Two Essay Introductions - Works in Progress

"Sometimes the people you want to miss you, don't, and sometimes the people who care about you the most miss you more than you realize. There is a blindness that exists when people find obsession. Eyes are focused on doors, ears tune to the tone of a plastic phone, muscles are taught with anticipation. Instead of a sickness that takes, obsession is an illness that wakes."


"It's a funny business, friendship. Long-lasting relationships fluctuate with the weather; secrets, the ones that should never be spoken, find purchase in pierced ears; sideways glances indicate entire conversations, and hours of texting center around one moment of betrayal. That is friendship. It is the most sacred and sacrilege thing on the planet."

Making New Photos Old: the Allure of Filtered Photographs

(Blog entry x-posted from the new, up-and-coming blog Culturally Significant!)

Let's be honest here. Which 20-something hasn't used a mobile application to filter their pictures for photo social networking sites like Instagram and Hipstamatic? I know I have, and I have at least 20 friends that do the same. But the real question is...why? In an age where we have high quality DSLR, point-and-shoot, and cell phone cameras that capture vivid, true color photos, why do we have the desire to alter our images, making them look decades older than they actually are?

Is it nostalgia? Maybe, but is that nostalgia real? Genuine nostalgia can't really be felt unless the person, who is looking at the photograph, was there to experience the effects of the time in which the photograph was taken. The nostalgia is, in essence, imaginary -- make believe. So what do we feel instead? Or, a better question: what is the drive behind filtering photos?

Vanity? Documentation? Appreciation?  All three? Absolutely.

VANITY

Young adults today are probably the largest demographic on the planet that suffers from (or revels in) feelings of vanity. We have the tools to show off, so we do. And because we know other people will view our photos, we keep posting "selfies" of ourselves in the mirror or sitting at the computer. Why? The photos let others see of ourselves are usually carefully chosen to present some kind of persona, even if that persona is occasionally a little weird.

Filtered with "Inkwell," no border

Filtered with "Toaster" in a bathroom in which
there was a sign over the toilet that said
"Way to Ministry of Magic."

Myself with Monte the taxidermied boar.
 Filtered with "Valencia."

DOCUMENTATION

Photography at its genesis, was used as a form of documentation: families, war, progress of industry and agriculture, death, marriage, victories, defeat. For some images, they are proof that these people, things, and events existed. For instance, the only proof I have that I had a great-great-Aunt Opal is the photo below.

She is no other picture our family has. Nor is there a marriage certificate (that we can find) proving that her mother married my great-grandfather's father. Furthermore, this picture does not have a master digital copy associated with it (only reproductions), and I can take it out of my wallet whenever I desire, which is something I cannot say about the photo below.

Filtered with "Willow"

Unlike my family photo above, this photo isn't the only piece of proof that proves that my friends are real, but it stands as a document that shows others that these people existed at some time in history. But the alteration of it with a "Willow" filter merits my next point.

ART & APPRECIATION

It wasn't until the early 20th century that photographs suggested a more expressive purpose: art.

  

The camera was used to supplement the medium of the paintbrush. Of course paint was still used, but rather than taking two days to a week to sketch out, paint, and touch-up a portrait, photos could capture their subjects in a few seconds to a few minutes, depending on the type of camera used. We do the same with filtered photos, "developing" them obsessively until we find the right exposure for the image.

Filtered with "Valencia"                                     Filtered with "Willow"

But why are some filtered photographs art and some are not? For the same reason that some snapshots are merely that: snapshots. They contain little thought for their composition (lines, color, subjects, or focus) and instead capture ducklips, self-"portraits" in mirrors, and quirky designs on t-shirts.

Most people who attended school have been exposed to some form of art education, and through this exposure, we have seen how powerful these artistic photos are. They possess some kind of mystery, a story that we don't know the answer to but seek to discover nonetheless. By forcing these textures upon our own photos, we try to create art in appreciation for the work that came before us. We attempt to place our own proof positives in the cannon of photographic history even if the photo's subject doesn't merit any real attention.

