Rant Rant Rant

Maybe one day I will die from a gastric ulcer, but I have these urges to rant about things all the time. I feel I deal with them best by writing about them instead of punching the wall or chucking fragile objects across the room, also because I am quite fond of my interior. So here is what bubbled out of me upon thinking about the first encounter between European settlers and Aborigines. Even though I refrained from using foul language: read at your own risk.

"Such an encounter is very difficult to imagine nowadays because I think we now posses a somewhat universal culture of communication and even though gestures and languages differ from community to community, we now have means to translate them. The situation between two cultural groups, who didn't know that the other existed beforehand, will be very different from any encounter that could happen nowadays.

I suppose that a significant problem arose from the fact that the settlers and explorers who came to Australia, regarded their own culture as superior to that of the Aboriginal people, since they possessed "civilized" inventions like further developed weaponry, technical equipment and lived in seriously superior brick houses. These people were absolutely convinced that their “civilized state” gave them the right to invade the land of the Aborigines. Coming from a European background, they would have carried with them “Christian” values and probably missionary tendencies that often lead to debasing of other religious beliefs.

Moreover, that fact that the Aboriginal culture involves traveling across the land would probably be difficult to comprehend for European settlers. This certainly accounted at least partly for the subsequent treatment of the Aboriginal peoples, since people tend to be suspicious of anything they don’t know or understand. Encountering this strange culture should have lead to an interest in and consequently understanding of it in the settlers. It did not, however, instead it lead to the oppression of the original inhabitants of a country which was subsequently populated by immigrants from a different continent who felt it was their right to take land for themselves, authorized by a government that felt it had any kind of right to distribute this land amongst freshly released prisoners and ambitious settlers.

What must these settlers have thought when they came to Australia? That these uncivilized people couldn’t defend the country from a bunch of white men with guns? That it was absolutely justified to uproot entire tribes just to farm cattle on the land? That having naval power lead to the right to just conquer an entire continent just because the inhabitants, the true Australians, were not able or willing, to fight the Europeans till death? Even If the settlers were desperately searching for a better life, this justifies to no extent the crimes committed in the pursuit of this goal. "

Jule reads: The Hunger Games leave you hungry for more

I am addicted. I bought Suzanne Collins’ novel “The Hunger Games” out of sheer curiosity, as they were being mentioned in a blog that I stumbled upon. I thought they probably belonged into the young adults section for a reason and since they are also immensely popular in the US, I was also more than suspicious. I mean, after all, so is Twilight and every single book that Jonathan Sparks seems to vomit out. However, my misgivings were unfounded as the first of the Hunger Games trilogy glued my fingers to its pages and kept my eyes hastily galloping over the words as I anticipated the next event with bated breath.

We meet the 16-year-old Katniss Everdeen from District Twelve, in a near-post-apocalyptic USA that are now called Panem. While famine and hard labour reign in the outer districts, the Capitol, metropolis of Panem, executes a reign of terror over the districts, invigorating the fear within the population by means of the Hunger Games. This dystopian Battle Royale places two children between the age of 12 and 18 from every district in an Arena to fight till death, until only one survivor is crowned the winner of this bloody façade of a sporting event. Katniss steps in to spare her little sister, who has been picked by the “lucky” draw. Now she must face 23 other contestants, one of which is a distant childhood comrade of hers.

What fascinated me so intensely about this novel was on the one hand, the fast-paced style that allowed the series of shocking events to have far more of an impact on me than any popular Bruce Willis movie, where every other minute a car blows up or someone shoots down a whole gang. Katniss has been made tough by her arduous life in the Seam of District Twelve; she is grown up for her age since she had to take care for her family at an age where kids normally just enter Junior High. She is also torn between her raw instinct of survival and her conscience, as well as her conflicted feelings for Peeta Mellark, the male contestant from her district. On the other hand, there is so much more to worry about than the deadly weapons of the other contestants. The Capitol is Big Brother, watching their every move, steering the game as they please and oppressing every possible act of rebellion against the totalitarian government. The Hunger Games are like the proverbial “Panem et Circenses” that are to keep the population subdued and in fear as well as entertained. It is a measure to ensure that nobody ever feels safe enough to plot against the dictatorship as well as make mischief between the districts which could otherwise easily unite against the Capitol.

