recall that the different rooms would be extremely difficult to enter and exit, as the entrances would be raised. Still. whatever the practical difficulties, that inverted world offered a kind of parallel life, and a parallel life seems like a great way to escape my own.
   There have been times since those years that I have been laying down, looked up to see molding on walls or ceilings, and tried to recapture that feeling of being able to gently drift into that other place, but have not been able to relive that sensation. Perhaps I don't need to psychically leave my world in the same way that I used to, or maybe that kind of imaginative existence is no longer available to me. Whatever the reason, the closest I seem to get to that invertible world is a bout of vertigo.

Sunday, November 6, 2011

The sound of words

   I enjoy a wide variety of music, including that of other countries, and especially music produced during the 1970's in Ethiopia, Senegal, music from 1930's in Greece, and am currently listening to a lot of the Romanian singer Maria Tanase. The music I enjoy allows me to glimpse into other cultures, but music from countries where english, my primary language, is not spoken, affords the great pleasure of hearing the sounds of the lyrics, rather than comprehending their meanings. The words take on a different form, as they become wholly musical, and evoke an emotional response based on how they are enunciated. They are all inflection, and that inflection is so moving to me. I have tried to listen to music that is sung in a language known to me with the same open ears, but my own understanding closes that door. 
   When I listen to a beautiful voice emphasizing and accenting english words, it often sounds forced to me, but when I hear a singer in another language doing this, I listen to the words as music, and the music comes heartfelt and sad. It seems that the sadness I feel inside is lost when I can describe it too well.

Maria Tanase

Thursday, November 3, 2011

The guilty lights




   Some people seem to be very good liars, while others are not. I think that I'm fairly adept at being able to fool others, but I usually pay for my deceptions with feelings of guilt and a quick plummeting of whatever sense of self worth I had managed to acquire before the lie. I really can't say what abilities make up a good liar, but it certainly appears that if one is going to do something wrong, it's would be best not to advertise it.
   If you have just robbed a bank or assaulted someone, it would probably be ill advised to approach a police officer to tell them that you have not done anything wrong. You would be calling attention to yourself, and a deception relies on, it seems to me, a high degree of anonymity. The more you try to convince a person that thinks you are lying that you are not, the more of a liar you appear.
   I find it very interesting that car owners tend to put on their hazard lights when they are parked illegally. I understand that this is ostensibly done when a car is double parked in the road to warn other drivers that the car in question is in fact stopped, and thus communicates to other drivers that they should go around it. If the vehicle is stopped in an illegal parking place, such as a no stopping zone, the lights seem to be communicating that the car's operator is only parked there temporarily. In either circumstance, and others where one sees hazard lights used for something other than warning of a potential or real hazard, it seems that these lights are flashing specifically to say, "I know I'm parked illegally, but please don't give me a ticket".
   This plea to traffic enforcement appears to be based on the ancient idea of confession, and the belief that if one admits to one's misdeeds, then that person should be forgiven. The person knows that they have wronged, but they are throwing themselves on the mercy of the court. They are pledging to do better next time.
   Socialized into and by a system that appears to relish the idea, at least in theory, that people are able to err, wrong their  rights, and begin life anew, it is reassuring to know that an individual can have a new future, where they can forget the one they knew themselves as, and became the better person they always wished they could be. The illegally parked automobile flashing their hazard lights seem to say, please don't punish the person I am in the process of leaving behind. Thank you.