Filtered with "Walden"

THE SEND OFF

Our practice of filtering isn't just about covering up lines with a brightness setting or pretending that we lived through WWII. It's about wanting to be part of an aspect of history that seems long gone and unreachable. The attempt to make the new into something old is absolutely a reversal of our efforts over time to improve images, but backwards isn't always a negative direction.

Here's some meta for your trouble.

My Dad at 16, filtered with "Valencia."

Terror and Horror: Brothers in Arms

(Blog entry x-posted from the new, up-and-coming blog Culturally Significant!)

Greetings, ladies and gents.

This is my first post with the Cult Significant, and to make up for totally missing Halloween due to teaching, grad school work, and a splitting headache, I've got something a little two-sided to bring to our table. Today,  in honor of yesterday's Halloween and in preparation of next year's Halloween, I present to you terror and horror.

These are Want and Ignorance, but you get the idea.

Let's recap:

The Oxford English Dictionary defines terror as "the state of being terrified or extremely frightened; intense fear or dread; an instance or feeling of this."

The OED also defines horror as "a painful emotion compounded of loathing and fear; a shuddering with terror and repugnance; strong aversion mingled with dread; the feeling excited by something shocking or frightful. Also in weaker sense, intense dislike or repugnance."

Okay, so what's the difference? In literature and film, terror is more about the atmosphere of the moment than it is about being confronted with "the thing" that is causing our fear. We feel terror as a result of not knowing what we will be confronted with. We feel terror when we tip-toe up to a ramshackle house in the middle of nowhere. We feel terror when the lights are out and the faint scratching of nails comes from behind the closet door. The darkness holds terror we cannot see. Horror, on the other hand, is about seeing the monstrosity presented before you in all its gore, deformity, or uncanniness (you know, doppelgangers or tulpas). Whether it's Frankenstein's creature, the ten-day-old corpse of your next-door neighbor, or the reflection in the mirror that isn't yours, these are all things that we actually see and that may actually scare the living shit out of us.

Why is the distinction important? Because in order to successfully create terror or horror in our audience, we have to know what they actually are, just like we can't cause happiness unless we know what things cause happiness. Case in point, Jack and his flopped attempt at making Christmas.

Sure, we can incite terror and horror in the same novel or film, but is it possible to do it at the same time? Not really. Terror requires tension; horror needs its images to be instant, thus causing the sudden surprise upon finding your rabbit boiled in a steaming pot of water. But can we have horror without terror? No. Terror always leads up to horror, whether it's within the film or book or before we encounter the horror within it.

Terror is what makes horror juicy. Terror is infinite; horror is exact. The number of "terrors" in our minds is countless; it could be this, it could be that, it could be that one thing, and/or it could be the other thing. With horror, however, there is only one thing: the thing that is there that we must see. Without terror, we become desensitized to horror, which has already begun to occur with films like the Saw and Hostel franchises that depend upon gratuitous violence and horror to make their viewers come back for more, but addiction to horror is another topic altogether.

Terror is hearing the boggart in the wardrobe; horror is seeing your worst fears manifested.

Even though "horror" films are advertised as such, are we really viewing horror films when we press "Play" on Netflix and a film like The House of the Devil begins streaming?

Technically, according to the film industry, House of the Devil is a horror movie because it's part of the horror genre; it's scary. But House of the Devil is more of a terror film than a horror film. At least 75% of the film is suspense and darkness. We don't know what the hell is up with the creepy old couple living in the mansion, and we don't know if Samantha Hughes is going to get murdered while she's dancing around to "One Thing Leads to Another". . .but we think it might happen; and deep down inside, we want to see the horror that might rip her to shreds. (NOTE: Besides being an awesome cinematic experience, the music in the film is spot on with the story, and I highly recommend it if you're looking for a good film to watch on a Saturday night.)

