semicolon cool

the new facebook layout has a funky set up that places your status in small font underneath your name. this is really inconvenient for my excessive use of the semicolon. my beloved punctuation mark of choice that was so strategically placed in between my name and my status no longer has a prominent role in the everyday monotony of my life. a few people had asked me why i used the semicolon instead of the dash (my second love) or the colon or the ellipses and my response was always the same: the semicolon brings two thoughts together, its like a bridge of association that links my name, me, with the quotes, thoughts or song lyrics on the other end - both ends can stand alone, yes, but connected together their meaning is that much more powerful (insert giant nerdy smile). i would just like to take this opportunity to say thanks for depriving me of one of my most recently discovered elements of (un)cool, mark zuckerberg & co.

black swan

between kanye west's runaway phoenix and my impromptu trip to the movies a few nights ago to see black swan, i think it's safe to say that i will be creating some sort of feathered get-up for myself very soon. but all in all, it was definitely nice to randomly see a movie as thought provoking as black swan (the additions to my mental log of "movie quotes i must find a way to use in every day life" was a plus too).

quick plot summary: it's a story about a painfully innocent ballerina and the crazy psychological trips that come along with her landing the lead role in a famous ballet "swan lake" which is about the ying and yang sides of a lovesick and seductive swan. but i'm not here to summarize so let's get to the good stuff.

first of all, i would like to applaud director darren aronofsky's use of only five colors throughout the film: black, white, pink, red and green (yupp - did ya catch that?). being a classy young lady who is obsessed with the polished look of beige pearls on black, white and creamy pink cloth, i was completely taken by the opening scenes of the movie that panned through nina's delicate and girly apartment and followed her through her daily ballerina rituals. once nina landed the lead role in "swan lake" (especially at beth's retirement ball) i realized that from then on, in every massive crowd scene, nina was the only one wearing white while everyone else wore black. red colors were present in violent and dangerous scenes obviously enough and green was present throughout nina's apartment (the celebratory cake, the rug in front of the door, her creepy mother's favorite bedside butterfly seat) clearly symbolizing her mother's envy of her career. although the color-as-commentary thing has been done before i thought it was a decent touch and worked well for this movie in particular - it was good to have simple sets to look at while my mind was looping around all of the wild plot twists and shit that was happening on the screen.

let's talk about said shit, shall we? what the hell went down in the middle of this movie?! can someone, ANYONE, explain it to me?! all i know is that she got high off some little white pill, had sex with a chick who turned out to be herself - at this point i'm still with it, still following along, still understanding - but then she woke up and BAM the broad's eyes start turning red and her knees start capping back, some sort of exorcism took place, she sprouted wings, shattered her mothers hand, beth repeatedly stabbed herself in the face with a nail file (seriously though, waayy too far), there was a weird shot where she sees beth/herself with a holey face in her apartment's dark hallway (this is when i got flashbacks to the sixth sense and that horrifying lady in the pink robe that just stands in the hallway puking on herself -shudder- ) and all i was thinking was "WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON HERE?!" in a matter of about twenty minutes i somehow went from watching a classic ballerina tale to watching a high budget, low taste horror movie without even leaving the theatre for so much as some overpriced popcorn and a quick whiz. needless to say, i HATE horror movies and find no pleasure in willfully causing myself anxiety or fear so this twenty minute segment was the first thing that ruined all chances of this film getting a five star rating on my scale.

even though this was more of an afterthought, the second thing that ruined the film were the few glitches in the writing. #1 was the "beth got hit by a car" scene. a ballet dancer with ruined legs? ya don't say? oh you mean like in benjamin button? you mean like in every other ballerina movie i've ever seen? (-eyeroll-) #2 was the "you are the only one standing in your way - lose yourself" scene. come on son, give the audience a little more credit in the intelligence department. they should've been picking up on the hints at that major theme of "losing yourself" throughout the movie, no need to blatantly state it in a cheesy mentor-mentee, monster-and-his-creator, let's-stare-in-the-mirror-so-you-can-see-who-you-are moment.

but on the positive side (and there's mostly positives despite the aforementioned ruins) what i found fascinating and brilliant about the movie was that it was a look into the psychological battle that comes along with taking on another character and perfecting an artform. most of the movie i kept thinking back to heath ledger, and many other actors before, who became so encompassed in perfecting certain roles, such as ledger's joker character, that it eventually (and allegedly i guess, but it makes sense to me) played a part in their self destructions. i felt like i was literally taking a step inside the actor's studio or something. following nina through her artistic insanity brought a very intimate and personal level to the movie that really wow'd me. not to mention there were some pretty damn good quotes for my inspirational quote book thrown in there. "you could be brilliant, but you're a coward" - i sat back and contemplated my life for a little bit after mr.le'roy barked this line at nina. one of my biggest fears in life is that my cowardice will covet my creativity and hinder me from being the artist/writer/extremely cool person that i know i am. but i guess now i know that the key lies in "losing myself."

overall rating: 3.5 / 5 stars
give-back: the nail file self-mutilation scene - too far man, too far.
take-away: "perfection isn't just about control, it's also about letting go. you have to surprise yourself as much as you surprise your audience."
fun fact: i used to violently scratch myself in my sleep and one time when i was like eleven i got an allergic reaction to only god knows what kind of dander in the air at some place i don't remember and one side of my face broke out into what looked like snake scales and for a good five minutes during the movie i thought "i am the black swan."

