Depression and anxiety can be tackled only by the individual concerned.Medicines and counseling can go only thus far.What is needed is understanding of some facts.
Out of desire comes attachment,from attachment expectations,expectations lead to lead to frustration,it leads to depression.
We have had many desires during our life time.If we sit down and ponder what was interesting and pleasurable at one point of time , no longer excites us, at times repugnant right now..The things we desired for retain their nature then and now.Then why we do not get the same pleasure out of it?Reason is that pleasure does not lie in things per se.They are our attitudes towards them. When the attitude changes, the whole picture changes.Therefore accept things in life as they are and not attach value to it.Do not carry it forward for our attitude may change and we may even be unhappy about the the things we liked.This is the truth.
Anxiety arises when we feel what we have done or achieved is not enough or things do not happen the way we want them to happen.If we are sure we have done our best, that is it.We can do no more.Accept your limitations.Do not set your goals too high.Remember,whatever you achieve is naught when you depart.
Things happen, controlled by various factors ,us being only a factor and not THE factor.As said earlier do your best and leave it at that.
Another reason for depression and anxiety is comparisons .No two things in the world are identical ;at best they are similar.Never try to be other than what you are.You too have a function and a purpose in the scheme of the Universe.
These are few tips to beat anxiety and depression

ScienceDaily (Nov. 18, 2009) — A study by researchers at the University of Bergen, Norway, and the Institute of Psychiatry (IoP) at King’s College London has found that depression is as much of a risk factor for mortality as smoking.

Utilising a unique link between a survey of over 60,000 people and a comprehensive mortality database, the researchers found that over the four years following the survey, the mortality risk was increased to a similar extent in people who were depressed as in people who were smokers.
Dr Robert Stewart, who led the research team at the IoP, explains the possible reasons that may underlie these surprising findings: ‘Unlike smoking, we don’t know how causal the association with depression is but it does suggest that more attention should be paid to this link because the association persisted after adjusting for many other factors.’
The study also shows that patients with depression face an overall increased risk of mortality, while a combination of depression and anxiety in patients lowers mortality compared with depression alone. Dr Stewart explains: ‘One of the main messages from this research is that ‘a little anxiety may be good for you’.
‘It appears that we’re talking about two risk groups here. People with very high levels of anxiety symptoms may be naturally more vulnerable due to stress, for example through the effects stress has on cardiovascular outcomes. On the other hand, people who score very low on anxiety measures, i.e. those who deny any symptoms at all, may be people who also tend not to seek help for physical conditions, or they may be people who tend to take risks. This would explain the higher mortality.’
In terms of the relationship between mortality and anxiety with depression as a risk factor, the research suggests that help-seeking behaviour may explain the pattern of outcomes. People with depression may not seek help or may fail to receive help when they do seek it, whereas the opposite may be true for people with anxiety.
Dr Stewart comments: ‘It would certainly not surprise me at all to find that doctors are less likely to investigate physical symptoms in people with depression because they think that depression is the explanation, but may be more likely to investigate if someone is anxious because they think it will reassure them. These are conjectures but they would fit with the data.’
The researchers point out that the results should be considered in conjunction with other evidence suggesting a variety of adverse physical health outcomes and poor health associated with mental disorders such as depression and psychotic disorders.
In light of the findings, Dr Stewart makes suggestions on the focus of future developments in the treatment of depression and anxiety: ‘The physical health of people with current or previous mental disorder needs a lot more attention than it gets at the moment.
‘This applies to primary care, secondary mental health care and general hospital care in the sense that there should be more active screening for physical disorders and risk factors, such as blood pressure, cholesterol, adverse diet, smoking, lack of exercise, in people with mental disorders. This should be done in addition to more active treatment of disorders when present, and more effective general health promotion
http://www.sciencedaily.com/releases/2009/11/091117094933.htm

När man sitter på bussen från Oslo till Västerås, blir akut bajsnödig och upptäcker en av följande:

A) Någon annan har fått samma infall och redan ockuperat toaletten.
B) Toalettpappret är slut när du har tömt lasset och ska återgå till platsen.
C) Personen med samma infall vet inte hur man spolar och har dessutom träffat ringen, väggen och golvet med sin avföring.

Eller, i extrema fall;

D) Samtliga av ovanstående.

Unappreciated . . . Unwanted . . . Unloved . . .

The child in me cries every time those emotions erupt. They come too often for me to ignore, and I finally meditated and traced my ”anger” to its source and saw a truth: I felt unappreciated, unwanted and unloved when the latest PTSD  explosion occurred. And maybe now, after looking within and seeing how  those feelings may have surfaced, I can cope with them better .

From what I learned, my mother nearly died during my child-birth. The baby Michael was shipped off to a “farm” in Mays Landing, New Jersey, where the grandmother raised the infant.

The boy’s father had been quoted as saying he would have preferred to see the son dead, and not see the pain such a birth caused his wife.

Could any of this have been absorbed by an infant, and more importantly, could those long suppressed feelings affect the man in middle age? Could they have contributed to events experienced in Vietnam and now mingle with fears, anxieties and a sense of loss I feel? 

That’s my struggle with PTSD. I learn more  about myself every day. Like today, I stopped at an “outlet” bread store for rolls. Picked up a dozen in a bag  and walked to the counter. An older man was standing there, waiting for an order he made the day before. The young man, behind the counter, appeared rushed. It was the day before Thanksgiving, and the store was crowded, even before noon.

I placed my bag on the empty counter, hoping that I could quickly pay and get out to complete some other chore. But the young man did not look at me. He simply said to “wait a second” when I moved my bag closer to his line of vision. No luck in getting quick service here.

The clerk left the counter. Returned and said something beneath his breath, only to leave the sales area a second time for the bakery in back. Other customers had walked up behind me with multiple bags of breads, rolls, pies and what not.

When the clerk returned, he lay two big boxes on the counter. I had to remove my bag and place it behind the cash register. The older man paid for his goods and had trouble getting them out of the door some eight feet away.

