moby dick

Brecht's 'Distancing Effect'

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Distancing_Effect

'Verfremdungseffekt' -- also taught as 'alienation'.

Favorite Quotes

I've been meaning to do this for a long time but haven't done it. There are so many quotes I like it's hard to keep track of them. So, I'm going to start collecting them here.


One small step for (a) man; one giant leap for mankind.

The following is an except from "Chaos in Poetry" by DH Lawrence. My notes come after. 

Poetry, they say, is a matter of words. And this is true, just as much as pictures are a matter of paint, and frescoes a matter of water and colour-wash. But it is such a long way from being the whole truth, that it is slightly silly if uttered sententiously.

Poetry is a matter of words. Poetry is a stringing together of words into a ripple and jingle and a run of colours. Poetry is an interplay of images. Poetry is the iridescent suggestion of an idea. Poetry is all these things, and still it is something else. Given all these ingredients, you have something very like to poetry, something for which we might borrow the old romantic name of poesy. And poesy, like bric-a-brac, will forever be in fashion. But poetry is still another thing.

The essential quality of poetry is that it makes a new effort of attention, and ‘discovers' a new world within the known world. Man, and the animals, and the flower, all live within a strange and forever surging chaos. The chaos which we have got used to, we call a cosmos. The unspeakable inner chaos of which we are composed we call consciousness, and mind, and even civilization. But it is, ultimately, chaos, lit up by visions. Just as the rainbow may or may not light up the storm. And, like the rainbow, the vision perisheth.

But man cannot live in chaos. The animals can. To the animal, all is chaos, only there are a few recurring motions and aspects within the surge. And the animal is content. But man is not. Man must wrap himself in a vision, make a house of apparent form and stability, fixity. In his terror of chaos, he begins by putting up an umbrella between himself and the everlasting chaos. Then he paints the underside of his umbrella like a firmament. Then he parades around, lives, and dies under his umbrella. Bequeathed to his descendants, the umbrella becomes a dome, a vault, and men at last begin to feel that something is wrong.

Man fixes some wonderful erection of his own between himself and the wild chaos, and gradually goes bleached and stifled under his parasol. Then comes a poet, enemy of convention, and makes a slit in the umbrella; and lo! the glimpse of chaos is a vision, a window to the sun. But after a while, getting used to the vision, and not liking the genuine draught from chaos, commonplace man daubs a simulacrum of the window that opens onto chaos, and patches the umbrella with the painted patch of the simulacrum. That is, he has got used to the vision, it is part of his house-decoration. So that the umbrella at last looks like a glowing open firmament, of many aspects. But alas, it is all simulacrum, in innumerable patches. Homer and Keats, annotated and with glossary.

This is the history of poetry in our era. Someone sees Titans in the wild air of chaos, and the Titan becomes a wall between succeeding generations and the chaos they should have inherited. The wild sky moved and sang. Even that becomes a great umbrella between mankind and the sky of fresh air; then it becomes a painted vault, a fresco on a vault roof, under which men bleach and go dissatisfied. Till another poet makes a slit onto the open and windy chaos.

But at last our roof deceives us no more. It is painted plaster, and all the skill of all the human ages won't take us in. Dante or Leonardo, Beethoven or Whitman: lo! it is painted on the plaster of our vault. Like St. Francis preaching to the birds of Assissi. Wonderfully like air and birdy space and chaos of many things – partly because the fresco is faded. But, even so, we are glad to get out of that church, and into the natural chaos.

This is the momentous crisis for mankind, when we have to get back to chaos. So long as the umbrella serves, and poets make slits in it, and the mass of people can be gradually educated up to the vision in the slit: which means they patch it over with a patch that looks just like the vision in the slit; so long as this process can continue, and mankind can be educated up, and thus built in, so long will a civilization continue more or less happily, completing its own painted prison. It is called completing the consciousness.

The joy men had when Wordsworth, for example, made a slit and saw a primrose! Till then men had only seen a primrose dimly, in the shadow of the umbrella. They saw it through Wordsworth in the full gleam of chaos. Since then, gradually, we have come to see primavera nothing but primrose. Which means we have patched over the slit.

And the greater joy when Shakespeare made a big rent and saw emotional wistful man outside in the chaos, beyond the conventional idea and painted umbrella of moral images and iron-bound paladins, which had been put up in the Middle Ages. But now, alas, the roof of our vault is simply painted dense with Hamlets and Macbeths, the side walls too, and the order is fixed and complete. Man can't be any different from his image. Chaos is all shut out.

The umbrella has got so big, the patches and plaster are so tight and hard, it can be slit no more. If it were slit the rent would no more be a vision, it would only be an outrage. We should dab it over at once, to match the rest.