The state system presented by Collins is as atrocious as it is realistic. Certainly, the sci-fi elements such as mutated animals that spy on the districts and highly-technological measures of punishment, prosecution and control are highly futuristic and fictional. However, I can’t help but think of states like North Korea, where only Pyongyang has any means of technology and progress and the more rural areas, for the most part, battle with problems like hunger, illiteracy and are completely ignorant of the political ongoing in the capital and believe in absurd Myths about Kim Jong-Il. This adds to the eeriness of the situation in totalitarian Panem, since it is not actually mere fiction, it bears a striking resemblance to the state of affairs in countries in our time.

All these reasons lead me to order the two sequels as soon as I finished the first part. I don’t want to spoil the series for those who might want to pick up the book themselves, but I can safely say that there is more to come. The Hunger Games are not over after the excruciating ordeal of the public exposure in millions of interviews. This over-televised event leaves more than a dent in the lives of the protagonists and I am absolutely certain that Panem will never be the same again.

Pic via

Your Scene Sucks… and anyway, I don’t get it…

Sometimes I feel like I am getting a little old. Back when I was fourteen, I found my grandmother’s remarks about the “youth of today” pathetic, to say the least. Nowadays it’s me who can’t grasp the different movements, groups and spin-offs. Between Cyber-Goth, Emo, Scene or Hipster, I am completely at sea.

Therefore, I was more than delighted to find this little project online where Rob Dobi draws caricatures of the different scene types and crossovers: the “scenesters” on http://www.yourscenesucks.com/ Naturally, this site is used to poke fun at the strict dress codes or behavioural patterns of the different scenes, but it also, in a comical way, shows you which group your counterpart feels he belongs to. This should not be taken to seriously, as it is clearly exaggerated.

It also works as a means of criticism of the uniformity of youth subculture: "Wouldn't it be more of an act of rebellion if you didn't spend so much time buying blue hair dye and going out to get punky clothes? It seems so petty. Stop me if I'm being offensive. You wanna be an individual, right? You look like you're wearing a uniform. You look like a punk. That's not rebellion. That's fashion."

Since I detest being shoved into a pigeon-hole, it seems strange to me how people follow fashion trends like lemmings and nowadays even seem to obey rules as to what music you are allowed to listen to or what use of your language is appropriate. There are even counseling websites that tell you, how to be “scene”.

If you have as little a clue as me, enjoy the colourful caricatures of Rob Dobi and have a laugh at the obscure rules that a subculture can impose on someone (and at the people who are willing to obey them). Maybe this will soothe my fear of growing up a little, if I just convince myself that being a teenager is a nuisance anyway.

Pic via

A guide to future camera operators - How to shoot a dialogue

 

This month’s issue is to illustrate the techniques and methods of how to shoot a dialogue based on the cinematography Roger Deakins used in John Patrick Shanley’s play Doubt (2005) which was turned into a movie in 2008. In this process, the dominant focus will be placed on the camera angle and its potential to display different experiences and emotions.

1964: The winds of change are literally sweeping through the tight-knit religious community. Sister Aloysius (Streep), the notoriously strict and discipline-loving principal of a Catholic School in the Bronx, comes to suspect that the school’s charismatic and progressive head priest Father Flynn (Hoffman) may have developed an erotic interest in the school’s first African American student Donald Muller (Foster II). The distrustful nun Sister Aloysius begins circling Father Flynn, propelled by the tentative suspicions of young and naïve Sister James (Adams) who, with her doubts, gets caught between the feuding pair.

Doubt is a movie of little physical action which has to count on its actors to convey the unbearable air of paranoia in its war of words. Meryl Streep acts remarkably with intoxicating energy and, yes, comedy as a righteous nun on a personal crusade to hunt down child molestation. Her adversary, the ostensible leader of Christian faith Father Flynn, played brilliantly by Philip Seymour Hoffman, juxtaposes with Sister Aloysius’s cold and disciplined austerity.

