31 March, 2009

Dreams Are Atomic

I'm interested in the uninvented inventions. Specifically the impossible ones. The Safety Bomb, for example: The bomb dropped into neighborhoods and communities where kids aren't allowed to go outside, women are afraid to walk at night, and the dudes are all caught up in the hustle. When it explodes, buildings become more efficient and secure, and everyone lightens up, giving out high fives and "You look greats!" to everyone they thought were rivals. I haven't yet thought of what goes on inside the bomb to produce these sort of effects, but I'll keep thinking about it. In a Universe where infinity exists, everything's possible. I'm sure we can figure it out. After all, I just figured out how to make, in theory, my favorite and most fantastic uninvented invention just recently: The Dream Recorder.

I had originally been going about it backwards, trying to think of a way to, in layman's terms, hook a VCR to my brain and record my dreams that way, onto some sort of phantasmagoric videotape. Then, just recently I had a Eureka! moment. Dreams are, after all, just atoms. All I need to do is build a machine that can read the atomic structure of my dreams, gather other atoms, and then (re)construct my dreams on the atomic scale. It's as simple as that. We'll be sharing dreams in no time.

20 March, 2009

Red Moon

You may have put together based on a few previous posts that I've been working on a project based on Doug Sacrison's one-act play Red Moon. Here are some questions you may have formulated on the topic:

What's Red Moon?
Who's Doug Sacrison?
How have you (
meaning me) been "working" on a play that has already been written?

Red Moon is a tale of tragic love. It takes place in the late 1980s aboard a Soviet nuclear submarine, and the trick to it is that the submarine's captain is a werewolf.

Doug Sacrison

Doug Sacrison is a friend I've known for nearly eight years now. We met at Camp Cispus at a week long leadership camp when I was just 16. At the time, Doug was actually going by the presumed named Dickie Fox, and impressed me greatly with his uncanny ability to link movie stars to Kevin Bacon in six steps or less. Through good fortune Doug also ended up attending Western Washington University, where we rekindled our friendship's flame. Together* we founded the now-legendary Team Sea Bear, a group of explorers and adventurers most famed for poorly attended, but always delightful, Day of the Dead parties, and our eerie ability to show up at themed parties (non-themed, too) in conflicting constume:

Cocktail party, circa 2005

Doug is also a talented writer, specializing in the comedic and absurd. I have a lot of admiration for his work, and am spell-bound by his work ethic (hitting his stride typically at 5 in the morning, wearing his briefs and a sunglasses). There are few people in this big world I'd rather work with.

I'm currently adapting his play into what I am anticipating to be my next short film. I'm very pleased that Doug has graciously let me have such freedom with his script, and working with him has given me a lot of happiness. I'm writing it in the style of how I imagine a Russian propaganda film for children would look. The project is very much in its infancy, so I don't want to get into any of its details. But, like I said, so far the time I have spent on the project has given me a considerable amount of joy. If you've noticed a decline in posts recently, it is surely this script's fault.

*with Sean Naman.

The Star Spangled Banner

I babysat a French baby yesterday morning, and she and I had the best time. Her mom, Ludmilla, left us at around ten in the morning, set to return at one. We wasted no time to start partying. The baby, a curly-haired, three-year-old girl, and I went straight away into an intense game of cow and dog where she played a cow and I played a dog (or, "un petit chien," as she'd say it). She and I chased each other around her bedroom on all fours; she "moo'd," and I "woof'd." This went on just the two of us for about fifteen minutes before we invited her stuffed animals to join in. Eventually my knees began to give, and I had to quickly think of a new game to play. Unfortunately for the baby, the game was called "combing the hair." It's a perfectly straightforward game, consisting mostly of me combing the baby's hair while she screamed at me and pretended to cry. Her mother had, incidentally, warned me this would undoubtedly happen, but that it was a daily necessity for the child to avoid developing something akin to dreadlocks.

(A quick note: The baby doesn't speak English in the same way I don't speak French.)

After testing the limits of our friendship with the hair combing, I thought the atmosphere needed to be lightened, so I put on the Beatles' Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band. I helped the re-engergized baby put on some socks, some pants, a nice sweater, a hair scrunchy, and a coat, and by the time "She's Leaving Home" came on, we were closing the shutters to the windows, about to head outside. We smiled greatly.

The sky was a pale blue wonder, and the baby sat high atop my shoulders as we strolled through the streets of Saint-Mande. She asked me to sing a song. I did my best to think of all the songs I knew all the way through, but the only one I could think of was Francis Scott Key's famed hit "The Star Spangled Banner," popularized in 1916 upon becoming the United States of America's national anthem. I had a baby on my shoulders, what else could I do but go for it? So, I did. Upon reaching the song's end, the small voice above my head cried, "Encore!" And I, of course, could not disappoint her. The passer-bys looked on with delightful mixed reactions of total befuddlement and striking curiosity, but always with a look that read, what a pair!

