Second Thoughts

The air never turned dry this weekend, carrying a misty overhang that made it feel as if the clouds were a low ceiling. Didn't really leave the apartment except to venture out and attempt to watch a performance of avant-garde music beneath abstract film, but it sold out on us. The trek to Chelsea is frustrating enough. But then Nick noticed that Lou Reed was waiting with us in the lobby. The mist turned into a mysterious aura, and we walked home in half-silence through Flatiron, up 5th Ave., which is when we wished we had flip-flops and had been drinking.

Saturday I had another go at "The Five Obstructions," a film which deconstructs the concept of cinema by documenting Lars von Trier's various "obstructions" of remakes of a 1967 short film by Danish director Jorgen Leth, entitled "The Perfect Human." Along the way it unravels normal modes of thinking, psychology, the concept of humanity, and the personality of Jorgen Leth. I would really recommend renting it, with a friend who you could talk with afterwards, preferably. Upon second viewing I found that, as whole film, it lost a good bit of meaning after the shock-value of the first viewing was lost. Nevertheless, the quality of the individual short films was more apparent, once I could let the conceit of the whole thing be secondary. It's still a really mind-blowing film altogether. What emerged for me was the complete superiority of Jorgen Leth over Lars Von Trier, insofar as they are defined by their characteristics in the film: Lars is strangely self-satisfied in his psychological gamesmanship and vaguely annoying, while Jorgen has this aura of artistic integrity, of authentic humanity and its triumph, and responds to the overly-cerebral challenge with plain old good art.

Saturday brought a trek through the pouring rain in shirt and tie to the West Village, where we hid in a dive jazz bar and saw an overweight man who called himself the Reverend play piano. He was a bit like a religious Tom Waits, minus the outsider-wanderer aesthetic, plus a heap of sentimentality and earnestness. He had us all holding hands by the third set, metphorically picking out our "burdens" out of the muscles in the backs of our necks, throwing them on the ground, and stomping on them. It was great fun.

Sunday I payed bills and got depressed, but then we made this Asian soup with udon noodles and pot stickers. Yum. After a visit from Dad last week which included a spree at Food Emporium, we've found ourselves with strange amounts of food and ingredients which we normally can't afford. Here is a picture of the filet-mignon dinner we made Saturday night, with a merlot reduction sauce with shallots on top. (Ed. Note, 10/11: See here for a full review)


It's getting ridiculous how much effort we put into cooking (and, apparently, taking pictures of it. See facebook). But it's something to throw oneself into. I want to get a book on the science behind technique, start to academicize it.

It's Monday night and everything is finally beginning to become dry. I feel like I passed over today without noticing. The days are getting physically shorter, but I also wonder how long I can deal with coming home and realizing it's midnight before I can begin to think. I sit in a chair all day and sit mostly idle--I read as much as possible to keep my mind alive, but there's something about the pallor of an office that itself feels like a low, heavy ceiling. Mostly it's because I don't have a real job with real resonsiblities, so I'm only as occupied as are the people who supervise me need help. But I can't write while I'm there, not really, and I can only read so many publications so thoroughly--The Times, The New Yorker, the Voice, NYMetro, Pitchfork, everybody's blog twice (hey all of you--post!). There is always 20 questions, which is still astounding (am I the last person to hear about this thing? My first one was muffler, and it nailed me in 17).

I imagine that this is what it feels like to evaporate. It's a feeling of weightlessness, of being unsure of one's present state and losing hold of it, to feel inconsequential yet lofty, changing forms, living a life in the mind. It's a transition. I sound dramatic. It's true, though.