Nevertheless, not only the characters had placed the movie on numerous critics’ lists of the best films in 2008, its camera work, especially in the dialogue scenes, contributed to a great extent to the movie’s tense atmosphere and the unpleasant accusation.

The movie’s several dialogues are beautifully punctuated with the camera angle, which affects how the viewer perceives the action. In the first dialogue between Sister Aloysius and Sister James the hierarchy is not only displayed by their positions within the school or the religious order, but also by the camera angle. The low-angle shot used when Sister Aloysius speaks separates her from the other nun and shows her predominance. Sister James however, is portrayed with a high-angle shot, which makes her seem vulnerable and powerless due to the lower position. Her inferior standing clearly indicates that she is talking to someone on a higher level. In the fierce discussion with Father Flynn a lot of scenes are shot as point of view shots to include the viewer in the battle of words. By showing the antagonist through the protagonist’s eyes, the camera work creates the impression as if the characters are addressing the viewer directly. The continuous alteration between leading actor point of view shots and over the shoulder shots between Sister Aloysius and Father Flynn demonstrates and leaves the viewer in an undecided state of mind with constant doubts of which side to pick. The Dutch angle used sparingly throughout the movie, portrays the psychological uneasiness and unstable tension of the character in an ostensive way as it is used in the climactic discussion at the end of the movie. The lopsidedness of the pictures is employed to express that the world is off its hinges.

John Patrick Shanley choreographed the dialogue scenes almost like a tennis match where the viewers have to turn their heads continuously from one side to the other in order to keep track of the exchange of blows. By that he propels the viewer to decide which side to take for their own, for he gives no hint of who actually did wrong, neither in the plot nor in the camera work. All other scenes appear slightly uninspired, almost boring in contrast to those highly creatively conducted ones.

Initially I feared that such little physical action, in comparison to the amount of talking, could lead to a certain long-windedness, but the film itself is not boring at all. On the contrary, it grabs the viewer’s attention at least after the conflict is revealed and never releases it until the very end and even beyond that. This thought-provoking spiritual drama about faith is a brilliant movie for all of those, who can stand the uncertainty of a possibly wrong witch-hunt. At the open ending the viewer is left alone with his personal doubts about what is wrong and what is right. Only one thing is made absolutely certain namely, that life is not black or white.

Short(?) Story: The Swan

“Please Sir, smoking is not allowed in our pub. “ What the hell, can an old man not enjoy his cigar in peace in Ireland? Only out of exhaustion I give in, it was a tough journey from my sheep farm in New Zealand to this shabby pub in Dublin. “Well, I’ll have another Famous Grouse then.” Very well, Sir, said the waiter in his annoying overfriendliness. What am I doing here anyway? After Gertrude’s death even the whisky seems to taste like motor oil. Where did those awful Irish people learn to make whisky? I should have stayed home; I’m going to miss this week’s sermon. “Waiter, I’ll have another one.” What if an animal attacks the sheep at night and I’m not there to shoot that bastard. I hate this town with all its pubs and shops and people buzzing in and out as if there is no tomorrow. My pals from the communist party would throw me out if they knew where I am at the moment. What the devil does this waiter take so long? CHRASH “Oh damn! Hey young girl, you will have to pay me for that whisky.” To my surprise this extremely clumsy example of the female species smiled at me and seats her rudely at my table without asking permission, bumping her big glass of a brownish liquid on the surface. “Why don’t you try one of these, grandpa?” I would have never allowed anyone, especially not a woman, to talk to me in that way but the numbing feeling of the whisky, I didn’t even like, makes me mumble “Whatever you like” to my own surprise. Louder than I wanted I hear myself shout bring me one of that and don’t spill it, you idiot. The girl opposite me sways heavily while sucking at her straw in an obscene manner. I’m Lila, she purrs under her breath. I can smell the alcohol on her breath. She had been drinking more than that glass, I am sure of that. As that prick of a waiter finally brings my order, I am half quenched with thirst from the stifling air inside so I gulp down half of it at once. The girl starts moving nearer to me placing her hand inappropriately on my leg, but I can’t get my tongue to utter a single word. My head feels all dizzy and the floor sways violently whenever I release my grip from the edges of the table. “Drink up old man, I take care of you”, she says forcing the half empty glass in my hand. I can’t collect any strength to stop her, my mind seems to be out of order and my body takes orders from anyone but me. She grabs my hand leading me out of the door. The cold and fresh air outside gives me the rest. This staircase is not ascendable. She puts her hands on my back and pushes me upwards. While the world around me spins like a merry-go-round on a playground. Absolutely out of breath, I collapse on the bed. Blank.

