At some point last night at the Newport Center AMC during Batman v Superman, which my date wanted to enjoy and whom I worry I irritated, and I do worry, I was overtaken, mentally, by a terrifying sense of misanthropy, futility and hopelessness. I wish I could say what was happening exactly onscreen when this feeling took me but I could only occasionally understand anything anyone was doing in this movie and now I'm quite sure I can't be very specific about that- only that it was over an hour into the thing - near the end of the second hour- I think.
To be clear, the movie opens with little baby Bruce Wayne's parents being killed in front of him- that scene again- with this stylized, extreme close up of a gun placed through a pearl necklace and then firing and then close-up pearls flying everywhere and then "pretty" blood spots on the dead mother's face. That got me started. I thought, "Right, okay, this is some kind of wish fulfillment and this is the best we've got nowadays. This is romantic. This is what passes for romantic; this is what we are being given now as romantic- sick meaningless death. Do we think it's 'cool'? It's cool how the director dramatized the action of murder with objects in extreme close-up? A gun discharging, pearls flying- Are we detached? - as in, we think, 'That's creative.' 'Inventive storytelling.'? Are we MOVED because something about this symbolism strikes a chord? (If "we" is me, then no. Well, I said, "That's horrible. That's sick." - this marks, possibly, the beginning of my date thinking he might have done better to just come to see this movie alone. )
And then there's the set up of the basic premise which we got from the last Superman movie which is that when he fights he's so strong he wrecks cities, making lots of buildings topple just like the twin towers on September 11th, 2001. Are we, again I ask, expected to be detached? Are we, somehow, MATURE, that we watch such a thing now aware that it really happens (though not because of Superman! I mean...) and still enjoy it as entertainment, that we purposely sign up for shock and awe that happened in real life repackaged as special effects in Superman's story? What is this ASSUMPTION, director of Batman v Superman Zach Snyder? I am trying to parse it. Is it like, "C'mon, you can admit it. This is a kind of wish fulfilment." I am insulted. I am worried for us all.
Then we go to some terrorist cell thing happening in a desert and I think- okay so yes, I am supposed to be mature- this is supposed to be a mature superhero movie- because there's even terrorism just like real life.
Then Batman brands a guy.
Maybe the terrible disdain for mankind overcame me after Capitol Hill got blown up with everyone in it and then, as a plot point, was never revisited. (Me to date who really doesn't want me to talk in the movie anymore: "So they're all dead now?")
I think it wasn't then though- because I think then I went to the bathroom. Not sure.
So I don't know when it was, exactly, in the course of the movie's action, like I said.
But I'm worried that Batman v Superman put a maybe-I'm-finally-dating-someone-who-is-genuinely-kind-and-much-much-less-neurotic-than-myself-but-praise-the-lord-he-is-sweet upward GOOD progression on a rockier course. Fuck this horrible movie. It makes me feel, damn it, bereft for humanity, and honestly as if humanity is past tense, that something this cynical is being served as entertainment blockbuster fare. The characters aren't cynical. The movie is cynical. The movie thinks I'm a monster.
And then I have to feel like a snob for having this terrible set of thoughts? I can't blame that on the director I GUESS, but I think I kind of blame that on the director.
Friday, April 1, 2016
Friday, March 4, 2016
CHEAP PEOPLE or great moments in rolling over in bed and it's snowing; you imagine if you could afford to still go to therapy with the same therapist who gave you analysis
I have quit the latest in secretarial jobs.
I'm writing a play, I like it, about a woman who quits her latest in secretarial jobs but in a more dangerous set of circumstances.
Anyway, when I worked there, oh- there is an Investment Bank, eventually my desk was moved to be beside this British man with an extremely wide ass and a very posh accent... 's office.
This poor man wanted to be cool. I took him drinking with myself (duh) and myfriendS (who crashed the holiday party) after the holiday party. He bragged (pitifully) that the Junior Associates liked the novelty (as if) of his drinking. He bummed one of my cigarettes - he told me way too much about infertility treatments with his wife. He wanted to be told he was different from the other bankers which I obliged. I know how to act at corporate after party drinks. I know a lot of things. And I don't think I can get as drunk as a banker. I am a writer! Through and through!
