The best thing so far in Thomas Pynchon's V. is his use of "wha." It's not that the book is bad, it's that the "wha" is so good. V. is made up of this consistent, energetic mad dashery where it seems that at any time quaintly-named characters are sprinting to or from revolutions, open fire, and/or parties interrupted only by song, which sometimes is also mad, or the simple, "Wha?" The casual skimping of the "t" makes the "wha" somehow triumphant; in my head, it sounds like, "Whaaaaaaaaa?!?!?!?!" It's pretty easy to get into the story and tag along on the excursions with the characters and one gets almost blasee about all the delirium that's unfolding until this sassified, James Brown-ified "whaaaaa?!?!?!" like jolts you back to your senses and makes you see the loony hoopla for what it is and makes it exciting all over again. The simplicity of the inserted "Whas" exacerbates the gnarliness of everything else. It's perfect.
Thursday, February 25, 2010
Wednesday, February 24, 2010
uh-oh, it's a rant: telephones
I know that my employment history is not, erm, traditional. I have no idea how an office functions or what mysterious things happen in a cubicle, conference room or good old office room. Movies, acquaintances who spend time in such environments, and even brief visits to environs that could be qualified as offices have, however, taught me that there is usually a public water cooler and coffee maker, and a telephone on each desk.
My question is this: are the telephones just for show?!?! Are they all set on silent? Is there a special code one needs to dial for said telephones to erupt in coded rings, thereby letting the person at the desk know to actually pick up versus theoretically pick up?! Is it maybe the economy or a deeper existential crisis that has prompted the collective office masses to stop answering their phones?
We will not attend to your offers, demands, polite inquires, calls to productivity or friendly banter. Fuck it!
Is that it?
Making phone calls is an excruciating activity for me to begin with. I have to give myself encouraging pep talks in preparation for each call, practicing what I'm going to say to the unsuspecting, possibly uninterested, busy people on the other end. I have to pretend to be really excited to be having these conversations which in reality make me break out in red blotches all over my neck and chest and which do not subside for 20 minutes after the phone call. (I'm not otherwise neurotic, really. That's true, right, friends?) (As a side note, I once participated in a clinical study about anxiety; I had to answer really obvious, leading questions about "getting anxious" and then play really boring computer games with a bunch of wires plastered to my skull using a plastic pilot's-type hat. I had to call the study to make an appointment.)
So when I go through this exercise, an unceasing little nightmare, many time over in one day and not one person picks up the phone, it's like a cruel joke. Where the hell are you, people? I've been trying to reach one guy in particular for months now, calling almost everyday. Sometimes I'll call from different numbers, at different times throughout the day, etc. I have not reached him once. One day, if anyone ever does pick up, I might just instantly lose it Klaus Kinski-style .
So, uh, keep doing what you're doing and not picking up the phone.
Monday, January 25, 2010
Waitin' on Boombox Season
I’ve always liked the idea of the Man With The Boombox, a sort of traveling messiah whose sole mission is to bring jams to the ears of those he passes in his infinite travels and undefined quests. But up until I moved to Bed-Stuy the MWTB has eluded me. In Philly, or at least in West Philly, the closest thing we had to a boombox presence was the Man With The Duct-Taped Bike, who often taped a small, antennaed radio to his handlebars and broadcast crackling radio waves to anyone who stepped into the small perimeter of audibleness. There was also Omar, who instead of a boombox carried around a CD player with headphones and, occasionally, small computer speakers and played, almost exclusively, Depeche Mode and Tears for Fears to anyone who’d listen. But Omar’s mission was not to bring the jams, but rather to get drunk, and his sharing of Tears for Fears was only a side effect of that eventual goal, usually successfully reached.
In Bed-Stuy, however, the boombox, especially in the summer, is like an institution. I’ve watched grown men stand across the street from each other, each with a boombox in hand, blasting music - each his own – and talking to each other as they did this at competing volumes. What drifted up through my window was like a poorly planned mash-up. And this seemed alright to everybody; all the grannies hanging out on plastic chairs outside the buildings’ entrances and the Always Outside Dudes and whoever else was chillin’ within the blast volume area. There are also the men – and it always seems to be men who devote themselves to the boombox – who carry their stereos in those wheeled cages that people use to haul their groceries and laundry in. They’ll just walk up and down the street trawling their tunes behind them with no discernable destination or business but to spread the jams. .
