Infinite density.
12 years ago
Thursday, December 31, 2009
Sunday, December 27, 2009
Marine Boy
I received this movie as a gift. The giver must have had some insight into my psyche of the moment, and decided I needed a jolt to get me out of there.
It worked.
Being anti spoiler, I won’t tell the story, but I will say, seeing Kim Kang Woo for the first time was a treat and a half.
For the girls: He’s very handsome (serious eye candy), masculine, and seductive.
For the boys: He can swim, fight, and successfully seduce pretty women.
This is a nifty mix of the hapless, entangled with dangerous gangsters galore, in all shapes and sizes. Lot’s of dirty dealing, lots of major violence that flips around so unexpectedly, you’ll laugh before you realize it’s funny. It’s that slick.
Being one who adores really violent explosive stuff that makes me howl with laughter for the simple reason it’s so over the top, I love this movie. It’s neck and neck with, “Running Seven Dogs”, one of my bloodiest insane favorites from Korea.
The power of horrible screen violence that is done with the slyest imaginable wit…the wild humor of madmen, who have utter disregard for the polite/prudish viewer’s sensibilities, is delicious.
I mean…look…a mouthy guy gets beaten to death by a major gangster boss wielding a dangerous frozen salami.
What’s not to love?
This is a great flick. I watched it twice in a row and found more to laugh at the second time around. It has staying power. There’s so much action, it’s virtually impossible to get bored with it. It’s as wild under the sea, as it is on solid ground, and everywhere in between. It has everything, not to mention a terrific cast loaded with quirky talent.
Available at HK Flix
Click image to enlarge.
It worked.
Being anti spoiler, I won’t tell the story, but I will say, seeing Kim Kang Woo for the first time was a treat and a half.
For the girls: He’s very handsome (serious eye candy), masculine, and seductive.
For the boys: He can swim, fight, and successfully seduce pretty women.
This is a nifty mix of the hapless, entangled with dangerous gangsters galore, in all shapes and sizes. Lot’s of dirty dealing, lots of major violence that flips around so unexpectedly, you’ll laugh before you realize it’s funny. It’s that slick.
Being one who adores really violent explosive stuff that makes me howl with laughter for the simple reason it’s so over the top, I love this movie. It’s neck and neck with, “Running Seven Dogs”, one of my bloodiest insane favorites from Korea.
The power of horrible screen violence that is done with the slyest imaginable wit…the wild humor of madmen, who have utter disregard for the polite/prudish viewer’s sensibilities, is delicious.
I mean…look…a mouthy guy gets beaten to death by a major gangster boss wielding a dangerous frozen salami.
What’s not to love?
This is a great flick. I watched it twice in a row and found more to laugh at the second time around. It has staying power. There’s so much action, it’s virtually impossible to get bored with it. It’s as wild under the sea, as it is on solid ground, and everywhere in between. It has everything, not to mention a terrific cast loaded with quirky talent.
Available at HK Flix
Click image to enlarge.
Wednesday, December 16, 2009
A few new things...
have been posted at Hagfish Lite. Drop in, but be warned, good taste is not in the interest of Hagfish Lite. Hagfish laughs at narrow minded sorts, so...if you fit the profile, stay right where you are. Not that good taste is abundant here either, but there are fewer photos of naked butts, and sundry other thingys.
Now I know you can't wait to get over there.
Now I know you can't wait to get over there.
Saturday, December 05, 2009
On the day of enforced rest...
Lately I’ve come to a point where being precise is losing appeal. There’s a constricted feeling about my existence, something that makes me edgy, something knocking at the perimeters of my life from the outside. It whispers, “jump”.
Restlessness has me in its jaws. I’ve been working on photographs, and I realized how controlled they've been. They're so acceptably presented. Neatly cropped for the most part and contained conventionally.
I've started to feel so commonplace it makes me itch. Those pictures are the reflection of a part of my mind. I don’t like the box I find myself in.
I want that un-cleaned, imperfect, ragged non gentrified photographic howl to come out of me.
This is what I want.
Please Click Image to Enlarge.
Restlessness has me in its jaws. I’ve been working on photographs, and I realized how controlled they've been. They're so acceptably presented. Neatly cropped for the most part and contained conventionally.
I've started to feel so commonplace it makes me itch. Those pictures are the reflection of a part of my mind. I don’t like the box I find myself in.
I want that un-cleaned, imperfect, ragged non gentrified photographic howl to come out of me.
This is what I want.
Please Click Image to Enlarge.
Monday, November 30, 2009
Hetrick's Barn, and how I feel about it
I hate this barn picture. I am not bucolic by nature.
Bu col ic–adjective Also, bu⋅col⋅i⋅cal.
