Thoughts Negligible

Magnolia (because it’s always #1)

Dancer in the Dark (#2) – a tragic but beautifully made tale of injustice and the innocent victim of it all (Bjork, who is both absolutely breathtaking and charming in her performance).

Me and You and Everyone We Know – a touching and simple critique of the dehumanizing and impersonal force of technology, the social incompetence and alienation that ensues. Alienation has never been so beautiful. Be aware of the thick symbolism.

Matchpoint – Woody Allen: one of the few atheists willing to follow his worldview to its logical conclusion, and he does it tragically and poignantly in this film, with no regret, but utter nihilism. And Scarlett’s not too hard on the eye either. Pretentious dialogue, but great story.

Amores Perros – a Magnolia-esque drama of intersecting lives, tragedy, love lost and love forsaken, and redemption.

Wings of Desire – with dialogue like a poem and shot well

The Umbrellas of Cherbourg – beautiful music with dialogue sung (but I wouldn’t call it a musical), and a good redeeming story . . . where people make less selfish decisions in the end and don’t destroy everyone who loves them as in the last movie here reviewed)

A Man and a Woman – a love story with baggage and extended useless scenes.

Troll II - The worst movie of all time, good laughs.

Quest for the Mighty Sword - The second worst film of all time. The extended walking and running scenes are quite possibly the most moving ever, with the troll's accompanied with the lonely cry of the keyboard-synthesizer oboe. You'll most likely wet yourself if you're watching it with someone else who appreciates it for what it is.

When Harry Met Sally - Am I a girl? or are you just not man enough to love it?

Brokeback Mountain - not because it’s great (I don’t even believe it’s a love story), but because it’s a reflection of the condition of our national character as self-obsession—a great study of our depravity in shedding responsibility and praising selfishness.

The Apartment
Junebug
Contact
Winter Light
Shopgirl

I tell others and myself that I ride my bike for the exercise, but if they knew the depth of my depravity, they would know my motivations were much more gratuitous. I’ve got an addiction, and you, dear reader, are my confessor: I want to catch sunsets, gold-light-sprayed fields, miles of expanse, glowing clouds, and cows that look like black and red dots. But look too close and—as always—you’ll find something unexpected.

Yesterday I passed through a veil of scents about half a mile out. Something was blooming, spreading thick and palpable, seeking passionless asexual love, in sweet tones with a hint of metallic. If I knew scents I would describe it better—about a quarter-mile of sweet smell to send me on my way.

Two point five miles in comes the overpass where interstate 35 runs over Vermont Ave. You look over your shoulder because it always sounds like a car is coming up on you fast. It’s loud and the roar oppresses: “It sounded like a freight train!” Continuous motion: the fear of being still. For one moment, as the cars pass, I’m a part of the travels of faces I do not see, our lives intertwine at a crossroads where I’m aware of others’ existence, individuals and families, lovers and haters, all loved by God whether I call them by their first name or curse them for the air pollution. I really can’t help but be indifferent. But I am still invisible to them under the overpass; I’m simply an unknown recipient to the law of the conservation of energy. If they knew I was there, would they care? If I feel hard enough I can feel the rumble beneath my feet; but can I feel the downward flow of energy from above? That indestructible force makes its way through me, headed to China, then maybe to Jupiter, then to the Mizar star system, where one of its five suns will swallow it up and spit it out again in a million years, back to us in some cosmic game of catch, I suppose, because nothing’s going to stop it, not even the core of the world or a star—“neither height nor depth, nor anything in all creation, will be able to separate us from the love of God that is in Christ Jesus our Lord.” Why does an overpass drive me to such musing? In the words of the psalmist, “My zeal wears me out.”

Above is usually where I find a hundred little black birds dancing around their adobe nests, their anchorite holds on vibrating concrete. They fly around under the bridge to keep from going insane I suspect. But tonight there are none but one, a baby left on the road, learning to fly under a captive audience. The tires of my bike halt within a foot of her. She crouches in fear and her fast-beating heart rocks her body forth and back. From a brown mud house comes a screech, a “NOOOO!” I push the wheels forward to get it off the road after some mutual admiration, she awing at my size, I awing at hers. She hops to the side and her flight mechanism heightens as she lets out white, but she still has no flight in her flight mechanism. I wish her well with a prayer of safety and hope God still cares more than I do in my abandonment.

Every evening, every few feet, there’s a rustle in the grass as something goes leaping for its life away from my threatening roll. Every time my head shoots in the direction of sound hoping to catch the varmint fleeing. Sometimes a pheasant flutters in front of me, but most times I have no idea what it is. One time I caught a glimpse of what looked like the form of a squirrel. On the way back home yesterday I was looking up at the fiery mid-level cumulus, alighted with tilted light that had already reached the other side of this, the first Arbuckle rise. They look like flames upside down, a lighted wisp above the mountain almost every night. I heard one of God's joyous creatures coming to greet me. The first one ever that actually came to me, and as he struck his head and shoulder from the brush my heart sank in horror. About four feet away, his black body with white head and two white stripes stretching down his sides brought memory of his smell immediately to mind. My flight mechanism kicked in and I labored uphill as fast as possible. His fight mechanism kicked in and he turned, decided against flight, and lifted his tail. I cursed and fifteen feet later I looked back to find his tail still up. I waited till it was down to press on, the thrill of narrow escape in my mouth. The cows that normally run beside me were too far away, so I had no companion to share the experience with. The cows, they chase me along the fence and watch me, not as a threat, but as a sideshow, the freak that goes on wheels with two perfectly healthy legs and often hollers at them for no apparent reason—the beast.

Nearing the top of the hill that I love to fly down going about 45 mph, I caught sight and another encounter ensued. The coyote had just crossed the road and was wistfully jogging in a clearing about twenty-five feet away, into the woods. "Hey!" I hollered. He stopped and turned, no more interested in me than if he were looking at a fly. He disinterestedly pawed at something on the ground when I yelled again. “HEY!” A whistle. He turns and trots away. I had just seen an apparition, but he had seen nothing so amazing. I keep yelling trying to get him to stop…he just goes. All encounters are fleeting.

I flew down the hill, wind-whipped and amazed.

Who Am I?
by Dietrich Bonhoeffer

Who am I? They often tell me
I would step from my cell's confinement
calmly, cheerfully, firmly,
like a country squire from his country house.

Who am I? They often tell me
I would talk to my warders
freely and friendly and clearly,
as though it were mine to command.

Who am I? They also tell me
I would bear the days of misfortune
equably, smilingly, proudly,
like one accustomed to win.

Am I then really all that which other men tell of?
Or am I only what I know of myself,
restless and longing and sick, like a bird in a cage,
struggling for breath, as though hands were compressing my throat,
yearning for colors, for flowers, for the voices of birds,
thirsting for words of kindness, for neighborliness,
trembling with anger at despotisms and petty humiliation,
tossing in expectation of great events,
powerlessly trembling for friends at an infinite distance,
weary and empty at praying, at thinking, at making,
faint, and ready to say farewell to it all?

Who am I? This or the other?
Am I one person today, and tomorrow another?
Am I both at once? A hypocrite before others,
and before myself a contemptibly woebegone weakling?
Or is something within me still like a beaten army,
fleeing in disorder from victory already achieved?

Who am I? They mock me, these lonely questions of mine.
Whoever I am, thou knowest, O God, I am thine.