To Philip Glass, to Virginia Woolf, and to Michael Cunningham

The music of Philip Glass has moved me more than any music I have ever heard. I recently obtained a copy of Glass’s music to the movie, The Hours, and in the CD booklet is an essay by Michael Cunningham. This essay has explained to me my unexplainable and odd fascination with Glass, and in addition, with the work of Virginia Wolf. I guess I am one of the “wild and lonely ones,” because I often listen to Einstein on the Beach (and any other work of his that I have collected) on repeat, especially while writing.

I Love Philip Glass

Everything must have an ending except for my love for you.

Prop 8: The Musical

This is freaking amazing. And has two of my favorite actors in it.

Life Disintegrating

Koyaanisqatsi. The perfect word to describe life for Americans in this, the 21^st century. Koyaanisqatsi. Life in turmoil. Life unbalanced. Life disintegrating. Koyaanisqatsil; derives from the Hopi language. Koyaanisqatsi: the name of a 1982 visual-musical poetic film by Godfrey Reggio, Philip Glass, and Ron Fricke. (A prophetic warning of days to come?) A film connecting the dots between technology and the destruction of our bloodline, our life. This film, made in the dawn of the rise of glutinous American consumerism, before being green was the cool thing, peels back the layers and slows down—this world we live in, all beautiful and destructive and chaotic and horrible and completely astonishing. Chaos. Chaos.

Koyaanisqatsi: a state of life that calls for another way of living.

Is it too late?

Protected: Find Your Grail

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Cats and Dogs

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Chock-full of pathos, this video made me want to pull a Molly Shannon and go adopt 20 dogs.

Big Box Mart

Eagle Vs. Shark

Hamletmachine

“I am Ophelia. The one the river didn’t keep. The woman dangling from the rope. The woman with her arteries cut open. The woman with the overdose. SNOW ON HER LIPS. The woman with her head in the gas stove. Yesterday I stopped killing myself. I’m alone with my breasts my thighs my womb. I smash the tools of my captivity, the chair the table the bed. I destroy the battlefield that was my home. I fling open the doors so the wind gets in and the scream of the world. I smash the window. With my bleeding hands I tear the photos of the men I loved and who used me on the bed on the table on the chair on the ground. I set fire to my prison. I throw my clothes into the fire. I wrench the clock that was my heart out of my breast. I walk into the street clothed in my blood.”
– Heiner Muller, Hamletmachine

I love how art inspires art which inspires art which inspires art…it is a never-ending process. There is no such thing as an original idea, only inspiration.

And post-modernism is kind of weird, by-the-way.