derdriui: (Default)
2011-02-06 08:31 pm
Entry tags:

Method in madness

Prisoners doing Shakespeare. In, for example, Moscow. What a wonderful idea.

Am writing fanfiction for The Take which is amazing because there's probably nobody else in the fandom, so I have to just not bother with getting stagefright or blurting out whatever and running away. It's oddly fun to write Freddie the psychotic psychopath (madness without dementia... with a touch of dementia) and Jimmy. And compensating for the crap narrative with my own crap narrative (e.g. Jimmy is such a slip of a character and such a plot device because that's what Freddie thinks and not because that's... who he is. But Maggie's not like that and Jackie's not like that yeah shh and it all just babbles).

Also, the homosexualist subplot runs through the entire series. It's not old school British homosexuality (witty/grumpy/laughble mess of a/generally just setting off gaydars man standing around and not being full engaged with his wife) or like the more decent shows these days (... characters who are out). There's clip of Freddie kissing Jimmy in the title sequence, but it's a hard... awkward and not romantic event, and the rest of it is just series of moments and subtext. They're just wonderfully unreal characters and Tom Hardy does his best but there's just not much substance there though there's a gritty, fascinating facade. They're like fairty tale gangsters even though they do terrible things and terrible things happen to them. Freddie's a monster, Jimmy slowly turns into a monster, Jackie's incredible, Maggie's amazingly put together and... it shows people who don't know how to think in anyway but the way of the mob.

Somehow it never occurs to any of them to go straight. Even though Maggie gets a real job (through an underground connection) they still stay within the power of where they come from. And in that mindset a world is created, and in that world there are angels like Maggie, mortals like Jackie, fallen angels like Jimmy and the monsters like Freddie.
derdriui: (Default)
2010-12-16 02:54 pm
Entry tags:

(no subject)

The disconnect

Is the sum of human relationship the hormones triggered?

Our narratives were parallel,
with tributaries extended outwards and bridges connecting.
Allowing the triggering of closeness.
The triggering of chemicals.

And when our narratives deviate, forge separate and asymmetrical paths,
when we lose our way or are hindered by obstacles
when the intersections end
is the continuance of our individual story the only certainty?

Are the bridges only connecting dots in the same times and place,
and the idea of a joint narrative only a mirage induced by triggered hormones?
derdriui: (Default)
2010-10-14 10:30 pm
Entry tags:

(no subject)

Is there a reason why House is quoting lines from his soaps and Sex and the City as in-depth relationship analysis?

:( Oh, show.

If House is supposed to represent someone who thinks outside the box and essentially has to deal with the rules that ‘reality’ (which is almost always wrong) imposes on him, and Cuddy is the biggest authority figure in his life, trying to accommodate his mad skillz with running a hospital, then they have an interesting tension. He doesn’t accept limitations but he gets the job done; she’s bureaucratic, but she keeps the hospital afloat.

Now the rebel with a cause is establishing a relationship with the authority figure.

In ‘massage therapy’ Cuddy asserted that House’s unwillingness to fire his masseuse-hooker meant that he was keeping her away and didn’t want to be in a serious relationship with her. If he allowed that, how much of the character will be left by the time she plays this card a few more times?

He retaliated that he did want to be serious with her and be involved in the life of her child. That’s… just not House at all.

Now that the vicodin, heavy drinking etc. are gone, hookers were the only vice left; now he can’t hang out with them either. It’s a little weird to bemoan that except they’re stripping the character of all his characteristic vices so he can move to the suburbs, drink wine and raise a baby with his authority figure.

He’s… assimilating. And the relationship they used to have, in which she could take any form of humiliation he threw at her because she’s smart enough to recognize his capabilities in research and pushing forward diagnostic medicine (on top of her latent guilt for betraying him) , make no sense now: she’s sensitive to his barbs, he doesn’t want to hurt her, they’re… a boring little Mr. and Mrs. Diagnostic team.

Essentially, they’ve neutered the pull of the character by pushing him into a gray area. Suddenly it’s not just the puzzle that’s important: he must consider whether or not he’s getting laid (or hurting the woman he’s desperate to be with forever, however you look at it).