“Here, let me help you,” I said, opening and holding the door for him to get by. I felt good to have provided him service. But when I returned to the register, the couple that were behind me were now being waited upon. Their order seemed to go on and on.

My patience, however, did  not!

“A good deed never goes unpunished,” I said, loud enough for the cashier to hear me. Either he did not, or worse, he ignored me. The woman in line, however, did hear and offered an apology. “I’m not mad at you,”  I said to her and the man accompanying her.

“I mad at this asshole,” I barked, my anger rising  as I still was unable to get the sombitch attention. He continued to look toward the register, ignoring my challenge to his lack of courtesy.

As the man and woman looked at me, I knew I had done wrong. “I’m sorry,” I said, and added . “I have PTSD,” as if that could explain my rude behavior. I threw the bag of rolls to the floor and walked out of the store, blowing all other chores I had intended to complete.

“God, why am I  hyper-alert, hyper sensitive?” I asked. Please make me calm, mellow. Just don’t make death the only way for me to find that peace.

The terrorists won.

They pushed my face into the dirt. Made me low crawl through those metal detectors. Violated me like no prison incarceration could ever have make me feel.

None of this actually happened. But that is the way the Philadelphia Veterans Adminstration Center made me feel this morning with its new security measure that left me with very little dignity upon entering the building.

The guards asked me if I had any “sharp objects” before I entered. They probably meant a knife, but I wondered if a key or even a pen could  fit that description. I hesitated, but kept my mouth shut. Didn’t want to cause any trouble with uniformed guards who appeared to have  loaded guns at their sides.

But then the female guard told me to take off my belt.

My belt, I thought, what the hell is that going to secure? My pants needed the belt  to stay up. Why did I have to feel I was about to be ridiculed like that woman did to an Iraqi prisoner at Abu Ghraib. I kept thinking an accident would occur while stripping in front of this woman.

And what the hell is a metal detector going to detect from an unattached belt, that a metal detector could not detect while the belt is safely holding up a pair of pants? You can see if the metal of a belt buckle is hiding something while the person is wearing a belt, can’t you? What is the purpose of going beltless?

Now, you have to know that I have never been subjected to this routine before, except at Graterford Prison, Pennsylvania’s biggest and baddest prison facility. Most attorneys I know dislike the procedure. But we overcome our distaste for this invasive practice for our criminal clients.

None of the Philadelphia prisons require such action. At least they haven’t during the 20 years I have practiced, and the several months serving as the “prison chief” while working at the Defender Association of Philadelphia.

Also, I have visited this VA office more than a dozen times over the past four years. The first time I needed help (and was turned down, by the way) was shortly after returning from Vietnam and complained of a hearing loss I suffered while employed as a grunt in a combat infantry platoon. Never in all my trips to the VA have I been subjected to such mistrust. Stripping off my belt made me feel like a criminal, plain and simple. (See  VA indignity for Part 2)

Ah Fuck I am so broke that I am counting my change. I am so broke that I am blogging about counting my change.  I am far to broke to be comfortable.  If you are a regular client, if you have been wanting to play, if you just like my writing and would like to donate money to my tuition / suicide prevention fund now would be a great time to do it.

I am no stranger to trolling for a buck.  I have been in the sex industry for long enough that I’m not amused by mentioning how long it has been.  It is a time from that has crossed the threshold of “she knows what she’s doing” level of experience and become something more like “Geez why is she still doing this?”

The fact of the matter is that I am still doing this, trying to muster up enough money to pay my bills and get through school.  Granted I have finished college and because I am so good at school I want to get a PhD.  Bully for me.  I’m sure that to a lot of the people who no longer speak to me because of this decision I must seem like a spoiled brat.  I’m not.

Today I am counting my change.  I don’t have any more matte, my preferred caffeinated beverage, though last year I bought several kilos of black tea, it’s too jittery for my liking and I can’t drink it without soy milk and sugar.  I have some sugar but I’m out of soy milk.  I’m gonna count up my change and go buy some soy milk.  I don’t have (and haven’t had) enough money to do my laundry in months.  It’s in the back of my car, a purchase that I had to suck up and make as socal was simply dehumanizing without one.  My car is bigger than my apartment so for the time being it is my laundry room.

Back to my lack of mullah.  Grad school is a level of poverty that I’m not sure I can cope with.  I can’t afford food so I’m 50 lbs lighter than I was a year ago.  Woo Hoo – smart and skinny.  If you are at all interested in the horrible economic situation in California you might be aware that a lot of money was cut from our school system. Almost 600 million dollars – cut.   Fuck.  I’m a thousand dollars short of my tuition.  I have to have it by Friday.  I don’t have any food.  My laundry is filthy – I’m in fact wearing the same pair of socks that I put on (dirty) Monday.  The situation is fucking disgusting.  I feel like I am living in a third world country.  I am currently sitting in a coffee house, using the internet connection because I can not afford to have service in my apartment, and I feel like they are gonna catch on to the fact that I am simply reusing the paper cup.  I live close by so I have been refilling the cup with tea from home, using it as a VIP pass to sit in the coffee house for hours on end.  I don’t even have enough money to buy a cup of tea in a coffee house.  This is truly awful.

I think I’m pretty hip, though I have no friends and my family won’t talk to me.  I’m smart and skinny.  I’m well read and can make you feel intellectually inadequate.  My perversions are world class.  Why then am I so fucking broke?  Do I have a drug habit?  I wish.  I have an education habit.  I could spend my time being a good internet dominatrix – hanging around waiting to prey upon the next submissive who appears, but I’m reading a ton of feminist and linguistic theory instead.  I read over twenty books this week, wrote a pretty stellar paper about the patriarchy inherent in the USAmerican English language and on Friday I have to go tot the cashiers office with a thousand bucks I don’t have.  Wanna support my education habit?  Wanna take me to the grocery store?  Wanna be pissed on at the beach this afternoon?  Something – anything to amuse me, distract me from my hunger – something.

Anyone got a bone to toss my way?

I know that the Christmas fucking decorations just went up which means that your fucking offspring are gonna get to believe in Santa and that I am gonna end up stealing food before the year is over.  I really don’t want to have to steal food.  That might be my breaking point.