1. of or pertaining to shepherds; pastoral.
2. of, pertaining to, or suggesting an idyllic rural life.
Give me grungy city streets any day.
It's true.
Please Click Image to Enlarge.
Bu col ic–adjective Also, bu⋅col⋅i⋅cal.
1. of or pertaining to shepherds; pastoral.
2. of, pertaining to, or suggesting an idyllic rural life.
Give me grungy city streets any day.
It's true.
Please Click Image to Enlarge.
Tuesday, November 17, 2009
Old Girls
They were desperately alive back then, in their late twenties-early thirties. Manic and hopeful in their relief at having freed themselves from ill-chosen men.
They were smart, funny, vital, and laughed at everything. They were shot through with sexual energy and on the make for any new encounter. They glowed with an abundance of self assurance and joy at simply being.
They plucked their eyebrows, shaved their legs, put on perfume, wore high heels, and felt like women again instead of dish washing machines with vaginas.
They made love as often as possible, choosing their partners with an eye toward continuing freedom. In other words, they were like men; on the prowl, and disinterested in anything more than a few good times.
Of course some grew weary of the game life presented. Some of them missed the old ball and chain because they forgot what it was like. They married again, and occasionally, again and again. Trial and error doesn’t always work, but they had a naïve hopefulness, for which they must be forgiven.
There are those who remained single, and decades later, drabbed down and a little tired of it all, would ruminate on the fact there was nothing more interesting between their legs than the crotch of their underwear, which in some cases was still black-lace sexy, but wasted on an audience of one.
They are like the waning Moon, and the only waxing that gets done is to the outdated furniture they inherited from their soured marriages, or maybe their rooms as teenagers, when they were flowers; restless to know life, still safe with parents keeping them in check.
When they look back, what do they see?
Rubble?
Little bits of glitter they should have picked up with reverence, to be stored against all the rainy days to come?
The glitter these days is a flash of mica embedded in the stones they tread; not to be mined by them…beyond their grasp.
What could cheer them up and on?
A cluster of rampant penis’s perhaps?
Penis’s attached to healthy males, preferably a bit younger who gave them the eye, and smiled that secret smile at a few still-pretty women. The kind of men who would adore them for a while because of their sophistication, wit, lack of demands, and in some cases, lack of inhibitions. The types who love women just because they are women. Men, who will flirt outrageously, then follow it through with a certain air of gratitude and delight.
Of course the old girls would flee these encounters, laughing uproariously, escaping the bondage of good sex.
They’d fall in a heap into a booth at a ratty diner, order coffee and giggle, while normal color came back to their flushed faces, and their hearts raced with that high feeling of excitement, which comes in part from possibilities, in part from the somnolent embers that suddenly heated up even though they were assumed to be dead.
They’d glow again from the electrical charge of being seen as desirable.
They’d go home to slow baths with bubbles and emollients, shave their legs, put on perfume, seductive earrings, a bit of makeup, dress sharp, and then go dancing.
That’s all it takes… a little genital buzz.
Dedicated to Carlos, one of those men.
They were smart, funny, vital, and laughed at everything. They were shot through with sexual energy and on the make for any new encounter. They glowed with an abundance of self assurance and joy at simply being.
They plucked their eyebrows, shaved their legs, put on perfume, wore high heels, and felt like women again instead of dish washing machines with vaginas.
They made love as often as possible, choosing their partners with an eye toward continuing freedom. In other words, they were like men; on the prowl, and disinterested in anything more than a few good times.
Of course some grew weary of the game life presented. Some of them missed the old ball and chain because they forgot what it was like. They married again, and occasionally, again and again. Trial and error doesn’t always work, but they had a naïve hopefulness, for which they must be forgiven.
There are those who remained single, and decades later, drabbed down and a little tired of it all, would ruminate on the fact there was nothing more interesting between their legs than the crotch of their underwear, which in some cases was still black-lace sexy, but wasted on an audience of one.
They are like the waning Moon, and the only waxing that gets done is to the outdated furniture they inherited from their soured marriages, or maybe their rooms as teenagers, when they were flowers; restless to know life, still safe with parents keeping them in check.
When they look back, what do they see?
Rubble?
Little bits of glitter they should have picked up with reverence, to be stored against all the rainy days to come?
The glitter these days is a flash of mica embedded in the stones they tread; not to be mined by them…beyond their grasp.
What could cheer them up and on?
A cluster of rampant penis’s perhaps?
Penis’s attached to healthy males, preferably a bit younger who gave them the eye, and smiled that secret smile at a few still-pretty women. The kind of men who would adore them for a while because of their sophistication, wit, lack of demands, and in some cases, lack of inhibitions. The types who love women just because they are women. Men, who will flirt outrageously, then follow it through with a certain air of gratitude and delight.