So the umbrella is absolute. And so the yearning for chaos becomes a nostalgia. And this will go on till some terrific wind blows the umbrella to ribbons, and much of mankind to oblivion. The rest will shiver in the midst of chaos. For chaos is always there, and always will be, no matter how we put up umbrellas of vision.

What about the poets, then, at this juncture?

They reveal the inward desire of mankind. What do they reveal? – They show the desire for chaos, and the fear of chaos. The desire for chaos is the breath of their poetry. The fear of chaos is in their parade of forms and technique. Poetry is made of words! they say. So they blow bubbles of sound and image which soon burst with the breath of longing for chaos, which fills them. But the poetasters can make pretty shiny bubbles for the Christmas tree, which never burst, because there is no breath of poetry in them, but they remain till we drop of them.

---------- end ---------

My notes: 

I actually just typed this whole thing out thinking it was not available on the web. I was wrong. Finding out too late is like losing a ball. it hurt more than a little bit. 

Hooowever, my professor at UCLA handed this portion of the book in copy form during a discussion on--what do you thiunk?--chaos. Of course. Now I pass it on. 

new recipe, hun. try this mac n cheese from martha stewart! Enjoy!

Serves 12
6 slices good-quality white bread, crusts removed, torn into 1/4- to 1/2-inch pieces
8 tablespoons (1 stick) unsalted butter, plus more for dish
5 1/2 cups milk
1/2 cup all-purpose flour
2 teaspoons kosher salt
1/4 teaspoon freshly grated nutmeg
1/4 teaspoon freshly ground black pepper
1/4 teaspoon cayenne pepper
4 1/2 cups (about 18 ounces) grated sharp white cheddar
2 cups (about 8 ounces) grated Gruyere or 1 1/4 cups (about 5 ounces) grated pecorino Romano
1 pound elbow macaroni

1. Heat the oven to 375 degrees. Butter a 3-quart casserole dish; set aside. Place bread pieces in a medium bowl. In a small saucepan over medium heat, melt 2 tablespoons butter. Pour butter into the bowl with bread, and toss. Set the breadcrumbs aside. In a medium saucepan set over medium heat, heat milk. Melt remaining 6 tablespoons butter in a high-sided skillet over medium heat. When butter bubbles, add flour. Cook, stirring, 1 minute.

2. Slowly pour hot milk into flour-butter mixture while whisking. Continue cooking, whisking constantly, until the mixture bubbles and becomes thick.

3. Remove the pan from the heat. Stir in salt, nutmeg, black pepper, cayenne pepper, 3 cups cheddar, and 1 1/2 cups Gruyere or 1 cup pecorino Romano. Set cheese sauce aside.

4. Fill a large saucepan with water. Bring to a boil. Add macaroni; cook 2 to 3 fewer minutes than manufacturer's directions, until outside of pasta is cooked and inside is underdone. (Different brands of macaroni cook at different rates; be sure to read the instructions.) Transfer the macaroni to a colander, rinse under cold running water, and drain well. Stir macaroni into the reserved cheese sauce.

5. Pour the mixture into the prepared casserole dish. Sprinkle remaining 1 1/2 cups cheddar and 1/2 cup Gruyere or 1/4 cup pecorino Romano; scatter breadcrumbs over the top. Bake until browned on top, about 30 minutes. Transfer dish to a wire rack to cool for 5 minutes; serve.

Read more at Marthastewart.com: Perfect Macaroni and Cheese - Martha Stewart Recipes 

Seven Healing Virtues and Barbara Packer

the first time I heard of the Seven Healing Virtues was in between December 16th and December 20th of 2010. I was finishing a paper on Chaucer, and I wanted to find the original meaning of "gentlenesse." It appears that the virtues are as old as middle-aged catholicism, but for whatever reason, are not taught in the "christian" church in which I grew up. I record these now to remember, and as I remember, I will be in the process of healing. Heal with me, brothers and sisters. lol. just kidding. That's my own virtue talking; humour. I can never get enough of it.

• Humility cures Pride - Be selfless and give respect. Give credit where credit is due. Do not glorify self. 
• Kindness cures Envy - Show friendship, charity, and compassion without prejudice.
• Patience cures Wrath - Resolve conflicts peacefully, show mercy and forgive.
• Diligence cures Sloth - Budget your time and monitor your activities to guard against laziness.
• Liberality (generosity) cures Greed - Be noble and generous in thoughts and actions.
• Abstinence cures Gluttony - Practice moderation, self-control and abstinence.
• Chastity cures Lust - According to one's state in life abstaining from sexual conduct. Achieving purity of thought. 

This little nugget of wisdom is dedicated to my professor Barbara Packer, who once told me to "shut that thing up" during a lecture in which my phone rang several times. Who knew I would find someone I detested so favorable during the remainder of the quarter? 

Good day to all; and sleep well, too. 

