stop it right here.
my writing used to be more poetic, you see. I tried a lot harder back then.
now my writing is like my speech: tangled together either through alliteration or allegory, rampant personification, combined both in the heavens and the gum on your shoe. It is too formal or too colloquial, too surreal or too primitive. It puts off some people but wraps up others. I wouldn't have it any other way.
With a day left before the final, I took to enjoying beer with my roommate and watching film in an almost clinical fashion. I took the final the next day (with great success), drinking until I passed out. When I woke up the next day I had no idea that a 5 degree breeze had been blowing on my face all night, nor did I know where I was. Clearing my head, I cleaned the apartment and left for Los Angeles. The snow stuck the plane to the tarmac for two hours and delayed me by over four. I slept when I came home and I slept for a while. My body clock is in Hawaii right now. One day we will meet up and I guarantee it will be in the dead zone between Hawaii and California. Finally, a time zone that accepts me.
If there were no other stories about a pointless journey, this one would suffice. The devastating nature of Aguirre's trip down the Amazon has metaphorical levels that we could (and have) lecture on for hours, days, years. This is not the work of the film itself; actually, the film's job is over when we stare into Kinski's maddening version of Aguirre. The rest is our own interpretation, staring at the depravity of our impulses begging to our ego. The psychology becomes textbook and clinical from hereafter; we won't discuss it, silly monkey.
now my writing is like my speech: tangled together either through alliteration or allegory, rampant personification, combined both in the heavens and the gum on your shoe. It is too formal or too colloquial, too surreal or too primitive. It puts off some people but wraps up others. I wouldn't have it any other way.
With a day left before the final, I took to enjoying beer with my roommate and watching film in an almost clinical fashion. I took the final the next day (with great success), drinking until I passed out. When I woke up the next day I had no idea that a 5 degree breeze had been blowing on my face all night, nor did I know where I was. Clearing my head, I cleaned the apartment and left for Los Angeles. The snow stuck the plane to the tarmac for two hours and delayed me by over four. I slept when I came home and I slept for a while. My body clock is in Hawaii right now. One day we will meet up and I guarantee it will be in the dead zone between Hawaii and California. Finally, a time zone that accepts me.
If there were no other stories about a pointless journey, this one would suffice. The devastating nature of Aguirre's trip down the Amazon has metaphorical levels that we could (and have) lecture on for hours, days, years. This is not the work of the film itself; actually, the film's job is over when we stare into Kinski's maddening version of Aguirre. The rest is our own interpretation, staring at the depravity of our impulses begging to our ego. The psychology becomes textbook and clinical from hereafter; we won't discuss it, silly monkey.