Rainy Day on the Bus = Skank-Nastiness
It has occurred to me for a while that I haven�t done much writing since I�ve moved to Madison (and very little writing about writing). Maybe there are times in life for sitting alone, meticulously, recording and other times to be doing the stuff that is worth recording at some undetermined future date. There may have been a week in August when I wrote almost as much as I have since I moved to town.
We�re watching Michael Snow�s �Wavelength� tomorrow night (and 40mins of Warhol�s 6-hour epic �Sleep,� which I�ve, regrettably, never seen) in avant garde film class � films like these are familiar even to amateur film students � but this is a little genre of films that embody what has been described as a �boredom aesthetic.� (Warhol�s ingeniously entitled �Sleep� is a 6hr film of six-shots of a man sleeping) �Wavelength� is a 45min film that consists of a stationary shot - set on a slow zoom from a long shot of an interior of a NYC loft and slowly transitioning to a tight close-up of a photo on an anterior wall. Mechanically, the movement is so slight, it doesn�t register to the eye as real movement � and instead the film is a slow-going meditation where almost magically, the image track changes, but its actual movement in space is unperceivable instant by instant. I don�t think I�ve ever quite realized how common this experience is � how we often perceive change this way � and it seems striking, especially when upon moving to a new place, setting up house, starting a new job � and then suddenly, several months have passed, time for a haircut, and I can�t exactly fill in all of the middle ground moments that brought me from some other place to now.
Much of this kind of thinking is brought on because I just finished watching �Time Indefinite,� Ross McElwee�s follow-up sequel to another film I have grown heartbreakingly fond of, �Sherman�s March.� These films comprise the backbone of a research paper I am consumed by right now � something on autobiographical filmmaking, diary films, cinematic representations memory / the act of creating a memoir (which implies some kind of after-the-fact reflection). It is interesting to see how this research intersects on many planes of varying interest to me � I am doing one paper about McElwee for my documentary class and trying to deal with the avant garde spill over in another paper that address Jonas Mekas�s diary films like �Walden� and �Lost, Lost, Lost.� In the middle of all of this, I fit in as a rogue, amateur, and compulsive recorder and writer of life� I am reading lots of essays about literary autobiography and diary as a literary style. If only there were more hours in a day, I�d gladly fill them all with this kind of research and thinking.
Back to my �Wavelength� metaphor� I feel like I�ve gotten to the point in the film where the picture on the far wall is finally coming into focus, taking shape as an image, and the pixels are aligning into something recognizable. I don�t claim to see the final image in exact detail, but the last few weekends have brought these reassuring moments of settled-ness. Friday night was Halloween, something I spent most of the week dreading and hoping to escape. Instead, I found myself quite happily spending most of the day with Eric, sharing gripes over lunch and then racing around town drinking beers before Cinematheque (a silent German film starring with Leni Riefenstahl with a live piano accompaniment). After the movie, I walked up State Street (this is THE place to be on Halloween night in the Midwest) and eventually found my way to a Halloween party for Com Arts grad students. It pleasantly surprised me as a relaxed and comfortable mix of people and conversation and overstuffed couches and beautiful house plants. Stayed out until 2am and thoroughly enjoyed myself.
Yesterday was a little more of the same � lots of time talking on the phone, a favorite way to find my bearings and procrastinate. Last night I went to see another film, another long film at that, a Spanish sort-of-documentary about a painter - �Dream of Light (Quince Tree of the Son).� It was a slow meditation and at times painfully frustrating to watch a painter struggle to render a tree through rains, drooping branches, and other natural obstacles that make nature a nastily frugal muse. There are definite questions I have after seeing the film, curiosity around some of the scenes / stylistic decisions and even some of the commentary, but I am glad to have seen it. Then I had a wonderful evening � again, perhaps all the more fun because it snuck up and surprised me. I spent the night in two neighborhood bars � The Tornado Room and then Genna�s with a familiar crew of filmies and close friends.
We might have been the only group NOT in costume at Genna�s, but everyone was so sharp and so perfectly on and in such complimentary humors � I am still reeling from it. The evening took on a celebratory air, despite our obvious boycott of the costumed-trappings of the holiday. Something must have been celestially aligned to birth such a rounded evening. The last few weeks have lead to more and more feelings like this � a memory much like graduation, having dinner with Nathan�s parents and sitting between Jack and Aaron and across the table from and surrounded by so many others, everyone seemed to fit just snugly together, we were bound up perfectly, timelessly. Last night everyone was laughing, singing, animated � it is always unpredictable when a night like that will come along and walking home, I always feel extremely lucky to have decided to stay out that night instead of responsibly going to bed. It is one of those nights that embody being in the right place at the right time.
I think the November rain is around to keep me honest � and to keep me indoors and working steadily despite the many distractions at hand. I spent most of my day in the library, trapped there, essentially, without my umbrella. But somehow I managed to get the reading done for two classes, finish my narrative theory book for my second paper, and watch �Time Indefinite.� The night is still young and I seem to have struck the right chord to read about autobiography / diary writing / reflection. I cleaned the apartment from top to bottom on Saturday, and as much as I hate being neat and tidy, having a clean house is probably one of the nicest things you can do for yourself. Whenever everything is put away and clean, I always feel older / more mature, like my affairs are in order and it is sophisticated.
I am going to Middlebury in two weeks � something that still cuts against my better judgment (I have quite a bit awaiting me, instantly, when I get back to town) � but I think I am finally ready to go back into a nostalgic situation and self-reliant enough not to get swept right back in and perhaps be tempted to give it all up and go back. Time moves quickly � I can�t believe that I am going home for Christmas in about a month-and-a-half and already calling an end to my first semester.
posted by lmjasinski at 10:14 AM
