Codeine

I have taken the last of Briana's codeine tonight, because I was feeling very aching and unable to get comfortable while I was reading. Briana has already chastised me before for taking this prescription drug unnecessarily. I cannot say that my experiences with it have been terribly psychedelic, but having accidentally mixed it with alcohol with a very surprising result I have remained curious. I have previously written a very bizarre poem accompanied by a self-portrait while inebriated one night. I do not have much memory of writing it, and the words left me in awe. It is probably my favorite thing I have ever wrote. So, when I started to feel light-headed tonight, it occurred to me that this might be a unique opportunity to write something unusual while under the influence of this controlled substance. My views on altered states has changed dramatically since my first-hand experience has increased somewhat. I used to hold the opinion that all actions done in an altered state were inauthentic, a lie. However, I have become more convince, at least in the case of alcohol, that one can be a great deal more honest while intoxicated. One's judgment as to what is appropriate behavior certainly becomes impaired, but the words that spill forth are more genuine and uninhibited by social awkwardness, which has always been a thorn in my side.

Alcohol often encourages me to get out of the self-imposed sound booth, which is my head. Too often I want to prepare my words so carefully that I end up not talking at all. I just continually edit my thoughts until the appropriate moment to share them passes or I merely feign indifference about whatever current topic of conversation has been introduced. I am, in fact, very opinionated, but I have neutered my intellect with an overzealous conviction that I should be humble. My pursuit of humility has made me passive to the point that I will not even give an honest answer to a straight forward question for fear that I come across as arrogant or pretentious. I must, as is usually the case, find a middle ground in which to live, while still holding true to my convictions and principals.

I have even bcome so terrified of putting my thoughts into words that it has prevented me from writing, which is a gift that I want to exercise more than nearly anything. I will end my vow of silence. I will cast aside my reservations at voicing my disapproval of things, while remembering to practice my sincere, empathetic listening abilities. I want to connect with all people. Tomorrow, I will boldy connect with those less fortunate than myself, but not so unfortunate as to not live in Milwaukee, WI.

I have held my tongue too long.
Kept all convictions a secret
Between God, myself and my wife
Acting as if my thoughts didn't merit
The attention of others
Or at least the chance to echo
In all their perfect ears
Whether pitch perfect or dissonant.
These ideas and opinions are mine.
Formed by reason and experience
My true volition realized
In thought, deed and finally word.
My voice is a gift
That I must not bury
For that master returneth
And my result he will judge
How will my efforts honor him
How will my talents have procreated
To create more gifts for the kingdom
More glory for our Redeemer
I may not shout from the rooftops
But I will wisper in bars
I will chatter in friends' homes
And send my words near and far
Write them out with a pencil
Expecting words in return
Words of careful reflection
Constructive criticism to help me learn
That while my ideas are my own
I should not be so stingy to keep them
Locked up in my mind for protection
Or fear that someone will change them
I want to learn to love my words
As Christ loves the church
Not because of what they are made of
But because of who can change them

The Wrestler

I have not seen Sean Penn's Oscar winning performance in Milk, but unless Penn actually took a bullet in the making of the film I do not see how he could have outdone Mickey Rourke in Darren Aronofsky's harrowing The Wrestler. Rourke is mesmerizing with his shear size and presence throughout the film. Aronofsky fills every frame with the broken giant and Roarke abliges him by creating a character with an aura that outshines even the most earnest of supporting performances, and this is a superb supporting cast. Rourkes character, Randy, is, as his daughter, Stephanie, played by Evan Rachel Wood, describes him, "a living, breathing fuck-up." He has been selfish, irresponsible and whole-heartedly single minded in his pursuit of success in professional wrestling. However, wrestling has not given nearly as much back, or, at least, not of the things most people count as truly important. Randy is alone in the autumn season of his life and while he has developed a sincere bond with, Pam, his favorite stripper, he struggles to push the relationship beyond business because of the sordid circumstance under which they have met. At the same time Randy hopes to repair the seemingly irreparable breach in his relationship with his daughter.