At any rate, we said we'd drink together more, and we did. The last time was after he came by my desk on a Friday before the big winter snowstorm was expected to hit, saying "Well Alexis, is it beer o'clock?"
MyfriendS thinks the Brit is great. He loves the accent. I think he's not so great and here's why: I think he should pay for everything we do, should ever we do anything, 100% of the time, 100% on him no question about it. He's a "Director" at the bank. I am a temporary secretary.
I spent months at this bank I worked for with no benefits at all on an hourly basis gunning to have my hourly rate moved from $23.00 to $25.50 (before taxes), and then unsuccessfully spent months gunning to be hired as a permanent employee.
So going out for a drink with this Brit can cost me, easily, my whole day of pay. If I take a taxi home to Jersey City because I'm tired and drunk and can't stand to wait for and experience the PATH train - easily.
I'd say easily the whole day's pay after taxes- just to pay for drinking, eating, and getting home.
He is practically suicidal. I see that. I am a perceptive woman after all. His teacher wife is asleep. He wants to drink with exciting me and exciting S. Poor artists are a lot more fun? Well, no kidding.
Man up and pay for everything.
Maybe it will even help with the misery.
That's what I say.
So the last time we went for a drink before this blizzard was to land, I said 'sure!' - I had nothing to do but maybe try to get groceries on this Friday night. And he awaited a text from his wife or this visiting acquaintance to let him know he needed to leave and get back to Brooklyn.
He paid for somewhat more than what he had. I paid for somewhat less than what I had.
He left eventually, concerned to have heard from neither acquaintance nor wife.
I said "go- go - it's fine. Go ahead. See you Monday".
The waiter said to me, as I gave him my credit card to pay what was uncovered by the Brit's cash, "he left you here?"
I said "Well- He's a work acquaintance- and a married man also".
Still, said the waiter, "I would never do that. I would never leave you."
Now I would say to my therapist, "What do you think? Do you agree with the waiter that he shouldn't have left? Do you agree with me that he should have paid the whole tab? If you were me, would you like him, as a friend, any longer - I did pay less than I owed if it's all even Stevens. But do you agree it's somehow repellant- for me to pay at all?"
She would wonder why I'd care what she thinks.
I don't really NEED to go back tbecause I'm onto the analysis answers pretty well. :-) But I would love to go back because it's very bonding to have someone listen to you THAT MUCH.
Lots of love,
Alexis
I'm writing a play, I like it, about a woman who quits her latest in secretarial jobs but in a more dangerous set of circumstances.
Anyway, when I worked there, oh- there is an Investment Bank, eventually my desk was moved to be beside this British man with an extremely wide ass and a very posh accent... 's office.
This poor man wanted to be cool. I took him drinking with myself (duh) and myfriendS (who crashed the holiday party) after the holiday party. He bragged (pitifully) that the Junior Associates liked the novelty (as if) of his drinking. He bummed one of my cigarettes - he told me way too much about infertility treatments with his wife. He wanted to be told he was different from the other bankers which I obliged. I know how to act at corporate after party drinks. I know a lot of things. And I don't think I can get as drunk as a banker. I am a writer! Through and through!
At any rate, we said we'd drink together more, and we did. The last time was after he came by my desk on a Friday before the big winter snowstorm was expected to hit, saying "Well Alexis, is it beer o'clock?"
MyfriendS thinks the Brit is great. He loves the accent. I think he's not so great and here's why: I think he should pay for everything we do, should ever we do anything, 100% of the time, 100% on him no question about it. He's a "Director" at the bank. I am a temporary secretary.
I spent months at this bank I worked for with no benefits at all on an hourly basis gunning to have my hourly rate moved from $23.00 to $25.50 (before taxes), and then unsuccessfully spent months gunning to be hired as a permanent employee.