By the time we got the park we had a new game. This game probably would have to be called Bonjour, objet. Still on my shoulders, she and I walked around the park's lake spotting everything we could see, only to say, "Bonjour," to it.

Bonjour, banc.
Bonjour, abre.
Bonjour, canard.
Bonjour, pain.
Bonjour, cigarette.

And the game lasted all the way until we got home.

Bonjour, maison de moi.

At home we rounded out our morning together with a lunch of noodles and apple slices. I drank a glass of rosé, while she on the other hand did not. Like old friends we sat in silence, only broken when she offered me bites of her apple, and when I would occasionally prove to her I could count to ten.

Unrelated entirely, I took this picture out of my apartment's window the other night:

Paris, France nigh the dusking hour.

09 March, 2009

oh, no!

I've been posting a lot of these comics I've been making during the past little while, and it's created a bit of a departure from how things had been developing here at runjustforfun. Is that fine? Should I start a new blog specifically for my comics?

At any rate, I'm especially fond of this new one. It came to me while watching Carl Sagan's Cosmos last night during an explanation of the fourth dimension. As Mr. Sagan was illuminating the fourth dimension, it dawned on me how bizarre and out of my comprehension the Universe actually is. Then I started thinking about fractals.

It's easy to understand the infinity of a fractal when it's presented in just two dimensions, as its a simplified version of space: length and width, and if you dive in, it doesn't quit. The fractal becomes a bit more dubious in three dimensions. Though we can see them in our own world (crystal formations, snowflakes, etc), since we cannot modify the timescale of a crystal like we could a two-dimensional computer representation, the infinite seems to be much more finite, less abstract where we live. Yet the concept is still clear: Given an infinite time scale, staying with the crystal trope, the formation will continue moving in its geometric pattern indefinitely.

But the fourth dimension is another bag of potatoes all together. What would a fractal in this dimension look like? How does it move? How does it utilize length, width, and height? Does infinity look different in a fourth-dimension fractal? In which dimension does imagination live? Do ideas bend to gravity? Do dreams have atomic structure? Could I simply construct a dream?

03 March, 2009

captain ahab is still MIA at this point

I'm listening to Melville's Moby Dick right now. Whoever's doing the reading is overacting in the weirdest way, as if he were performing some sort of fancy soliloquy in a play written by Jane Austen, had she written a play. Only the trick to it is the soliloquy is actually an entire novel that the character would be reading verbatim in the play. It's just the weirdest experience to have whaling sound so effeminate and dainty.

I got a letter in the mail from perfectly adorable Megan Bedard this morning. In it was a photo she had taken in Los Angeles of a love seat and a couch, writing to me I was the long skinny couch, and she was the miniature one.

Everyone deserves such a winning friend as Megan. She's just great. Anyway, I painted this tonight because I liked her picture so much.

haiku pour la femme de Bibliothèque nationale de France

puffy wrinkled cheeks
aroma: puke, chocolate
make up in fiction

01 March, 2009

Nature is Creeping In

Glamour puss Jessica Tracey told me her New Years resolution was to make a new resolution at the beginning of each month, so she'd have a whole years worth of progress and development. I'm quite taken by this idea of taking the year as a series of bridges to cross as you find them. Now that it's March, my resolution is to schedule my days as aggressively as possible, from when I wake up, to when I fall asleep. The idea being the more strict my schedule, the more productive I'll be, and the more products I'll have to show for myself. Today I've put my plan into action, and so far it's been smooth operating. I'm currently taking a breather from working on the adaptation of Doug Sacrison's one act play RED MOON.

Lately I've been keeping my windows open in the afternoon because the air is finally warming up, becoming agreeable. Moments ago during my breather, I was having a cigarette at my open window overlooking the courtyard and saw ivy creeping up the wall.

No sooner did I see this nature overtaking architecture than did, truly, Vivaldi's Concerto no. 1 in E Major "Spring" rise into the air from my iTunes. Spring has been creeping in all around me, and everything about it seems nice. Yesterday I sat on a hill made of magic with Ben and Ciara in just a t-shirt and sunglasses, taking in the sun and shooting the breeze; a lake, a mountain, and Paris-like-an-ocean strewn before us. The last day of February was the first day of how I remember spring feeling. At dinner I could feel my skin tingling from outside's crispness and I thought, "This is exciting."

Thanks, spring. I like that you creep in; I like that you're a waltz.