I’m pretty sure that I am suffering from some sort of malnutrition.  I ran out of vitamins a couple weeks ago.  I am tired and dizzy and sometimes my vision gets a little blurred.  But school is great.

Is this what it takes to acquire an education in this country?  Hunger?  Really – wow.  I am horrified and scandalized to my very core.   My parents are not interested in helping.  They never gave me a dime for school.  I paid for my private liberal arts education by myself.  I have a mountain of debt and a love of learning.  Loving school is not very highly valued in this nation, I fear it is even lower in national values that being an artist is – at least if you are a performance artist you are fostering the nationwide acceptance of cultivating your personality and potentially becoming famous.  This is what we value – the quest for pointless fame.  If we should want to read, question the power structure, if we want to become a nation of well educated individuals I suppose then that we deserve to be hungry.

That is what I am learning in graduate school.

So how bout it – wanna take me to the supermarket and the laundry mat?

Indecisive.

The very word itself creeps me out.

Can’t think of anything more debilitating than this four-syllable word. It ranks up there with “impotent.” At least to someone who’s always seen himself  a “man of action.” Military might have had something to do with me. Take action, is what I learned,  so that no one can see how unsure you really are at times. Whatever you do, don’t freeze. Even a bad decision is better than none; appearing immobile is just like showing you’re “afraid.”

Oh boy, there goes another one of those words I hate to mention in public, “afraid.” How often have I been afraid to do something in life? Afraid to start something new, afraid to follow a different path. Afraid to Love?

Afraid that no one would care what I had to say or give a hoot if they even listened to me in the first place.

How, you may ask, did I get to this point? I can trace it directly to an article on “discernment,” provided by my internet friend, Steven Goodheart. Your actions set in motion your “intent,” is what I got out of this reading, and you before you act, you should know what “intent” you intend . . .

You understand that? Well, neither do I, and that is the crux of the matter. I don’t know what my “intent” is or what it should be in the first place.

I guess the bigger question is “what is one’s intention for life?”

Beats the hell out of me. And there’s the rub, as Shakespeare once said with his full intent aimed directly at me. I guess I’m looking for intent today. How can I choose to take a step, if I can not see where my next movement will take me, or what chain reaction it could possibly start?

So I’m stuck. Almost afraid to share this, believing that such an admission would only show weakness and make me too vulnerable to  what, I don’t know. See. I can’t even name the object of my fears! It’s almost as if I am waiting for something, someone to guide me, to point me into a direction to go, and give me a gentle little nudge.

And then I ask myself, “what would Woody Allen do in a situation like this? Because, that is exactly how I feel. Insecure and anxious. WoodyAllen-like. We share the same birth day, have the same biorhythms. Why not the same neurosis? (Or is that neuroses?)

Let me think about this. But not too long. I don’t “intend” to wait and hang around here all day! 

19 de noviembre

UNIVERSAL CHANNEL a las 21:00 hrs, SKY 208, CABLEVISIÓN 211

HOUSE Fox 2009 / Universal Channel

Un paciente en estado terminal insiste en que tienen la misma enfermedad en el corazón que acabo con la vida de su padre y abuelo a la edad de 40 años. Mientras tanto, House descubre que tiene un problema en el oído cuando trata de evitar las rondas de estudiantes.

Por Lic. Lila Isacovich, Psicoanalista de Fundación Buenos Aires

Si está tan extendido el vocablo, debe ser porque reconocemos que nos habita y nos concierne y que nadie está tan seguro de no estar un poco loco. Es más, tendemos a sospechar de los que creen que no tienen ni un gramo de locura en su haber. Más bien los pensamos necios o ejerciendo una defensa precaria. En cambio, quien no tiene demasiados pruritos en aceptar algún que otro aspecto “loco”, suele inspirarnos más confianza, más proximidad.
¿Es que hablamos de distintos tipos de locura? Quizás por allí estemos mejor orientados. Desde ya que no es lo mismo “haber perdido la razón” – el criterio de realidad – que andar un poco a tientas o dudar por momentos de si estaremos en lo cierto. Justamente, los psicoanalistas convenimos en reservar la certeza como criterio diagnóstico para las psicosis, es decir, esas personas que están absolutamente seguras y convencidas. Por ejemplo, lo vemos en los llamados delirios de persecución, o en las celotipias, donde no hay manera de introducir la incertidumbre o la reflexión. Definimos un delirio sobre todo por este grado de certeza absoluta.
Contrariamente a lo esperado por el sentido común, que supone que cuanto más seguro está alguien de sus actos o de sus pensamientos más cuerdo se encuentra, los analistas no consideramos lo mismo. Al revés, sospechamos cuando encontramos tanta convicción y sondeamos si no estamos frente a una construcción delirante, que nos daría la pauta de una estructura subjetiva más bien psicótica.
Sin embargo también estamos habituados a lidiar con “delirios neuróticos” a diario. Y allí es donde entran a tallar diferencias nada sutiles, aunque a veces nos cueste discernir una estructura psicótica de una neurosis, que es como llamamos a la más común de las afecciones psíquicas. Parece que los neuróticos tampoco están a salvo de construir de pronto versiones delirantes, a las que incluso podemos nombrar como ideologías, creencias religiosas, fanatismos de diversa índole, donde se rechaza cualquier perspectiva que ponga en tela de juicio lo que pensamos. Y a esto, curiosamente, lo denominamos “razón”. Este término es sinónimo de conocimiento, conciencia, sabiduría, mente y juicio. De hecho, pareciera que “tener la razón” mueve las pasiones más intensas de nuestra vida y afecta a casi todos nuestros vínculos. Pero generalmente, cuanta más razón creemos tener, más irracionales nos volvemos.

A consommer de préférence avant l’apocalypse.

