March 11th, 2006


a very freudian evening

Half of tonight was spent on vaginas. The other half, penises.

The Baldwin coffeehouse thing was a lot more fun than I expected poetry with lesbians to be. I opened the event with Allen Ginsberg's Howl, to modest applause, and it was followed by an eclectic variety of acts including Adriana's drunken standup routine (if you know Adriana, you can pretty much imagine how that went), a rousing mostly-transgendered rendition of Cat Stevens's "Sing Out", a silent performance piece involving creative uses for disposable tampons, and some absolutely mind-blowing Mozart. (Michelle Micciche speaks in a soft voice, but her singing can break windows. She can do opera like a woman five times her size.)

Followed up by paying Eric a visit; he was much jollier than usual for reasons I'm not at liberty to disclose. We watched A Clockwork Orange--yes, after all these years, Kevin has finally seen A Clockwork Orange--and I think I have a new second favorite Kubrick film, just behind Full Metal Jacket. Not second favorite as in most enjoyable, by any stretch of the imagination; it had some of the most unpleasant shots I've ever seen in a movie. (And not just because almost every damn shot in the first third of the movie has a cock in it). And since it's Kubrick, it has shots that run forever, and it's just a little misogynistic, and the cinematography upstages the story. But all together it was a very powerful and thought-provoking film. I'd be more specific, but I don't want to spoil anything. I will say, however, that the fake censorship shot was absolutely brilliant.

Was pretty bummed this afternoon--partly because of Esmail getting on my case, partly because big programming projects are fucking depressing--so I'm very grateful for this sweet respite from the usual cycle of tedium and anxiety.

Programming and writing--a strange combination of disciplines, but they work precisely because they're so different. Programming is so frustrating, so mindlessly computational, so ego-crushingly masochistic--do enough of it, and your imagination screams for escape from the cage of algorithms you build around it. You want to put yourself into your work, but there is nothing there to accept you, just numbers and psuedocode and straight lines. It is one step removed from you, it is work your mind does while your soul is elsewhere. Writing is equally frustrating, but for the opposite reason--it draws its power from the core of your being, sapping at the youness of you, and wastes most of it, and makes crap out of most of the rest, and siphons off your essence like a runaway hose until you can tackle it and get enough of it into a bucket. Assuming it will run at all, of course, instead of just having you wait over the bucket with the hose in your hand--and that's when you play with numbers, just to give you something to do as you're trying to squeeze something out. And that probably didn't make any sense because I've had a lot of sugar and a little caffeine and a bottle of Molson, and it's late and I'm feeling kind of giddy.
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