I woke up with a thud. Eggbert had run into my bedpost again. Since I had ceased to get really bad headaches after heavy drinking, he had come to visit instead – obviously a welcome change. Also, when I don't wake up alone, such as today, nobody ever takes notice of him, which is convenient as well. This morning my new special friend from last night was still sleeping. God, he had told me so much at that bar: that we was from New Zealand, his name was Shaun, he was a farmer, he loved his sheep, his wife had kicked the bucket recently and blah blah... I don't even want to know why I always get attracted to men like him, you know, twice my age, fat and with bushy beards. As a girl I always fantasized about being raped by Santa Clause on Christmas Eve and that he would kidnap me with his sleigh. Not such a bad thought still. Anyway, I smiled at Eggbert and greeted him good morning, but for some reason he didn't smile back at me.

It’s not easy being an egg. Imagine all you have to protect your fluid inside was a fragile shell when you actually have the eyesight of a mole. Plus, I don’t have ears, so I really should be getting contacts but I’m afraid no optician would ever take in an egg. Unfair, right? My name is Eggbert and I am an egg on a mission. Like the swan egg I am, I’m naturally set out to become a beautiful, white swan one day, like my brothers and sisters. Damn you, witch, for cursing me! Now I have to find two people I can reunite so the curse will be broken. Not that easy when you’re an egg with bad eyesight. Sometimes I think I’ll never make it. I will never be able to spread my wings and fly like the other swans. Depressing, right? But whatever, I’m doing my best and that has to be rewarded, right? I have this friend called Lila whom I meet every now and then. Actually, I meet her quite often. She is tied to the bottle, that gal. Whenever she’s in really bad shape after her last binge, we meet up and have a little chat. You see, Lila is really special to me and, since only she can see me, I suppose that I am rather special to her, too. Oh right, I totally forgot: Only Lila can see me because I am a hallucination. Wicked, right? So we are kind of close, the two of us. I even told her about the curse and she knows that I have a plan for her. Lila is going to be reunited with her long-absent father. And the happy counselor is going to be yours truly: Eggbert the egg hallucination. That’s me, reuniting families and bringing happiness to my friends. I pop up in Lila’s bedroom and instantly bump into the bedpost. Frickin’ eyes! My eyesight might be bad, but I can clearly see the shocking scene right before my eyes. Just when I want to tell her that finally her daddy is in town (don’t ask me how I know, I am a hallucination, remember?), I find her wasted out of her mind, butt naked in bed with a fat old man with a bushy white beard.

“You fool”, he said. “Do you not know what you have done?” Apparently I did not. He on the hand started to fuss and swear, which was rather unusual for dear old Eggbert. “Now I shall never become a swan”, he lamented.  Ah, this again. Well, I suppose I should tell you that Eggbert in fact was an egg. Well, not an egg like you would eat for breakfast of course. He was a swan egg to be precise and he was like a meter or so tall and had holes in his shell for his eyes and his mouth (now and then he even smoked, but he said it was a bad habit and that he would have to quit). Also he wore a straw head, striped pants and yellow shoes, but that is not the point. Anyway, he had been talking quite a while now about how he had come to realize, that his goal in life was to reunite me with my father. ‘Cause that was what it would take him to become a swan. He was a swan egg, you see. A witch had cursed him and he had to do a good deed in order to reverse the spell. Sounds a bit weird, doesn't it? Maybe I shouldn't have told him about my father and that I never knew him after all. But well, he had become a good friend over time and I had come to look past that. You know, just like you look past the nostalgic ramblings of you beloved grandmother or the unhealthy eating habits of your best friend.  “Ah, come on”, I said. “It'll be alright, you are not jealous, are you?” Of course I knew he wasn't jealous. Eggbert never was jealous. I just wanted to tease him a bit. “Argh, you don't understand, you stupid bitch”, he cried and stamped his little feet. “That walrus you fucked last night was your father – YOUR FATHER!!! Now I'll never become a swan...” At first I simply continued to smile at him, dazed and confused. But the smile faded as soon as the truth of Eggbert's words dawned on me. Eggbert was usually right in matters such as these. Hell, he was always right.