Of course the old girls would flee these encounters, laughing uproariously, escaping the bondage of good sex.
They’d fall in a heap into a booth at a ratty diner, order coffee and giggle, while normal color came back to their flushed faces, and their hearts raced with that high feeling of excitement, which comes in part from possibilities, in part from the somnolent embers that suddenly heated up even though they were assumed to be dead.
They’d glow again from the electrical charge of being seen as desirable.
They’d go home to slow baths with bubbles and emollients, shave their legs, put on perfume, seductive earrings, a bit of makeup, dress sharp, and then go dancing.
That’s all it takes… a little genital buzz.
Dedicated to Carlos, one of those men.
Wednesday, October 28, 2009
Sunday, October 25, 2009
Fragility
There are times when she feels like old lace curtains that have hung in a window for too many years. They appear to be intact, but if touched, they will disintegrate.
So much violence has crept into her life over the decades, it staggers the mind. It came through the portals of direct information conveyed generally by phone, though sometimes the messenger arrived at the door.
There were trickier means also. For example, discovery of a murder, no, make that two, were via the Internet. If one could simply set the world to System Restore, go back, and never enter those names, never click on “search”, never read those pages, never dig for the outdated news articles….
The ringing of the phone. This is not the perky telemarketer announcement of an earnest broom or vacuum cleaner salesman, wanting to enrich your life with greater efficiency when it comes to the beloved American cleanliness fetish, anymore than the knock on the door is a delivery from the Chinese restaurant. The Internet information is not due to a misspelled name typed in haste, allowing one to exhale again.
Oh no, it is not benign data. We are indifferent to the benign. This information is of too much import, we are not indifferent here.
At this moment, the sky is gray and white as though all color had been erased from the world, leaving only a photograph in gray scale. It is Limbo, the place between Heaven and Hell of the heart gone away from average days, where the soul waits for good news, if it ever comes.
In theory, Limbo is temporary. It is there for the convenience of the gods. A storage bin filled with things to be decided upon, but not immediately. The gods do not appreciate being rushed.
But I digress where this tale is concerned. Forgive me.
Decades ago, an infinity it seems, the phone call came from a doctor announcing the anticipated death of her mother.
She was sedated by spirituality; buffered by belief and weariness. The howl came later. The grief, a river rushing toward a wall of stone, came later. Vestiges remain always, like stray hairs tickling sensitive skin, they cannot be ignored.
Her mother’s death was of natural causes, likewise, her father’s death.
The other deaths are the ones she counts on worry beads used as an abacus to keep track of violent unnatural events. She holds a cluster and counts them off. Four suicides. Another cluster…two murders, no…three actually if she counts the man she didn’t like, but did admire.
Then she hits a sticky area.
Does the accidental shooting of her young husband, many moons ago, count as murder or mishap? Shall she call it “uncategorized”? Now, if it’s murder, that would make four.
Four feels right.
Two fours equal eight. Eight is a fated number according to the study of numerology. Her name number is eight, as is her address.
Don’t try to tell her she’s not fated.
What could be more fated than a bullet from a small antique firearm which only holds one shell, tearing through a twenty-seven years old lung, leaving its owner waiting days for the rescue of death in a small hospital in a far away country?
She hates the uncategorized. At heart she is a file clerk in a narrow room fretting about a lack of order.
She could go mad from the weight of these folders containing so much intensity.
She could become Ophelia, pulling petals from flowers, keeping count, finally drifting in the waters that would claim her.
But then another would need to count off her beads, and add to a category. She doesn’t trust others with her record keeping. She doesn’t trust others, period, and exclamation mark.
The knock on the door is the worst. The parties on the other side know you are in that house, they will not go away. They will pound until the door too, disintegrates, and they will announce the uncategorized death while looking into your eyes to see if it is really true, or are they in a nightmare? Are we all in a nightmare?
Or it will be a single individual on business, announcing, after much cat and mouseing around in the name of said business, the fact he, she, or it, is not permitted to divulge the circumstances that led to this visit, but will pass on a phone number which will open the gate to another circle of Hell.
The man with the blue and white umbrella committed suicide early in July of 2009, taking her with him to Limbo. They are discussing things, and waiting for the wheel of karma to make another click.
Dear Reader,
Do not be misled by the apparent calm the above statement re the man with the blue and white umbrella implies. She is stuck together by a weakening will, and is not fully herself these days. She is being barbecued, turning on a spit over fire which does not cauterize, does not kill pain, as “normal” burning does.
It’s a messy business, full of anguish polite society can’t bear to witness. Her mother raised her to save face at all times so as not to divulge the inner heart, which would display weakness. Frankly, she would prefer to run through the streets screaming and tearing her hair out.