While Sherlock hooking up with Inspector Lestrade would have been fun, it would have made it absolutely bizarre: suddenly they both have emotional agendas to deal with and that compromises the quality of their work.

When they destroyed House’s relationship with his authority figure, they basically ruined the show: it simply doesn’t make sense that she would allow him in emotionally with the way he used to behave, and if he changes the way he behaves then he’s no longer the same character. So are they just having one long Huddy wank before they let the show fizzle into nothingness?
derdriui: (Default)
2010-10-03 08:57 pm
Entry tags:

(no subject)



Drew a lot more than this, just a couple of samples. Finding ways to relax. I think I've kind of quit smoking, at least in the sense that I don't feel the need to have one every day anymore. Yay.
derdriui: (Default)
2010-10-02 02:48 pm

(no subject)

Disclaimer: I've never written anything like this before. I do apologize for the melodrama. Any and all concrit most appreciated.

"Haven't you ever heard of the healing power of laughter?" -- The Joker, Batman

In forming my plan I thought of you, and you most of all. I’d get a little shy about telling you, because, like I said, it’s all about you. My you. And that’s the most fabulous part of the whole cake: when you’re lying through your teeth to your bossman or running through fields or whatever the fuck you do now on the other side of the world, I’m here and I’m in control of you. I have the power to define you. Ever thought about that? I’m a connection that you established and what I write down on this piece of paper sitting blank in front of me, what I do with these pills or this scarf or that pair of scissors, I change your perception of yourself. I can define you and change you and maybe you won’t be my you, but you’ll turn from my uncontrollable seasickness into my second choice.

You ever hear of those people who don’t think it’s funny when someone falls down? Yeah, me neither. I think they were lying because fuck, fuck, fuck it’s funny to think of you sitting down in a cold room thinking and thinking about what this means, what I mean, why I wrote those little lovesick words (I have the perfect poem to write on the heartshaped card, a little glitter and a lot of time to pretty it all up) to you, knowing that I did this to spite you but there’s no evidence, and then the paranoia crawls in and now everybody’s judging you and how’re you gonna behave now?

What I love most of all is the thought of you in hot rooms, in temperature controlled rooms, in different countries, on different continents, tripping into alternate states of consciousness and at the bottom of it all there’s me, there’s this idea of me, and I’ll be stronger there than you ever let me be.

Some scars are part of you. They contour you. I’m taking normal with me and it’s the best thing ever. You think I don’t deserve to know you? I get to decide who you are.

Popped the pills. Signed my heartfelt little poem.

Heel, bitch.
derdriui: (Default)
2010-09-24 04:14 pm
Entry tags:

art post

A little sample of art.

Three from highschool.




And this one... today. MS Paint. Enjoying the fuzzy can.

derdriui: (Default)
2010-09-22 11:30 am
Entry tags:

the metaphorical velutha (with the brown leaf on his back that made the monsoons come on time).

Not that reposting requires apologies or justifications, but only notation. One would say that it's for posterity but who knows how long this cyberspace will keep any records of anything.

The country churns with fear and fear and malcontent, which outing will be the end, what kind of world are these children growing up to see.

Good journalism is showing, not telling, I've been told. And it's not difficult to show what has happened to Sri Lanka, from colonization from around the 8th century to supposed independence in 1948 and the systematic destruction of all hopes of having a democracy removed as saplings from the minds of the people. After the 1978 constitution of JR Jayawardene and the establishment of the executive president, as well as the political turned ethnic violence between the LTTE and other such groups against the Sri Lankan government against the oppression of the Tamil minority, the Sri Lankan government murdering 30,000 JVP in the 1980's... the countless disappearance...

The killings in Sri Lanka are an immense part of his history hencetoforth not adequately explored. I am in no position to explore it, but if the hallmark of journalism is showing and not telling them perhaps I can share some stories I have heard with you.

General Janaka Perera and the Human Broiler project.
A general in the 1980's who is still wondering free, responsible for the death of many, many human beings. One story of a camp under his guidance was a woman who was being interrogated. Her boyfriend's head was cut off and put on her lap.

She jumped out the window.

The Human Broiler Project was that it wasn't enough just to kill political dissidents and those who may be political dissidents, but to cut them to pieces and dump them back in their villages.

