This moive was incredible.
The climax where he wins the 20 million rps. was an amazing collection of emotions. With the many things happeing at once you don't know what emotion to feel and are left with numbness much like the hero, Jamal.
I loved it.
Sunday, May 31, 2009
Monday, May 25, 2009
The house was completely run down. You couldn't tell from the outside, but he knew. There wasn't a single house left that hadn't been scoured for supplies, pulled to pieces to make firewood, or simply destroyed in some cathartic fit of rage by one or many pepole who knew they weren't long for this world. No, the house wasn't good for anything anymore. It's french doors useless props to impress high scoiety friends who had become ash long ago, the hardwood floors torn up and no longer able to carry the creaks and groans from the man sneaking downstairs for a latenight snack, and it's brick fireplace no longer in service to man but instead in service to a family of raccons. They knew the value of this place and could put it to use. At least some living thing could do so.
He grumbled to no one in particular about entering the house. Who was there to hear? God? But he was hungry and he learned long ago to trust the oustide chances. Besides, he had no choice. It was this house or death. Nearly three days wihout water and alomst a week without food left him weak and hopeless.
Moving down an empty hall way from the empty kitchen he checked his pockets. The search produced a small prybar and he held it like weapon, ready for a possible attack. His eyes darted back an forth as the hallway led to an open family room. The room contained dusty, ruined furniture; someone had already taken the stuffing from the chairs and couch for insulation.
"That's alright", he thought, "I already have a thioat to endure this hard, endless winter."
He continued to check the room for more useful items. With the prybar he loosed some moulding he oculd use as firewood, and then he tapped on the floor in search of possible trap doors. He had been saved more than once by finding hidden cellars or bomb shelters created by the former, paranoid homeowners.
"I suppose they weren't really paraniod", he guessed, "they were right."
Suprisingly, his search did yield a trapdoor. The hollow knock rang true and pronounced the possibility of hidden treasures. He removed the moth-eaten rug that hid the door and pryed open the trap. Looking into the infinite darkness he fumbled to find the stairs. It was too dark to see and even if he could find a light switch at the bottom there was certainly no power. Quickly, he pryed loose a chair leg and took a piece of the rug and wrapped it around to create a makeshift torch.
"I hope there isn't a gas leak" he thought.
He produced a lighter from his other pocket and a flask from his inner pocket. First, dousing the cloth in alcohol he then lit the torch which illuminated the entire room.
"This was once a very beautiful home." he conjectured. "These people had money, power, and prestige and where are they now?"
dead
He made his descent into the cellar. It was a brick one probably created by the original owners, and it must have held some great treasures at one time. Hoping this space had not been found before, he looked around once he arrived at the bottom of the stairs.
He looked around and saw a long corridor leardin to a room. He walked down the corridor. The wall contained family photos of trips to Hawaii, France, California, every place imaginable He wondered what the trips might have been like, what those times were like before this new age of survival began. Before the end of time and the beginning of chaos.
Reaching the end of the corridor he arrived in the room. It was a small cave with old barrels and shelves; a wine cellar. He checked the racks for bottles or anything at all. Most of the slots were empty, a few held broken pieces of glass, and some the carcasses of long dead rats. He searched the floor and found a case that looked intouched.
"Former looters must have thought this was a table" he said out loud to on one in particular.
He pried the top free and lowered his torch. The case was full and held bottles marked: Chateau Petrus 1985. What a find if this were another day and age. Wine was useless for the most part; better if they contained water instead, and the wine was long past it's prime.
"It must be vingear by now" he thought as he broke the top of one bottle.
He poured a little into his cupped hands and sipped. Proving his point, he spat out the turned liquid and stared at the case. A fitting symbol for the world that once held much promise. Now it had turned sour and, from here, there was no going back.
He grumbled to no one in particular about entering the house. Who was there to hear? God? But he was hungry and he learned long ago to trust the oustide chances. Besides, he had no choice. It was this house or death. Nearly three days wihout water and alomst a week without food left him weak and hopeless.
Moving down an empty hall way from the empty kitchen he checked his pockets. The search produced a small prybar and he held it like weapon, ready for a possible attack. His eyes darted back an forth as the hallway led to an open family room. The room contained dusty, ruined furniture; someone had already taken the stuffing from the chairs and couch for insulation.
"That's alright", he thought, "I already have a thioat to endure this hard, endless winter."
He continued to check the room for more useful items. With the prybar he loosed some moulding he oculd use as firewood, and then he tapped on the floor in search of possible trap doors. He had been saved more than once by finding hidden cellars or bomb shelters created by the former, paranoid homeowners.
"I suppose they weren't really paraniod", he guessed, "they were right."
Suprisingly, his search did yield a trapdoor. The hollow knock rang true and pronounced the possibility of hidden treasures. He removed the moth-eaten rug that hid the door and pryed open the trap. Looking into the infinite darkness he fumbled to find the stairs. It was too dark to see and even if he could find a light switch at the bottom there was certainly no power. Quickly, he pryed loose a chair leg and took a piece of the rug and wrapped it around to create a makeshift torch.
