Reading Charles Portis's True Grit. Such an awesome read. I loved the movie and I love the book. I'm so excited. I also checked out Paddy Clarke Ha Ha Ha by Roddy Doyle, but even Roddy Doyle can't draw me away from True Grit. Just reading the opening chapter, my heart was thumping like crazy.
Although I can't be sure yet at this point, but I think I might have found a new favorite author!
By: Nippy | Friday, July 29, 2011 at 5:13 AM | | 
Duck, if you're reading this, just want you to know that I really miss you. You're probably flying across the Pacific Ocean right now. You said that you'll sleep on the plane, but really, I know you'll just be watching in-flight movies. I always play it quite cool when people leave, saw you made a face through the window, at the security check out. Daddy was making a comment about how you made a "bian zui lian" (duck face?) Haha. We miss you already. Not that I'm cool, but just that I hate the drama. But a year passes by in no time, and I'm sure you'll have so much fun you won't miss us (too much). Hope this year for you will be full of wonderful adventures you can share with us. We love you and we know that this year will be an amazing one for you.
Good luck duck, take care of yourself. (I would have sent you an email, but I think you'll be surprised to find this here when the mood strikes you to visit my blog.)
Ay, send me the link to your blog you'll be keeping for your year in Japan ok?
See you soon. Talk to you sooner.
By: Nippy | Tuesday, July 26, 2011 at 8:23 AM | |
You know, I don't know what it is, but the older I get, the less I feel inclined to talk about any idea of truth. I have no big theories about the meaning of life, the universe, and everything. No really, is it tiredness? I don't know. All I know is that I hate insincerity, whatever form it may come in--the worst is when people try to play it off as art. Whatever. Philosophy is fine, as long as you keep it to yourself. I have no interest in hearing how deep this thing you're trying to create is. I detest it. I would much rather read something genuine and poorly written than well crafted pretentious shit.
This might be able to explain why I can't much stand independent films with no sense of humor, (and boy there are so many of them out there). It gets to a point when I would read a synopsis or see a poster and cringe. There is something strangely disturbing about people who take themselves and their creation too seriously. It is always fishy to me when people talk about what they are trying to say. Their message. Their artistic statement. Their philosophy. Their world view. All bullshit. I sometimes wish people would shut up, shut up and be still.
I wonder if it has to do with being in the U.S, everyone is always endlessly talking talking talking about something, most of the time themselves. But everyone is obsessed with self exhibition nowadays, how else can we explain the popularity of Facebook? I don't want to sound like that angry bitter person who came to speak in our art class during J.C. I remember him so clearly. He went on and on and on about how we are all being manipulated by the media, and how everything, everything is contaminated. I remember telling Jane, getting just as worked up as the speaker--that if he hated the entire society so much why doesn't he just go live in a cave. The ironic thing was that he is a graphic designer, so what else does he do but get paid by all these businesses who are trying to manipulate people into buying their goods & services. That makes him a hypocrite. The world is crawling with them, but nowhere are they are pronounced and as in the "art scene."
I don't hate artists/musicians/poets/writers. I just hate it when they forget that the highest calling is not that of art. Not in my opinion at least, the highest calling of course is to live, fully and honestly and genuinely without all this silly front and dressing up. Recently, I saw a video of a secondary school mate who is now a composer. Her music, I can't speak too much of, because she went on and on so much about what she was trying to do with her music. I asked myself very honestly afterwards if my gut reaction of disgust was not founded on envy. It honestly wasn't.
Sometimes, what I miss are the simple afternoons those summer days when I was six and we spend the day at my grandparents' house. Where their black rotary phone is an object of fascination. When joy was the taste of condense milk on white bread. When my neighbor's sun flowers heads high against the blue of the sky was sheer happiness. Ecstasy and fear used to come in through me unmediated. I think it is in the sate of innocence that we experience most intensely, and it is the very thing I am always after. It is never thoughts or ideas I am after, it is always a sensation. A sensation so pure it brings me right back to being a child spreading out newspaper on the floor, watching grandmother dry orange peel in the sun, feeling their stiff barks, their mouldy smells, and feeling like this moment would live forever, feeling like I have been touched by something. It is always innocence I miss. And every time I come in touch with art, I long for this direct and intense experience, but always run right up against a wall of people talking, talking, talking.
By: Nippy | Wednesday, July 20, 2011 at 2:19 PM | |
Of all the fine writers I've read, there is no one that I have such strange longing to talk to as Douglas Adams. He talks about life, his art with such humanity and humor. I believe humor is humanity at its best. I've already mentioned it before once, somewhere, that I think all the wonderful writers I love have a great sense of humor. So I was pleasantly surprised on this Friday night after an exhausting night with Lee(ah-hem), to find a short passage, an introduction actually, Douglas Adams had written for Sunset at Blandings by P.G Wodehouse. I am not surprised that Douglas Adams holds Wodehouse in such high esteem, as fellow comedic, in my opinion, comedic geniuses--both of them. But I was moved too, that Adams talks about comedy as high art--and indeed it is. Comedy is sublime. I have always always felt such gratitude to writers/film-makers who can make me laugh. It is a joy unsurpassed by any other enjoyment, for me at least. It elevates me, Puts me in places life doesn't usually want to let me be in, and for a space of several pages, sometimes the length of entire books, I laugh, I am happy, I forget.
Adams describes the world in Sunset at Blandings as a pre-fall paradise and says this, "Of Course, Wodehouse never burdened himself with the task of justifying the ways of God to Man, but only of making Man, for a few hours at a time, inextinguishably happy."
I am indeed inextinguishably happy, sublimely so. Thank you P.G Wodehouse and Douglas Adams. For all the joys, always. The pleasure is all mine. Thank you.
By: Nippy | Saturday, July 09, 2011 at 3:31 PM | |
I will stop comparing myself to others. Yes, they have better techniques, and an enviable use of language. Mine comes out slightly awkward sometimes, but it is my own aesthetics and I will hone it. I will listen to my own sense of what is true for me. Why worry about the others? They will do their best, and I will do mine.
AND NOW FOR SOMETHING COMPLETELY DIFFERENT... (how many times do you have to blog about the same thing? Why can't you just be cool about it, instead of harping on this? Sorry. Sorry. Sorry.)
I drove to Santa Cruz over the 4th July weekend. First time I got so scared on a ride, I teared. I din't even cry on that triple loop that went upside down in Syndey, but I cried on the giant dipper at the beach boardwalk. OK, I didn't actually cry, I just teared. Those wooden roller coasters are scary, and that ride was too long in my opinion. It was 1:57(I think) minutes, way too long for a roller coaster ride. Torturous.
And we did argue on our way back, and I actually cried at the wheel--tsk tsk, so dangerous thinking back, The worse combination(lethal): Being a girl, being Asian, being emotional and freaking out on the freeway. I was so angry I swore that I wouldn't travel with Lee again.
The crazy thing of course is that now he is back at Santa Cruz again--invitation of his family. Strange isn't it?
By: Nippy | Thursday, July 07, 2011 at 12:55 PM | |