random thoughts of the day 001

+ white people like using "bud" to refer to little boys
+ new york city doesn't care about black people
+ the city of boston sure does - pam & jim will be damned if they're at the office while stanley & oscar get a "snowed in" pass iifff you know what i mean
+ "you've got a lot of shit in your face," doctor on my sinus infection - i wonder how you would translate that sentence into hundred thousand dollar med school lingo ::chin tap::
+ i believe the great negrodamus paul mooney once said that an old black man is the most racist person in america - clearly he hasn't met an old cape verdean man

don't call it a comeback

“comebacks” require leaving and, well, technically i never left. i would log into this blog at least once a week, stare blankly at the page for like five minutes, then say out loud “now, what was i going to do?” and i always ended up signing into facebook – kanye shrug. but talent is stagnant, my friends, so don’t call it a comeback.

take it away, mark !

love wall

holy matrimony at it's finest - art .

hey, mr. carter

"i don't care if it's me on the news going to jail, when they talk about me it's 'the grammy award winning, lil wayne.'" he might have spoken a little too soon considering his current situation, but it definitely didn't take going to jail to get this guy on the news.

before i left campus this past semester a friend of mine was on his "i dont have a summer job so i'm improvising" grind. he invested in some plain white t's and printed, in the simplest bold red font, "free weezy" on the chest and went around selling them for fifteen bills a pop. i bought the shirt out of support for the cause rather than for the message. i was scrambling to find something to wear that first day back home for the summer break (of course i wouldn't start unpacking for another two weeks) and the weezy tee was the only thing in plain sight so i tossed it on and headed out on my way to pay a visit to the local boys & girls club. i walked in the door and as i'm saying hello to the snotty nosed kids i used to work with one chubby faced little boy in particular read my shirt to himself and blurted out "who's weezy?! that's yo boyfren or somefin?!" hilarious, especially because he had chocolate all over his shirt (at least i hope it was chocolate) and cookie crumbs all over his face and spoke in that little kid "i don't have volume control so even though it's not loud in here i'm shouting" voice. but i did the expected and told him in the flattest sarcastic tone that yes, yes it was my boyfriend because i definitely know how to pick 'em and would have an incarcerated lover, and then i walked away. as i made my way into the head office, planning to try and hustle a summer job for myself, one of the directors saw my shirt, stared, and then smiled and said "free weezy huh?" my brother looked at him and asked, "you know weezy, right mike?" to which this pot-bellied, middle-aged white man with a boston accent said, "oh yeah, of course i do... he was my favorite of the seven dwarves." needless to say i regretted wearing the shirt that day. in fact, i regretted buying it. i felt like a phony - i didn't care that lil wayne was in jail, let alone care about getting him out. frankly, i didn't know much about him in general, so i decided to make the shirt mean something, or at least to give myself a defense for wearing it.

i've never been an avid wayne fan, barely knew about his music besides what i heard on the radio actually, so i figured i'd educate myself on the hype. of course, in my backwards way, i didn't go to the most obvious source of information, his music. instead, i went to a documentary a friend of mine told me about back at school, "the carter." what i expected to see was a series of extended shots of wayne in the studio sprinkled with some outlandish snippets of his "rockstar lifestyle" and, of course, plenty of close-ups of his styrofoam cups. but, much to my surprise (and pleasure) i got so much more than that. this short film, or rather, this long recording, didn't necessarily reconcile my back-and-forth relationship with mr.carter's music, but it damn sure made me respect him as an artist.

mr. carter lives by a "no evidence" theory - he doesn't write any of his lyrics down anymore in the hopes that only music will precede him. after all, he is not a poet, he is a rapper. he masters and remasters his words verbally, strictly tongue-powered and hands-free. he put out a mixtape some years back called "10,000 bars" in which he took the last of his written rhyme books and just spit everything in them in a continuous, unfractured, extensive track, tearing apart the pages as he spoke the words, destroying the written aspect of his music. my mind was blown. it was an innovative concept, no arguments there, but to me it seemed like he was creating more work for himself. i mean, it's difficult enough to write a nice rhyme, but it must be damn near impossible to think and rethink one without any visual aid. it's like wayne told his overtly enthusiatic manager when they found out that tha carter III sold a shit ton of records upon release, "niggas go platinum everyday. eat you some soup." if you're ambitious enough to tell yourself that expertise is only a checkpoint and not a finish line - and you work hard enough to reflect that mentality - then damn it, i commend you, mr. carter.

his thought process is pretty remarkable. if you listen passed the muffled, cough syrup guzzling murmur in his voice you'll hear some serious gems. "repition is the father of learning, i repeat, repition is the father of learning. intelligence, all that comes from repition. awareness, preparation, all that comes from repition. money, bitches, all that comes from repition. rotation. record spins. repition." i drew my cursor back to the beginning of that thirty seconds again and again, listened to these words over and over, watched that tiny segment of the documentary maybe four or five times in a row just taking in that statement. then i realized something: this man's career thrives on repition, especially since he refuses to physically write down his rhymes. he can't see his words so his ears are his only tools, he can only create by sonically repeating everything. there's plenty of footage in the film where we just watch him spit the same rhyme over and over and over again: that's discipline. that's patience. that's crafting. interestingly enough, i found myself replaying these scenes several times before letting the documentary run it's course again. it was in these scenes that i felt like i was learning what he's about as an artist, what perfecting his talent is all about. his voice recording, the camera capturing the repition, me watching it all in rotation - the cycle of learning is beautiful. the man may have accidently shot himself in the chest when he was only eleven and he may look like a black leprachaun birthed in a back-alley in baton rouge but it's all wisdom, really - it's all fueling the flames.

if i am ever given the opportunity to interview this man i'd ask one simple question: "hey mr. carter, tell me, where have you been?" i'd want to kick back and listen to him talk, just spit 10,000 bars plus about all the shit he's seen and done, hasn't seen and wants to do - and i wouldn't write a damn thing down. i'd record it, and let it repeat like a record until i could read it back, like a book.

triple threat

black & white tux - ain't no need for no other colors.