Wednesday, October 26, 2011

Public garbage cans


A garbage can in San Francisco


   When you grow up in New York City, as I did, you become accustomed to the sight of dumpsters in the street, large containers parked outside apartment buildings where construction or renovation is going on. My father used to love climbing the sides of these receptacles to see if there were pieces of wood, slightly broken chairs or tables, or wooden wire spools inside which he could use to make furniture with. I used to enjoy helping him retrieve the things from these bins, and was always fascinated by the absence which the objects seemed to illustrate.  At one time integral parts of other people's lives, these castaways were the only thing about these people that were in any way tangible to me, and the mystery of their previous environments always captured my imagination. Although I never become the dumpster-lover that my father was, my experiences with him transferred onto another part of the city that pointed to the absence of others for me; the garbage cans and trash one finds on the street. Although in San Francisco, California, my current home, one is less apt to see garbage in the street than in New York City, and the garbage cans here hide their contents more effectively, I have been again thinking about the subject of public trash receptacles. 
   As I sit down to write, I recall a teacher of mine who in art history class quoted on more than one occasion a few words from F.T. Marinetti's futurist manifesto of 1909. The words were, "Oh, maternal ditch", and were used by Marinetti to describe his near rapturous state when he finds himself in a sewage ditch, submerged in filthy water following an automobile accident . I don't find the thought of laying in dirty water particularly moving, but those words seemed very important to my teacher, and the emotional response that the words illicit in me still resonate very strongly, and have stayed with me all these years later.  For me, it is all that is unknown about where the refuse comes from that is poignant. 
   When I see a garbage can being utilized, my mind fills with the negative spaces of all that I don't know about the things inside; where did they come from, who put them there, and why were they no longer needed? If I choose to see the receptacle less in terms of absence and more in terms of construction, the thoughts change to what is being assembled, and how are these ideas communicated by the different contributors? Either way, the questions and empty spaces overcome the known, and I am left wondering. I assume that this absence and loss is for me is a kind of spirituality, and that the body which houses my soul is a garbage can.



Garbage cans from my younger years in New York City

Friday, October 21, 2011

Napping

                                   


  For me, there is a time during the day when my brain is telling me to close my eyes, lay down, and give my ability to reason a rest; it is nap time. Napping, as an activity, is even more necessary to me than vacationing, relaxing and dining. In fact, it is the prerequisite for making these other activities enjoyable. It is the nucleus which holds the pleasurable aspects of the world I exist in together.
   Usually beginning around two in the afternoon, I start to get a little cranky, I grow impatient with the people and things around me, and I long for escape and rejuvenation....but mostly escape. There was a time, what seems like a lifetime ago, when drugs or alcohol seemed the logical way to avoid having to exist consciously during all those waking hours. But now that I am older, and those solutions don't work like I'd like them to, I've returned to my original love; the nap.
   I remember growing up and watching my father nap on the days when he didn't work, of the peaceful look on his face, and recall how refreshed and better spirited he appeared when he woke up. It was clear the benefits he received from this rest time, yet he seemed so weak in some way to me, needing to do that as he did. As a person in my early teen years, it seemed like he was wasting so much time; now, it seems more like a way to die temporarily, and when I think of it in that way, it just sounds so great.
   It often feels like I never give my brain a rest, endlessly using it to assess, calculate and recalculate. It seems so overworked. A friend of mine used to say, albeit jokingly, that the only way to really rest on a vacation was to be on life support. I think that kind of gets to the root of it for me.

   Above, is a PET scan of a brain during sleep deprivation.

Monday, October 17, 2011

Wild animals




   This is a picture of a coyote that I took in the Marin Headlands, just across the Golden Gate Bridge, north of San Francisco, California. My wife and I often take a short drive there at either dusk or dawn in hopes of seeing animals in the wild, and this time we were lucky. The coyote leisurely trotted next to the road, which is near a small body of water called Rodeo Lagoon, seemingly undisturbed by our presence. I treasure these moments of encountering something in the wild, because they seem so much more real to me than the other experiences I have in my life. A wild animal in its' environment seems so much more natural to me than mine.  The word nature is also used to connote what we see when we leave the city to experience tranquility, and a slower pace of life. How can anything be more natural than nature?
   The Merriam-Webster dictionary's first definition of the adjective 'natural' is "based on an inherent sense of right and wrong", but the first definition for the noun 'natural' is "one born without the usual powers of reason and understanding". So, it seems that is is natural to be born without the ability to make judgments based on reasoning, but it is unnatural to not develop it inherently. It's confusing.
   We all live in the environments that we do, and it is the reality for us. The coyote in the picture goes about it's routine, searching for food and water, sleeping, assessing things around it, and keeping clear of danger, much the way animals confined in a zoo or controlled habitat do, albeit in different
surroundings. As a human being, I do much the same thing that other animals do, but my searches seem more regimented and planned.
   I can easily see crows, pigeons, ducks and gophers here in the city, but they seem much less wild to me, so I venture to 'nature'.  Is one environment more authentic than another?
   Maybe if I could manage to think of myself as something that had to traveled to in order to be seen, as something mysterious, I could manage to feel more real. Perhaps I could then look in the mirror, and see a wild animal.

