Aug. 22nd, 2011 | 02:48 pm
Feb. 25th, 2008 | 02:12 pm
I identify myself as a staunch atheist but, oddly, it doesn't feel to me like a decision; rather, it feels like a factor of my DNA.
I was raised by my grandmother who was religious, but in a strange, tribal way. It was almost like an animism, no formal worship of any kind, but velvet tapestries and plaster crosses everywhere. It was fascinating to me, but fascinating in the same way that a Hopi spirit doll is fascinating. Quaint.
There were periods in my very unhappy adolescence when I tried to find some meaning in faith, but it was much like my grandmother's superstition, with more Kalahari bushman than C.S. Lewis to it...all about saying special words to get results, praying for rain.
Recently, I came into contact again with both my mother and my father - I haven't spoken with my father since I was 16 and haven't actually met him since I was 8 or so. My mother and I parted ways about 16 years ago and continued to live in the same town, never speaking.
They are both very, very sick. My mother is a third stage renal patient and my father is being treated for colon cancer.
The part that strikes me as relates to where we started, to god belief? They are both atheists as well. My father wouldn't use that word, but it applies. They are in the foxhole, so to speak, and they remain resistant to faith.
I often feel as if I am missing the part of my brain that makes religion work, that carves some sort of sense out of faith. Maybe it's genetic.
Jun. 13th, 2007 | 03:22 pm
They're on us now, the ones we buried and left behind. And they are screaming.
They scream because they are hungry. I scream because I know what they eat.
I can see them in my head, moving from house to house like ghosts. They pull the baby like fresh plucked piglet from their unsheltered prams, they tear apart the old and sick in their unquiet, damp beds. They're making the world stop and there is fuck-all I can do about it than this.
And this is less than nothing.
A note thrown into a sea that ends at no beach, with no Crusoe to read it.
Oct. 17th, 2006 | 04:29 pm
Sep. 15th, 2006 | 04:45 pm
Yes, I know it's fake, people. Settle down.
Sep. 15th, 2006 | 02:53 pm
Sep. 15th, 2006 | 09:22 am
I knew, intellectually, that this was a Fun movie, an Affectionate Spoof, but I found myself bored and distracted beyond comprehension. I was REQUIRED to like this movie, fer Chrissakes. It was a zombie spoof with lotsa gore, a country Greek chorus and Jeremy "MAY" Sisto. Why then did the whole thing seem oddly embarrassing and unworthy of attention?
I don't think it's age - I've not lost my affection for kitsch or irony as death has tightened it's icy grip on my ever hardening arteries...I think that I'm just seeking more genuine experience. This movie is a smirk, not a smile.
I've no patience for what the modern horror movie has become - an interminable stew of TEXAS CHAINSAW remakes, lesbian vampires and shitty zombie make-up. It's all a tremendous waste. If you have the time, patience and drive to craft a film, why make shit? Why make DEAD AND BREAKFAST when you can make MAY? Why make VAMPS: DEADLY DREAMGIRLS when you could make HENRY: PORTRAIT OF A SERIAL KILLER or STREET TRASH?
Also, a side comment:
If it wouldn't be funny in a comedy, it sure as shit ain't gonna be funny in a horror comedy.
Sep. 8th, 2006 | 04:36 pm
<td></td> An extract from the diary of Lieutenant Colonel Mervin Willett Gonin DSO who was
among the first British soldiers to liberate Bergen-Belsen in 1945.
I can give no adequate description of the Horror Camp in which my men and myself were to spend the next month of our lives. It was just a barren wilderness, as bare as a chicken run. Corpses lay everywhere, some in huge piles, sometimes they lay singly or in pairs where they had fallen. It took a little time to get used to seeing men women and childen collapse as you walked by them and to restrain oneself from going to their assistance. One had to get used early to the idea that the individual just did not count. One knew that five hundred a day were dying and that five hundred a day were going on dying for weeks before anything we could do would have the slightest effect. It was, however, not easy to watch a child choking to death from diptheria when you knew a tracheotomy and nursing would save it, one saw women drowning in their own vomit because they were too weak to turn over, and men eating worms as they clutched a half loaf of bread purely because they had to eat worms to live and now could scarcely tell the difference. Piles of corpses, naked and obscene, with a woman too weak to stand proping herself against them as she cooked the food we had given her over an open fire; men and women crouching down just anywhere in the open relieving themselves of the dysentary which was scouring their bowels, a woman standing stark naked washing herself with some issue soap in water from a tank in which the remains of a child floated. It was shortly after the British Red Cross arrived, though it may have no connection, that a very large quantity of lipstick arrived. This was not at all what we men wanted, we were screaming for hundreds and thousands of other things and I don't know who asked for lipstick. I wish so much that I could discover who did it, it was the action of genius, sheer unadulterated brilliance. I believe nothing did more for these internees than the lipstick. Women lay in bed with no sheets and no nightie but with scarlet red lips, you saw them wandering about with nothing but a blanket over their shoulders, but with scarlet red lips. I saw a woman dead on the post mortem table and clutched in her hand was a piece of lipstick. At last someone had done something to make them individuals again, they were someone, no longer merely the number tatooed on the arm. At last they could take an interest in their appearance. That lipstick started to give them back their humanity
Source: Imperial War museum</td>