Fear. Bodies in the rivers. Burning on the roadsides.

Janaka Perera told a friend a story about how, after they had captured two insurgents and put them in prison, he was tossing and turning, unable to sleep. So he got up, took a gun and shot the two people. Then he was able to sleep.

Nishantha Fernando was killed, pronounced dead at Negambo hospital. Gerard Perera, who made torture allegations against the police, was shot dead on a bus.

How does the rule of law deteriorate to this point?

Nishantha Fernando repeatedly made complaints to the Inspector General of Police, the Human Rights Commission of Sri Lanka and the Attorney General about assassination threats made to him and his family. The Inspector General was under obligation to protect him and failed. Human rights organizations had also written to ask for his safety.

Nishantha Fernando initially made allegations against some higher-ups in the Negambo police station for asking their asking of bribes. 5,000 rupees (46 USD). Policemen came to his home, beat up his wife and two children as well as himself, and then took him to the Negambo police station where he was further tortured.

So Nishantha Fernando filed a fundamental rights application, and the Supreme Court granted leave to proceed. Four thugs came to his house and demanded he withdraw his case on the 23rd of June 2008. After this he and his family went into hiding. Recently he emerged and yesterday, the 20th of September 2008, he was shot in broad daylight.

How does the rule of law deteriorate to the point when police officers can wreak revenge on people who dare complain against them? How does the belief in rule of law become a naïve hope, when the inspector general despite having the requirement to, makes no move to protect you?

How does filing a bribery case lead to torture and assassination?

According to his wife, the only enemies Nishantha Fernando had were the police.

The world looked at him when he went into hiding
Who could possibly hurt you now?
"A case in front of a the Supreme Court,
a guarantee from the Inspector General to protect you!"
And they shook their heads because they don't know
He shook his head because he did

For a man with a case
in front of the supreme court
with protection from the Inspector General
is the least safe man of all.

He had complained about a bribe one day
Police man asked him 5,000 rupees, 46 US dollars
And this he naively thought illegal
and the high court made the same mistake
and asked him to proceed with the case

The Police, they know the real law
So they came to tell it to him
In the real language
Blows on his children
His wife
And, in the purest of legal language, in a torture chamber
the Police Station

So he went up to the fools
That sometimes come to the supreme court
and they granted him leave to proceed
in a case against those who knew the real law far better than
the men in wigs
who sometimes think
"I remember law, I feel an itch to enforce it today."

And then came thugs,
Who had been brought up knowing the real law,
the real judges,
how much a life is
really worth
And they told the naive man, who had twice foolishly believed the men in wigs
To stop harassing the real lawyers, judges, deities
the Police

And he asked for help and he told and he tried to explain,
"They threaten to kill me, my family,"
And the Attorney General
The human rights commission
The Inspector General of Police
Said "no."
They don't like to give much hearing to
The Real Law of the land
(They'd lose too much,
in a land where corruption is the status quo)

A few months in hiding
But money doesn't get made easily
by those in hiding
So he came back to his house
in the realm of the real law

Driving on the road
Wife and daughter at home,
kid beside him
In his van
in the broadest daylight, shot.

Believers beware, the grave of Justice weeps
Another man fallen to the ignorance of many
And the cruelty of few who control them
derdriui: (Default)
2010-09-22 10:52 am
Entry tags:

'Ils ont changé ma chanson...'

The desire to be renewed is quite intense, quite terrifying. I always fear any idea of loss and, while it sounds like the mentality of rich hoarding, it's just my way of seeing the world in extremes.

At any rate, I'm writing a near-anonymous set of notes, not for any particular reason but for posterity, remembrance, if cyberspace doesn't in fact implode and leave me flailing behind somewhere with a grandiose recollection of paltry, unfit sentences.

Still, and somehow with some distant point, I feel the thrust of progress in some infantile way, and I enjoy it. Never to grow up, never anything so terrible, but the familiar-feeling edges and outlines of it - though, and as graphic as this is, the metaphor rings true, there is that molested fear of accidentally touching, outlining and warming ones hands on trauma - and I suppose it's all lapses and living. Maybe memory will be more clear now, with the imprinting mechanism of deliberateness.