It's not just any man, this guy who looks like Santa Clause is her dearly-missed daddy. I start yelling at her, just to let off some steam. “You fool, what have you done?” This mindless, idiotic… “You slut you dumb bitch! You ruined my chances to ever become a swan. Do you want me to stay in this egg form forever? Why for God’s sake do you have to fuck your own fucking father?” She starts to say something about me being jealous. Is that bitch delusional? She is still sleepy but by now my words start to register with her. Lila seems to slowly get a grasp of what is going on. First, she is really furious with her old man and she yells at him like a mad woman. Then she realizes just what she has done. “He’s my father? Eeww, now that is just gross. Wait… Daddy?” She starts shaking his shoulder to wake him up. When this doesn’t create any responses, she takes her leftover drink from the nightstand and spills it into his face. “Daddy, it’s me! Wake up, it’s me, Lila! I’m your daughter; I’m your little girl!”

I turned around hastily. “How could he not have told me? That pervert. This is disgusting. Maybe he didn't know? But, he must know. He's my daddy”. When a rough shake wouldn't wake him (it seldom works with drunk, old men, trust me), I simply poured what was left of last night's drink on his face, all the while screaming “Daddy, Daddy”. All of a sudden I was overwhelmed by the deep-seated need to be loved by this man, to be loved by a father. My god, I thought I had been past that for years now, but no. With all the love I could give him as a daughter I hugged and kissed him. I told him everything, how much I had missed him over the years, how I had longed for him and how we were going to be a family now. If we could get mum off the valium that is, but together even that seemed possible.

Suddenly I feel a bit of hope returning to me. Maybe I can still unite them after all. Nobody said that you can’t have a great father-daughter relationship just because you accidently had sex once. I could still succeed. I could still become a swan. A glorious, beautiful, white swan. I would spread my mighty wings and rise to the sky in the sunlight. Everything would be alright, I would no longer be blind and clumsy but graceful and… A sudden noise brings me back into the scene.

Holy crap, what is this annoying feeling as if my brain bumps into the inside of my skull. What the hell, someone had just splashed something in my face; my head is aching like mad. It feels as if my tongue has been swapped for a dead animal. A shabby looking girl smelling like alcohol, what is she talking about? My mind is not capable of handling the sound she utters. Daddy? Daughter? Girl get a grip on yourself, I don’t know you. She is all freaked out. “Shut up you stupid bitch. I don’t have a daughter; you’re just the stupid cow that got my drunk last night. Get off of me, you filthy girl. What did you do to me anyway? If I had a daughter, she surely wouldn’t be such a slut like you.” She is completely mad. She won’t calm down. I have to leave, if only my head would stop to spin. “Wait, what are you doing, you dumb cow?” She jumps onto me hitting my head with a telephone. “Ahhrrrg!” the pain is blinding. My eyes start to water and my head feels like it is cracked open.  She won’t let go off me. “No, don’t do that.” I can’t see what is going on. Where is that freak? “No, take it off.” She wraps something around my neck.  As she pulls tighter, my field of vision starts to get smaller. I can’t shake her off. Blood thumping in my ears. Air supply is choked off. Dizzy feeling. Almost fainting. Oxygen. A cloud rolled over everything. Blackness.