Monday, October 10, 2011

The voice of Gene Clark


   I've been wanting to write about Gene Clark for some time now, but have always felt somewhat overwhelmed when I think of how to describe how I feel about his music. While I don't love all of his material equally, there are some songs which I find so hauntingly sad, that I just want to listen to them over and over again, to be able to live in that pain for a while.
   Gene Clark has been written about by many, and there is always talk of his stage fright, fear of flying, and his alcoholism and drug addiction. Of course, there are many reasons why people develop the emotional responses to things that they do, but for me, even though he was said to be unpredictable and difficult to work with, it seems like Gene Clark was just too fragile. When I listen to the song, "With Tomorrow", and I hear the opening guitar, how it seems that the notes are just barely able to be pulled out, it seems the entire structure is in danger of collapsing. I don't find this to be necessarily true of all of his songs, but there is always a bittersweet quality, a crushing vulnerability.
  Gene Clark died at the age of 46 of a heart attack, one year younger than I am now. After years of health problems, he had undergone surgery three years earlier, where he had much of his stomach and intestines removed, those areas having been irreparably damaged by ulcers. It's as if the world had infected his body, and removing it proved difficult, and not without complications.
  With hindsight at my disposal, it seems that Gene Clark's voice carried with it his past resentments and regrets, current fears and anxieties, and his body's future pains. That's a heavy load for a voice to carry.

Wednesday, October 5, 2011

Greetings from my car bumper


 I'm often fascinated by the bumper stickers people put on their cars. Sometimes political in message, other times amusing or espousing a kind of annotated version of one's life philosophy, it's always seemed to me like a really odd place to put a message. If your car is parked next to another car, it will certainly be difficult to see. If you're driving at any kind of decent speed, and able to be read by the person behind you, they're most certainly too close. A traffic jam seems physically like the ideal time to take in the message of the person in front of you, but emotionally, probably not.
   In these times we live in, where everyone is constantly looking down at their smartphones, I often have a kind of floating feeling, like I'm not really sure if I'm here at all. There are people around me, but they seem to be somewhere else and here at the same time. I wonder if the people they're texting, or the news or pictures they're seeing, are as real as me. It's like living in a painting where the perspective is off. It's hard to feel rooted.
   I thought that this bumper sticker makes some sense, in that it expresses some of these feelings for me. If it's on the rear bumper on my car (as it has been), the person behind me would need to be pretty close to me to see it, but to read it well would have to be seeing it in their rear view mirror, so it would no longer be backwards. Their relationship to me in that position would be strange. In a way, that seems to make sense.


Monday, October 3, 2011

The chew that hints at another world...

  I don't find many commercials very memorable, mainly because they are usually so commonplace and lacking humanity. Even the more unusual and expressive ones are so seamless and well executed that they become banal. There's no room for me, a breathing, imperfect person. I am alienated from myself because I am too organic.            
  Sometimes, however, there airs a commercial which manages a space for me to enter, and the portal can be created from its' poor quality, an awkward moment, bizarre dialogue, or a strange image. In a new commercial from Long John Silver's Restaurants, it's the final image of a man chewing, which invites me in and says, welcome to another world. In the fifteen second spot, two employees of the chain restaurant (with the Pepsi logo proudly displayed behind them) inform us that they make their chicken with their "world famous batter", whereas "the other guys" (presumably, their competition) make chicken with breading. The counter is stainless steel and spotless, and the restaurant appears without customers, or more correctly, emptied. It is antiseptic and cold. The scene then cuts to show two pieces of chicken, batter being poured into a bowl, and a basket of chicken and french fries on a table. 
  Suddenly, we are treated to a flurry of activity as we see a busy restaurant with our man putting his fork to his mouth, and beginning the enjoyable process of chewing his food. He chews with self assurance, but looks like he has nothing in his mouth, even though we've seen him put a piece in it. His chewing is so, well, chewy, and his mouth is so closed, that it almost looks like he trying to tell us something with the shapes his mouth form. Front-to-side he chews, as if imitating a machine, when suddenly, the commercial is over, but not before leaving us with the image of that final chew, a motion that looks like the one before it, yet is cut too short and abbreviated to really register as a human being masticating their food. It's more like something else. What is it like? I'm not really sure, and it's there where I can enter.