October 30, 2010
Detectives. They are an iconic figure in American literature. You see them in movies, television. Read them in crime novels. But I’ve never met one. Don’t know anyone whose ever met one. (I’m not talking about police detectives.) How do you become one? I’ve never seen a course offered in a college. Are they a totally fictional creation? Like Godzilla. Bogart was my favourite. James Garner as Rockford was a close second. To me a detective is like an angel of God. He operates in a totally different world than other human beings. Without super powers. Only his whits. And women are his big downfall. I wonder. Did Dante write about them?
October 29, 2010
Vic, one of my best friends has become fascinated by relics. In the middle ages there was a huge trade in relics. Players cards (baseball, hockey, etc.) would be the closest parallel in modern times. Of course there was a religious element to relics. But underneath I suspect was this peculiar human trait of collecting. We all do it. Photo albums are one example. (I found an album in a second hand book store one time. The pictures were all strangers to me of course. And looking at them seem somewhat voyeuristic.) I think this has something to do with memory. What else is history but a collection of stories, relics from events long passed. But there is something else. It is a facade, a kind of wall we build against some great horror that we all fear. We are creatures who crave escape. Perhaps that is what culture amounts to. Back to my friend, Vic. He intends to leave (after his passing) a relic of his body to each of his friends. He’s already told me what he wants to leave me. I told him I already have one. And I’ve become somewhat attached to it.
October 24, 2010
October 24, 2010
October 21, 2010
I was talking to my mother the other day. She was talking about how short life was and how it sucked getting old. She is 90. I said that 90 was pretty good. She said that there were a lot of people in the home who were in their 100s. I remembered my grandfather had died in his 70s and that seemed old at the time. Anyone living until 90 was considered a kind of super human. (Except for Swedes who seemed to live forever.) My mother told me that when she was young her father told her that 40 was considered old when he was boy. I can remember when I was young learning about the short life of some insects. It seemed that they only lived a matter of days. (Or so went the stories.) I felt sorry for them. Now it feels that my own life has only been a number of hours. I can hear the clock ticking.
October 13, 2010
Railroad stations are the cathedrals of the industrial revolution. This one in Antwerp has been freshened up. It is breath taking. (I like that expression. Sounds like one has almost been assassinated. By oneself.) Its a great building which feels like a huge vault. Where some cruel creature (history) has only recently departed.
October 4, 2010
What part does the American suburb occupy in the human psyche? Europe holds the place of film noir, horror and grit, a firm grip on what art likes to believe is reality. This is comparable to the ghetto in America. The North American suburb occupies a fantasy dream like world where people choose to live. Perhaps avoiding the real awake world. Tim Burton investigated this phenomenon in Edward Scissorhand and other work. The nightmare is always on the edge of this dream.