J’ai eu un gros retour en force de musique burnée dans ma vie auditive. Voici une petite sélection de trucs qui m’ont traversés les oreilles avec plus ou moins de plaisir ces derniers mois. Ces reviews sont déjà vieilles, mais bon…

Skeletonwitch – Beyond The Permafrost

Bon disque de trash à l’ancienne, avec des guitares à 10.000, des mélodies qui envoient et plus de double pédales que dans les bars de Golden Dai où Robin m’a amené jadis, le tout joué par un groupe de squelettes ashkenaze. Enfin, peut-être.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1-Dqjr2X_Ho

I Am Error – Trout Yogurt

Du bon nintendocore (Hardcore + musique de super NES).

Qui peut résister à des titres comme «  Forrest of Fellatio » ou « The Reason We Vomit Is To Show How Dedicated We Are To Lose Weight » ?
En meme temps, ca peut sembler beaucoup pompé sur the locust.

Machine Head – Burn My Eyes

Je me demande comment c’est possible de ne pas retrouver sur le net de traces de ce magazine auquel j’étais abonné étant adolescent, RAGE.

Outre le cliché du nom et parfois des articles (mais la presse rock est morte en 1982, radote -peut-être à raison, mais bon, j’en ai marre de lire ses jérémiades- Yves Adrien) et des parti-pris, ca m’aura permis de connaître pas mal de groupes, dont celui-la.
Du gros métal à l’ancienne, mais avec une sacré agresivité malgré le coté très mid-tempo, trop chevelu-torticoli pour moi en règle generale (je préfère écouter les trucs « droit dans le mur » et « je danse en scaphandre » séparément…Ne mélangeons pas Vader et Neurosis. Quoique…).

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_mWPPBW4DU8

Et puis le chanteur avec ses 3 petites dreadlocks dans la barbe, c’te classe...(en 1995)…げろかっこい…

From Ashes Rise / Victims – Split

A force, on aura compris que je bloque sur From Ashes Rise.
La surprise, c’est Victims, qui défonce dans un accabi proche, la bande-son d’une émasculation de chamois à la serpette rouillé, les groupes d’illuminés hurlant des chansons d’Alizée en dansant dans les arbres en slip Adidas acrylique bleu roi et barbe de 3 semaines, une branche de houx dans chaque oreille.

Comme l’image n’est peut-être pas très claire, c’est du hardcore avec de la vrai burne dedans, joué vite et fort, comme un parpaing dans ta gueule au réveil. Énorme.

Antitainement – Nach der Kippe, Pogo ?

Pas facile d’essayer de mélanger la musique et l’humour. Surtout quand on est allemand.
Déjà le titre : « Un pogo après le travail ? »…je sais pas si c’était une bonne idée.
De plus, toute personne prononçant le mot « pogo » est potentiellement suspecte de blaireauïtude.

Bon…musicalement, c’est pas atroce : du Screamo à la mode, moderne, avec l’inévitable touche nintendocore fashionable (voir plus haut ). Du clavier qui fait n’importe quoi, en somme, et des breaks imbéciles au milieu, funk, electro, tout ca.
C’est sauvé par le fait que les gars savent vaguement jouer et ont un certain sens de la mélodie. Par contre, par moment, j’aurais aime ne pas comprendre les textes.

Quelque part entre les très copies The Locust, I AmError et NOFX (pour le cote cheap et potache). Bof, très bof (Pour ne pas dire vraiment en bois.).

I Object – Teaching Revenge

Encore un groupe dans la veine des « I + un verbe » (I spoke, I reject, etc), mais avec une voix féminine (oui, un minimum, quoi…) et des chansons assez crust-punk, jouées vite et salement, agressives mais mélodiques. Moins pénible que Submission Hold, assez agréable, en gros.

Stillrise – A Dance After Apocalypse

Fallait pas manger du steak !
Gros Metalcore, avec des solos (métal) et tout. Agressivement métal et putassierement métal, c’est pas métalement mauvais.

Voix assez death-grindisante, ou alors hardcore tough-guy moderne (moderne : porte une barbe et des pantalons volcom pour cacher qu’il a désormais une bouée kronenbourg. Contraste avec le tough-guy passé, qui sentait de l’aisselle, dansait le KDS et portait des baggy pour masquer son essai d’être tellement vegan que même le guacamole sur lequel est une mouche avait volé était sujette au refus. Souvent belge. « True Till Death! », ahaha).
Ah ouin, c’est métal. Je l’ai déjà dit ?

Coalesce – There Is Nothing New Under The Sun

Pas bien nouveau non plus, ce disque dont le groupe s’est séparé il y a déjà 5 ans.
Par contre, le meilleur album de reprise de Led Zepelin existant à ma connaissance. Première partie bien lourde, avec une dimension oppressante données à Immigrant Song (un rouleau compresseur de guitares), Black Dog (dansant comme une séance de body building à theme « hormones+LSD a la gym») et bien d’autres, suivis d’une courte deuxième partie acoustique, avec la perle « Thank You », déprimante mais jouissive.
La réédition du disque adjoint d’autres reprises de BoySetsFire (venant du split) et Black Sabbath, entre autres plus ou moins dispensables à mon avis

Youth Of Togay – Want More Guys 7′

Amis de la finesse, bonsoir. Une claire parodie de Youth Of Today, ou un hommage, si vous voulez. Du straight edge youth crew style très classique, sauf les textes qui parlent de bite dans le cul. Ouééééé !
Mention speciale à l’introduction (mmmmh…) de Make The Change (singalong : « No Cunts ! No Cunts ! » Wow…)

“It’s a big deal you fuck guys, I’m cool, I’ve got friends who fuck guys….in jail.”

Doughnuts – The Age Of Circle

Pas un disque majeur des nenettes d’Umea (combien de groupes pour ce bled ?), pas tout jeune (1995).

Mais du gros HxC TRES métal, avec une voix pas franchement féminine, mais apres Walls Of Jericho, on a vite fait de relativiser.
Agréable à petite dose, un peu vieillit, franchement, mais pour ceux qui se souviennent de l’epoque du H8000, KDS et GoodLife, c’est pas loin, avec plus d’émotions et moins de mains tenant ses couilles en hurlant (par contre, les maillots de basket en mesh XXX(L) vous y aurez droit.)

