Captain Sellout and the Film of Tomorrow

Last night, I forsook an opportunity to read poetry in favor of viewing a major Hollywood motion picture that took copious liberties with a hallmark of the English language. I'm now sitting alone in my office, waiting for the men in black coats with patches on the elbows to arrive and strip me of my English degree. But I'm still smiling.

Alright, perhaps the smile is a bit forced, but I really had a great time last night. My wife and I made a spontaneous decision to drive more than an hour to Portage, IN because it's the closest IMAX movie screen around here. I used to work in a movie theatre--I have tasted of that dark knowledge, the double-oil popcorn batch--and let me tell you, I haven't seen a place jumping this much since 1996. People streamed in and out of the doors, there was neon everywhere; it was so lively that I couldn't help thinking of our own, lonely local 16-screen cineplex and how amazingly dead it seemed by comparison. I pinched myself--yep, I was still in Indiana.

The great blazing light that drew me to the theatre and away from an intellectually fulfilling experience at the local coffeehouse was none other than Robert Zemeckis's Beowulf, in glorious 3-D on a screen whose height is measured in stories rather than feet.

The film was surprisingly true to the events of the epic poem, though they embellished it with a backstory which imparted, I believe, an "agreeable symmetry." All the major plot points and characters were there, from King Hrothgar's gregarious lot, to the great dragon which threatens Beowulf's people in his final days. But it was Grendel, first and foremost, that bought my attention and sealed my favor of the film. I won't try to describe it, but our introduction to the beast was chillingly perfect.

I keep seeing this in movie reviews, and I'll echo it here--if you get the chance, see it on an IMAX screen, in 3-D. It's worth it, at least if you're in love with movies. My wife and I have been, ever since we served time together in that box office, O so long ago.

Rare & Required

I want comments on this one. What are some recordings that, when you listen to them, you just can't get over how incredible they make you feel? I'm talking musical genius--to your ears, anyway. Not necessarily musical perfection, because I haven't a lick of technical knowledge to back that up. I mean those awe-inspiring recordings that you would play for anyone as proof of what music can be, how deeply it can reach. Or how about some obscure gem that you think might blow my mind, some underappreciated classic? Post about it, and here are a few of mine to start things off:

1. The Beatles' I Am The Walrus as performed by Oasis at the Glasgow Cathouse in June 1994, a recording which was included as a b-side on the Wonderwall cd single (the import version, anyway). It's just insane.

2. The song Some Devil by Dave Matthews, off the album of the same name. Minimalistic and haunted, just an incredible recording all around.

3. California Dreamin' by The Mamas & The Papas. No one could ever re-record that song and capture that atmosphere, it's just absolutely tight from start to finish.

4. Wild Is The Wind by Nina Simone. I first heard a portion of this on YouTube, playing over an innocuous scene taken from the film Scarlet Diva. I picked up the track at the first opportunity--her voice just floors me, and the song itself is fantastic.

5. Country Feedback by R.E.M. Another one of those songs where it just feels like so many factors collided so perfectly that they could never be repeated or improved upon. There's such heat and loneliness and aching in this track.

Directives To Self

In the spring--next time it comes around--go to the pond one bright midday and look for the swarms of new tadpoles, the ones that are like loose commas or spattered ink blots just beneath the surface of the water. You used to do this as a child, you remember the muck-smell and the impossibly gentle touch of twenty or thirty wriggling bodies in your palm, the cool water, the smells of life and death. When was the last time you did this? Feels like forever.

Then, it's been forever.

You also need to lay down in the grass before the snow gets here. Just fall onto the grass and let the earth clutch you as it spins. Feel the orbit, the almost unimaginable sweep of rotation, in your soul, the awesome faint rushing that is like being born across the snowfield on your father's back, or in your mother's arms, or pulled in the sled with your infant brother toward your grandparents' old home at twilight.

These are requirements. You cannot continue forward until you go this far back. At last you've reached the age where there are things you have not done in recent memory. The age where you find what you forgot you had.

A Graduation of Sorts

Today, I officially become the senior employee in my department. The last person who had been here when I started the occupation has now left for another job with another company. It was harder to watch her go than I expected, harder because nothing that happens here is supposed to really matter to me (my own rule, not theirs). But I liked this woman, a lot, not because she handled part of the load, but because she was such a good person. Nowadays everyone comes to me with their questions, and nowadays I seem to be full of answers. I was dragged kicking and screaming all the way, but after four years I have become an expert at my job--the English major who chronically skipped his classes has become a billing coordinator with over a hundred hours of unused vacation time.

Still, if you peel back the cover, or if you wait until nightfall downwind of the den, I promise, there is an artist who will emerge. He is always, always there.

Spiritual Volcanism

I exploded this weekend. My Adam's apple went sailing over the wall. Hair flew like ticker tape. A pair of lungs--I guess they were mine--inflated to the size of zepplins and burst. Ribs showered the football field, two states away. All of the smoke and ash that had been jacking up the pressure rose into the stratosphere, a dark column of confusion. My funny bone zinged across the parking lot, skidded to a halt in the shadow of a Tacoma's tire, spun there, spun and sputtered out like a firework flower. In the center of a charred circle of pavement my translucent ghost swayed and wavered, a little shell-shocked but so relieved. Now it's Monday; the flesh comes back like footage of detonated sandcastles played in reverse, and this time, I hope, there will only be little eruptions, or better yet, sound seismic doldrums prevailing beneath the sleepy desert.