It becomes obvious by the end of this story that this is not a story of redemption, but of destiny. While I cannot agree with the thesis put forward by Aranofsky with this film, I cannot ignore that is a powerful story of warning to those who live for themselves, and singularly invest themselves in their work without regard for relationships or the consequences that come from such a life with blinders.

Jesus For President

According to Shane Claiborn and his co-writers, our allegiance to our country is incompatible to our allegiance to Christ. Christ asks that we be peace makers, but if we are to be peacemakers how can we perpetrate war and military occupation in 150 countries around the world. Jesus For President tells us by way of several church historians that early roman converts to Christianity gave up their positions of power both in the Roman military and regular political office. Claiborne makes a good point that these Christians could not take part in the imperial enterprise of Rome, however, the question as to whether America is Rome of its time is a tougher case to make. Is America's military presence in the world excessive? I think the clear answer is yes. Does that make us imperialists. I certainly cannot liken our presence in Japan to that of Britains in India or the Dutch presence in South Africa. These were clearly more oppressive. However, up until recently, our control over the Iraqi government did seem oppressive. When the democratically elected prime minister of an American liberated country has to ask America to leave I believe this means we have over-stayed our welcome.

Teeth - This is a review of a movie about a girl with teeth in her vagina. If that weirds you out, don't read this. Thanks.

No matter what I say about this movie, everyone will grown at the mere premise. It's about a young abstinence preaching girl with teeth in her vagina. Whatever theory I put forth about how this story turns an absurdly sexist urban legend on its ear. It snatches the sexual upper hand from all men and hurls the result in their faces. Most people would laugh at what I've said before and after they have watched this film. They will call it B movie exploitation, which, believe it or not, is not an unfair evaluation. That is what makes this movie so unique. It actually functions as both a stinging satire of male, sexual dominance and a coal black horror comedy.

The film's anti-heroine, Dawn, played by Jess Wexler, is a beautiful young, abstinence preaching high school girl, who has been petrified of her sexuality ever since she bit the end of her step-brother's finger off with her vagina dentata, which she later learns was believed to be a curse by many civilizations that must be conquered by a brave hero's "holy sword." The metaphor and satire are oozing from every chapter of this story, as Dawn's curse becomes less and less of a burden and more a holy weapon of her own. Dawn becomes the great white warrior of female sexuality, and while I hold no personal stake in this battle of the sexual organs, I could not help giving a hell yeah when Dawn realizes the power she holds between her legs, and how it may be used to redeem those she loves and punish those who would take advantage of her innoncence.

If you have a strong enough stomach to withstand some hard-edged violent content (I mean this seriously. I had to break this movie up between two sittings), and you have any interest in horror, exploitation films, feminist theory or cheap thrills, check out "Teeth."

Ghost Cat, Is That You?

Living with cats can often feel like living with ghosts, especially when they learn to open doors. It used to be unsettling to look across the apartment and see a door seemingly open and close by itself, but now it's just like living out the second half of a movie about the Invisible Man and his roommate. I have come to terms with my unusual circumstances, and we have a routine now.

Our apartment is on the second floor of a small house in Bay View on the south side of Milwaukee. Sometimes I hear foot steps on the stairs that lead up to our flat, but when no one materializes at the top of the stairs I realize that,Hegel, named for the 18th century German philosopher, or Murs, named for the twenty-first century gangsta rapper, have had one over on me again. Not that they have any idea what kind of Ghostbusters/Ghost Dad scenarios they create. They only know that they have no yard to run in or wild creatures to hunt. So they hunt each other around our one bedroom apartment, occasionally bumping into a coffee mug or candlestick. When I look to see who is there, all that remains is the spinning cup or a toppled ornament and a spire of smoke. Almost as if some paranormal prankster were trying to make me think I was hallucinating.

"But I'm telling you, officer, someone is lurking around in my home causing all kinds of ruckus. The individual is either incredibly sneaky or returned from the dead to conclude the unfinished business of scaring the begeesus out of me. You don't happen to know if an assistant professor of Art History, overcome with grief over repeated career disappointments, committed suicide in this apartment, because this spook seems to hate my sister-in-law's Pop Art. The same painting has fallen of the wall six times this week. I'm afraid my she is going to notice the wood glue bubbles oozing out of the cracked frame next time she comes over for dinner."