So going out for a drink with this Brit can cost me, easily, my whole day of pay. If I take a taxi home to Jersey City because I'm tired and drunk and can't stand to wait for and experience the PATH train - easily.
I'd say easily the whole day's pay after taxes- just to pay for drinking, eating, and getting home.
He is practically suicidal. I see that. I am a perceptive woman after all. His teacher wife is asleep. He wants to drink with exciting me and exciting S. Poor artists are a lot more fun? Well, no kidding.
Man up and pay for everything.
Maybe it will even help with the misery.
That's what I say.
So the last time we went for a drink before this blizzard was to land, I said 'sure!' - I had nothing to do but maybe try to get groceries on this Friday night. And he awaited a text from his wife or this visiting acquaintance to let him know he needed to leave and get back to Brooklyn.
He paid for somewhat more than what he had. I paid for somewhat less than what I had.
He left eventually, concerned to have heard from neither acquaintance nor wife.
I said "go- go - it's fine. Go ahead. See you Monday".
The waiter said to me, as I gave him my credit card to pay what was uncovered by the Brit's cash, "he left you here?"
I said "Well- He's a work acquaintance- and a married man also".
Still, said the waiter, "I would never do that. I would never leave you."
Now I would say to my therapist, "What do you think? Do you agree with the waiter that he shouldn't have left? Do you agree with me that he should have paid the whole tab? If you were me, would you like him, as a friend, any longer - I did pay less than I owed if it's all even Stevens. But do you agree it's somehow repellant- for me to pay at all?"
She would wonder why I'd care what she thinks.
I don't really NEED to go back tbecause I'm onto the analysis answers pretty well. :-) But I would love to go back because it's very bonding to have someone listen to you THAT MUCH.
Lots of love,
Alexis
Thursday, January 29, 2015
Proof
that, evolutionarily speaking, human beings in the United States in 2015 are essentially bugs is that we collectively accept a business day that begins at approximately 9am. IT BOGGLES THE MIND.
There is no necessity at all to wake up at a time like 6:30 or 7:00 am and "get ready"(at best brush your teeth and remember your building ID) for a day at a desk writing email.
I find it terribly depressing.
I would like to run for president on a platform that no calamity and only benefit could come from making traditional workdays begin at 11am or later.
You could finish your dream that you are cuddling a dog or at the funeral of a virgin whose father is acting inappropriate. Why is this funeral happening in 3 segments, lastly with the family and people from her Junior High Honors English class? - maybe you'd find out.
You could make coffee and eat 2 eggos, one with honey, one with regular syrup. If you have a family, you could eat together. If you're a writer, you could write down your dream.
If you are an Emergency Doctor, well okay- your hours can't conform to this.
And people who are obsessed with money, and destroying the world with your greed, okay, every single hour should be spent in pursuit of that, and the early bird catches the worm.
But I would like to re-direct the small amount of energy I have to fighting for a standard workday that begins at 11am.
I won't win my presidential bid based on this single issue. But what fun to vet me!
Did you sleep with a man named Hans in 2007?
Yes. First I asked if he had any cocaine. I won his attraction calling him "My little Hansel". It was my birthday. And I repeat, if the workday began at 11am, you would have time to journal and eat Leggos with honey.
There is no necessity at all to wake up at a time like 6:30 or 7:00 am and "get ready"(at best brush your teeth and remember your building ID) for a day at a desk writing email.
I find it terribly depressing.
I would like to run for president on a platform that no calamity and only benefit could come from making traditional workdays begin at 11am or later.
You could finish your dream that you are cuddling a dog or at the funeral of a virgin whose father is acting inappropriate. Why is this funeral happening in 3 segments, lastly with the family and people from her Junior High Honors English class? - maybe you'd find out.
You could make coffee and eat 2 eggos, one with honey, one with regular syrup. If you have a family, you could eat together. If you're a writer, you could write down your dream.