And, to be honest, any horror film that is trying to market itself as more terror and suspense with horror would do well to edit its trailers as such. If we, as the audience, get to see all of the horror before we even see the actual movie, then the intended terror is lost, and our experience will not be as satisfying as it could have been. Additionally, if a horror film that is trying to market itself as horror with terror chooses to show its entire blood and guts makeup department in a two-minute trailer, that still isn't as effective as showing less. Terror draws us in. Terror is the cheese to the mouse trap, and why would anybody want to let the mouse know he's going to die?

And, to send you off and initiate the transition from the terror and horror of the spooky season, here's Jose Gonzalez's cover of Massive Attack's "Teardrop."

Until next time,

Willa M Murray

Head Librarian

"Kinetics" - an original poem

"Kinetics"

I am ghosting.

Ripples of sound control this form:
a lingering, gasping spirit.

Now, only an observer.
Never a participant.

I have drifted, a breath,
silent,
into air,
invisible,
unheard on the wind.
Unseen.
The rustle of sheets,
the echo of a fly’s wing.

Greed, covetous rage
devour a frail existence:
This thing is famished, starved,
a yard of translucent gauze;
it paws against my chest, rasping,
“Dye me. Paint me.
Fix my pallid color.
I am not yet gone...”

I,
always hunting,
always hungry,
witness mobile comrades
breathe, see, touch, look, gesture, move,
feel.

Devils stalk within this desire.

These hands,
they reach for them, though.
I call out,
eyes upturned,
arms outstretched,
knees collapsing,
“Take me. I miss this. I need this.”

Pathetic desperation,

as disappointing as
watered-down milk,
weak, faded, tasteless.

Then I hear.
He,
in all his flames and iridescent glory,
comes stampeding into me.
His steed’s hooves pound, slam the earth;
the singed cotton of his tabard sears my nostrils.
My Knight of Wands,
my pursuer,
my tutor,
has found me once again.
In his fevered chase
he propels my shape forward,
hurling my form into the spinning atmosphere.

I take these agitated molecules.
Moved by their voices,
their actions,
their emotions,

the air surrounds
my penitent knees,
my pleading hands,
my longing eyes.

I will spread it thick,
like spider’s silk,
across my arms
across my stomach
across my face:
a mask.

Like I used to do.
How I used to be.

I will.
Again.

(Be)
my bygone era.

CE 4 - based from Russell Banks' "Sarah Cole: A Type of Love Story"

Disclaimer: The style of writing and characters presented in this short work of fiction are based from Russell Banks' "Sarah Cole: A Type of Love Story" and are not intended to infringe upon copyright in any way. Written for UCF's CRW 3013 course, Fall 2011. I encourage readers to find a copy of Banks' short story and read it if for no other reason than to enjoy great fiction.

[This text should be explained. It is written from the point of view of Sarah Cole, not Banks' narrator. The writing style is tailored to her personality. If the short story is read in conjunction with this text, it should match up with her character. If not, I apologize for being a terrible writer. We all start somewhere.]


His name was Ron. I had met him in the bar, at Osgood’s. He was definitely a looker: blonde hair, kind of skinny, not so old and not so young, but definitely worth a few minutes of my drunken time. The gals from work suggested (on a dare) that I go up and talk to him. So I did. I did the talking mostly, and he just sat there, looking at me and nodding and smiling, but he still held onto the paper, as if it was waiting for him. I went to the bar again two nights later, and when I had enough drinks and thought it was time to hit the road he walked me out to my car, and we discovered that my car was damaged. God, I thought, this is embarrassing as a cried into his chest, into his strong, kind, intelligent, good looking, button-up shirt chest. I had told him about my ex-husband, and he sympathized. He once drove me to his place, and while I sat in the living room waiting for him to come in from the kitchen, I got scared, and I walked out the front door after he offered me a white Russian. One time, he was so nice that he carried my groceries up my stairs to my apartment, and when we got inside, he didn’t say a word about how much of a mess the place was. He was polite, appropriate. I kissed those kind and thoughtful lips, and then he left. I was hooked, hooked on a man whose age I didn’t even know. I was hooked because I really needed a kind man in my life. I became obsessed with his kindness. We made love at his place every time, and every time I grew more attached. Until, finally, he seemed to grow cold and distant. Eventually he broke it off with me. I think the word “broke” is appropriate. He didn’t just end it. He broke it, my heart. He broke my heart. I didn’t see him for some time, and then, when I finally grew enough courage to drive up to his place and get out of the car and walk up to the door and knock…he let me in. I sat down. I still wanted to see him, although I was living with my ex-husband. He didn’t want to see me anymore, though. I grew angry. What a bastard; what a son-of-a-bitch. What a fucking low-life, good-for-nothing piece of shit. And then he said it. He called me an ugly bitch because he could. Then I disappeared because I wanted to.