My favorite MWTB, however, is the one that lives 2 floors below me, on
Camelot’s the nicest dude ever but when I first moved into my building, I thought he was a stoic and unfriendly bastard. It was August, peak of boombox season, and he was hardly ever separated from it. Coming home, I’d see him inevitably stationed under the tree or leaning up on the gate by the entrance or even, sometimes, down the block, and I’d wave or say, “Hello.” He’d look on, unperturbed, feigning as if he hadn’t seen or heard me, standing in a sort of boxer’s stance to be maximally balanced. I was psyched about my new place and ‘hood and he was the only one that didn’t answer to my alacritous hellos! With time I started noticing that he only did this when he had the boombox on him. If I caught him without it, he’d smile all big and goofy and chat with me and generally be super genial.
The boombox is serious business and manning it requires focus I can only dream of, it seems. I can’t wait for the warm weather to open up the boombox season. Bring it, Spring!
Wednesday, January 6, 2010
Help Fund Potosi, Bolivia Miners: 5 Centuries Deep
Below is an excerpt from a longer proposal I wrote for the same project, Potosi, Bolivia Miners: 5 Centuries Deep, which I recently posted on KickStarter. I'm trying to raise funds to get this project going, so if you know anyone who may be interested, with some change to spare, spread the word! thanks!
Here is a photo with a miner, taken by my friend Josie, in 2005:
In 2006, I turned in my undergraduate Environmental Science thesis predicting certain doom for the communities that live around the Cerro Rico mine in Potosi, Bolivia. One of my sources predicted that the mine, functioning continuously since 1542, will finally be depleted in 10 years. Though this is true only in part – new technology will permit profitable reworking of tailings as well as exploitation of previously untouched deposits – the conical mine with its manual, anthill-like activity of miners will surely grow quieter as less mineral is left to drag out with the crude methods currently used. Potosi, once the richest city in the world, will have to either embrace the tourism that is already exploding in the city or work out a solution with the international companies vying to mine there and once again, take Potosi’s riches abroad.
The mine’s influence over the years – the tangible riches it produced, the intangible glory it brought to Spain – is mostly gone. And the destitute miners who go into the Cerro Rico mine now, fathers, sons and brothers in a long line of men, may be the generation that will see the mine breathe its last. I want to photograph this particular generation of Cerro Rico miners, possibly the final.
I want the documentation of the miners and the mining community to be threefold – 1.) documentary-style photography of the men in the mines and of the community in general, 2.) formal, black and white portraits, and 3.) to establish a camera distribution so community members can take photos of each other/themselves. The first, I think, is important to show that this place exists, that it exists in this way in the 21st century, and to reveal what happens there, the texture of the place and the people. The second is to give a formality and gravity to the series of images: to take time with a subject, to photograph them head on, to immortalize in the most classic way. The third, which will be the most challenging I believe, is to empower the community to present themselves to the world on their terms – terms to be explored and negotiated with the participating members.
I have been to the Cerro Rico mine twice, both times with Wilfredo Bracamonte, an ex-miner who now gives tours to tourists of the mines. In a recent correspondence he said that he would help me to establish contact with some miners to start off the project, though one mining co-op, the Korimayu, has already extended such an invitation to me. Further, the city is replete with tour guides, many of them ex-miners that I believe I will ask for further assistance once on the ground in Bolivia. Additional routes to explore would be the miners’ market, mining union halls, the mineral processing factories, and to introduce myself to the women who work on the outskirts gleaning bits of mineral by artisanal mining and processing.
I have two personal goals with this project; 1. to document this community and to let them document themselves and 2. to grow as a photographer. The target is to have an exhibit towards the end of the project where both my photos and those taken by community members are displayed for locals and tourists to see in Potosi. I hope to able to incorporate older photos, to be solicited from families or bought in local antique shops, to present a portrait of the city in a historical context, drawing a line between the past and the present and commenting on both the richness of the history and the reality of the present.
I want the project to be ethnographic in methodology, though not strictly academic in scope. Rather, I am interested in reinforcing community and fostering understanding through photography, as well as producing a solid body of photo work. I think this is a particularly relevant time to venture to do this – as mineral reserves in the Cerro Rico wind down and foreign investors start to set up processing centers and operations in and around the mountain to wean profits from poorer ore, the Potosi community will no doubt undergo changes. Martin and Spence (1988), in an essay about photography as therapy, write, “By recording such events [them]selves, particularly by those people who are powerless and marginalized by the dominant stories in circulation a new form of social autobiographical documentation can be put together.”