If you are an Emergency Doctor, well okay- your hours can't conform to this.
And people who are obsessed with money, and destroying the world with your greed, okay, every single hour should be spent in pursuit of that, and the early bird catches the worm.
But I would like to re-direct the small amount of energy I have to fighting for a standard workday that begins at 11am.
I won't win my presidential bid based on this single issue. But what fun to vet me!
Did you sleep with a man named Hans in 2007?
Yes. First I asked if he had any cocaine. I won his attraction calling him "My little Hansel". It was my birthday. And I repeat, if the workday began at 11am, you would have time to journal and eat Leggos with honey.
Monday, September 15, 2014
Sex poem I scribbled waking up two months ago:
In summer
Even when the sun was out
Celestial bodies were roaring
Twisting limbs of nitrogen
light years away
Somewhere with farmland
Kimothy ate french fries by a fence
while his girlfriend ate that fast food apple pie from a sleeve
They had sex right in the open
went home watched trash tv
E------ was fired from the summer camp
for shoplifting from Sephora on her lunch.
A parent saw her.
E----- called her boss, said she'd be late, that she'd fainted.
She was cuffed.
The director leaned in the squad car window
and fired her.
This all happened in the space of half an hour
They created small spaces in their clothing
pulling his dick through his drawers
and then his fly
pushing her underwear aside
So they could have sex a third time
She laughed as he drove her home
They could have done it the normal way out there
no one was there
He was drowned in love when she said that
couldn't figure out why
It wasn't the words
and it wasn't the thought
She felt it later,
while they were watching
Bachelorette in Paradise
he made a joke
not a joke
He said "I can't watch this" and changed the channel
In summer
Even when the sun was out
Celestial bodies were roaring
Twisting limbs of nitrogen
light years away
Somewhere with farmland
Kimothy ate french fries by a fence
while his girlfriend ate that fast food apple pie from a sleeve
They had sex right in the open
went home watched trash tv
E------ was fired from the summer camp
for shoplifting from Sephora on her lunch.
A parent saw her.
E----- called her boss, said she'd be late, that she'd fainted.
She was cuffed.
The director leaned in the squad car window
and fired her.
This all happened in the space of half an hour
They created small spaces in their clothing
pulling his dick through his drawers
and then his fly
pushing her underwear aside
So they could have sex a third time
She laughed as he drove her home
They could have done it the normal way out there
no one was there
He was drowned in love when she said that
couldn't figure out why
It wasn't the words
and it wasn't the thought
She felt it later,
while they were watching
Bachelorette in Paradise
he made a joke
not a joke
He said "I can't watch this" and changed the channel
Sunday, June 22, 2014
I interviewed for new roommates today.
I hope they didn't realize I am utterly frightened of living with another person here. It's the perfect place for 1. But the rent is so high, I have to have a roommate.
I also texted the dick I am having great sex with (and inevitably wanted to change into date-able) about feeling dismissed by his innocuous enough (but still dismissive because he IS dismissive) texts. He won't call on the phone- like as a policy. (Divorced.) Come on already. Oh sex. Worth it, in spite of, or even for, the tears.
Amy is visiting and I wish she lived here.
I also texted the dick I am having great sex with (and inevitably wanted to change into date-able) about feeling dismissed by his innocuous enough (but still dismissive because he IS dismissive) texts. He won't call on the phone- like as a policy. (Divorced.) Come on already. Oh sex. Worth it, in spite of, or even for, the tears.
Amy is visiting and I wish she lived here.
Wednesday, January 29, 2014
One thing
it's safe to say I'll never do is name a child, anyone's child,
1. Brooklyn
2. Bronx
3. Manhattan
4. Queens
Maybe Queens.
1. Brooklyn
2. Bronx
3. Manhattan
4. Queens
Maybe Queens.