Suicides and murders are horrific happenings. She will skirt the recent awareness of a murder too close to the bone to think about.
For the benefit of polite society, she will be politically correct. She will state she suffers from overexposure.
What a strange circle she traverses.
No one knows her.
So much violence has crept into her life over the decades, it staggers the mind. It came through the portals of direct information conveyed generally by phone, though sometimes the messenger arrived at the door.
There were trickier means also. For example, discovery of a murder, no, make that two, were via the Internet. If one could simply set the world to System Restore, go back, and never enter those names, never click on “search”, never read those pages, never dig for the outdated news articles….
The ringing of the phone. This is not the perky telemarketer announcement of an earnest broom or vacuum cleaner salesman, wanting to enrich your life with greater efficiency when it comes to the beloved American cleanliness fetish, anymore than the knock on the door is a delivery from the Chinese restaurant. The Internet information is not due to a misspelled name typed in haste, allowing one to exhale again.
Oh no, it is not benign data. We are indifferent to the benign. This information is of too much import, we are not indifferent here.
At this moment, the sky is gray and white as though all color had been erased from the world, leaving only a photograph in gray scale. It is Limbo, the place between Heaven and Hell of the heart gone away from average days, where the soul waits for good news, if it ever comes.
In theory, Limbo is temporary. It is there for the convenience of the gods. A storage bin filled with things to be decided upon, but not immediately. The gods do not appreciate being rushed.
But I digress where this tale is concerned. Forgive me.
Decades ago, an infinity it seems, the phone call came from a doctor announcing the anticipated death of her mother.
She was sedated by spirituality; buffered by belief and weariness. The howl came later. The grief, a river rushing toward a wall of stone, came later. Vestiges remain always, like stray hairs tickling sensitive skin, they cannot be ignored.
Her mother’s death was of natural causes, likewise, her father’s death.
The other deaths are the ones she counts on worry beads used as an abacus to keep track of violent unnatural events. She holds a cluster and counts them off. Four suicides. Another cluster…two murders, no…three actually if she counts the man she didn’t like, but did admire.
Then she hits a sticky area.
Does the accidental shooting of her young husband, many moons ago, count as murder or mishap? Shall she call it “uncategorized”? Now, if it’s murder, that would make four.
Four feels right.
Two fours equal eight. Eight is a fated number according to the study of numerology. Her name number is eight, as is her address.
Don’t try to tell her she’s not fated.
What could be more fated than a bullet from a small antique firearm which only holds one shell, tearing through a twenty-seven years old lung, leaving its owner waiting days for the rescue of death in a small hospital in a far away country?
She hates the uncategorized. At heart she is a file clerk in a narrow room fretting about a lack of order.
She could go mad from the weight of these folders containing so much intensity.
She could become Ophelia, pulling petals from flowers, keeping count, finally drifting in the waters that would claim her.
But then another would need to count off her beads, and add to a category. She doesn’t trust others with her record keeping. She doesn’t trust others, period, and exclamation mark.
The knock on the door is the worst. The parties on the other side know you are in that house, they will not go away. They will pound until the door too, disintegrates, and they will announce the uncategorized death while looking into your eyes to see if it is really true, or are they in a nightmare? Are we all in a nightmare?
Or it will be a single individual on business, announcing, after much cat and mouseing around in the name of said business, the fact he, she, or it, is not permitted to divulge the circumstances that led to this visit, but will pass on a phone number which will open the gate to another circle of Hell.
The man with the blue and white umbrella committed suicide early in July of 2009, taking her with him to Limbo. They are discussing things, and waiting for the wheel of karma to make another click.
Dear Reader,
Do not be misled by the apparent calm the above statement re the man with the blue and white umbrella implies. She is stuck together by a weakening will, and is not fully herself these days. She is being barbecued, turning on a spit over fire which does not cauterize, does not kill pain, as “normal” burning does.
It’s a messy business, full of anguish polite society can’t bear to witness. Her mother raised her to save face at all times so as not to divulge the inner heart, which would display weakness. Frankly, she would prefer to run through the streets screaming and tearing her hair out.
Suicides and murders are horrific happenings. She will skirt the recent awareness of a murder too close to the bone to think about.
For the benefit of polite society, she will be politically correct. She will state she suffers from overexposure.
What a strange circle she traverses.
No one knows her.
Saturday, October 24, 2009
Rachmaninov Had Big Hands
This gem came to me from my sister, Alma Rands, jewelry designer and maker extraordinaire. Blessings on your head sistah!
Enjoy!
Presentation by:HirnW
Enjoy!
Presentation by:HirnW
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