Hollow Jan – EP

Bon EP de ces coreens qui sonnent vraiment un peu trop comme Envy pour qu’on s’extasie. Ça reste honnête et très screamo-post-machin-rock, donc.

Damad – Burningcold

De prime abord, c’est imbitable : lourd et lent sans être sludge, ca semble mou et usant. En effet, si on s’attends à du speed (la faute à la pochette façon Crude ?) , c’est raté.

Mais c’est surtout un album avec une cohésion assez forte pour pouvoir l’écouter de bout en bout au casque sans se faire trop chier, comme ca, en lisant le journal dans le train. Des samples, 2 voix, de gros riffs qui roulent et rongent lentement le cerveau. Pas le plus facile d’accès, mais un disque très potable.

Non-retenus dans la selection :

Sigh – Tribute To Venom EP
Comme son nom l’indique, un mini album de reprises de Venom par un groupe de black metal japonais. Pas atroce, sans plus...Faut aimer Venom avec ferveur, j’imagine.

Doughnuts – Feel Me Bleed.
Sous ce titre menstruel se cache une galette passablement ratée, mid-tempo, trop métal mou, sans punch. Fallait manger du fer, les filles, pas de l’alu.

Toxic Holocaust – An Overdose Of Death
Soit c’est de l’humour, soit ils sont cons. Vu le cote « Manowar » de la musique (sans les jupes en peau de bêtes, ni le cote lyrique, ni grand chose d’autre d’ailleurs, hormis la linéarité), je penche pour la connerie. Trash à l’ancienne, pas affreux, mais un tantinet monotone. Un EP suffisait.

Life Of Agony – Rivers Run Red
Juste re-écouté parce que le nom du groupe est tellement cool qu’il me déclanche chez un léger déplacement de la testicule gauche à chaque fois que je le lis dans le iPod, mais ca s’arrête la.

J’aime pas plus qu’il y a 9 ans…le métal lent avec Pavarotti essayant de souffler sur une patate douce trop chaude en shuitant du Metallica en 33tours, c’est naze.

LUNES 16 NOVIEMBRE

HBO ESTE, 18:25 hrs, SKY 450, CABLEVISION 632

HBO OESTE, 21:15 hrs, SKY 453, CABLEVISION 633

CURB YOUR ENTHUSIASM "vehicular fellatio" HBO 2009

En una cena Larry ofende a otra de las novias de Ricard Lewis, esta vez después de haberse enterado de que ella le hace favores sexuales mientras van en el auto. Larry espera que un doctor le pueda recomendar a Loretta que termine su relación con el.

Contratiempo (Bad timing)

Director: Nicolas Roeg

Año: 1980

País: Estados Unidos

122 min.

Fotografía: Anthony B. Richmond

Música: Richard Hartley

Guión: Yale Udoff

Reparto: Art Garfunkel, Theresa Russell, Harvey Keitel, Denholm Elliott

No pocos directores ven sepultada la gran mayoría de su filmografía bajo el peso de una sola obra, este es el caso del muy interesante, excéntrico y altamente pretencioso Nicolas Roeg, gran operador de fotografía (“Farenheit 451” y “Golfus de Roma”, ambas en 1966, por ejemplo) firmante de ese indiscutible clásico de culto que es  ”Amenaza en la sombra“(1973) pero que más allá de esta obra mayor su carrera se mece entre lo justamente olvidable (o evitable) como la inaugural “Performance”(1971) dirigida mano a mano con otro extravagante profesional como Donald Cammell (el hombre tras “Engendro mecánico”, 197) y convertida hoy en pieza de culto en virtud de su estragante caracter “bizarre”  y la presencia de Mick Jagger como trasunto de si mismo o la insufrible “The man who fell to Earth”(1976) a mayor gloria de Bowie y lo penosamente olvidado, como la extraña y pelín demasiado “arty” “Walkabout”(1971), la simpática adaptación de Roald Dahl, “La maldición de las brujas”(1989), “Dos muertes” un título casi invisible pero que cuenta con defensores y al parecer no carece de interés y por supuesto este “Contratiempo” que supone a la vez una película de increíbles posibilidades y un fracaso doloroso perdido en el ensimismamiento.

“Contratiempo” es una historia criminal y melodramática de “amour fou” y obsesión sexual contada/reconstruida a través de un ritmo sincopado, una narrativa elusiva y una estructura fragmentaria que es una auténtica exhibición de montaje puramente musical, al que no es ajeno su potente banda sonora que mece a los Who con Billie Holliday y Tom Waits ni, en especial, su trabajada asincronía que mezcla/altera el espacio físico/fílmico mediante la manipulación del sonido en relación a la imagen y viceversa.

La historia deja oír algunos ecos de “El último tango en Paris”, manierismos visuales y ramalazos de la histeria de Andrej Zulawski (del que también hereda su manera rompedora de tratar estilemas típicos del melodrama), de los trabajos previos del propio director (ese sentido de la narración “alterado” ya funcionaba a toda máquina en “Amenaza en la sombra”) e incluso inopinadas gotas de espionaje (ella procede del Este de Europa y arrastra un extraño matrimonio con un hombre mucho mayor que bien podría ser un espíay al que interpreta el siempre espléndido Denholm Elliott) que añaden delirio y extrañeza al invento, ennoblecido por una fotografía extraordinaria (con algún efecto sorprendente, como esos fondos desenfocados que parecen deshacerse como pintura húmeda) y sobre todo por esa facilidad asombrosa que tenía el mejor Roeg para volver inquietante y amenazante cualquier cosa solo con la planificación visual y la precisión en el movimiento de la cámara.