Here is a photo with a miner, taken by my friend Josie, in 2005:
In 2006, I turned in my undergraduate Environmental Science thesis predicting certain doom for the communities that live around the Cerro Rico mine in Potosi, Bolivia. One of my sources predicted that the mine, functioning continuously since 1542, will finally be depleted in 10 years. Though this is true only in part – new technology will permit profitable reworking of tailings as well as exploitation of previously untouched deposits – the conical mine with its manual, anthill-like activity of miners will surely grow quieter as less mineral is left to drag out with the crude methods currently used. Potosi, once the richest city in the world, will have to either embrace the tourism that is already exploding in the city or work out a solution with the international companies vying to mine there and once again, take Potosi’s riches abroad.
The mine’s influence over the years – the tangible riches it produced, the intangible glory it brought to Spain – is mostly gone. And the destitute miners who go into the Cerro Rico mine now, fathers, sons and brothers in a long line of men, may be the generation that will see the mine breathe its last. I want to photograph this particular generation of Cerro Rico miners, possibly the final.
I want the documentation of the miners and the mining community to be threefold – 1.) documentary-style photography of the men in the mines and of the community in general, 2.) formal, black and white portraits, and 3.) to establish a camera distribution so community members can take photos of each other/themselves. The first, I think, is important to show that this place exists, that it exists in this way in the 21st century, and to reveal what happens there, the texture of the place and the people. The second is to give a formality and gravity to the series of images: to take time with a subject, to photograph them head on, to immortalize in the most classic way. The third, which will be the most challenging I believe, is to empower the community to present themselves to the world on their terms – terms to be explored and negotiated with the participating members.
I have been to the Cerro Rico mine twice, both times with Wilfredo Bracamonte, an ex-miner who now gives tours to tourists of the mines. In a recent correspondence he said that he would help me to establish contact with some miners to start off the project, though one mining co-op, the Korimayu, has already extended such an invitation to me. Further, the city is replete with tour guides, many of them ex-miners that I believe I will ask for further assistance once on the ground in Bolivia. Additional routes to explore would be the miners’ market, mining union halls, the mineral processing factories, and to introduce myself to the women who work on the outskirts gleaning bits of mineral by artisanal mining and processing.
I have two personal goals with this project; 1. to document this community and to let them document themselves and 2. to grow as a photographer. The target is to have an exhibit towards the end of the project where both my photos and those taken by community members are displayed for locals and tourists to see in Potosi. I hope to able to incorporate older photos, to be solicited from families or bought in local antique shops, to present a portrait of the city in a historical context, drawing a line between the past and the present and commenting on both the richness of the history and the reality of the present.
I want the project to be ethnographic in methodology, though not strictly academic in scope. Rather, I am interested in reinforcing community and fostering understanding through photography, as well as producing a solid body of photo work. I think this is a particularly relevant time to venture to do this – as mineral reserves in the Cerro Rico wind down and foreign investors start to set up processing centers and operations in and around the mountain to wean profits from poorer ore, the Potosi community will no doubt undergo changes. Martin and Spence (1988), in an essay about photography as therapy, write, “By recording such events [them]selves, particularly by those people who are powerless and marginalized by the dominant stories in circulation a new form of social autobiographical documentation can be put together.”
Wednesday, December 30, 2009
Monday, December 28, 2009
Failing at Glory
Last time I was at my folks' house, I randomly picked up Glory, by Vladimir Nabokov, and started reading it. I wasn't terribly impressed - the prose drier than what I've come to like from the big N., the story not overwhelmingly interesting, though the pacing an attractively odd and elusive trick that leaps without action - with it but it was good enough to keep reading and I read until I got to page 144.