Friday, January 27, 2012
Hesitant return
I'm back. Am I back? Let's try writing. I've set up life for it all day...
or for three months
and with a lot of analysis
I mean that I finally have a carpet. It's beautiful, and importantly it is 5 x 8 feet of space on the floor I can sit on, or lie on. I haven't had this in many months. It's been a slog through ennui and avoidance, boredom, moving one thing after another to where it ought to go. Making space for the vacuum, sleeping 'til noon, making space to actually vacuum, getting it all into piles on the periphery.
And just like that my psychoanalyst wants to get down to it then. My Question: What am I supposed to be doing? Her answer: That's the question. Right there.
If you think it's easy, you're crazy.
So my state of being, right now, is something like "half-alright" which is very close to alright, surprisingly close to all alright.
Discoveries are banal but I am psychoanalysis' big proponent now, albeit warily: by which I mean, She makes the sessions count - I lose all focus, don't have an answer to a question, and then she makes that last fifteen minutes work, the genius, - she ends on: "You mean you don't deserve it?" .... me: "I guess that's another way of saying that." Her: "Let's end there."
Thinking about what I want, what would be gratifying, I think perhaps part of my thinking goes: I've tried haven't I? I've done the wanting part. I want to be in a collaborative artistic environment. I want that. I don't have it. So I've done my part. Wanted it. Haven't gotten it. So I WANT my work to be learning to live without it. But instead, oh heaven, that's a dead end, and the prognosis is more like to keep working, keep trying, keep reading, keep having sex once in a blue moon for god sake, keep trying, and actually write sometimes for god's sake won't you? won't you? You won't? You want to obsess about, GODDAM, Facebook? technology? high school? Well why not on paper you fool. Oh because I was trying to just think it in my head and realize it doesn't matter and I tried as hard as I could didn't I? I wanted to come back to that conclusion, didn't I?
I cry before her passive sweater dressed cruel-kindness that says "why do you think that is?" and I say, "Sometimes, ... these 'why' questions - I can't find the answer; there isn't an answer." and she agrees and says, "So let me rephrase that then - is there anything else it makes you think of?" Can you imagine this profession?
or for three months
and with a lot of analysis
I mean that I finally have a carpet. It's beautiful, and importantly it is 5 x 8 feet of space on the floor I can sit on, or lie on. I haven't had this in many months. It's been a slog through ennui and avoidance, boredom, moving one thing after another to where it ought to go. Making space for the vacuum, sleeping 'til noon, making space to actually vacuum, getting it all into piles on the periphery.
And just like that my psychoanalyst wants to get down to it then. My Question: What am I supposed to be doing? Her answer: That's the question. Right there.
If you think it's easy, you're crazy.
So my state of being, right now, is something like "half-alright" which is very close to alright, surprisingly close to all alright.
Discoveries are banal but I am psychoanalysis' big proponent now, albeit warily: by which I mean, She makes the sessions count - I lose all focus, don't have an answer to a question, and then she makes that last fifteen minutes work, the genius, - she ends on: "You mean you don't deserve it?" .... me: "I guess that's another way of saying that." Her: "Let's end there."
Thinking about what I want, what would be gratifying, I think perhaps part of my thinking goes: I've tried haven't I? I've done the wanting part. I want to be in a collaborative artistic environment. I want that. I don't have it. So I've done my part. Wanted it. Haven't gotten it. So I WANT my work to be learning to live without it. But instead, oh heaven, that's a dead end, and the prognosis is more like to keep working, keep trying, keep reading, keep having sex once in a blue moon for god sake, keep trying, and actually write sometimes for god's sake won't you? won't you? You won't? You want to obsess about, GODDAM, Facebook? technology? high school? Well why not on paper you fool. Oh because I was trying to just think it in my head and realize it doesn't matter and I tried as hard as I could didn't I? I wanted to come back to that conclusion, didn't I?
I cry before her passive sweater dressed cruel-kindness that says "why do you think that is?" and I say, "Sometimes, ... these 'why' questions - I can't find the answer; there isn't an answer." and she agrees and says, "So let me rephrase that then - is there anything else it makes you think of?" Can you imagine this profession?
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)