"I hope there isn't a gas leak" he thought.
He produced a lighter from his other pocket and a flask from his inner pocket. First, dousing the cloth in alcohol he then lit the torch which illuminated the entire room.
"This was once a very beautiful home." he conjectured. "These people had money, power, and prestige and where are they now?"
dead
He made his descent into the cellar. It was a brick one probably created by the original owners, and it must have held some great treasures at one time. Hoping this space had not been found before, he looked around once he arrived at the bottom of the stairs.
He looked around and saw a long corridor leardin to a room. He walked down the corridor. The wall contained family photos of trips to Hawaii, France, California, every place imaginable He wondered what the trips might have been like, what those times were like before this new age of survival began. Before the end of time and the beginning of chaos.
Reaching the end of the corridor he arrived in the room. It was a small cave with old barrels and shelves; a wine cellar. He checked the racks for bottles or anything at all. Most of the slots were empty, a few held broken pieces of glass, and some the carcasses of long dead rats. He searched the floor and found a case that looked intouched.
"Former looters must have thought this was a table" he said out loud to on one in particular.
He pried the top free and lowered his torch. The case was full and held bottles marked: Chateau Petrus 1985. What a find if this were another day and age. Wine was useless for the most part; better if they contained water instead, and the wine was long past it's prime.
"It must be vingear by now" he thought as he broke the top of one bottle.
He poured a little into his cupped hands and sipped. Proving his point, he spat out the turned liquid and stared at the case. A fitting symbol for the world that once held much promise. Now it had turned sour and, from here, there was no going back.
Sunday, May 24, 2009
I sat in this chair; an akward, inflexible thing that brought more to mind that just sitting. The way I sat in this too short, too small object brought to mind a curiosity in my life. An idea that came back again and again through the years. I am old at twenty-four. Not to say I feel physically old. I was aerobically in the best shape of my life, and there seemed no end to progress in the direction of fitness. No, I was growing younger on the exterior, but my interior deterioration chugged along at it's consistent, nonstop pace.
In that chair I felt my feet bend together, my shoulders slouch forward, and my hands shrivel inward. Even my hair seemed to lose it normal fullness and my eyes felt weary from years that hadn't even existed. It was as if I had lived another life full of experiences and could not wait to find rest for my bones. They creaked but did not hurt. I was two at once, a stranger within another stranger which made the whole of me old, but young.
I repositioned myself within the chair and let out a sigh not of tiredness or sadness. It was a sigh made from the joining I experienced. As if the meeting of two created a rush of the air that once stood between them. Coming ever closer, they pushed together until there was no visible space between them. Then the real fusion began. Quickly, molecules collided in a real but unreal connection. Pushing out theose that were redundant and fusing those that must be joined; one experience to another, one scar to another, and one memory to another.
Why was I old and young? I had been told on different occasions that I seemed like a grandfather, or and elder. I sat in the way that old men sit and thought in the way that old men think. I would feel drawn to the elderly and their story as if it were mine. I was fact checking their statement for corroborating evidence to a story I didn't know. My kindred spirits were not to be found among those who shared my birthyear, but those who might have been my physical father or grandfather.
There were parts to my age and seemed to come from many places. They were drawn from time and place and pulled towards me as if I were some blackhole, but my insatiable power did not draw matter to a place where gravity was irresistible. I was irresistably drawing experience, life force, and understanding to me and I would connect age with youth in a cold fusion that permanently altered my very being. I pulled from the rugged, western cowboy whose weathered face knew too many places and had seen too many things. I sucked up the english gentleman whose manners portrayed the understanding of history and civility. I absorbed the dying soldier whose deathbed prayer hoped for a better world, but knew all to well the futility of his bitter struggles.
With these pieces fused I sat and waged war within myself. Hopefulness against cynicism, misery against ecstasy, martyrdom against egotism, independence against community, and on and on it went until every battle was waged and every war fought. No answer was to be found and no reilef was to be administered. I was, all at once, the epitome of all things ancient and new. The worlds longest standing questions raised in my mere existence and, without a word, I continued the long march through old age.
In that chair I felt my feet bend together, my shoulders slouch forward, and my hands shrivel inward. Even my hair seemed to lose it normal fullness and my eyes felt weary from years that hadn't even existed. It was as if I had lived another life full of experiences and could not wait to find rest for my bones. They creaked but did not hurt. I was two at once, a stranger within another stranger which made the whole of me old, but young.
I repositioned myself within the chair and let out a sigh not of tiredness or sadness. It was a sigh made from the joining I experienced. As if the meeting of two created a rush of the air that once stood between them. Coming ever closer, they pushed together until there was no visible space between them. Then the real fusion began. Quickly, molecules collided in a real but unreal connection. Pushing out theose that were redundant and fusing those that must be joined; one experience to another, one scar to another, and one memory to another.