Still, even when I cannot see my feline roommates it is nice to be reminded of their presence by a constant thumping of books being knocked off the book shelf, the scattering of our mail all over the dinner table and surrounding floor or a cry like the restless spirit of an unwanted child thrown off a bridge many years ago.

Hunger

Today I felt a hunger that was not unlike starvation or a hypoglycemic fit, which left me shaking and uneasy--even a little panicked. This is not the first of these episodes I have experienced, and I cannot say why I have never had myself examined by a doctor or at least asked for advice. Being the sensible person I am, I can only reconcile the absurdity of feeling ravenous a mere four hours after breakfast, with a psychological explanation. The idea that I am actually starving being too far-fetched to me. Even hypoglycemia seems to complex an explanation to survive Ockham's discriminant blade.

Regardless, it is at times like these that I find the thought of picky eaters most repulsive. I have no use for those who will altogether reject a particular food because of one single ingredient. I hate raisins. There flavor is completely offensive to my pallet. But if someone offers me oatmeal raisin cookies I will accept with both hands held out, as thankfully as if it were my final communion. I love food. If someone wants to offer me additional options to increase the amount of food I may have for no extra charge I am not going to refuse. I will never conclude a restaurant order with the phrase, "...hold the _____." If they'll add onions or cheese or even fucking sesame seeds for free, I will take them.

In a moment of perceived, irrational trepidation, when I feel that jittery pang wash over me, and my paces begins to clumsily overlap, my mind wanders to the last time I turned down food, not wanting to appear pathetic or greedy to my companions who have forgotten their starving college years. I think of how stupid and overly self conscious I was. If only I had seized the opportunity for a prepared feast, free of charge, I would not be suffering now. I would be satiated and content. Never mind the fact that this probably occurred weeks ago. The satisfaction of that late lunch or late-night snack would have passed, and I would still have this aching in my gut, this hollow-ness. I would still be pawing this very moment at the carb-shaped hole in my soul, longing for the sweat relief of a pita stuffed with lettuce and lamb or a boston cream donut. Oh regret.

Revolver

Today I watched Guy Ritchies latest film, "Revolver". While this movie resembles Ritchie's other works, save "Swept Away," set in the seedy criminal underworld, this time Ritchie adds a Freudian twist. Borrowing the words of many psychologists, who are given exhibition in the credits, Ritchie tells the metaphysical emancipation story of gambler and recent ex-con, Jake, played by Jason Statham, who seems to be good for nothing if he is not in a Ritchie movie. Jake is riding high having made a killing at casinos, since his release from prison. He has spent 7 years solitary confinement--five of those years were spent between the cells of two con men, who play chess and share professional ideas via the pages of prison library books. Jake gets in on the conversation, and, while he gets a grifter's Ph.D. he also shares the location of his nest egg for when he gets out. Two years after his mentors escape prison without him, he returns to the crime boss, Macha, Ray Liotta, whose freedom he maintained by serving time, looking for payback.

Once Jake publicly humiliates Macha and takes him for a large sum, Jake takes a spill and ends up in the hospital where he is diagnosed with a rare blood disease leaving him only weeks to live. Just before the fall Jake was approached by a stranger, Vincent Pastore, offering a prophetic business card. The stranger, after returning to rescue Jake from an ambush, set up by Macha, reveals himself to be a lone shark, who, along with partner, Andre Benjamin, will provide Jake revenge on Macha and protection on the condition that he give them all the money he has.

Revolver is, unsurprisingly, a highly stylized crime/heist movie with strong performances from Pastore, Benjamin and Liotta. Statham also holds his own. Now if he could just deliver this performance to another director, or, at least offer it to a director who deserves it. While all the shine and grime we have come to expect from Guy Ritchie is present, he goes overboard a little with the voices in the head scenes that leave the viewer wondering if they are supposed to recognize two voices or three. Revolver looks at an area of psychology that would sound hokey if it were not within a story of killers and crooks. This grunges up the concept just enough to obscure Madonna's kooky influence on the story.

It's no "Abre Los Ojos," but Revolver succeeds at keeping your attention, while making you think. I suggest a second viewing just to catch up on what you misunderstood the first time through.