CE 3 - based from "Boys" by Rick Moody

Disclaimer: The style of writing and characters presented in this short work of fiction are based from Rick Moody's "Boys" and are not intended to infringe upon copyright in any way. Written for UCF's CRW 3013 course, Fall 2011. I encourage readers to find a copy of Moody's short story and read it if for no other reason than to enjoy great fiction.

The boys enter the house, fresh, alive, jubilant, and forgetful. Their mother stands aside to let them pass into the living room where their father is waiting, expecting. A girl trails behind the blonde boy; she is shy, although educated and secretly opinionated. She reaches out to grasp the hand of the blonde boy, but her pale, thin wrists and dainty hand only brush along his rolled shirt sleeve, just missing his lightly haired fingers by centimeters. She is disappointed for a moment, a brief moment, but then lets the thought go as the mother approaches her in welcome; they begin to converse.

The boys make their way to their father, who is standing next to the beat up leather couch. They embrace, although the brunette boy holds back in favor of allowing his brother to hug their father; the blonde son and his father are much closer than the brunette son and his father. The father steps back to admire how much his sons have grown: grown up men who wear grown up clothes and eat grown up things and speak grown up thoughts and have grown up girlfriends. The father spies the blonde son’s sweetheart over the son’s shoulder. She is talking to his wife, who is holding the sweetheart’s hands in hers and saying, “Welcome to our home.” She is pretty, but not overly so; she is plain, homely, but looks intelligent. He wonders if his son has been thinking of marrying this girl. Then he wonders why his brunette son has not brought home a girl.

“I’m very glad to meet you, your son has told me so much about your family.” The sweetheart beams with thankfulness at the mother.

“You are welcome to anything in the house as long as you stay. We have a nice room set up for you down in the basement.” The mother says this with authority. She says it with the authority of a mother to her blonde son, and with the authority of a rich, giving, and cautious distant aunt to the girl. The girl beams; she loves basements and their quietness and cool atmosphere. The quiet is good for reading, thinking, dreaming. The blonde son is agitated.

“She has to sleep in the basement?” He is growing incredulous.

“We have no others rooms, dear. Besides, the basement has its own kitchen and a television. The folding bed is much more comfortable than the couch.” The mother makes the eyes at her son which say You must not do this here or now.

“It really is no trouble, babe. It’s alright. I’ll be fine.” The girl, the sweetheart, the now-basement-dweller holds out her hand to the blonde boy, gesturing to him that It’s okay, babe.

The father begins to approach the girl and introduce himself as her boyfriend’s father; he is interrupted by the blonde son’s breathy sigh and expletive. The father turns around in surprise, and he gives a look of warning, caution, and mild fury to the son, who shrivels under his father’s intense glare.

“Son, enough.” His eyes say You will not do this here or now.

“This is ridiculous. Completely stupid. I thought – I thought we had agreed over the phone. Over the phone you said that she would sleep in my room.” He keeps persisting under the glare of his father. He turns into a child now, his face contorting into convulsed grimaces and reflections of a spoiled infant. “What about Clarissa’s room?”

The family is silent. The girl is confused.

The brunette brother arms himself with dignity and grace.
“Stop.”

The blonde boy, child, brother now listens. He listens to his brother.

“Be glad you have her. Be glad she has to sleep in the basement. Be glad she’s with us. And not laying far below the topsoil.” Poetic.

Silence.

The brunette brother stares at his blonde reflection; his eyes say This has ended, here and now.