Untitled Thought

Enter Thick gray party cloudy sky
Enter Under-maintenanced state highway
Enter Music
Enter Cool artificial air
Enter 2000 Mitsubishi Mirage
Enter Figure 1

His vision is darkened by the too-tinted aviator sunglasses that lopsidedly sit on his face. The tan Honda Odyssey in front of him displays a small indentation carefully filled with caulking paste. He stares at the impression and his eyelids droop slightly, sleep accessible without having to try too hard. He remembers the time a rock found its way into the side of his Dad's car and how he couldn't talk himself into believing the rock had left his palm. His Dad wasn't angry. He merely asked him to bring the small metal box he kept his allowance money in to the kitchen. Crying hysterically, he took each step one at a time, the metal box weighing heavy in his hands.
The music becomes background as his mind lackadaisically slips into a narrow and familiar way of thinking. His thinking process is tired. By default, his mind slips into thoughts of romanticism. The sudden reduction in speed of the Odyssey forces his eyelids back and he punches the brake.
Tire treads line the passing lane shoulder. They look like...what's an expressive way of phrasing it? They look like...well tire treads, passing in rapid succession. His vision slips out of focus, the smudges and bug parts splayed across the windshield pushing the road into the blurry foreground. When will he be able to share these exclusive thoughts with someone. An intimate someone. A girl.
Richwood, his exit looms in the near distance. He is met by a traffic light at the bottom of the exit ramp. The McDonalds. Not exactly a place he frequented in his childhood, but it held a few memories.
Suddenly he is thrown into the past.
He wakes up early one summer morning on his own. He contemplates the books that line the back of his headboard. Excitement washes over his face when he realizes he has a coupon for a free McDonalds breakfast sandwich. But the McDonalds is at least 5 miles away, across the busy morning highway. Mom would disapprove. So would the babysitter. Slipping past the babysitter, he makes his way around the house to the garage. He walks his bike to the corner cursing its clinking chain. The damp morning air billows through his clothing as he takes the first hill. The sun in the cloudless sky blares down on his back. There are no thoughts of anything. Girls, work, school never cross his mind. A sausage egg biscuit and a tall orange juice propel the wheels forward. He barely stops for the highway, instead joining the tire treads on the side of the road. The McDonalds looms nearer and soon he is dismounting his bike in a safe place.

Flash forward and Figure 1 is smiling contently like a little kid who just remembered he had a McDonalds coupon on an early summer morning, thankful for the beautiful nostalgia.
The Odyssey inches forward and he sees what looks like a mother and 2 kids. He assumes that the preteen boy sitting in the backseat is the reason for the caulking. Maybe a rock was involved...

Reverie - a Retrospective

Is it possible to find love in everything else but love?

I have all of this built up "love" inside of me, I feel, due to the amount of time I've gone "solo".
I'm not trying to evoke any sort of pity, just posing a very real question within me.
Through taking pictures and writing these "reverie" blogs, can I outlet my zealous need to love?
I feel like it does to a certain degree. By noticing little pieces of beauty in my day to day life, I'm able to release my built up passion.

Ah, but here's the rub...mental and physical intimacy with another human being is unparalleled to anything in this world. It's a variation of this broad intimacy I feel with humanity when I take pictures or write reveries.
But it adds this new formula of two people attempting to sync with one another.
I love this Before Sunrise quote:
"I believe if there's any kind of God it wouldn't be in any of us, not you or me but just this little space in between. If there's any kind of magic in this world it must be in the attempt of understanding someone sharing something. I know, it's almost impossible to succeed but who cares really? The answer must be in the attempt."

I've used that quote before. I just think its such a clear answer to what that thing it's describing is.

I'll find her some day. For now, I'll enjoy the attempt(s).


http://www.flickr.com/photos/austindressman

Summer so Far...

Pulsing Bernard Hermann scores push the flow of words from my fingers. Writing a paper about Nietzschian trends in Alfred Hitchcock films has become much more vehement than I had anticipated.
I love this summer class. Waking up at 8am and sitting in a really uncomfortable chair for 3 hours is not my favorite aspect of the course. BUT I'm not complaining. The torrential downpour of Hitchcock I get during that class has been invigorating. Even outside of class I rewatch old favorites we don't have time to cover over the 3 weeks.

Uncle Charlie inches towards young Charlie, his secret about to burst from her naive lips. She knows too much. Uncle Charlie slowly turns around and walks back up the staircase, a threatening ferocity in his eyes as he turns around to see her still standing.
I slowly divert my eyes from the screen to notice a girl sitting on the opposite side of the room, her glance completely transfixed on this classic Hitchcock climax. As the music began to pulse she smiled with awe, utterly taken by the scene. My heart begins to beat faster and I let the scene take me as she has, the suspense pushing me towards the edge.
I notice these instances throughout the films we watch. The Hitchcock climax starts its slow descent. Grace Kelly breaks into the house of the suspect, Mr. Thorwald, to grab the evidence only to be met by the man himself. Jimmy Stewart, restricted to a wheelchair can only watch through the window as Thorwald violently grabs her and throws her across the room.
I see a man sitting in the front row, discontent tugging at the edges of his face. He winces when Thorwald begins to shake Kelly, there is nothing he can do either but watch helplessly.

I love this.
Never have I noticed more audience identification with whats transpiring on screen than I have in a room full of people watching a Hitchcock film.
Film is so beautiful. Everything about it. Its power to control emotions, persuade, among other human qualities is so sincere.

It helps when you have a master like Hitchcock at the reigns too.

Reverie #3

The moment you let go of the handle bars life is set in slow motion.

String-instruments swoon and slowly falling leaves float past my face. The sunset peers through the foliage. The clicking of the wheels synchronizes with the sound of the life around me. A car passes on the opposite side of the road and I see a mid age woman with long stringy hair, a smile hostage to her face. Our eyes met in the crossfire of speed and the glare of the sun. I figured her name was Joan, and she was a dental assistant with a hidden passion for salsa dancing. She sees disheartening reports of the economy on the news and wonders why she isn't more worried about things. I shifted my focus back on the road and a billowing wave of cold damp air pushed past my face. A shiver climbed up my spine just as the range of vocals reached their climax. Time was then forced back to reality and I was flying down a hill, I must have been going 127 miles per hour at the rate of pavement I was covering. I looked to the side and saw nothing but green blur. The sun's rays flickered like a strobe through the branches. I clenched my teeth and moved my body to the right at the anticipation of the bend in the road. A car broke through the corner and honked just as I was passing. My heart attempted to jump through my ribcage and the strobe light was making me dizzy, my breathing a forced heaving whisper. I peddled faster down the next stretch and let go of the handle bars.

The moment you let go of the handle bars life is set in slow motion.

Call it a guilty pleasure...

Okay, so here's the game, if your tagged just write where you'd want to wake up tomorrow. No rules anywhere, any place anytime. And don't just say, Florida, or, the beach, describe it. Why there? What makes it so special. OKAY GO !


I must preface this with the fact that I know this will be extremely over-the-top, but after reading Landan's, I was inspired.

I want to wake up in a huge bed. And the excess space doesn't matter because "the girl" and I are entwined together in one corner. It's the middle of the day, and we are napping. And I don't like napping, but I have a feeling I will after this day. The room is any room, messy or clean, old or new. There's just one window, a big window that looks out over a landscape. The sun gently falls across the hardwood floor. I wake up because her hair tickles my nose. She shifts, closer, her head nestled under my chin. There are no sounds or smells, just the sound of her breathing, the smell of her hair. A wave of contention comes across my mind with the endless possibilities of the day.