His reaction, though, was like a smack in the face. That smelly old bastard chose to believe otherwise. He simply refused to recognize me. He denied me. My own father. Can you believe it? After all those years. It was simply too much. From behind my bed I seized the receiver from my old, black phone that I keep beside my bed and, you know, slammed it down on his head with full force. Again, again and again. Hello, anybody there? Please hold the line, you will be connected soon. Your call is important to us. But shortly I should realize that the receiver was no match for that thick skull of his. So I planted the telephone cord around his throat and pulled it tight. It didn't take long to choke the air out of his lungs. It was all over before it really began. Very fast. Anger does that to you. When all colour had left his face and his eyes grew dull, I finally felt at ease. I had never felt so, so alive before, actually, up until this very moment. Unfortunately this state was meant to last for very long, but for one glorious moment I felt as one.

Apparently I have missed some crucial event, because Lila is suddenly pulling on some thick black phone cord that is wrapped around her father’s throat. Shaun is slowly turning blue and the noise I heard is the constant gargling from his twitching mouth. As he tries to push away Lila, his movements become weaker until he stops stirring altogether. This rattles me from my stupor. I can’t believe this. “What have you done, Lila?! You killed him! He’s dead! Gone! I’ll never become a swan, you stupid bitch!” My rage seems to propel me towards her and I smack her in the face with the momentum of my entire body. I don’t even think about my fragile shell. Anger does that to you.

Then it hit me. Like a ton of bricks. Under furious cursing, Eggbert sprang at me and crashed right into my face. I can't really remember, I have to say, but I believe I heard a muffled crack, like an old tree being pulled down. Who would have guessed that an egg would be so fast and so fierce? Well, and so heavy. As I fell, I felt like I was buried under tons and tons of steel. At the same time I hit no solid ground. I just fell and fell and kept on falling. And what shall I tell you, I still do today.

“Crack” is all I hear. I must have smashed Lila’s skull, because there is blood. Blood everywhere, on the wallpaper, on the sheets, the headboard. Her brain seems to be forcing its way out of her left eye socket. Lily is just laying there, a puppet with cut strings. My Shell! Suddenly I realize that my own shell is cracked. Naturally! I’m an egg. I’m fragile. This is going to be my end. There was no reunion, just blood and violence and total chaos. I carefully pat my shell to check for my insides leaking out. But there is not a squirt, no leak. Strange, right? I’m not dying? Another loud crack shakes me violently. There are feathers poking out of my belly. FEATHERS! Soft, white, beautiful feathers. Eggs don’t have feathers. Swans have feathers. How is that even possible? Then it strikes me like lightning. They are united, after all. Obviously, they are no longer alive, but having died together, they are united in death. A mad giggle escapes my ragged shell.  With a creaking sound the top of it begins to crumble. My new head slides out of its white cage. A long, elegant neck stretches underneath it. With a piercing cry I rise and gracefully try to spread my newly acquired wings. They don’t move. I cannot raise my wings, they seem to be glued to my torso. I start to panic and fidget around to free myself. All of a sudden, a calm voice calls me: “Deary me, Mr. Swanson, why are we so agitated today? Don’t worry, the doctor will be ready for your treatment in no time.” White, everything is pearly white and so bright, that I have to close my eyes at first. Whiteness all around me, the walls, the ceiling, the uniform of the nurse and her brilliantly ivory teeth as she smiles at me soothingly and pushes the white wheelchair towards a white door at the end of the bright corridor. She pats my shoulder and as I follow the movement with my eyes I see myself, beautifully clad in a spotlessly white straitjacket. “It’s all going to be perfectly fine, Mr. Swanson, no need to be alarmed. I think you will feel much better after today’s therapy.”

Dani
Johannes
Jule

Fake Palindromes - here we go again!

After a few hours of intense brain-racking, here is my second attempt an analysis... this time with focus AND a conclusion. 

“Fake Palindromes” by Andrew Bird

The song „Fake Palindromes“ by Andrew Bird does not represent a coherent story but rather a series of conflicting emotions and images that evoke a deliberate feeling of ambiguity in the listener. The structure of the song is rather unorganized and strengthens the impression of a confused mind that is narrating. The song contrasts very dark and violent ideas with images and emotions connected to innocence and love. 