Theresa Russell fascina como desequilibrada belleza mezcla de frialdad, infantilismo y perversidad a partes iguales, que llevará a la perdición a un psiquiatra americano en una Viena extraña y peligrosamente hermosa a la que Roeg somete al mismo tratamiento que a la Venecia de, si otra vez, “Amenaza en la sombra” pero por desgracia el concurso del lechuguino Art Garfunkel como (incapaz) protagonista lastra toda la película al no poder transmitir la turbulencia y el progresivo desquiciamiento, la necesidad de poseer lo inaprensible de su personaje, con la excepción del cruel final en el que viola a una Theresa Russell agonizante (la única vez que ella se está quieta y el consigue mandar/controlar) y en el que la inexpresividad del actor se vuelve a favor del momento amplificando la parsimoniosa repugnancia y atrocidad minuciosa de un acto perfectamente milimetrado. Un clímax soberbio en el que el pulso de Roeg brilla con fuerza y su personal sentido de la progresión dramática y de la organización espacial, su en ocasiones despegado esteticismo y ese montaje ya referido funcionan a la perfección. Aún así resulta una lástima que el gran Harvey Keitel no se ocupase de este papel en lugar del de bien peculiar policía obsesionado con ese “bad timing” del título original que tiene a su cargo, en ese caso el resultado podría haber sido una obra maestra.

An object of desire you don’t desire to be, I bet the shop window dummies
give in just as easily
I try to top but have to make you drop down to the floor
Moaning in the darkness as we fake some more
Passion is no ordinary word
Not just another sound that you hear at night

HBO OESTE, 21:25 hrs, VIERNES 13 NOVIEMBRE

SKY 453, CABLEVISIÓN 633

HBO Curb your enthusiasm 7 / 2009

Marty Funkhouser se aprovecha del buen gesto de Larry cuando este lo ayuda con su hermana que tiene una enfermedad mental. La invitación de Susie a cenar pone a Jeff en una situación muy comprometedora. Por miedo a los resultados de la Biopsia de Loretta, Larry quiere terminar rápidamente su relación con ella para no tener más responsabilidad si es que el resultado es positivo.

I love women.

More specifically, I love women’s (bodies).

Not only are we more ogle worthy than our XY counterparts, but scientifically (technologically) (evolutionarily) (naturalistically), we are built to feed. And sustain. Life.

I don’t know how to put this, but we’re kind of a big deal.

If man (or woman) kind engineered a specimen that was of equal importance to the sustainably of life and possessed the flesh and blood beauty of a woman in heels, it would be met with hero worship (and fanboy squirming).It would be savored.

It would be valued

and ogled.

and honored.

But iPhones look shitty in stilettos. And women’s bodies are dissected. Perfected. Pinched, prodded, and pressured.

We are told everyday that we’re not good enough. Not thin enough (like a model). Not curvy enough (like a “real” woman). Not toned enough (like an advertisement). Not soft enough (like a painting). We don’t have the right hair color for the season or the right bone structure for the bangs.

It doesn’t matter what you are. You’re not enough.

And then…

And then we overcompensate. We react to the skeletons strutting down the runways and shout “REAL women have curves!” from the rooftops.

We forget. We forget that real women? They come in all shapes and sizes. In fact there are so many variations, we’re practically a Dr. Seuss compendium of options.

There are tall ones and small ones. Flat ones and stacked ones. Ripped ones, big lipped ones, bodaciously hipped ones. There are peary ones and squarey ones. Yes, even hairy ones (looks at unshaved legs ::the shame ::).

But there is one truth: you will never be just right.

You should never be just right.

You are not a bowl of porridge in a Goldilocks story.

You are an enigma. You are what you’re supposed to be.

And fashions, and seasons, and shapes, and styles? Are nothing more than a trend. There will be more Twiggys, and the petite pretties will reign. There will be more Marilyns, and the curvy lasses will hold all the power (and pages in the magazines). There will be more Cindys and the Amazons will be adored.

Your time? Your body’s time? Will come. And it will go. But, no matter what the editors. The designers. The movie mavens and the asshole in the cubicle next to you think: you should always be celebrated.

and valued.

and ogled.

and honored.

But we can’t ask others to do what we ourselves first refuse to. Choose to be fabulous. And perfect. And ideal. Right now (she says as she eats Special K for lunch).

I wish I could say I was so empowered. That I don’t let magazines (and movies) (and TV) (and friends and family and foes) dictate how I feel about my own body.

But I do.

But I also make sure to compliment women rocking the street (and the hallway and the book store, the dance floor, or the milk aisle) All. The. Time. I hope I make them smile. I hope I make them a bit less insecure. A bit more fabulous. Because all the tiny flaws I see in me? When I look at other women: All I see is beauty.

Job of the Day: Underwear Model (Plus Size, Fun Size, No One Size, One Size Does Not Fit All Size)

Ingvar Kamprads IKEA är vår gåva och vår förbannelse.

Det är billiga, för det mesta snygga och stilrena möbler.
Man hittar alltid något man behöver när man väl besöker IKEA.
5 kr varmkorv som belöningen för att man sprungit genom Pans Labyrint är ju det absolut bästa med IKEA.

Nackdelarna med käre Ingvars affärsidé?
Undermålig kvalité, dålig service och ett jobbigt jävla ta-det-själv lager.
I sann skandinavisk-anda är det lite för stilrent ibland.
Rent av trist. Opersonligt, för att det ska passa in i vårt IKEA-kylskåp till land.

Och du får sätta ihop allt själv.
Det är inte svårt och det är inte heller jobbigt.

Men när den underbetalda barnarbetaren i Östasien slarvar med gängorna i min nya Ingemar barstol, art.nr: 60129953, och jag sedan försöker skruva i dessa defekta gängor, får jag en smärre hjärnblödning och förbannar Ingemars snikenhet.

Så, när ni kommer och hälsar på för att dricka öl och vara dumfulla, förbered er på att få sitta på stolar som är felmonterade i rent ursinne.

Homenaje cinéfilo y escalofriante retrato patológico de similar profundidad y precisión que “El estrangulador de Boston”. Obra memorable e infravalorada. “El héroe anda suelto”. En esta ocasión el título en español supera en evocación y resonancia al lacónico “Targets” original, un poco como esa dimensión mítica que trae “Centauros del desierto” frente  a la sequedad del bautismal “The searchers”. Debut de Peter Bogdanovich y aun su mejor película, la obra cumbre de un director quemado por su propio ego y por el fulminante éxito de su cine en los 70, en los que encadenó otra obra mayor como “The last picture show”(1971), desolador “americana” de narrativa en duermevela y genuina verdad, con dos exitazos del calibre de “¿Qué me pasa, doctor?” (1972) y “Luna de papel”(1973) donde no cejaba en ahondar en su cinefilia fetichista a través de la relectura/recreación de géneros y épocas, una carrera tan rápida hacia arriba como hacia abajo, salpicada de títulos de cierto interés como su personal versión de “Casablanca” adaptando a Paul Theroux, “Saint Jack”(1979) o la divertida comedia teatral “¡Qué ruina de función”(1993).