Why was I old and young? I had been told on different occasions that I seemed like a grandfather, or and elder. I sat in the way that old men sit and thought in the way that old men think. I would feel drawn to the elderly and their story as if it were mine. I was fact checking their statement for corroborating evidence to a story I didn't know. My kindred spirits were not to be found among those who shared my birthyear, but those who might have been my physical father or grandfather.
There were parts to my age and seemed to come from many places. They were drawn from time and place and pulled towards me as if I were some blackhole, but my insatiable power did not draw matter to a place where gravity was irresistible. I was irresistably drawing experience, life force, and understanding to me and I would connect age with youth in a cold fusion that permanently altered my very being. I pulled from the rugged, western cowboy whose weathered face knew too many places and had seen too many things. I sucked up the english gentleman whose manners portrayed the understanding of history and civility. I absorbed the dying soldier whose deathbed prayer hoped for a better world, but knew all to well the futility of his bitter struggles.
With these pieces fused I sat and waged war within myself. Hopefulness against cynicism, misery against ecstasy, martyrdom against egotism, independence against community, and on and on it went until every battle was waged and every war fought. No answer was to be found and no reilef was to be administered. I was, all at once, the epitome of all things ancient and new. The worlds longest standing questions raised in my mere existence and, without a word, I continued the long march through old age.
Saturday, May 23, 2009
Wednesday, May 20, 2009
Immediate Gratification
Here's my recent insight:
As I was judging groups and individuals for a talent show I have relaized that these kids were not prepared. Very few of them seemed to have spent the time to create a quality performance, and yet they seemed to almost expect a chance to perform at the show. This is also not relegated to just tlanet and music related things.
I believe that, in our internet fueled/have it now culture, children to not know the value of hard work. That's not to say I was raised with the true knowledge either. It started with my generation; we grew up with the internet and had information, entertainment, and connectivity at our fingertips. It took no work to do what we needed and then never gave us cause to learn the value of hard work.
It's far worse now, however, since the digital age has been in full swing for these kids. They can become an instrant celebrity with American Idol or YouTube, and they don't see or understand the work that comes with those things. All they have to do is show up and they will be applauded and given a "sticker".
Sadly, this translates to lack of motivation in school and lazinessacross the board. I see so many students who simply fill a chair and get frustrated when they aren't at the top of the class. They expect everything to be spoon-fed to them and, if they don't understand right away, it probably doesn't matter and they don't have to do it. It's sad when we are trying to work on teaching the piano to students (something parents tell me they would like to play all the time) and these students don't understand. We spend months on the notes, show them where the correct keys are, label the keys with note names, sing the song with note names, and do "fun" review games, bu they still have no idea. Now, these aren't the ones who are trying. Some students talk through the entire explination or space out and then expect to be able to perform.
You cannot perform admirably on anything unless you are willing to put in the time.
Get help, work hard, spend the time, and crush it!
I wish that the newest children born recently or are soon to be born will understand this. the world cannot take and entire population that is uninspired, needy, and demanding.
No one is going to applaud (and mean it) a half-hearted effort.
Maybe I'll write more on this later. If I'm feeling inspired
As I was judging groups and individuals for a talent show I have relaized that these kids were not prepared. Very few of them seemed to have spent the time to create a quality performance, and yet they seemed to almost expect a chance to perform at the show. This is also not relegated to just tlanet and music related things.
I believe that, in our internet fueled/have it now culture, children to not know the value of hard work. That's not to say I was raised with the true knowledge either. It started with my generation; we grew up with the internet and had information, entertainment, and connectivity at our fingertips. It took no work to do what we needed and then never gave us cause to learn the value of hard work.
It's far worse now, however, since the digital age has been in full swing for these kids. They can become an instrant celebrity with American Idol or YouTube, and they don't see or understand the work that comes with those things. All they have to do is show up and they will be applauded and given a "sticker".
Sadly, this translates to lack of motivation in school and lazinessacross the board. I see so many students who simply fill a chair and get frustrated when they aren't at the top of the class. They expect everything to be spoon-fed to them and, if they don't understand right away, it probably doesn't matter and they don't have to do it. It's sad when we are trying to work on teaching the piano to students (something parents tell me they would like to play all the time) and these students don't understand. We spend months on the notes, show them where the correct keys are, label the keys with note names, sing the song with note names, and do "fun" review games, bu they still have no idea. Now, these aren't the ones who are trying. Some students talk through the entire explination or space out and then expect to be able to perform.
You cannot perform admirably on anything unless you are willing to put in the time.
Get help, work hard, spend the time, and crush it!
I wish that the newest children born recently or are soon to be born will understand this. the world cannot take and entire population that is uninspired, needy, and demanding.
No one is going to applaud (and mean it) a half-hearted effort.
Maybe I'll write more on this later. If I'm feeling inspired
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