In the first stanza, the narrator addresses a “dewy-eyed disney bride”, a beautiful, naïve an innocent girl. This effect is strengthened by the use of imagery like “bright pair of shoes” and “knee high socks” in the second stanza. 

This innocent girl however has a dark secret to her, since she has distracting red lipstick on and is using the socks to hide signs of physical abuse (“what to cover a bruise”). This is only one part of the dark and eerie atmosphere that surrounds the positive images within the song. Already the second verse of the first stanza introduces the idea of “swapping blood with formaldehyde”, which means that the girl should have been murdered, even though the attempt failed. The narrator threatens the girl by saying that she should have died with “the monsters that talk, […] that walk the earth”, like she herself is some kind of monster. 

The second stanza underlines the fact that the girl is not as innocent as she seemed as first, since with the “old death kit” that she had wanted to use, she possesses a sort of weapon with which she had planned to kill someone, out of rage: “she has blood in her eyes for you”.  This rage and the planned homicide refer back to the fourth verse of the first stanza were “whiskey-plied voices cried fratricide”, which suggests that there has already been a murder of her brother to begin with, which was blamed on the girl. 

The third stanza begins with a completely opposing idea, that of maddening love, which is full of confliction emotions. Here, “singles ads” is a synonym for the search for true love which can be an emotional up and down: “they run you hot and cold”. However, the love is also strongly negatively connoted since it is followed by the imagery of having to bite on a towel to suppress one’s cry of pain from unrequited love and a broken heart. 

The last stanza picks up very concretely on the “single’s ads” by listing generic, average information that would appear in a lonely hearts ad. Again, this normalcy does not last long, because the ultimate aim of the advertiser is to “tie your wrists with leather and drill a tiny hole in your head”. The cruel, murderous intentions appear in almost every stanza and therefore dominate the whole atmosphere to a threatening and uneasy but still ambiguous overall picture.

The fact that the title “Fake Palindromes” hints at a deceit of the reader, who is expecting a hidden meaning that is not actually present, strongly suggests, that there is no clear message in Andrew Bird’s song. It evokes a feeling of unease in the listener due to its conflicting choice of vocabulary and topics as well as the irregularity of the rhyme scheme and the structure of the stanzas. It suggests an emotionally unstable narrator, who switches from addressing his victim directly to talking about her in the third person and even confuses vocabulary: “a rheostat, I mean a thermostat”. The song seems to mirror the dark and disturbed mind of the narrator which evokes a feeling in the listener that is comparable the unease of hearing a mad person’s thoughts. The only constant image is that of murder, death and pain, who are only connected to the other topic, love, because of the intensity of the emotions involved. 

Pic via

A Softer World

"In the caves behind my house, I found a softer world. They understand what I had to do for love. They don't believe in restraining orders."  

 Since we have been discussion the notion of "what is art" in greater detail, I felt that it was time to introduce piece of art that touches my heart every time I look at it. Joey Comeau and Emily Horne have created a web comic that combines beautiful, ordinary, extraordinary photographs with texts. 

 The format is always the same: three little boxes, filled with pictures that either create a whole together or that reproduce enlarged versions of the last box. The boxes are also filled with words. Comeau knows how to use words. He makes observations about the world we live in and twists them until they are ironic, hurtful, mean, intoxicatingly sweet, lovely, funny or nostalgic. They can make you smile, laugh uncontrollably, cry or nod in agreement. 

 

 Joey and Emily are funny people, indeed. “A Softer World” is their side project, their hobby, into which they pour all their heart. Or as they call it: “A Softer World is a comic that was created by Emily Horne and Joey Comeau so that people would recognize them as important artistic geniuses.” The twist in Joey’s little texts is always unexpected and portrays a heap of black humour that can also be found in his other literature.

 "A softer World” may well be the most poetic web comic out there; at least it has the wittiest, most unusual words combined with seemingly unrelated pictures that depict everyday life in its most casual form. The juxtaposition of these pictures of everyday life with the texts that create surreal situations makes the comic (which is less a comic than a photo-collage-story) remarkably different. In a good way. 

 

Check out A Softer World !