Hasta su cine más reciente como “The cat’s meow” en 2001 (que no he visto aunque parece ser que no es nada despreciable, y que versa sobre el pionero Thomas H. Ince, su relación con la actriz y amante de William Randolph Hearst, Marion Davis y su extraña muerte en los inicios del sonoro) lleva las películas en el tuétano y eso por no mencionar su larga y jugosa obra literaria con estupendos libros de entrevistas con, Lang, Cukor… y en especial Orson Welles (descontando además su afortunada reconversión en actor de reparto, como su jugosa intervención en “Los Soprano” como psiquiatra de la psiquiatra), pero en ninguna de un modo superior a esta “Targets” en la que el cine no solo es el marco temático o la excusa melancólica o la reverencia fetichista, sino que es materia de reflexión autoconsciente y casi una verdadera religión sobre la que recae el poder incluso de detener al mal. Donde además, no solo no se cae en el vanguardismo esteril o la pose fatua sino que se mantiene la tensión ejemplar de la serie-b a la que pertenece sin coartadas.

Bogdanovich plantea un complejo y perfectamente resuelto juego de espejos y (auto) referencias que supera tanto lo sentimental como lo cerebral para plantear las historias paralelas de una veterana gloria del terror personificada por un soberbio Boris Karloff haciendo de si mismo (y despidiéndose del cine de paso, imposible una manera mejor) que decide retirarse tras el que será el estreno de su nueva película barata (que es a la vez, esta que vemos y la que será proyectada al final, “El terror” que Corman firmó pero que dirigieron entre otros Monte Hellman y Coppola) a las ordenes de un joven director que lo idolatra y que no es otro que el mismo Bogdanovich  y de un ex-combatiente de Corea, un tipo corriente al que presta su perfecta tipología americana el desconocido actor televisivo Tim O´Kelly que no pierde su sonrisa de buen chico a lo Norman Rockwell ni cometiendo las mayores atrocidades. El muchacho ejemplar que un día decide matar a toda su familia y luego subirse a un silo y disparar indiscriminadamente contra los coches, filmado todo ello con un estilo frío, indiferente y una violencia estremecedora en su arbitrariedad, presidido desde su misma presentación por una sensación incomodísima, la de ver algo raro y no poder cambiarlo, una otredad logranda a través de una planificación que trasmite el estado alterado del personaje su extrañamiento, su no-pertenencia. La escena del asesinato de su esposa y suegros resulta espeluznante y el corolario de todo este dispositivo, simplemente ocurre y la cámara permanece impasible obligando a mirar la perfección de sus encuadres, la pulcritud alienígena de la muerte.(a partir del minuto 04:44)

Tras esto la escalada continua y Bogdanovich hace avanzar en paralelo ambas líneas, bandeando entre el horror y la cotidianeidad, finalmente confluentes en un autocine donde Karloff estrena su despedida y el psycho-killer actuará de nuevo. El resultado es un duelo entre el monstruo real y el ficticio pero también entre las formas de terror nuevas y las clásicas (la manera en las que están rodadas las acciones del francotirador y la forma envolvente el la que se recoge el célebre monólogo de la fábula sobre la muerte que cuenta el viejo actor) , entre el rifle y el rostro (no en vano la imponente figura de Karloff se proyecta sobre el asesino desde la pantalla), entre la crudeza y la sugerencia que de este modo no solo enfrenta/confronta dos “realidades” sino dos concepciones de la ficción y en la que Boris Karloff  mostrará su poder fascinador (ni bajo su punto de mira será capaz de matarle, no es hombre, es un mito) y el encanto del cine convirtiéndose en el último héroe (im)posible, saliendo literalmente de la pantalla.

El héroe anda suelto (Targets)

Director: Peter Bogdanovich

Año: 1968

País: Estados Unidos

90 min.

Fotografía: László Kovács

Música: Ronald Stein

Guión: Peter Bogdanovich

Reparto: Boris Karloff, Tim O’Kelly, Peter Bogdanovich, Tanya Morgan

I am a restless beast. Fact.

Proof positive:  I started (and stopped. and started.) this post in my head, on paper (screen?), in daydreams and moody musings no less than 23 times before deciding that the best place to start was with a single letter (I). I. I? I can’t commit. I can’t decide. I can’t. Feel trapped. (I can barely decide on punctuation. Obviously)

But! (aahh this must be the point where I learn something) at some point I decided to be an accountable (lie. Read: flighty) adult (lie. Read: imp) and realized that I don’t so much need to act on every instance of insane whim, rather I simple NEED (NEED) the option to flip. Reinvent. Escape. (Run Away? …I think not.)

Though it would be seemingly easy to classify me as an overindulged example of my generation’s proclivity to ummm. Want. Everything. Now. I prefer to selfishly classify myself as an explorer, adventure, pirate, (fairy?) in so much as I have nothing (NOTHING) to run away from, rather I live in constant fear that I will miss something. Anything. Everything.

I’m not Alice down the rabbit hole. I’m that stupid cameo obsessed rabbit: terrified of time. And that? Explains everything. Everything! My paragraphs fat with parenthesis? I don’t want a single thought to go unexplored. My itinerary double (lie. Quadruple) booked? I can’t say no to a single experience. Must. Have. Them. All. My hair masquerading as a horse of a different color?

Ah yes, my hair.   250 words ago this was going to be a short ditty about my penchant for Clairol. I wanted nothing more than to make fun of myself about my ever-changing mane and instead wandered into philosophical musings about the nature of time and a life unfulfilled. That sounds maddeningly status quo.