Several days ago, I grabbed it on my way out, thinking I'd make good use of my hour long subway rides and even got a seat during rush hour where I could successfully avoid Christmas shoppers' packages from poking me in the calves as the train rocked back and forth. It was mad crowded on the train but I was contently ignoring the people squeezing all up on me by adamantly concentrating on Martin's lackluster misadventures. Somewhere between Brooklyn and Union Square, Martin moved from Switzerland to Berlin in an attempt to do something about his unceasing boner for Sonia and things were getting a little more interesting. "You're such a dear that I have to kiss you," Sonia says on page 144, and then of course they kiss (finally!), and then she's all, "And what if I'm in love with somebody else?" and I go to turn the page to find out who it could be and how Martin will ever survive this blow and I hope to inch onwards to the supposed Glory that has yet to develop even slightly. And then somehow I'm back on page 113, where Sonia is again recounting how she turned down Martin's friend's marriage proposal way back in London!
I didn't get it - I kept frantically looking at the dead eyes all around me, swaying to and fro with their hands up on the rails and no one even flinched. I checked again; went back to the original page 113, then to the faux 113, then back to 144, then stared at 144 which faces faux 113 and back at the dead eyes. It felt like I was losing it! Back when I was finishing my thesis, staying up for days at a time and cramming words onto pages at unprecedented speeds, I had a similar experience. There was some sort of glitch with Word where out of nowhere pages just started disappearing and mixing and sleep-deprived, stressed me couldn't fix it, broke down, and just sobbed on my keyboard until a friend arrived with emotional and technical reassurances. But then, order was reinstated!
This time, I kept looking for answers in dead eyes and the pages kept staring back, mocking. Everything between 145 and 176 is, instead, a repeat of 113 to 144. Disaster struck around 14th Street, so I had to ride bookless up to 77th St. and again bookless all the way back to BK. Reading on the subway is awesome; I almost prefer it to reading in a hammock or in sun-dappled nooks. I also like people watching on the subway. In general, I just like the subway. But rush hour subway sucks and without a book it's utterly depressing! Plus, now I have this book that I wasn't even that into to begin with that I now must finish and neither my local library or the local Barnes & Noble (which is bigger and more comprehensive than the library!) carry Glory!! If those 31 pages don't contain some mind-blowing passages when I finally get to them, it's going to be the most inglorious reading experience ever.
Several days ago, I grabbed it on my way out, thinking I'd make good use of my hour long subway rides and even got a seat during rush hour where I could successfully avoid Christmas shoppers' packages from poking me in the calves as the train rocked back and forth. It was mad crowded on the train but I was contently ignoring the people squeezing all up on me by adamantly concentrating on Martin's lackluster misadventures. Somewhere between Brooklyn and Union Square, Martin moved from Switzerland to Berlin in an attempt to do something about his unceasing boner for Sonia and things were getting a little more interesting. "You're such a dear that I have to kiss you," Sonia says on page 144, and then of course they kiss (finally!), and then she's all, "And what if I'm in love with somebody else?" and I go to turn the page to find out who it could be and how Martin will ever survive this blow and I hope to inch onwards to the supposed Glory that has yet to develop even slightly. And then somehow I'm back on page 113, where Sonia is again recounting how she turned down Martin's friend's marriage proposal way back in London!
I didn't get it - I kept frantically looking at the dead eyes all around me, swaying to and fro with their hands up on the rails and no one even flinched. I checked again; went back to the original page 113, then to the faux 113, then back to 144, then stared at 144 which faces faux 113 and back at the dead eyes. It felt like I was losing it! Back when I was finishing my thesis, staying up for days at a time and cramming words onto pages at unprecedented speeds, I had a similar experience. There was some sort of glitch with Word where out of nowhere pages just started disappearing and mixing and sleep-deprived, stressed me couldn't fix it, broke down, and just sobbed on my keyboard until a friend arrived with emotional and technical reassurances. But then, order was reinstated!
This time, I kept looking for answers in dead eyes and the pages kept staring back, mocking. Everything between 145 and 176 is, instead, a repeat of 113 to 144. Disaster struck around 14th Street, so I had to ride bookless up to 77th St. and again bookless all the way back to BK. Reading on the subway is awesome; I almost prefer it to reading in a hammock or in sun-dappled nooks. I also like people watching on the subway. In general, I just like the subway. But rush hour subway sucks and without a book it's utterly depressing! Plus, now I have this book that I wasn't even that into to begin with that I now must finish and neither my local library or the local Barnes & Noble (which is bigger and more comprehensive than the library!) carry Glory!! If those 31 pages don't contain some mind-blowing passages when I finally get to them, it's going to be the most inglorious reading experience ever.
Friday, December 4, 2009
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