It's January 2011 and no signs of a Crisis (kidney disease, kidney failure, renal disease)

Yesterday my boss, Margaret Heveron, said to me with a thumbs up, "Matt, it's January!" For a few seconds I tried to figure out what in the world she was talking about. I thought, I know its January. It's been January for almost two weeks now.
But she didn't announce this in order to brief me on the new year. It was only after she said, "it has been a year. You made it without any complications."
I have to preface this now. A few weeks ago, in Margaret's office, I was told there was going to be a Christmas party for the teachers and staff on December 15th (or 16th...) and my company (not the nativity, but my presence) would be much appreciated. Excited to be with my friends and colleagues, I happily accepted the invitation.
"The other day," she started, "I was thinking about you. It occurred to me that its December; the holidays are approaching. You haven't been in crisis mode." I was quiet for a few (what seemed like awkward) seconds to try and solve this puzzle. Margaret continued, "Every year for the last few years you've been in a state of crisis around this time. That's why I prayed. I thought, if he shows up at the Christmas party we'll know this year is different; he's not in the hospital, and he's not sick."
It's been years since I stopped thinking my state of health has ever been in a state of crises. After my transplant I adapted to the insulin needles, the handful of pills, and the bi-yearly bouts with the flue (or other viral/bacterial infections) and somewhere during that time I got used to living unwell. In other words, not-bring-in-the-hospital days or not-throwing-up-in-bed became good days. The former became just not-feeling-so-great-days. Never had anyone, besides my therapist, referred to such days as days in which I was "in a state of crises."
I said to Margaret, "I appreciate what you're saying. It means a lot to me. Really. It means a lot."
"I said a prayer that this year will be different. This year I pray that you will continue to avoid a state of crises."
When Margaret notified me of the month it was not to inform me of the new year. It was to congratulate me on passing through December without a any incidents of crises. Sometimes I think I'm completely alone in my experience with kidney disease. How could anyone possibly understand what it feels like. Well, maybe they don't. But I know a lot of friends who are speaking to god on my behalf.

Good Morning

Today on the agenda:

Talk to Kirsten at DaVita to get electricity cost reduction. (I think I qualify).

Return John Varvatos shirt to Neiman Marcus. Deposit return into banking account.

Contact UCLA regarding final paper for Chaucer.... How do I get a grade given the fact that my professor has died? Believe me, I really didn't expect this.

Jill at DaVita for update

Lupe with Danovitch with update

Medical records from Danovich and Greenstein to UCSD

Nativity-- work

READING!

I'll be working on a website for clothing in the next couple of days. New and used high end labels will be sold. And that's how Sue sees it...

Most Memorable Movies of 2011

Never Let Me Go

Inception

The King’s Speech

The American

The Social Network

The Black Swan

The Kids Are Alright

Its kind of a Funny Story

Los Angeles Fashion Market, January 17th-20th

On January 17th of 2011, the Fashion District of Los Angeles will be an environment of momentum, dynamism, and an epicenter of creativity. Almond Blossom will flirt with Adrianople Red. Acacia and Academy blue will make love and produce a baby that is so unattractive that someone will undoubtedly whisper, "don't look it at, dear god, there is a demon in our presence." But alas, an aura of Aurora Yellow made of silk chiffon and satin blends will float through lights and spectators (who lose their ability to focus on a pad of urgent notes to self), and we will forget to breathe momentarily because we have seen art that we can not only touch, but wear.

I plan on attending the Los Angeles Fashion Week from January 17th-20th at the California Market Center in the Garment District of downtown Los Angeles. Also known as the CMC, the market is located here:


110 East 9th Street (at Main Street)
Downtown Los Angeles CA 90079

Gathering at this venue, buyers, designers, artists, and journalists will attend the fashaholic's west coast paradise. Industry insiders will travel to get a chance to participate in one of one of the world's most glamourous industries; one that is also fiercely competitive, lucrative, and energetic.

Some of the designers participating in the market are "up and comers." Others have reputations that have earned them great respect. A handful of these designers maintain commercial websites. So check out www.californiamarketcenter.com and explore the world of the industry producing the art we wear!

RicK Owens

I was introduced to Rick Owens close to the same time I was introduced to Thome Brown. Both designers had two pages worth of fashion biographies, and another several pages complete with photographs of lanky models in esoteric designs. Since then, I have followed both designers' careers. Thome Brown, which is in a way, distintly Americanized with his used of Red, White, and Blue is far from American. His shorter length sleeves and cut dress pants are representations of a capitalistic America in which the head is not connected to the hand of commerce. 
Rick Owens, however, is drawn to an aesthetic that lacks in vibrant colors. Muter colors of fabrics rendered in cashmere, silk, acrylic are creations that merge exaggerated form with asymmetrical lines. The result is something that defies tradition and by contrast, embraces taboo. 






am am