In a moment of movie-worthy timing my boss just yelled out of his office wondering nothing more than why (why!?) is my hair always changing color, shape, and form?

Yes, sir!? Back on track: hair color. My solution to feeling stagnant. My remedy for my constant restlessness. I am so often amused with merely changing coifs rather than say, moving cross country. If I had not discovered how freeing it was to be able to take on an entire new persona thanks to the contents of one box of dye, I would surely have crisscrossed the globe in living locals by now. Hmmmm. Written in print the idea of living in foreign countries, different states, or igloos sounds much more appealing than staying put while my hair has all the fun.

But the reality is that: it’s complicated. If I was alone, I wouldn’t think twice about jumping on a boat (a plane! A car! A bike!) and leaving today’s existence behind. But I’m (blessedly!) not alone. I have a partner I adore (hmmm. Perhaps I can commit), a family that drives me just crazy enough, and a life and job that I seriously don’t hate. And hair color, a $10 dollar box (lie: $110 salon appointment), allows me to appreciate the things I have while feeling free of the gilded cage I am so wary of.

Damn! Existential musings again!

Back on track: here’s the long and short of it: while the name of my blog may one day be a misnomer, for the moment, I am having a maddeningly passionate love affair with red. I’m obsessed. I want to stay this fiery and fabulous forever (but I can’t say my mind didn’t entertain ideas of cheating on Auburn with Kristen Stewart-esque black. :: Le sigh::). But my commitment to a specific color makes me wonder what the repercussions in my non-follicularly-obsessed life will be.

Will I suddenly go stir crazy without my ability to change shades (and by proxy, lives?)

Full disclosure: If I wake up tomorrow and have a sudden urge to move to Seattle and become a pop-folk singer that subsists on coffee and cigarettes alone, I cannot be blamed.

Edit: I must really work in movieland- as if on cue, as I lean to press ‘publish’ my boss, Don Draper, and Roger Sterling exit a closed door meeting.

“Bye, redhead!” Don says. “See you next time.”

“Ha! By that time she won’t be a redhead!” Roger quips .

They meet everyday.

Job of the Day: Doula

Folkzzz,

long time no hear no see.  Hope you are well . I am still working a lot with the new Ableton 8 diving a bit deeper into its features day by day. Today I started to work on some very old ideas which have rot on my desk several months, some even several years already. It’s not my intention to build ready-to-go tracks but more track-like soundscapes which one (maybe you and I) could work on and perform later. This one is called “From Now On I Am A Rock”.  Have fun and take care!

Let’s do a quick music rundown then move on to something else:

1. The new Converge is blowing my fucking brain with the dentures removed and a satin hand cupping the metaphysical balls located in my minds eye.  Converge is one of those bands that I appreciate within the genre of hardcore and its offshoots because they’ve been doing their own thing for nearly 20 years, yet I’ve never been a big fan (don’t ask me why).  Axe To Fall is an album that infuses more metal into their familiar sound than I have heard before and it puts a big dumb smile on my big dumb face.  The later track Cruel Bloom features Steve Von Till from Neurosis doing vocals and I was convinced for this last week that it was none other than Tom Waits.  That song solidified my love for this album.  I’m a sucker for heavier bands throwing in something slow to the mix, yet still retaining the atmosphere and edge that at any moment they can break back into a breakdown, solo, or something that just makes me want to stomp a foot and slam my head around; this is one of those songs.  This album has also worked the magic of making me want to trek back to their earlier work and chronologically move forward until this release.  That doesn’t happen too often in my book, therefore I need to present a sacrifice to the Gods of Rock for bestowing me with this treasure.  I figure some corndogs and porno mags I found in the alley will suffice.  I’m so glad my Gods aren’t jealous Gods, just SUPER easy to please.

2. This is kinda old hat because I’ve been ranting about it for the last few weeks, but the sophomore release from Doomriders has been musical Viagra for me.  I’ve had this fit of impotence when it comes to new music in my life and Darkness Come Alive has brought the “umph” back for me.  It’s an album that makes me want to get up and do something.  I listen to it and wanna get into a fight, chug a damn tall beer, kiss some random hard on the mouth, or fight demons with a broadsword.  It has tracks that yell “FUCK YOU” at those helping hands out there that just want to assist in order to make themselves feel better (Knife Wound) and others that urge to keep a head up in a shitty world that just wants to take everything good and positive from you (Lions).  If I like something I’ll try to keep up to snuff with it – whether it’s a band, film, or the next release from Joose – and sometimes that ends up biting me in my succulent ass.  When you follow so closely to an interest in your life you’re bound to place it on a pedestal, hoping it’ll be the next best thing… that rarely holds true.  I’d been waiting for the next full-length from Doomriders since ‘05 and in no way, shape, or form was I let down with this new one.  Daddy like.

3. So much awesome has been oozing from Vol. 3 of the Comadre Mixtape I wrote about a little while back.  I’ve been taking every possible chance to play the fucker for friends and whoever lately.  From the track list I’ve been stumbling over some great new acts like Hour of The Wolf, Finest Dearest, and Glasses, but the group Heartsounds has nicked a place in my heart that rarely gets any attention:  pop-punk.  I remember buying Blink 182’s Dude Ranch in 7th or 8th grade and not wanting to leave my room as long as that album spun about in my twitchy CD player, the cordless house phone had enough battery to call a girl I liked, and there was Final Fantasy VII or Tekken 3 in my Playstation.  Heartsounds has that comforting sound I remember jamming along to in my middle school sanctuary, yet it doesn’t feel like I’m displacing myself to far from the person I’ve grown in to, which is nice considering they play music in a genre that typically works more like a time machine for me these days.  Broadway Calls is another recent band that has had the same affect on me.  Is this a sign that I’m getting sappy in my years?  Nope and to prove it I’m gonna go snort some razor blades.  Why?  Because I lost a bet with Nick Nolte.  That bastard doesn’t screw about when it comes to gas-huffing competitions.

After doing a wee spellcheck I remembered that this was supposed to be a quick little blurp about music and then I was gonna go on about something else.  Huh…  I guess I lied.